University of Virginia Library

ROSE TO FRANK JONES.

I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive
under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I am

externally more calm, my nerves are less susceptible, I sleep
more soundly, and Margaret says there is some color in my
cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric circles, I
can say the three outer ones approximate a healthy and natural
state. But the fourth, the innermost, the central one, the core,
what can I say of that? I dare not look in there, I dare not
reflect upon myself. One thing, I have no real guilt to harass
me; I only call to mind my follies. My ambition ever centred
upon a solitary acquisition, and for that alone have the
energies of my being been spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating,
tender, great, solemn sympathy. Begniled by this
desire, I mistook the demonstrations of a selfish passion for
tokens of a noble heart. Betrayed beyond the bounds of
strict propriety, I became an object of the censure of mankind.
Too proud to confess, or too much confounded to
explain my innocence, I suffered the penalties of positive infamy.
It always seemed to me that I was placid by nature,
and moderate in my sensations. This opposition created in
me a new nature; my calamities have imparted heat to my
temper, and acrimony to my judgment. I became impetuous,
vehement, and as it were possessed. A new consciousness was
revived, both of what I was and of what the world was. Up
to that time I had floated on with a tolerable serenity, trusting
myself and others, and ever hoping for more. Then commenced
my contention and my despair. I became all at once
sensible of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom
literal coals of fire shall be put. My heart swelled to enormous
proportions; it became diseased, and dreadfully painful.
It spread itself through my system, tyranuized over my thought,
and fed upon the choicest strength of my being. My intellect
was darkened, I became an Atheist. Under these circumstances,
which you already know something about, after having
long kept it hidden, I declared myself to Margaret. She had
penetration enough to understand me, and sufficient magnanimity
to love me; she awed me by her superior, uniform
goodness. I availed myself of a moment when she was in
tears to unfold the cause of my own. I rejoiced in her weakness,
because I thought thereby I could find entrance to her
greatness. The melancholy, to me most melancholy events
of her brother's death, I need not recapitulate. When we left
Livingston, I seemed to be driven on as by the elements;
whither or how I cared not. I had some tact, and my connection
with the Theatre, it was said, would be an advantage
to the company. Indeed, it was hinted that I might become a
Star! My God, how I should have shone! This new life
glittered before me, and into the prospect I threw whatever
power of resolution or hope I had remaining. Margaret
agreed to abide ever with me, and aid me as she could; while
I was to earn the livelihood for us both. One good I did derive
from this adventure, self-forgetfulness. I attained a sort
of ecstasy of outward delight; and, will you believe it, I grew
better. This external happiness sank into my being deeper
and deeper; it chased away my regrets, it healed my morbidness.
My evil and distress seemed to diminish. I was
becoming cleansed and purified. Can you understand this?
The happier I waxed the more reconciled I became, and the
strife between what I was and what I would be, between my
hopes and my calamities, ceased. Self-forgetfulness the road
to virtue! What will you Divines say to that? All at once
we were thrown into your house, where all is so elegant, so
serene, so pure, so affectionate. Your goodness, Sir, startled
me. I dare not be left alone with you. When you spoke, it
agonized me. You recalled me to myself. If you had been
only good, I believe I should have died, or run away. Anna
came to your aid. You were a man. Can a man understand
a woman? Margaret says they can. I have denied it. I
needed more than your goodness, I needed sympathy, sympathy
with my feelings, my wretchedness, my wickedness even.
Could you render it? I had a woman's need of sympathy;
could any man give it? Many and painful were the struggles
I underwent. Now that I am away from you I can speak
more freely and composedly, as I know you will and must
allow me to do. Margaret says my smile bewitched you; a
game it has more than once practised. How fervently have I
prayed for a Medusa-face! But it was not that; it was that
your kind feelings, as of old, “took me in.” Then your good
minister spoke so discriminatingly and benevolently to me.
Truly I can say, never man spake like that man. But could
you reach my heart, could you underlie my deepest feelings,
could you sustain, heal and assure that which your presence
animated into painful life? Let me not disquiet you by questions
like these. But I have no alternative, either I must
describe my whole estate, or retreat from you forever. You, in
effect, demand a disclosure, and Margaret urges me to make
it in full. I have not seen a great deal of the world, but I
have felt enough of it. I have become suspicious of men,
not of their motives altogether, or of their wishes, or kindness;
but of their moral capability. Then whatever benefit
the theatre afforded, I am deriving in a purer manner and with
a larger measure here. All kinds of diversion are at our command.
We have purchased horses, and can ride; we have
boats, and can sail; we have woods, and can walk. We work
too, weed the garden, drive the cow to pasture, feed the
poultry, wash dishes and wind spools. We have leisure and
books, and can read. Beyond this, am I prepared to encounter
the world in the particular manner you propose to conduct
me to it? I have left it, I have bade it a long adieu. I will
not say I hate it, only I will have nothing to do with it. Margaret,
with all that oppresses her so sensibly, is still elastic,
hearty, luxuriant. She has a great being, and evil floats
through her and passes away. I am so contracted and small
it all lodges in me, and propagates itself through my whole
existence. Or at least, so great is her power of self-recuperation,
that if the whole globe were heaped upon her she would
make her way up through it; and not only that, she would
assimilate its elements to her nature, and convert its forces to
her uses. A cloud that drives me home for shelter against the
rain, only enhances the beauty of her Universe. Then her
compassion is so quick, and her ministries so gentle, while I
am cold and stubborn to the wants or woes of all. She too
is a believer in Christ, which I am not, or at least in the sense
that she is. Her faith is life-giving, soul-penetrating, noble,
luminous, purifying. Mine, all that I ever had, was a mechanical,
artificial, vulgar sort of calculation. I was once
converted indeed; but I have sadly fallen away. At the best
I am but a poor Christian truly. Margaret, I know, never
sinned. I have sinned day by day. I say not these things to
commend her, but to reveal myself.

Shall I turn to the other more significant, and so far as this
question is concerned, more weighty reflections, — the formidable
fourth circle I mean; a combination of impressions,
characteristics, substances, of not the most auspicious nature.
Forgetting you, I forget that. With you, that revives. It is I
would fain believe drawing to a diminished diameter; its
action is reduced, it beats with a less audible pulse. It is a
woman's broken heart, a woman's despair; it is a woman's
feebleness, acute delicacy, shrinking sensitiveness, high sentiment
of honor and low consciousness of disgrace, all thrown
in together. What would you do with it? What would it do
with you? What would you do with such a woman? There
is a bird, Margaret says, that crosses sheets of water on the
leaves of the floating lily; can you cross me so? There is

another bird that refuses to drink of streams and pools, and
only catches the drops as they fall from the skies. I have
refused to quench my thirst at common sources, and whither
shall I look? Dearest Frank, I must yield to your judgment
what I dare not to your love — myself. You will have need
of strength as well as affection if you take me. On your
soberest discretion I can alone rely. Seeing how I am, is it
in your power to make me what I should be?

How we long for Mr. Evelyn's return. I am sure Margaret
loves him; when I tell her so, she smiles, and says, “Yes,
and Frank Jones too.” But I know she desires my consent
to your wishes, and I think she would feel badly to have Mr.
Evelyn marry abroad. But what an admirable wife she would
make you; this entre nous. Perhaps we shall both set up a
Convent here, and feed poor children. Margaret is all there
is left to me in this world; and I, who am the whole cause of
her sorrows, still live on her bounty. I am a last year's leaf
that I have sometimes seen on the beech trees blanched and
dry, still cleaving to the brightness and bloom of her Spring-time.