LETTER XXIV.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, November 2.
Ah! my friend! how mortifying are those proofs of thy
excellence. How deep is that debasement into which I
am sunk, when I compare myself with thee.
It cannot be the want of love that makes thee so easily
give me up. My feeble and jealous heart is ever prone to
suspect; yet I ought at length to be above these ungenerous
surmises.
My own demerits; my fickleness; my precipitation are so
great, and so unlike thy inflexible spirit, that I am ever ready
to impute to thee that contempt for me, which I know I so
richly deserve. I am astonished that so poor a thing as
I am, thus continually betraying her weakness, should retain
thy affection; yet at any proof of coldness or indifference
in thee, do I grow impatient; melancholy; a strange
mixture of upbraiding for myself, and resentment for thee,
occupies my feelings.
I have read thy letter. I shuddered when I painted to
myself thy unhappiness on receiving tidings of my resolution
to join my mother. I felt that thy reluctance to part
with me, would form the strongest obstacle to going, and
yet, being convinced that I must go, I wanted thee to counterfeit
indifference, to feign compliance.
And such a wayward heart is mine that now these assurances
of thy compliance have come to hand, I am not satisfied.
The poor contriver wished to find in thee an affectation
of indifference. Her humanity would be satisfied
with that appearance, but her pride demanded that it should
be no more than a veil, behind which the inconsolable, the
bleeding heart should be distinctly seen.
You are too much in earnest in your equanimity. You
study my exclusive happiness with too unimpassioned a soul.
You are pleased when I am pleased; but not, it seems, the
more so from any relation which my pleasure bears to you;
no matter what it is that pleases me; so I am but pleased,
you are content.
I don't like this oblivion of self. I want to be essential to
your happiness. I want to act with a view to your interests
and wishes; these wishes requiring my love and my company
for your own sake.
But I have got into a maze again. Puzzling myself with
intricate distinctions. I can't be satisfied with telling you
that I am not well, but I must be inspecting with these careful
eyes into causes, and laboring to tell you of what nature
my malady is.
It has always been so. I have always found an unaccountable
pleasure in dissecting, as it were, my heart; uncovering,
one by one, its many folds, and laying it before
you, as a country is shewn in a map. This voluble tongue,
and this prompt pen! what volumes have I talked to you on
that bewitching theme myself?
And yet, loquacious as I am, I never interrupted you
when you were talking. It was always such a favor when
these rigid fibres of yours relaxed; and yet I praise myself
for more forbearance than belongs to me. The little impertinent
has often stopped your mouth; at times too when
your talk charmed her most; but then it was not with
words.
But have I not said this a score of times before? and why
do I indulge this prate now?
To say truth, I am perplexed and unhappy. Your
letter has made me so. My heart flutters too much to
allow me to attend to the subject of your letter. I follow
this rambling leader merely to escape from more arduous
paths, and I send you this scribble because I must write to
you. Adieu.
