LETTER IX.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Monday, October 11.
I am ashamed of myself, Henry. What an inconsistent
creature am I? I have just placed this dear letter of yours
next my heart. The sensation it affords, at this moment, is
delicious; almost as much so as I once experienced from a
certain somebody's hand, placed on the same spot. But
that somebody's hand was never (if I recollect aright) so
highly honored as this paper. Have I not told you that your
letter is deposited next my heart?
And with all these proofs of the pleasure your letter
affords me, could you guess at the cause of those tears
which even now, have not ceased flowing? your letter has
so little tenderness—is so very cold—but let me not be ungrateful
for the preference you grant me, merely because it
is not so enthusiastic and unlimited as my own.
I suppose, if I had not extorted from you some account
of this poor woman, I should never have heard a syllable
of your meeting with her. It is surely possible for people
to be their own calumniators, to place their own actions in
the worst light; to exaggerate their faults and conceal their
virtues. If the fictions and artifices of vanity be detestable,
the concealment of our good actions is surely not without
guilt. The conviction of our guilt is painful to those
that love us; wantonly and needlessly to give this pain is
very perverse and unjustifiable. If a contrary deportment
argue vanity, self-detraction seems to be the offspring of
pride.
Thou art the strangest of men, Henry. Thy whole
conduct, with regard to me has been a tissue of self-upbraidings.
You have disclosed not only a thousand misdeeds
(as you have thought them) which could not possibly
have come to my knowledge by any other means, but have
labored to ascribe even your commendable actions to evil to
ambiguous motives. Motives are impenetrable, and a thousand
cases have occurred in which every rational observe
would have supposed you to be influenced by the best motives,
but where, if credit be due to your own representations,
your motives were far from being laudable.
Why is my esteem rather heightened than depressed by
this deportment. In truth, there is no crime which remorse
will not expiate, and no more shining virtue in the whole
catalogue than sincerity. Besides, your own account of
yourself, with all the exaggerations of humility, proved you,
on the whole, and with the allowances necessarily made by
every candid person, to be a very excellent man.
Your deportment to me ought chiefly to govern my
opinion of you, and have you not been uniformly generous,
sincere and upright? not quite passionate enough,
perhaps; no blind and precipitate enthusiast; love has not
banished discretion, or blindfolded your sagacity, and as
I should forgive a thousand errors on the score of love, I
cannot fervently applaud that wisdom which tramples upon
love. Thou hast a thousand excellent qualities, Henry, that
is certain, yet a little more impetuosity and fervor in thy
tenderness would compensate for the want of the whole
thousand. There is a frank confession for thee! I am confounded
at my own temerity in making it. Will it not injure
me, in thy esteem, and of all evils which it is possible
for me to suffer, the loss of that esteem would soonest
drive me to desperation.
The world has been liberal of its censure, but surely a
thorough knowledge of my conduct could not condemn me.
When my father and mother united their entreaties to those
of Talbot, my heart had never known a preference. The
man of their choice was perfectly indifferent to me, but
every individual of his sex was regarded with no less indifference.
I did not conceal from him the state of my feelings,
but was always perfectly ingenuous and explicit.
Talbot acted like every man in love. He was eager to
secure me on these terms, and fondly trusted to his tenderness
and perseverance, to gain those affections, which I
truly acknowledged to be free. He would not leave me for
his European voyage till he had extorted a solemn promise.
During his absence, I met you. The nature of those
throbs, which a glance of your very shadow was sure to
produce, even previous to the exchange of a single word
between us, was entirely unknown to me. I had no experience
to guide me. The effects of that intercourse
which I took such pains to procure, could not be foreseen.
My heart was too pure to admit even such a guest as apprehension,
and the only information I possessed respecting
you, impressed me with the notion that your heart already
belonged to another.
I sought nothing but your society and your esteem. If
the fetters of my promise to Talbot, became irksome after
my knowledge of you, I was unconscious of the true cause.
This promise never for a moment lost its obligation with me.
I deemed myself as much the wife of Talbot, as if I had
stood with him at the altar.
At the prospect of his return, my melancholy was excruciating,
but the cause was unknown to me. I had
nothing to wish, with regard to you, but to see you occasionally;
to hear your voice, and to be told that you were
happy. It never occurred to me that Talbot's return would
occasion any difference in this respect. Conscious of nothing
but rectitude in my regard for you; always frank and
ingenuous in disclosing my feelings, I imagined that Talbot
would adopt you as warmly for his friend as I had done.
I must grant that I erred in this particular, but my error
sprung from ignorance unavoidable. I judged of others by
my own heart and very sillily imagined that Talbot would
continue to be satisfied with that cold and friendly regard
for which only my vows made me answerable—Yet my
husband's jealousies and discontents were not unreasonable.
He loved me with passion, and if that sentiment can endure
to be unrequited, it will never tolerate the preference
of another, even if that preference be less than love.
In compliance with my husband's wishes—Ah! my
friend! why cannot I say that I did comply with them; what
a fatal act is that of plighting hands, when the heart is estranged.
Never, never let the placable and compassionate
spirit, be seduced into a union, to which the affections are
averse. Let it not confide in the after birth of love. Such
a union is the direst cruelty even to the object who is intended
to be benefited.
I have not yet thoroughly forgiven you for deserting me.
My heart swells with anguish at the thought of your setting
more lightly by my resentment than by that of another; of
your willingness to purchase any one's happiness at the cost
of mine. You are too wise; too dispassionate by far.
Don't despise me for this accusation, Henry, you know my
unbiassed judgment has always been with you. Repeated
proofs have convinced me that my dignity and happiness
are safer in your keeping than in my own.
You guess right, my friend. Miss Jessup told me of your
visits to this poor sick woman. There is something mysterious
in the character of this Polly Jessup. She is particularly
solicitous about every thing which relates to you. It has
occurred to me, since reading your letter, that she is not
entirely without design in her prattle. Something more,
methinks, more than the mere tatling, gossipping, inquisitive
propensity, in the way in which she introduces you into
conversation.
She had not alighted ten minutes before she ran into my
apartment, with a face full of intelligence. The truth respecting
the washwoman was very artfully disguised, and
yet so managed as to allow her to elude the imputation of
direct falsehood. She will, no doubt, in this, as in former
cases, cover up all under the appearance of a good natured
jest; yet, if she be in jest, there is more of malice, I suspect,
than of good nature in her merriment.
Make haste back, my dear Hal. I cannot bear to keep
my mother in ignorance of our resolutions, and I am utterly
at a loss in what manner to communicate them, so as to
awaken the least reluctance. O! what would be wanting
to my felicity if my mother could be won over to my side.
And is so inestimable a good utterly hopeless. Come, my
friend, and dictate such a letter as may subdue those prejudices,
which, while they continue to exist, will permit me
to choose only among deplorable evils.
