LETTER XXIX.
TO E. HARTLEY.
Philadelphia, May 15.
What has become of that fortitude, my
friend, which I was once accustomed to admire
in you. You used to be circumspect,
sedate, cautious; not precipitate in judging
or resolving. What has become of all these
virtues?
Why would you not give your poor friend
a patient hearing? Why not hesitate a moment,
before you plunged all whom you love
into sorrow and distress? Was it impossible
for six months of reflection to restore the
strength of my mind, to introduce wiser resolutions
and more cheerful thoughts, than those
with which I parted from you?
I was then sick. My lonely situation, the
racking fears your long silence had produced,
a dreary and lowering sky, and the tidings
your letter conveyed, of my return again to
that indigence so much detested by my pride,
were surely enough to sink me deeply in despondency;
to make me, at the same time,
desire and expect my death.
I saw the bright destiny that was reserved
for you. My life, I thought, stood in the way
of your felicity. I knew your impetuous generosity,
your bewitching eloquence. I knew
the frailty of my own heart. Hence my firm
resolve to shun an interview with you, to see
you no more, at least, till your destiny had
been accomplished.
Happy was the hour in which I formed this
resolution. By it I have not only secured that
indirect happiness, arising from the contemplation
of yours, but the ineffable bliss of requiting
that love, of which my heart was so
long insensible.
Yes, my friend, the place that you once
possessed in my affections, is now occupied by
another. By him, of whose claims I know you
have always been the secret advocate; by that
good, wise, and generous man, whom I always
admitted to be second to yourself, but for
whom my heart now acknowledges a preference.
Had you waited for an explanation of my
sentiments, you would have saved me, your
beloved Clara, yourself, and all your friends,
the anxieties your present absence has produced.
That rashness may excite remorse,
but it cannot be recalled. Let it then be speedily
forgotten, and let this letter put a stop
to your flight.
Dear Edward! come back. All the addition
of which my present happiness is capable,
must come from you. The heart-felt approbation,
the sweet ineffable complacensy with
which my present feelings are attended, want
nothing to merit the name of perfect happiness,
but to be witnessed and applauded by you.
Your Clara, that noblest of women, joins
me in recalling you, and is as eager to do justice
to your passion, as I am to recompence
the merits of Sedley. Therefore, my friend,
if you value my happiness or Clara's, come
back. Will you not obey the well known
voice, calling you to virtue and felicity, of
