He imagined himself justified in imputing to me atrocious and infamous errors. He was grieved for my debasement, and endeavoured, 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 on 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 endeavoured to think in relation to Thomson. My endeavour 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 COLDEN. Letter XXXI _To Henry Colden_ Philadelphia, Nov. 9. What do you mean, Hal, by such a strain as this? I wanted no additional causes of disquiet. Yet you tell me to write cheerfully. I would have written cheerfully, if these letters, so full of dark forebodings and rueful prognostics, had not come to damp my spirits. And is the destiny that awaits us so very mournful? Is thy wife necessarily to lose so many comforts and incur so many mortifications? Are my funds so small, that they will not secure to me the privilege of a separate apartment, in which I may pass my time with whom and in what manner I please?