 | Randolph |  |
MARY TO EDWARD MOLTON.
I have just left the President's house. I have come
away early—disturbed by another resemblance—but no,
I will not regard it. There are faces that haunt me,
turn where I will; and sometimes, I should almost fancy
myself surrounded by the painted, embroidered puppets of
St. James —. But stay, let me divert my thoughts.
I have come away, wearied to death, and heart sick of
their wretched folly and parade. O, Edward, when I
used to listen to thee, till I thought my heart would burst;
and hear thee talk of this great people, so full of republican
simplicity, so stern and spartan-like, “a commonwealth
of kings,” till thy strange face shook all over,
with the passion beneath it, like the reflection of something
terrible in troubled water; my spirit arose, to intercede
for them, among the kings, and princes, and nobility
of Europe.
I scorned and mocked at the follies of the old world;
and my chest heaved to participate in the wise and awful
solemnities of this. Why did I trust to thee, Edward?
Thou art altogether an American. Why did I follow
thee, hither?
Shall I tell thee what I expected to see? I will—men
and women—Lacedemonians, at least—characterised by
in republican sobriety and steadiness;—
deriding, calmly, but with a derision that kings would
not encounter, all the trapping, and appendage, and
parade, and nonsense of royalty. But what have I
found! Edward, I am used to speak plainly; and I shall
not depart from my settled habitude, even thought it may
hurt thee;—for thou knowest my veneration for such men
as George Washington, and others, like him, the growth
of America, when God, himself, fought her battles, and
bred her children;—and thou wilt endure my plainness,
while I lament her degeneracy.
What have I found —! —. I will tell thee—a
plebeian nobility—a struggle for precedence between the
families of to-day—and the families of yesterday;—paltry
titles, given and taken by all ranks, without authority
or right;—our worst follies and worst vices awkwardly
imitated and carricatured;—talent and virtue in the dust;
greatness under the chariot wheels of wealth;—a republican
court affecting to disdain the patricians of Europe—
their titles and diamonds; their regal foolery; the hierarchy
of our churches—and the ermine of our judges and chancellors;—yet
loaded with dirty finery; crowded and blazing
with paste jewelry; and Squires and Honours; and Excellencies!
and Bishops! O, is it not paltry! Nay, Edward,
so ridiculous is this bustle and parade of imitation,
at times, that I should be tempted to laugh at it, outright,
were it not too serious a thing for laughter, when considered
in its true light,—the symptom of a mortal degeneracy,
in a brave and great people.
Washington, you must know, and you must know it
in this way too, (for your stay here was quite too short,
for you to make any observation for yourself) is a sort
of metropolis; the city of “magnificent distances,” as the
Abbé somebody called it, where people enquire after each
other's health by a telegraph; make love by the pennypost—and
recognise a difference of fifteen minutes in the
time at their chambers and places of business—where, as
in Paris, or London, all the poison and death of the whole
system are concocted at leisure; and whence, they are distributed
to all the healthy extremities, until they learn
am getting too serious; and were I disposed to be a little
merry, at one of the most melancholy hours of my life,
which is exactly this, I should continue the illustration,
and inform my Edward, that I have lately seen some of the
natural consequences of excess;—met a few sufficiently
alarming contractions—disorders—and spasms, within
the last week—ah! the door opens — — * * * * *
a letter from thee, Edward!—O, how welcome to my exhausted
and sick heart.
I have read it. Boaster!—would that I had thee,
here!—I knew not what I should do—fatigued and wearried
to death as I am,—with thy rebellious and confident
spirit—(that is a badly constructed sentence Edward;—
it is easily misunderstood, if thou'rt in an evil disposition,
but I have not the heart to mend it.) If—oh if thou
wert here, how could I rebuke thee;—indeed, I know
not—perhaps, turn to thee, dear, and fall asleep in thy
bosom. O, come to me!—It is so wearing, this impertinent
routine of folly and dissipation, that I had rather
hear thy voice in its sternest mood, when I kneel before
thee, trembling in every joint, than endure this chill and
lonely, desolate feeling, which follows the riotous excitement
of such a place as —: No, I cannot write any
more—my heart is too full —good night, Edward—good
night—dear, dear Edward—good night!
| Randolph | |