 | Randolph |  |
LETTER II. REPLY.
New-York, 29th November.
Is it possible!—I pity you. Your letter, dear John,
arrived almost as soon as we. I received it, in the
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to foot, yet I had the presence of mind to open and read
it, by the side of my father and mother. This was the only
course left to me; for your imprudence, in directing it
as you did, made them watch every movement of my
countenance; and what could I have done, if my father,
my kind, dear father, had asked me for it? O, let me entreat
you cousin, to be less precipitate. It will be fatal
to you, one day or other, I am sure. You are so direct,
sudden, and rash, that I am always quaking for you.—
I am interrupted — — — — ah! — —
— I am called — — — — — I have returned
and left them all talking about you; but, I have only
a moment to spare, lest my absence may be taken notice of.
There are only two things, or perhaps three, that I have
time to say now; and they are these. You are infatuated.
Edward is a villain: but I want you to tell me, exactly,
how he looked and acted, (for he is a masterly actor, and
can deceive any human being, youthful and artless as he
appears, with the counterfeit of any passion, feeling,
character or emotion.) Let me hear this, by the return
mail; and I will then inform you of some other circumstances
that have come to my knowledge, since I left Baltimore.
But there is one favour, that I have to request of
you;—be a little more temperate in your style. You
know my opinion of such things. I hate fine writing in
a letter, just as I hate fine talking in conversation.
Adieu,
S.
P. S. I forgot to say, that, notwithstanding my prediction,
I am really amazed, astonished and confounded at
your extravagance. Nay,—although I foretold it, I did
not believe it myself, cousin—that you, you should have
been such a — upon my word, if out of the abundance
of the heart, the pen had written,—you would have found
rather an ungracious word, where that blank is. But
tell me how he managed you. Defend yourself, I entreat
you; John—hearken to me—defend yourself, or I
shall despise you. Nay;—at this moment—Sarah, the
“proud, unfeeling Sarah,” is weeping for you—weeping
with shame and vexation. These blisters on the paper,
—these blots and blurs—John! I do not often weep;—
but, if you do not give me better reasons, than any that
I can imagine, in your unexampled apostacy, I shall be
tempted to swear, never again to shed a tear, whatever
may become of you;—nay, to requite you with scorn and
derision, for the distress that I feel at this moment. After
all that I had said to you, too! Why, pride would
have withheld you, if you were like any other human being.
But, good bye!—let me hear, immediately; I shall
not sleep, till you are restored to my respect.
I am really amazed, astonished and confounded at
your extravagance. Nay,—although I foretold it, I did
not believe it myself, cousin—that you, you should have
been such a — upon my word, if out of the abundance
of the heart, the pen had written,—you would have found
rather an ungracious word, where that blank is. But
tell me how he managed you. Defend yourself, I entreat
you; John—hearken to me—defend yourself, or I
shall despise you. Nay;—at this moment—Sarah, the
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with shame and vexation. These blisters on the paper,
—these blots and blurs—John! I do not often weep;—
but, if you do not give me better reasons, than any that
I can imagine, in your unexampled apostacy, I shall be
tempted to swear, never again to shed a tear, whatever
may become of you;—nay, to requite you with scorn and
derision, for the distress that I feel at this moment. After
all that I had said to you, too! Why, pride would
have withheld you, if you were like any other human being.
But, good bye!—let me hear, immediately; I shall
not sleep, till you are restored to my respect.
S.
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