 | Randolph |  |
SARAH TO JULIET.
I thank you, my dear Juliet, from the very depth of
my heart, for your last kind letter. I have endeavoured
to follow your advice; and, when we meet, which I
hope, will be soon, I trust that you will see some other
evidence than her word, that Sarah Ramsay is better
and wiser for her sorrow. The dispensation was heavy,
Juliet; and my heart was in its unpreparedness. In my
that had been torn away, from other cherished ones,
had, it seemed to me, fastened upon him, as the nearest
and best, for support and nourishment. I thought that
I was prepared for almost every thing. O, I was cruelly
mistaken. The blow came, as if it would shatter me.
It fell—and I was alone. No father;—no mother!—
no sister!—no brother;—forgive my tears, Juliet, they
are a relief to me. My poor father, as you know, was
never weakly indulgent to me; but his plain good sense,
his household virtue, and his worldly wisdom—these were
the substantial things of this life, without which, we are
weaker than children. One only thing, did I pray for;—
in all others, he was a good man. He wanted that earnest
vitality of religion, which early sickness, and little
else can, will always teach the sensible and meek
heart, that lovely and beautiful religion, which steals upon
us, like the dew of heaven, in purity, and freshness,
while we are sleeping.—Yes, he wanted that; but he was
nevertheless, a good man, practically good, and very
useful. Let us hope—yea, I do hope, in humble confidence,
that he hath had meted to him, the measure of
love and forgiveness. Nay, more; I do believe it, for,
when we parted, he blessed me, and bade me pray more
frequently, saying that “it would be a comfort upon my
death bed.” His countenance was serene, but earnest;
and, during all the delirium which followed, with me, I
heard his voice and saw his face, continually. Let us
obey him, my dear Juliet—my sister. Yes—I will be
thy sister.—And, now, to be less melancholy.
By the way, Frank is somehow or other beside himself
of late. What has happened to him? Can his spirits
be artificial? Sometimes I think that they are. A
thought strikes me, Juliet—hear me—it is said, that
Grenville is making his regular approaches. Do not
be precipitate. Situations have their influence.—While
I have a home, and a house, it is the home and house of
Juliet. Have I said enough?—I shall soon be there, and
then we shall be happy.
Shall I attempt to give you some account of our journeying,
and plans? We propose going to Quebec. I
find that a visit to one of my relations, which I shall
make, by gradual stages, will carry me up the Kennebeck
river, to a place not more than sixty miles from
Quebec; and how can I return without having been
there, particularly with so elegant a fellow as Frank,
for a protector. I assure you that, we attract a
good deal of attention; and, in spite of all his artifices,
I can perceive, by the sparkling of his eyes, and an occasional
silliness about his handsome mouth, mighty
common in our moments of self-complacency, when we
try to conceal our pleasant thoughts—that he is much
flattered by it. I write in spirits, Juliet, for I feel in
spirits; and it were a wicked affectation, I think, at
such a season, when heaven is all blue above us, and the
beautiful earth, so green, to shut up our senses in sorrow
for the past. No—I can think of my father, without forgeting
my Maker. And I can enjoy the colour and incense
that surround me, I hope, without any unbecoming negligence
of either:—but Frank has just left me, laughing
at the freedom of the women here; some country
girls, I suppose—they took his arm without any ceremony,
as he was sauntering along, under one of the
most magnificent old elm trees in the world. He was
astonished, shocked at their indelicacy; but a little conversation
set him right. They were women of sense
and education; and, when questioned, candidly attributed
their conduct to the scarcity of beaux, who, they say,
are in the habit of running away, from their native
town, as soon as they can go alone, and as fast as they
are able. Frank said that he did not wonder at it—for
which compliment, they invited him home. Really, he
says, he found those very romps, whose manners had so
alarmed him at first, and he really had a great deal of
sensitiveness, entertaining and sensible. Frank's manners,
you know, would recommend him any where; and,
when he produced his letters, which was not until he was
on the most familiar footing, what was his surprise to
find that some of them were to the fathers, brothers,
but they were not, at all, and laughed heartily at the affair,
as a good joke.
Salem.—Which we left Saturday morning, appears
to be a place of considerable importance; and, from its
proximity to Boston (only twelve or fourteen miles distant)
to participate in all the fashion and amusements of
that place. I was very kindly treated there, and I must say
that the yankee women are much better educated, and in
general, handsomer, more womanly in their deportment,
than we, of the south. I do not think that they have our
grace, finish, refinement and delicacy, or rather sentiment;
and their style of dress, to my eye, is unbecoming;
but all this may be prejudice; and I dare say it is, for,
with the fashion, our opinions change, both of manners
and dress. They are more English, and the southerners
more clearly French, in every thing. Their very walk,
and dancing are peculiar, short, hurried and active; like
a money-making people, determined to have their money's
worth. Yet, I have seen some of the best bred men here,
that I have ever met with, calm, sedate, self-collected,
confident, and sensible.
Newburyport—A place about a dozen miles from
Salem, over which road we rattled, with an amazing velocity,
in the mail coach (for I have sent home the carriage—it
was quite too great a care on my mind) containing,
I believe, about nine or ten thousand inhabitants,
is really a handsome little town. Frank does not like
it; but I do. It is true—we were not much noticed; but
what could we expect? We only stopped a few hours; but,
during that time, I had the good fortune to meet with
one fine woman, whom I shall not forget. She knows
my relative, and treated me with the plain, cordial, unaffected
kindness of a relation, or of an old acquaintance at
least. I found her intelligent, pious, and lady-like.—
You have heard of the Salem-witches. Many were
burnt there. The buildings are often of wood, and truly
New England.—I do not know what more I could say.
It implies all that is honest, shrewd, calculating, clean
and comfortable, for one generation. Let the next take
account for this better, than by a want of foresight, in a
people so conspicuous for seeing further than their neighbours?
The towns grew rapidly—labour was cheap;—
lumber (by which word, they include all stuff made of
pine, such as logs, joist, spars, timber, shingles, clapboards,
&c. &c. &c.) plenty and cheap; and their trade,
in the early settlement, was chiefly in lumber, to the West
Indies; a trade however, that, like our tobacco planting
at the south, was sure to impoverish them that pursued
it, in the long run. It was more important of course, to
men so employed, to keep their little capitals active, and
their labour in its most productive channels. What
were they? Navigation, and shipping. They grew
rich, therefore, in clapboard houses; and are now gradually
replacing them, as they decay, with brick and
stone.
You have heard a great deal of New England cunning,
and Yankee “trickery;” yet, I have observed, that
they, who are most prejudiced against the Yankees, seem
to know the least of them. I never met with any person
that had been among them, who did not speak of them with
affection and respect. And I have observed this fact, even
at the south, where, you know, they consider all that are
north, of themselves, to be Yankees. Thus, in the Carolinas
and Virginia, the Pennsylvanians are Yankees. In
Pennsylvania, the New-Yorkers are so. Avoid the errour;—the
five New England states are jealous of the
prerogative. They are, Massachusetts, Rhode Island,
Connecticut and New Hampshire—Vermont is since
made up among them; and now the District of Maine is
making up—so that there will be six New England states,
the people of which, and they only, are Yankees. The
fact, that I was about to mention, is this. At the south,
I have frequently heard the Yankees condemned in a
lump; but I have always heard the particular acquaintances
of the speaker, excepted. In this way, I have heard
nearly all the Yankees of a large city, excepted at different
times, from the sweeping denunciation! But—the
prejudice is wearing away. We begin to assimilate.—
players,—slave dealers, and horse jockies; nor they, in
ours, a people made up of dealers in wooden ware, and
“long and short sarse,” as, it is said, they call vegetables,
turnips, onions,—potatoes being “round sauce; which
they pronounced sarse, and carrots, beats, parsnips, &c.
long sauce.” They do call vegetables sauce; that I can
aver, for I have heard it often. Another thing that
strikes a stranger from our world here, is the being
waited upon, by the family at the taverns, and often
by genteel girls. They have their whims, it is true;
but they are a hard working, religious, sober people,
who may always be depended upon, in the hour of trial.
Look at the men of the revolution? Where did the spirit
first appear? Who withstood, so soon, or so steadily, the
continual encroachment and inroad of power? The men
of New England may justly boast of their ancestry.—
They were the persecuted pilgrim,—mistaken, no doubt,
in points of faith, but never mistaken in his duty to God.
Their “family jewels” are not hand-cuffs nor manacles;
no convicts were exported to New England;—and the
people are more purely national than any other in America.
It is rare to see a Frenchman here;—and an Italian,
Spaniard, German, or other European is a prodigy.—
Blacks, too, are scarcely to be seen; and they that are so,
are freemen, humble, industrious, and orderly.
No, Juliet, we have wronged this people. They have
poured in their population upon us, as we have ours upon
the south. It is the natural appointment of heaven. The
hardy barbarians of the north, have always overrun the
slothful and effeminate men of the south; and they always
will; yet, must we look to the south for genius,—here
for talent; there for poetry and rhetorick, and eloquence,
and painting; here for wisdom, law, mathematicks and
scholarship. And so it is—the most learned body of
divines in the world perhaps, of their age, are to be
found in New England. They are a school of protestant
Jesuits. Do not listen to the vulgar stories about
this people. Ninety-nine out of one hundred, that we have
heard, again and again repeated, as Yankee tricks, are
or were not committed by Yankees. They are now,
however, the legitimate parent of every trick, as an
Irishman is, of every blunder, no matter who may beget
it. For my own part, I have no reason to believe that
dishonesty is more common here, than with us;—if it
were, and practised as a trade, there would be no dealing
with these men, I confess. They are so persevering;
up early and late; and move with such a substanstial regularity,
in all the affairs of life. They are the Scotch
of America.
Farewell—I shall write to you next from Portland—I
hope.
| Randolph | |