JANE TALBOT.
LETTER I.
To Henry Colden.
Philadelphia, Monday Evening, October 3.
I am very far from being a wise girl. So conscience
whispers me, and though vanity is eager to refute the charge,
I must acknowledge that she is seldom successful. Conscience
tells me it is folly, it is guilt to wrap up my existence
in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, to lavish all
my affections upon one object; to dote upon a human being,
who, as such, must be the heir of many frailties, and whom
I know to be not without his faults; to enjoy no peace but
in his presence, to be grateful for his permission to sacrifice
fortune, ease, life itself for his sake.
From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity
endeavors to relieve me by insinuating that all happiness
springs from affection; that nature ordains no tie so strong
as that between the sexes; that to love without bounds is to
confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another; that conjugal
affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness but
duty.
Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness
for you is nothing more than simple justice. Ought I
not to love excellence, and does my poor imagination figure
to itself any thing in human shape more excellent than thou?
But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot
go without counteracting its own purposes. I am afraid
mine goes beyond those bounds. So far as it produces
rapture, it deserves to be cherished, but when productive of
impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that are slight,
trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.
Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a
witness of the bitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during
this day; ever since you left me. You cannot conceive
any thing more forlorn, more vacant, more anxious than
this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at my
own sensations, and, with my usual folly began to construe
them into omens of evil; so inadequate, so disproportioned
was my distress to the cause that produced it.
Ah! my friend! a weak—very weak creature is thy
Jane. From excess of love arises that weakness; that must
be its apology with thee, for, in thy mind, my fondness, I
know, needs an apology.
Shall I scold you a little? I have held in the rein a long
time, but my overflowing heart must have relief, and I shall
find a sort of comfort in chiding you. Let me chide you
then, for coldness, for insensibility—but no; I will not. Let
me enjoy the rewards of self-denial, and forbearance, and
seal up my accusing lips. Let me forget the coldness of
your last salute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself
from my foolishly fond arms. You have got at your
journey's end, I hope. Farewell,
