LETTER I.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Monday evening, October 3.
I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience
whispers me, and though vanity is
eager to refute the charge, I must acknowledge
that she is seldom successful. Conscience tells
me it is folly, it is guilt to wrap up my existence
in one frail mortal; to employ all my
thoughts, to lavish all my affections upon one
object; to doat upon a human being, who, as
such, must be the heir of many frailties, and
whom I know to be not without his faults; to
enjoy no peace but in his presence, to be grateful
for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease,
life itself for his sake.
From the humiliation produced by these
charges, Vanity endeavours to relieve me by
insinuating that all happiness springs from affection;
that nature ordains no tie so strong as
that between the sexes; that to love without
bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but
on another; that conjugal affection is the genuine
sphere not only of happiness but duty.
Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but
that its fondness for you is nothing more than
simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence,
and does my poor imagination figure to itself
any thing in human shape more excellent than
thou?
But yet there are bounds beyond which passion
cannot go without counteracting its own
purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those
bounds. So far as it produces rapture, it deserves
to be cherished, but when productive of
impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too
that are slight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely
culpable.
Methinks, my friend, I would not have had
thee for a witness of the bitterness, the tumult
of my feelings, during this day; ever since you
left me. You cannot conceive any thing more
forlorn, more vacant, more anxious than this
weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified
at my own sensations, and, with my usual folly
began to construe them into omens of evil; so
inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress
to the cause that produced it.
Ah! my friend! a weak — very weak creature
is thy Jane. From excess of love arises that
weakness: that must be its apology with thee,
for, in thy mind, my fondness, I know, needs an
apology.
Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the
rein a long time, but my overflowing heart
must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort
in chiding you. Let me chide you then,
for coldness, for insensibility—but no: I will
not. Let me enjoy the rewards of self-denial and
forbearance and seal up my accusing lips. Let
me forget the coldness of your last salute, your
ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from
my foolishly fond arms. You have got at your
journey's end, I hope. Farewell.
