LETTER XXXI.
TO E. HARTLEY.
New-York, May 19.
You are coming, my friend. I shall chide
you and thank you, in the same breath, for
your haste. I hope you will incur no injury
by a journey at night. Knowing that you
mean not to lay by, I am unable to go to bed.
The air was blustering in the evening, and
now, at midnight, it blows a storm. It is not
very cold, but an heavy rain is falling. I sit by
my chamber-fire, occupied in little else than
listening to it, and my heart droops, or gains
courage, according to the pauses or increases
of the wind and rain.
Would to Heaven thou hadst not this
boisterous river to cross. It is said to be somewhat
dangerous, in an high wind. This is a
land of evils; the transitions of the seasons
are so quick, and into such extremes. How
different from the pictures which our fancy
drew in our native land?
This wind and rain! How will you endure
them in your crazy vehicle, thumping over
rocks, and sinking into hollows? I wish you
had not been in such haste. Twenty hours
sooner or later, would be of no moment. And
this river!.... To cross it at any time, is full
of danger; what must it be at night, and in a
storm? Your adventurous spirit will never
linger on the opposite shore till day dawns,
and the wind has died away.
But well know I the dangers and toils of a
midnight journey, in a stage-coach, in America.
The roads are kneedeep in mire, winding
through crags and pits, while the wheels groan
and totter, and the curtains and roof admit the
wet at a thousand seams.
It is three, and the day will soon come.
How I long to see thee, my poor friend!
Having once met, never, I promise thee, will
we part more. This heart, with whose treasures
thou art imperfectly acquainted, will
pour all its sorrows and joys into thy honest
bosom. My maturer age and more cautious
judgment shall be counsellers and guides to
thy inexperienced youth. While I love thee
and cherish thee as a wife, I shall assume some
of the perogatives of an elder sister, and put
my circumspection and forethought in the
balance against thy headlong confidence.
I revere thy genius and thy knowledge.
With the improvements of time, very far wilt
thou surpass the humble Clara; but in moral
discernment, much art thou still deficient.
Here I claim to be more than equal, but the
difference shall not subsist long. Our modes
of judging and our maxims, shall be the same;
and this resemblance shall be purchased at
the cost of all my patience, my skill and my
love.
Alas! this rain is heavy! The gale whistles
more loudly than ever. Would to heaven
thou wast safely seated near me, at this quiet
fire-side!—
