And Yet I Speak But Little

New York, January 27th, 1788

My Dear Friend,

Mr Ingraham has furnished me with another conveyance to Boston, and I cannot neglect the opportunity of sending you a memento of the respect I have for your personal worth and the interest I feel in your happiness. Becca, I could speak of a thousand things which I cannot write, and yet I speak but little. I wish to see you every day, and yet I know not whether you would add to my happiness. I sometimes think of retiring from society and devoting myself to reading and contemplation, for I labor incessantly and reap very little fruit from my toils. I suspect I am not formed for society; and I wait only to be convinced that people wish to get rid of my company, and I would instantly leave them for better companions: the reflections of my own mind. Mankind generally form a just estimate of a man's character, and I am willing to think they do so with mine. And if I find that they think less favorable of me than I do myself, I submit to their opinion and consent to a separation.

You will see my the tenor of this letter that I am in the dumps a little and will require the reason. Why, Becca, I have been asked the question so often that it really displeases me. To satisfy such enquiries, it would be necessary to relate the history of my life, which you have heard before, and to enumerate a thousand things which ought to be forgotten.

I suspect that I have elevated my views too high, that I have mistaken my own character and ought to contract my wishes to a smaller compass. I am endeavoring to bring my mind to this state - a melancholy tale indeed! Well, I wish everybody were as good as James Greenleaf and his sister Becca. I should then be a much happier man, but as it is I will not be unhappy. I am as patient as possible, waiting for the sun to disperse the clouds that hang over the mind of your Cordial Friend and Admirer.

Noah Webster