―116―TO JOHN H. PAYNE.
Philadelphia, August 25th, 1806.
My Dear Friend,
When I parted with you at Albany, I had half a mind to
request the favour of a letter from you when you should have
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entered on your new course of academical life; but I was
afraid your short acquaintance would make the request appear
to you unreasonable. Besides you allowed me to entertain
hopes of seeing you in a month or two, and then, I flattered
myself, something like friendship might be grafted, on mere ac-
quaintanceship. I accordingly looked for you in Philadelphia,
with no small impatience, after your college vacation commen-
ced; but day came after day, and you came not; so I imagin-
ed your inclinations had led you a different way. I should
have written to you, for the lively interest I feel in your wel-
fare would have made me disregard ceremony; but unluckily
I had no clue to your steps. Your letter came most oppor-
tunely to satisfy my curiosity, and I thank you heartily for this
agreeable proof of your remembrance.
You do not say how long you propose to stay at Ballston, or
whether you have wholly given up your design of coming
southward. I long to see you, but confess I have now little
hopes of it. The cities at this season are equally dull and un-
wholesome, and your Ballston must abound with every thing
that can delight the fancy or the senses. The next vacation,
I believe, occurs in winter, and then a journey hither will re-
ward you perhaps for the cold and fatigue of the journey.
When you come, whenever that shall happen, you must do my
little home the favour to make it yours. You will find it the
abode of content, and may enjoy the spectacle, not very com-
mon, of an happy family. Mrs. B. is as anxious as myself to
see you. She takes all your good qualities on my word, and
loves you by proxy.
Most sincerely do I rejoice that you find Schenectady so
agreeable. I tremble with apprehension, when I think how
much of the dignity and happiness of your whole life depends
upon the resolutions of the present moment. Were it possible for
a miracle to be wrought in your favour, and that the experience
of a dozen years could be obtained without living so long,
there would be little danger that an heart so unperverted as
yours would mislead you. The experience of others will
avail you nothing. They may talk, indeed, but till you are as
old as the counsellor, and have seen, with your own eyes, as
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much as he, his words are mere idle sounds, impertinent and
unintelligible. Fancy and habit are supreme over your con-
duct, and all your friends have to trust to, is a heart natural-
ly pure and tractable, and a taste, if I may so call it, for the
approbation of the wise and good.
When you write next I hope you will have both leisure and
inclination to be particular on the subject of your studies.
What are your books and your exercises? What progress do
you make, and what difficulties or reluctances stand in your
way? You see I make great demands upon you. I am afraid
you will not admit my affection for you as a sufficient pretext
for making them, and I have, as yet, no other foundation on
which to build my claim.
I have a great deal more to say to you, but I am afraid,
judging from the brevity of yours, that you have no passion
for long letters. I will therefore stop in due season, and only
add the name of your true and warm friend,