by
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 sheis seldom successful. Conscience tells me it is folly, it is guilt, towrap up my existence in one frail mortal; to employ all my thoughts, tolavish 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 benot without his faults; to enjoy no peace but in his presence, to begrateful for his permission to sacrifice fortune, ease, life itself, forhis sake.
From the humiliation produced by these charges, vanity endeavours torelieve me by insinuating that all happiness springs from affection; thatnature ordains no tie so strong as that between the sexes; that to lovewithout bounds is to confer bliss not only on ourselves but on another;that conjugal affection is the genuine sphere not only of happiness butduty.
Besides, my heart will not be persuaded but that its fondness for youis nothing more than simple justice. Ought I not to love excellence, anddoes my poor imagination figure to itself any thing in human shape moreexcellent than thou?
But yet there are bounds beyond which passion cannot go withoutcounteracting its own purposes. I am afraid mine goes beyond those bounds.So far as it produces rapture, it deserves to be cherished; but whenproductive of impatience, repining, agony, on occasions too that areslight, trivial, or unavoidable, 'tis surely culpable.
Methinks, my friend, I would not have had thee for a witness of thebitterness, the tumult of my feelings, during this day; ever since youleft me. You cannot conceive any thing more forlorn, more vacant, moreanxious, than this weak heart has been and still is. I was terrified at myown sensations, and, with my usual folly, began to construe them intoomens of evils; so inadequate, so disproportioned was my distress to thecause that produced it.
Ah! my friend! a weak--very weak--creature is thy Jane. From excess oflove 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 myoverflowing heart must have relief, and I shall find a sort of comfort inchiding you. Let me chide you, then, for coldness, for insensibility: butno; 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 lastsalute, your ill-concealed effort to disengage yourself from myfoolishly-fond arms. You have got at your journey's end, I hope. Farewell.
J. TALBOT.
To Henry Colden
Tuesday Morning, October 4.
I must write to you, you said, frequently and copiously: you did notmean, I suppose, that I should always be scribbling, but I cannot help it.I can do nothing but converse with you. When present, my prate isincessant; when absent, I can prate to you with as little intermission;for the pen, used so carelessly and thoughtlessly as I use it, doesbut prate.
Besides, I have not forgotten my promise. 'Tis true the story youwished me to give you is more easily communicated by the pen than by thelips. I admit your claim to be acquainted with all the incidents of mylife, be they momentous or trivial. I have often told you that theretrospect is very mournful; but that ought not to prevent me from makingit, when so useful a purpose as that of thoroughly disclosi