LETTER XXX.
To The Same.
Wilmington, November 7.
I have purposely avoided dwelling on the incidents
that are passing here. They engross my
thoughts at all times, but those devoted to the
pen, and to write to thee is one expedient for
loosening their hold.
An expedient not always successful. My
mind wanders in spite of me, from my own
concerns and from thine, to the sick bed of my
friend. A reverie, painful and confused, invades
me, now and then: my pen stops, and I am
obliged to exert myself anew to shake off the
spell.
Till now, I knew not how much I loved this
young man. Strange beings we are? separated
as we have been, for many a-year; estranged
as much by difference of sentiments as
local distance, his image visiting my memory
not once a month, and then a transitory, momentary
visit: had he died a year ago, and I not
known it, the stream of my thoughts would not
have been ruffled by a single impediment. Yet
now that I stand over him, and witness his decay—
Many affecting conversations we have had.
I cannot repeat them now. After he is gone, I
will put them all upon paper and muse upon
them often.
His closing hour is serene. His piety now
stands him in some stead. In calling me hither,
he tells me that he designed, not his own gratification,
but my good. He wished to urge
upon me the truths of religion, at a time when
his own conduct might visibly attest their value.
By their influence in making that gloomy path
which leads to the grave, joyous and lightsome;
he wishes me to judge of their excellence.
His pains are incessant and sharp. He can
seldom articulate without an effort that increases
his pangs: yet he talks much: in cogent terms,
and with accurate conceptions; and in all he
says, evinces a pathetic earnestness for my conviction.
I listen to him with an heart as unbiassed as I
can prevail on it to be: as free, I mean, from its
customary bias; for I strive to call up feelings
and ideas similar to his. I know how pure to
him would be the satisfaction of leaving the
world, with the belief of a thorough change in
me.
I argue not with him. I say nothing but to
persuade him that I am far from being that contum
acious enemy to his faith, which he is prone
to imagine me to be.
Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly
than usual, our ancient correspondence, and the
effects of that disclosure. Yet I have not mentioned
the subject to him. I never mentioned
it. I could not trust myself to mention it.
There was no need. The letters were written
by me. I did not charge him to secrecy, and if
I had, he would not have been bound to compliance.
It was his duty to make that use of
them which tended to prevent mischief; which
appeared, to him, to have that tendency; and
this he has done. His design, I have no doubt,
was benevolent and just.
He saw not all the consequences that have followed,
'tis true; but that ignorance would justify
him, even if these consequences were unpleasing
to him; but they would not have displeased,
had they been foreseen. They would
only have made his efforts more vigorous; his
disclosures more explicit.
His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far
as we know it, seems irregular and injudicious.
To lay before a stranger private letters from
his friend, in which opinions were avowed and
defended, that he knew would render the
writer detestable to her that read.
He imagined himself justified in imputing to
me atrocious and infamous errors. He was
grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured,
by his utmost zeal and eloquence, to rectify
these errors. This was generous and just; but
needed he to proclaim these errors, and blazon
this infamy?
Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for
other than I am? can I value that respect which
is founded in ignorance? can I be satisfied with
caresses from those, who, if they knew me fully,
would execrate and avoid me?
For past faults and rectified errors, are not
remorse and amendment adequate atonements?
If any one despise me for what I was, let me
not shrink from the penalty. Let me not find
pleasure in the praise of those whose approbation
is founded in ignorance of what I am. It
is unjust to demand, it is sordid to retain praise
that is not merited, either by our present conduct
or our past. Why have I declined such
praise? Because I value it not.
Thus have I endeavoured to think in relation
to Thomson. My endeavour has succeeded.
My heart entirely acquits him. It even applauds
him for his noble sincerity.
Yet I could never write to him, or talk to
him on this subject. My tongue; my pen will
be sure to faulter. I know that he will boldly justify
his conduct, and I feel that he ought to justify,
yet the attempt to justify would awaken—
indignation, selfishness. In spite of the suggestions
of my better reason, I know we should
quarrel.
We should not quarrel now, if the topic were
mentioned. Of indignation against him, even for
a real fault: much less for an imaginary one, I
am, at this time, not capable; but it would be
useless to mention it. There is nothing to explain;
no misapprehensions to remove; no
doubts to clear up. All that he did, I, in the
same case, ought to have done.
But I told you, I wished not to fill my letters
with the melancholy scene before me. This is
a respite, a solace to me; and thus, and in reading
thy letters, I employ all my spare moments.
Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and
cheerfully, if possible. Borrow not; be not thy
letters tinged with the melancholy hue of this.
Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy
