LETTER XXIII.
TO E. HARTLEY.
New-York, May 11.
By the calm tenor of this letter you will
hardly judge of the state of my mind before I
sat down to write. To describe it would be
doing wrong to myself and to you. I am not
anxious to pass for better than I am; to hide
my weakness, or to dwell upon my folly. In
this letter to paint the struggles between reason
and passion, would be making more arduous
that task which I must assign to you.
I have formerly concealed these struggles.
My motive was not shame. I aimed not to
shun contempt, by concealing my defects; for,
alas! the spirit with which I had to deal, modelled
his opinions by a standard different from
mine. That which was selfish and base in my
eyes, was praise-worthy in his. I passed for
obdurate and absurd, in proportion as I acted
in a manner which appeared to me generous
and just.
I concealed these struggles, because I
hated to reflect upon my own faults; because
they were past, and the better thoughts that
succeeded were sources of complacency too
precious to be lost, and attained and preserved
with so much difficulty, that to review the conflicts
which it cost me to gain them, would
hazard their loss.
Thus it is, at present. I write to you, not
to give utterance and new existence to anguish
no longer felt. I write to you to tell my present
views, and they cannot waver or change.
My friend, the bearer of this is your Mary.
She is not happy. She is not anothers. She
is poor, but good, and no doubt as much devoted
to you as ever. Need I point out to
you the road which you ought to take! Need
I enforce, by arguments, that duty which compels
you to consult her happiness, by every
honest means?
Could I but inspire you, my friend, with
the sentiments that now possess my heart:
could I but make your convictions at once
just and strong, and convert you into a cheerful
performer of your duty, I should, indeed,
be happy.
You will wonder by what means Mary has
been made known to me. I will tell you. I
went to pay a visit, long since due, to Mrs.
Etheridge. It was but yesterday. After
cursory discourse she mentioned that she expected
in a few minutes to see a lady, who
was going on the morrow to Philadelphia. I
had written to you, and was not unwilling to
make use of this opportunity. What, I asked,
is her name? Her character? Her situation?
Mary Wilmot. She has just come from
New-Haven, where she has passed the winter
with a friend. She is amiable, but unfortunate.
You will imagine with what emotions I
listened to these words. For some minutes
I was too much surprised to think or to speak
clearly. My companion noticed my emotion,
but before she could inquire into the cause, a
visitant was announced, and Miss Wilmot herself
entered the room. Being introduced to
each other, my name occasioned as much surprise
and embarrassment as hers had given to
me. The interview ended abruptly, but not
till I had so far collected my thoughts, as to
request her to be the bearer of a letter. She
mentioned the place where it might be left
and we parted.
I ought to have acted in a different manner.
I ought to have asked her company
home, have sought her confidence, have unbosomed
myself to her, and removed every
obstacle to her union with you, which might
arise from an erring judgment or an unwise
generosity.
But I was unfitted for this by the suddenness
of our interview. I had not time to subdue
those trembling and mixed feelings which
the sight of her produced, before she withdrew,
and I had not courage enough to visit
her at her lodgings, and be the bearer of my
own letter. so much the more arduous is the
task which belongs to you. My deficiencies
must be supplied by you. Act uprightly and
ingenuously, my friend, I entreat you. Seek
her presence, and shew her this and every
other letter from me. Offer her, beseech her,
compel her, to accept your vows.
Accuse me not of fickleness. Acquit me
of mean and ungenerous behaviour. Dream
not that reasoning or entreaty will effect any
change in my present sentiments. I love you,
Edward, as I ought to love you. I love your
happiness; your virtue. I resign you to this
good girl as to one who deserves you more
than I; whose happiness is more dependent
on the affections of another than mine is.
What passion is now wanting in you time will
shortly supply. In such a case, you must and
will act and feel as you ought.
Let me not hear from you till you have
seen her. I know whence will arise the failure
of your efforts on such an interview. If she
withstand your eloquence, it will be because
you have betrayed your cause, or because she
acts from a romantic and groundless generosity
with regard to me. The last obstacle,
it will be my province to remove. I will
write to her, and convince her that by rejecting
you on my account she does me injury and
not benefit, and is an enemy to your happiness;
for while Mary lives, and is not bound to
another, I will never be to you any thing but
