LETTER XX.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, October 28.
O my friend! Where are you at this trying moment?
Why did you desert me? Now, if ever, does my feeble
heart stand in need of your counsel and courage.
Did I ever lean these throbbing brows against your arm,
and pour my tears into your bosom, that I was not comforted.
Never did that adored voice fail to whisper sweet
peace to my soul. In every storm, thy calmer and more
strenuous spirit has provided me the means of safety.—But
now I look around for my stay, my monitor, my encourager,
in vain.
You will make haste to despatch the business that detains
you. You will return, and fly, on the wings of love, to thy
Jane. Alas! she will not be found. She will have fled
far away, and in her stead will she leave this sullen messenger
to tell thee that thy Jane has parted from thee forever!
Do not upbraid me, Hal. Do not call me ungrateful or
rash. Indeed, I shall not be able to bear thy reproaches.
I know they will kill me quite.
And dont expostulate with me. Confirm me rather in
my new resolution. Even if you think it cruel or absurd,
aver that it is just. Persuade me that I have done my
duty to my mother, and assure me of your cheerful acquiescence.
Too late is it now, even if I would, to recall my promise.
I have promised to part with you. In the first tumult of
my soul, on receiving the enclosed letters, I wrote an answer,
assuring Mrs. Fielder of my absolute concurrence
with her will.
Already does my heart, calling up thy beloved image; reflecting
on the immense debt which I owe to your generosity;
on the disappointment which the tidings of my
journey will give you; already do I repent of my precipitation.
I have sought repose but I find it not. My pillow is moist
with the bitterest tears that I ever shed. To give vent to
my swelling heart, I write to you, but I must now stop. All
my former self is coming back upon me, and while I think
of you as of my true and only friend, I shall be unable to
persist. I will not part with thee, my friend. I cannot do
it. Has not my life been solemnly devoted to compensate
thee for thy unmerited love? For the crosses and vexations
thou hast endured for my sake?
Why shall I forsake thee? To gratify a wayward and
groundless prejudice. To purchase the short-lived and dubious
affection of one who loves me in proportion as I am
blind to thy merit; as I forget thy benefits; as I countenance
the envy and slander that pursue thee.
Yet what shall I bring to thy arms? A blasted reputation,
poverty, contempt. The indignation of mine and of thy
friends. For thou art poor, and so am I. Thy kindred
have antipathies for me as strong as those that are fostered
against thyself—
