 | Randolph |  |
ANSWER.
No, I am not at all staggered, Frank. My opinion is
unchanged. The only difference that I know is, that, at
present, I believe Molton a more dangerous man than ever,
because less feeble and effeminate. I have received
both of your letters at once; and have read them with an eagerness
that has left my heart palpitating so, that I can
scarcely see what I am about. But let me answer
them in the best way that I can.
You have a noble heart, Frank; but, like your brother,
you are disingenuous; not, to be sure, in the same
way, but after a fashion of your own, that is almost as
bad. However, as you have complimented my sagacity
so handsomely, by this last reformation of yours, and become
so suddenly, what I said you were, at heart, a man,
I have some encouragement to proceed. And I shall
proceed, cousin, unamiable as it is in a woman, to talk
so authoritatively; and unwilling, as all men are, to see
their dictatorship usurped—their prerogative encroached
upon. Once for all, I would have you understand,
that I respect you, now—and that I would rather commit
a fault, by admonishing you too seriously, than that you
should err for the want of that admonition.
You speak of religion. I am glad of it; but I do not
like the manner in which you speak of it. There is
somewhat of your habitual levity in that part of your
letter. Religion, my dear cousin, is not a thing to be
lightly talked about; nor is that proud submission, which
disdains to repine, under any calamitous dispensation of
Providence; any bereavement; or any humiliation, at all
worthy of the name that you have given it. It may be
stoicism—it may be pagan greatness; but it is not resignation.
Resignation is meek and lowly;—submissive
and silent. No, Frank—if you have any respect for
me, I pray you to think more seriously, when you mention
aught of religious experience to me. I do not interdict
the subject; by no means—I would rather invite
your attention to it; for I know of no man, who would be
a nobler ornament to any society of sincere believers, than
you would be, were you vitally affected. You know that I
and gentlemen, certainly, whether they be professing
christians or not, speak of religion with less flippancy,
than you sometimes do.
And now, while I think of it, I beg the favour of you,
to get a letter of your brother, which I wrote to him some
weeks since, in which, in the distraction of my thought,
(and wickedness of my heart—I may as well own it at
once)—I am sure that I recommended the spilling of
blood. Heaven forgive me! I have bitterly repented
since, and I pray you so to inform your brother; telling
him, at the same time, of my shame and contrition—
and counselling him to forbear, if he cannot quite forgive
the wretch. Nay—I have too much of natural infirmity
about me yet, dear cousin, to trust myself with his name.
In spite of my sorrow for what is past,—the thought of
him sets every vein in my body tingling. Yet—what an
escape I have had! Can I ever be sufficiently gratetful
for it—a duel might have followed from my rashness.
Yes, you are like your brother; worse in some points
—better in others. And now, while it occurs to me,
there is one point, in which I would recommend a little
discipline. You are too passionately fond of poetry;—
he of musick. By the way, that puts me in mind of our
quarrel last summer. Have you forgotten what I told
you of Byron's plagiarism. Do you remember what I
showed you in Wordsworth, and Mrs. Radcliff, that he had
stolen?—and when you quoted something of his, in prose,
respecting “the mirror,” which is shivered—by something
or other—in every piece of which, Memory, while
looking down upon it, beholds the beloved image
multiplied. I told you then, you know, that I had seen
it somewhere, I was sure, notwithstanding his lordship's
self complacency, where it is introduced—or the childish
praise that I have seen lavished upon it. Well, some
days since I met with it again; and copied it for you.—
It is in the twenty-third letter of the New Heloise—and
reads “Qu'on brise ce fidele miroir de Julie, sa
pure image ne cessara de briller jusques la dernier frag
ment,” &c.
Are you surprised at my avowing, that I have read
this work of the “Divine Rousseau,” as he has been called?—“The
not. I read it deliberately, knowing its character.—
And the result is not, what he so pleasantly predicted
in his preface. I do not believe that I am yet, “une
fille perdue!” Pardon my French. You know that I am
not very ostentatious of such things. But, on this occasion
I use it, as merely introductory to my opinion,
which is deliberately and temperately formed,—that Jean
Jacques Rousseau, is a fool. That is coarse language,
Frank; but I do not shrink from discussion. The man's
vanity has turned his head. There is one letter alone,
in which his little knowledge of human nature, is made so
shockingly evident, that we should never forgive it, in an
ordinary writer. After Julia has resisted what, even to
me, appears to have been much trial, and, perhaps, temptation—when
all is passed—she deliberately invites her
lover to her room. O, it is base and contemptible. No
woman could have done it. A wanton would not. Nay,
Julia herself, Rousseau's Julia, never would have done it.
It was impossible. She resists when tempted;—but untempted—yields.
Thus much for Rousseau. He is not
merely a distempered madman. He is a fool. His angels
are gross and sensual; he—But let us leave him—
and go, as fast as possible, to what more deeply affects
ourselves. This will be a long letter, cousin; I foresee
that; but, be patient—what you get extra now, will
leave you the less to receive hereafter.
You are under a melancholy misapprehension respecting
the woman of your love. You left her no choice, but
that of forgiving you, when you appeared careless of her
opinion; and did not seek to soothe or conciliate her---
and, consequently, of forgiving you at the expense of your
esteem and respect:--or, of bidding you farewell. I am not
at liberty to say more upon the subject. But of one thing I
can venture to assure you. She loved you. And such women
do not easily forget their love. Whether she ever felt
aught of that passion before, you, perhaps, know better
than I do; but I believe that she never did. If so, she will
never forget you. I have heard a good deal of your conduct
of late; you are wrong---I know your pride---it is unworthy
of you; and, surely, you were never fitted to make
can so soon wear the semblance and bearing of a stern
man. I know it all, Frank—you have met and passed her,
even her, whom you so love yet, with a most unkind indifference.
I know your reasons; some little civilities
have been omitted by others; but are they a reason why
you should wound her, so unfeelingly, even if she be with
them. Frank, you have a noble heart; every body respects
and admires you, for your bearing under this humiliation;
and your magnanimity in confessing the fact, that she has
abandoned and rejected you, looks well in the eyes of the
world. But search your own heart---what was your true
motive? Was there no selfishness, no affectation of doing
what was difficult—no disdain of the world's opinion in it?
Yes, Frank, I do believe you. I have no doubt that
her happiness has been your chief aim; that you pray for
it, now, devoutly. Let it continue to be so. Be a brother
to her; watch over, pray for, guard her, while you have
life in you. That you can do, and the time may come,
when she will want such a brother. Nay, it will come.
In the mean time, when you meet her, if you ever do, be
gentle and kind in your deportment; let her not suppose
that your tenderness and respect have turned to hostility,
indifference, or contempt. No---I know you well,
Frank; and I know that, when that face of yours looks
sternest, there is a yielding and tender spirit at the heart,
who would weep, were it gently bidden to, by the one it
loved.
Your duties are not, cannot be discharged, toward that
woman, while it is possible for you to be of any use to her,
in any way. Woman is naturally helpless and dependant;
but she is especially so. Remember how she has loved
you---your meetings---the bridge---the stump---the hill top
---the rock---all of which I remember, from hearing only
faint allusions to them. Judge you, then, how her heart
must thrill yet, when they are thought of.
The secluded life of Molton, of which you speak, is
strictly in character. The catastrophe is approaching;
he knows it. We shall find him prepared. He will receive
us at last, like the coiled serpent. Wo to the
foot that would first crush him. Be it my fate;---I shall
darkens---and we shall burst upon him, when he least
expects it, with—Nay, I must not babble at this rate.
I am now satisfied of one thing---and that is, of the identity
of Mary Howord with Helen;—of course, then, she is
not his half sister. But what is she? His mistress? For the
honour of human nature, I hope not. O---if I might tell
you all---but I cannot. Her family---her history---her
name, and sorrows—they would bring tears into your eyes,
but to hear the simplest relation of them. Can it be, that
he was her betrayer? O righteous Heaven! when shall
his course be arrested? When—no, no---in thine own
good time---oh, our Father, wilt thou withhold thy pestilence,
and turn back the destroyer!
The whole of the interview, which you have so vividly
described, is of a nature rather to astonish than to convince.
It is possible that Molton may not be a dastard; but
still it is equally possible that he is. The most pusillanimous
animal will guard its young; and may not the coward,
his mate? At any rate, it is, if not a sublime moderation
---sublime acting; and that, you know, I should look for,
from him. Nay, such things are unnatural. They may
be in nature, to be sure, but that does not make them
natural.
| Randolph | |