 | Randolph |  |
JOHN TO SARAH RAMSAY.
Really, Sarah, I do not know what to say to your extraordinary
letter. Sometimes I feel hurt and mortified;
and then a little angry; but, at last, I have come to a resolution,
to answer it, plainly, and to the point. You once
complained of my long letters; and, when, in one of mine,
that afterward fell into your hands, I said, with some
little bitterness, perhaps, that there were persons, who
could endure long letters from me; you reproached me
for it;—silently, to be sure, but so as to make me feel that
I had behaved like a child. Now, I do not complain of
long letters, unless where a long conversation, from the
same person, on the same subject, would be tiresome; and
I am really thankful for yours, the longest and cruellest
that you ever wrote.
Yes—I am extravagant. I am vain,—and I do not
always proportion my word to my thought; for all
which, I am sorry, and—and—but no matter—
I will not promise, as I used to, in such cases, never to offend
again, in the same way,—because that were impossible
to perform. I will only say, my dear, excellent
cousin, that I will undertake a thorough and serious reformation
in the matter. I shall not succeed at once;—
I know that I sha'nt—and shall occasionally provoke your
animadversion, for a long time, I dare say; but, in the
end, I hope to prevail. Habits, that are long in forming,
are long in correcting;—awkward enough—is'nt it. Sarah?
But you will understand me, and that is all that I
desire, at present.
You are wrong, and ungenerous too, for the first time,
in your opinion of Jane. She is not the artful girl that
you suppose;—there is much more of innocence, kindness,
and simplicity in her disposition, than you would
her—and I have told her so!—not, to be sure, in so many
words; but she happened to play off some of her management,
a little too adroitly, in the very way that you
mentioned; and so, I thought it was time to speak plainly;
as plainly as I could, without wounding her, or distressing
myself. She understood me, and I left off going to
the house for about a month; and then renewed my visits;
but, scarcely had I got upon my old familiar footing,—
than I caught her at the same manœuvreing again. I
abandoned the house entirely, for a time; and, finally,
managed to give her a better bargain—in our acquaintance
of the hills. They will soon be married.
So that, so far as Jane is concerned, your advice,
which is excellent, and made me laugh more than once,
till the tears came into my eyes, while I was comparing
it, with what had actually taken place, is altogether
gratuitous. And here, you know that I might stop;—
but to give you a proof of my unreserved sincerity toward
her, who would lay down her life for me.—I cannot
help telling you, that I have been as constant a visiter,
as you have heard, at Mrs. Palmer's fire place;
but my visits were not to Jane. To whom, then? To
nobody. But why did I go? I'll tell you, frankly, Sarah;—to
be near a sweet girl, who is dying in a consumption.
O, no, not to talk, or laugh with Jane—no,
but to look at—shall I name her—the innocent, the
affectionate, the dying Juliet. How blind are the world!
Nay,—even the acute Sarah, and the heart broken
creature, whom I have gone to sit by, and listen to,
that I might come away afterward, and weep, even they
are as blind as the world. I have been accused of loving
all but her;—all!—and yet, about her alone, hath
my spirit lingered, like one held by enchantment, fearing
to breathe or speak, night after night, without daring to
look her in the face, or even to approach her—the sweet
sufferer. O Sarah—I have set by her while her delicate
frame shivered, and her very hands were unsteady, upon
the table, where they rested, when some distant allusion
was made to her destroyer, till all the blood in my body
was boiling up against him—yes, he must be a villain—
world—and yet—no, no—I will see him first—hear his
story—sound him to the heart. “Have I paid her attention?”
No. “Do I love her?”—I know not,—but I compassionate
her;—and, I would die, to make her happier.
Toward all other women, my faculties approach loftily,
and undismayed. But when I attempt to approach her, O,
there is a feeling of religion;—a something that I cannot
express—that rebukes me—and I stand before her meek,
uncomplaining gentleness, with a mixture of sorrow, and
trembling, and self reproach, that I am of the same
species, with a creature, who could meditate aught of mischief
to one like her.
O—I well nigh forgot to tell you, that Molton has a
beautiful half-sister, a most queen-like creature, who has
been some weeks at Washington, the wonder and idolatry
of the place. He has just returned with her; and, it is said,
intends going over to Europe. I hope not. I am very
earnest to see Maria Howard as she is called. She has
been seriously ill, I am told; and he is the most affectionate
brother in the world—constantly with her, since last
Tuesday evening, when they arrived.
Thank heaven! I have sold the house;—and I am now
at liberty to pursue my studies, just as I desire.
| Randolph | |