LETTER VII.
To Henry Colden.
What a little thing subverts my peace; dissipates my
resolutions:—am I not an honest, foolish creature, Hal? I
uncover this wayward heart to thy view as promptly as if
the disclosure had no tendency to impair thy esteem, and
forfeit thy love; that is, to devote me to death; to ruin me
beyond redemption.
And yet, if the unveiling of my follies should have this
effect, I think I should despise thee for stupidity, and hate
thee for ingratitude; for whence proceed my irresolution,
my vicissitudes of purpose, but from my love, and, that man's
heart must be made of strange stuff that can abhor or contemn
a woman for loving him too much. Of such stuff the
heart of my friend, thank heaven, is not made. Though I
love him far—far too much, he will not trample on, or scof
at me.
But how my pen rambles.—No wonder! for my intellects
are in a strange confusion. There is an acute pain
just here. Give me your hand and let me put it on the
very spot. Alas! there is no dear hand within my reach.
I remember feeling just such a pain but once before. Then
you chanced to be seated by my side. I put your hand to
the spot, and, strange to tell, a moment after, I looked for
the pain and 'twas gone—utterly vanished! Cannot I imagine
so strongly as to experience that relief which your
hand pressed to my forehead would give? Let me lay
down the pen and try.
Ah! my friend! when present, thou'rt an excellent physician,
but as thy presence is my cure, so thy absence is my
only, my fatal malady.
My desk is, of late, always open; my paper spread; my
pen moist. I must talk to you, though you give me no
answer, though I have nothing but gloomy forebodings to
communicate, or mournful images to call up. I must talk
to you, even when you cannot hear; when invisible; when
distant many a mile. It is some relief even to corporeal
agonies. Even the pain, which I just now complained of, is
lessened since I took up the pen—O! Hal! Hal! If you
ever prove ungrateful or a traitor to me, and there be a
state retributive hereafter, terrible will be thy punishment.
But why do I talk to thee thus wildly? why deal I in
such rueful prognostics? I want to tell you why, for I have
a reason for my present alarms; they all spring from one
source—my doubts of thy fidelity. Yes, Henry, since
your arrival at Wilmington, you have been a frequent visitant
of Miss Secker, and have kept a profound silence towards
me.
Nothing can be weaker and more silly than these disquiets.
Cannot my friend visit a deserving woman a few
times, but my terrors must impertinently intrude.—Cannot
he forget the pen, and fail to write to me, for half a week
together, but my rash resentments must conjure up the
phantoms of ingratitude and perfidy.
Pity the weakness of a fond heart, Henry, and let me
hear from you, and be your precious and long withheld
letter my relief from every disquiet. I believe, and do not
believe, what I have heard, and what I have heard teems
with a thousand mischiefs, or is fair and innocent, according
to my reigning temper.—Adieu; but let me hear from you
immediately.
