LETTER XXX.
To the Same.
I have purposely avoided dwelling on the incidents that
are passing here. They engross my thoughts at all times,
but those devoted to the pen, and to write to thee is one
expedient for loosening their hold.
An expedient not always successful. My mind wanders
in spite of me, from my own concerns and from thine, to
the sick bed of my friend. A reverie, painful and confused,
invades me, now and then; my pen stops, and I am obliged
to exert myself anew to shake off the spell.
Till now, I knew not how much I loved this young man.
Strange beings we are! Separated as we have been, for
many a year; estranged as much by difference of sentiments
as local distance, his image visiting my memory not
once a month, and then a transitory, momentary visit; had
he died a year ago, and I not known it, the stream of my
thoughts would not have been ruffled by a single impediment.
Yet now that I stand over him, and witness his
decay—
Many affecting conversations we have had. I cannot
repeat them now. After he is gone, I will put them all
upon paper and muse upon them often.
His closing hour is serene. His piety now stands him in
some stead. In calling me hither, he tells me that he designed,
not his own gratification, but my good. He wished to urge
upon me the truths of religion, at a time when his own conduct
might visibly attest their value. By their influence in
making that gloomy path which leads to the grave, joyous
and lightsome; he wishes me to judge of their excellence.
His pains are incessant and sharp. He can seldom articulate
without an effort that increases his pangs; yet he
talks much; in cogent terms, and with accurate conceptions;
and in all he says, evinces a pathetic earnestness for my
conviction.
I listen to him with a beart as unbiassed as I can prevail
on it to be; as free, I mean, from its customary bias; for I
strive to call up feelings and ideas similar to his. I know
how pure to him would be the satisfaction of leaving the
world, with the belief of a thorough change in me.
I argue not with him. I say nothing but to persuade him
that I am far from being that contumacious enemy to his
faith, which he is prone to imagine me to be.
Thy mother's letter has called up more vividly than usual,
our ancient correspondence, and the effects of that disclosure.
Yet I have not mentioned the subject to him. I
never mentioned it. I could not trust myself to mention it.
There was no need. The letters were written by me. I
did not charge him to secrecy, and if I had, he would not
have been bound to compliance. It was his duty to make
that use of them which tended to prevent mischief; which
appeared, to him, to have that tendency; and this he has
done. His design, I have no doubt, was benevolent and
just.
He saw not all the consequences that have followed, 'tis
true; but that ignorance would justify him, even if these
consequences were unpleasing to him; but they would not
have displeased, had they been foreseen. They would
only have made his efforts more vigorous; his disclosures
more explicit.
His conduct, indeed, on that occasion, as far as we know
it, seems irregular and injudicious. To lay before a stranger
private letters from his friend, in which opinions were
avowed and defended, that he knew would render the writer
detestable to her that read.
He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atrocious
and infamous errors. He was grieved for my debasement,
and endeavored, by his utmost zeal and eloquence, to rectify
these errors. This was generous and just; but needed
he to proclaim these errors, and blazon this infamy?
Yet ought I to wish to pass upon the world for other than
I am? Can I value that respect which is founded in ignorance?
Can I be satisfied with caresses from those, who, if
they knew me fully, would execrate and avoid me?
For past faults and rectified errors, are not remorse and
amendment adequate atonements? If any one despise me
for what I was, let me not shrink from the penalty. Let me
not find pleasure in the praise of those whose approbation
is founded in ignorance of what I
am. It is unjust to demand,
it is sordid to retain praise that is not merited, either
by our present conduct or our past. Why have I declined
such praise? Because I value it not.
Thus have I endeavored to think in relation to Thomson.
My endeavor has succeeded. My heart entirely acquits
him. It even applauds him for his noble sincerity.
Yet I could never write to him, or talk to him on this
subject. My tongue, my pen, will be sure to falter. I know
that he will boldly justify his conduct, and I feel that he
ought to justify, yet the attempt to justify would awaken—
indignation, selfishness. In spite of the suggestions of my
better reason, I know we should quarrel.
We should not quarrel now, if the topic were mentioned.
Of indignation against him, even for a real fault; much less
for an imaginary one, I am, at this time, not capable; but
it would be useless to mention it. There is nothing to
explain; no misapprehensions to remove; no doubts to clear
up. All that he did, I, in the same case, ought to have
done.
But I told you, I wished not to fill my letters with the
melancholy scene before me. This is a respite, a solace to
me; and thus, and in reading thy letters, I employ all my
spare moments.
Write to me, my love. Daily, hourly, and cheerfully, if
possible. Borrow not; be not thy letters tinged with the
melancholy hue of this.
Write speedily and much, if thou lovest thy
