 | Randolph |  |
SARAH RAMSAY TO JOHN OMAR.
What, John, “no argument,” none!—“no entreaty; no
expostulation!”—I quote your own words. In my last,
I promised to communicate something of moment, which
I learnt, accidentally, on my route; but, before I do
that, I must look over your letters together. How is it
that I find so many contradictions in them? You, surely,
do not mean to deceive me; and, I believe, are incapable
of a deliberate misrepresentation; yet, on recurring
to two or three, (I go no further back) I find many things
that, to me, are irreconcileable. You often appear to
forget what you have already written, or said upon the
subject, that is most interesting to us; you abound in repetitions;
beautiful, but extravagant language; and, I
know not what else, that, unwilling as I am to suspect you,
have put me upon examination; the result of which is, that,
after making all due allowance for your rashness, warmth
and impetuosity, I find many things, yes, many John,
which are mysterious and dark to me.
But let me mention some of them,—in order as they
occur, in your own letters. I shall leave you to explain
them;—perhaps I am too serious, cousin;—but, really, it
appears no light matter to me, for one so naturally frank
and ingenuous as you really are, by nature, to be caught
doubling on his track.....
In your first letter, (the first of the three, now before
me) you speak of Jane, in a manner, that, as I then told
you, was alarming to me. I cautioned you emphatically
against her, in my reply. I knew her well, and I never
loved her. She is an artful, cold hearted, showy, unprincipled
girl; and I should have been more pleased,
had you been more struck, and astonished, at her talent
and deportment, at the first sight. Why?—for the reasons
that I have already assigned. Sudden and violent
impressions are not lasting, cousin; but they that insinuate
themselves, more delicately and tenderly, they are
to be dreaded. Jane knows your disposition well—she
knows that you cannot love a brilliant or obtrusive girl;—
of her dazzling and unrivalled power, merely for the
purpose of appearing amiable. I told you this at
first. I foretold her whole plan; and was—naturally
enough, laughed at, for my pains. Yet, she has done
all that I foretold; and you not only have kept it a secret
from me, but led me into a belief that you were neither
interested nor amused with her, while you were actually
in her power, to a great degree. I wrote to you, and prayed
for a direct and explicit answer. You wrote a letter, to
be sure, in reply; but it was no answer. You evaded all
my questions. Once more, however, I am resolved to
try you; and I shall probe deeply, because I know your
infirmities; and, because I believe, that, if you have the
courage and manhood to persevere, as you have promised
me, you will become a distinguished man. John—your
reputation is dear to me. You know that I am not in
the habit of saying what I do not mean; or, of using
words bigger than my thought; and, I hope, therefore,
that you will take what I am about to say, in the very
spirit, with which it is written. I would lay down my
life, cousin John, cheerfully, to promote your true happiness.
Will you be kind enough to remember that;—and, if you
please, preserve this letter, to try my sincerity hereafter,
in any vicissitude. I shall never repeat it;—but I hope
that it will not be forgotten.
Let me return to the subject. You are vain. You
acknowledge it; and, at times I think, are ashamed of it.
But your vanity lies deeper than you imagine; and, what
is worse, on a side that you do not suspect. You are
most accessible on that point,—which, I dare say, you
have never thought of. If a woman would win you, and
had the art to manage you steadily, she would never
praise your talents; for, of them, you have certainly a very
just opinion now. I do not say this, en badinage, John,
to fall for once, into your weakness, of saying in another
language, what may be so much better said in our own,
but because it is true. After many mortifications,—many
disappointments, and much heart burning, you have
arrived at a pretty fair, rational estimate of your own
talent. A woman, therefore, who attempts to win you,
qualities in you, that the world have never seen. All
that is obvious to others, she will overlook. She will
never attempt to dazzle or astonish you. But she will
do this;—she will aim either to subdue you by her timidity,
and gentleness of spirit;—or by an affectionate bashfulness,
constantly breaking out, through all her attempts
at concealment and restraint. She will get you, gradually,
to become accustomed to her society. She will
adopt your opinions, not, by avowing them loudly, and
perpetually, with her lips; but by acting in conformity to
them. Her deportment will be retiring and melancholy;
timid and abstracted; and there will be, with an occasional
pensiveness, and resignation, a dart of fire thrown
out, now and then, to show you that she does not want
for spirit. She will appear to have no relish for the
world; her very eyes will betray a sort of willingness to
be out of it, at the same time that she will appear too
pious to wish for death; and too submissive, to rebel
against, or even to repine at, the dispensation, under
which she is fading: nay, if she be truly what I think Jane
is, she will manifest a continual, but apparently reluctant
deference to your opinion, taste, thought and judgment;
but this will be a delicate and insinuating deference,
invisible to all but yourself. It will appear to you,
the unwilling obedience of a gentle spirit, afraid of your
influence, alarmed at your ascendency, and on her guard
against your power. She will even dress in your favourite
colour;—and wear her beautiful hair, after the manner
that she alone has heard you commend in some other,
or in some picture, or piece of statuary; but—she will not
do this, immediately after she has heard your opinion;—
or, if that opinion were uttered before a third person, she
may not do it at all, because she knows well, that the self
love of a man like you, is never so fastidiously sensible,
as when it finds, what it is apt to call, a simple and innocent
heart, offering secret tribute to him, unconsciously;
no, she will not do this immediately, lest other women
might baffle her, or other men put you upon your guard;
but she will do it soon enough afterward, to attract the
attention of a vain man;—and, in that way too, which he
if well timed, is really irresistable. All women know
this; but few have the tact to profit by it. I have seen
more than one sensible girl completely thrown out, by
overdoing the part: and many a beautiful one, who did
it, continually, without knowing it. Would they learn the
art in perfection? Let them watch the manner of a woman,
that really is in love. To her lover, every thing
that she says or does; every intonation of voice, and every
movement of her body or face, tell the tale; but, while
they tell the tale to him—it is to him alone—to the world,
it is all an impenetrable mystery. In proportion as he
is flattered, the world are blinded: and, in proportion as
they are blinded, if his be a delicate mind, he is flattered.
Now, tell me the truth, John. Is not this, exactly what
Jane does? Is not she full of such unpremeditated
witchery?—have you not already become so accustomed
to her society, that you are uneasy, if you do not see her
on some regular, certain evening? Do you not find too, that,
one way or another, you are more and more with her, every
week of your life, accidentally, as you think;—but, are not
the intervals of absence less frequent and less long? Have
you not learnt to hear your names coupled, without any
feeling of surprise, by the gossipping people of the town?
Answer me, boldly cousin;—and then, for my last question
on this subject, let me ask you this,—for this is the
balancing point—the verdict—“the issue” as your young
friend, the lawyer, would say, upon which all your future
happiness may depend. Have you not learnt to
look with compassion upon all the bodily infirmities of
that girl?—to forget many circumstances in her situation,
and in that of her family, which, to a reasonable
man, nay, to yourself, a few months since, would have
been not only rational, but insurmountable objections to
a marriage?—a marriage!—you are amazed. Yes—I
dare say that you are. But hear me. Habits are dangerous
things; the most destructive are formed slowly
and quietly. Men do not fall in love, where they expect
it—men of sense, I mean. Why?—Because they go, fortified
in adamant, to encounter women, who are thought
especially beautiful or perilous. Yes;—and we are never
in such danger of being overcome by any habit, as
away from it, whenever we please. Sampson and
Gulliver were both sleeping, when they were bound;—and
cobwebs have held stronger men, who were weak only
as you are, cousin, in their security;—they fall from too
much self confidence. Compassion has destroyed many.
It may make you,—what you little believe now; and what
you would have mocked at, six months ago, the husband
of a haughty, sick girl, of an ambitious spirit, and most
unamiable temper. Tell me, John—I entreat you—have
you not already learnt to regard yourself as, in some
measure, necessary to the happiness of Jane? O—I am
afraid that you have.
If so, you are lost,—forever lost; for, if she can once
persuade you that her happiness is at your mercy, your
noble, unthinking heart, will be offered up in sacrifice.
Cousin—I tremble for you. Yet I must seal this long,
long letter, here; and delay my other admonitions, until I
hear, explicitly, in reply to these....
Adieu.
| Randolph | |