LETTER XXIV.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, November 2.
AH! My friend! how mortifying are those
proofs of thy excellence. How deep is
that debasement into which I am sunk, when I
compare myself with thee.
It cannot be the want of love that makes thee
so easily give me up. My feeble and jealous
heart is ever prone to suspect; yet I ought at
length to be above these ungenerous surmises.
My own demerits; my fickleness: my precipitation
are so great, and so unlike thy inflexible
spirit, that I am ever ready to impute to
thee that contempt for me, which I know I
so richly deserve. I am astonished that so poor
a thing as I am, thus continually betraying her
weakness, should retain thy affection; yet at
any proof of coldness or indifference in thee, do
I grow impatient; melancholy: a strange mixture
of upbraiding for myself, and resentment
for thee, occupies my feelings.
I have read thy letter. I shuddered when I
painted to myself thy unhappiness on receiving
tidings of my resolution to join my mother. I
felt that thy reluctance to part with me, would
form the strongest obstacle to going, and yet,
being convinced that I must go, I wanted thee
to counterfeit indifference, to feign compliance.
And such a wayward heart is mine that now
these assurances of thy compliance have come
to hand, I am not satisfied. The poor contriver
wished to find in thee an affectation of indifference.
Her humanity would be satisfied with
that appearance, but her pride demanded that
it should be no more than a veil, behind
which the inconsolable, the bleeding heart
should be distinctly seen.
You are too much in earnest in your equanimity.
You study my exclusive happiness with too
unimpassioned a soul. You are pleased when I
am pleased; but not, it seems, the more so from
any relation which my pleasure bears to you:
no matter what it is that pleases me: so I am
but pleased, you are content.
I don't like this oblivion of self. I want to be
essential to your happiness. I want to act with a
view to your interests and wishes; these wishes
requiring my love and my company for your
own sake.
But I have got into a maze again. Puzzling
myself with intricate distinctions. I can't be satisfied
with telling you that I am not well, but I
must be inspecting with these careful eyes into
causes, and labouring to tell you of what nature
my malady is.
It has always been so. I have always found
an unaccountable pleasure in dissecting, as it
were, my heart; uncovering, one by one, its many
folds, and laying it before you, as a country is
shewn in a map. This voluble tongue, and this
prompt pen! what volumes have I talked to you
on that bewitching theme myself?
And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted
you when you were talking. It was always
such a favour when these rigid fibres of yours
relaxed: and yet I praise myself for more forbearance
than belongs to me. The little impertinent
has often stopped your mouth; at times
too when your talk charmed her most; but then
it was not with words.
But have I not said this a score of times before?
and why do I indulge this prate now?
To say truth, I am perplexed and unhappy.
Your letter has made me so. My heart flutters
too much to allow me to attend to the subject of
your letter. I follow this rambling leader merely
to escape from more arduous paths, and I
send you this scribble because I must write to
you. Adieu.
