University of Virginia Library

FRANK TO SARAH RAMSAY.

How thankful I am, for your sincerity and plainness,
I will not attempt to say, just now; but, the best proof that
I can possibly give you, of my sincerity, will be by my
conduct.

But let me answer your letter in detail; and the first
thing that strikes me, is, (a rare fault in you,) a remark
that is quite unintelligible. What do you mean by this---
“Such things are unnatural. They may be in nature, to
be sure, but that does not make them natural.”

I hope that you are not getting fond of paradox; but really,
that looks not a little like it. Pray, is not that natural,
of course, which nature produces? Don't forget to answer
me.

I hope, my good cousin, that, hereafter, I shall approach
holy things more reverently; I would say, less
“flippantly,” did it not look like resentment, to retort,
even in a quotation, a word so emphatically used; and, I
beg of you, hereafter, to continue the same friendly manner
with me, when I approach them lightly; and rebuke me,
as you have now. I shall be grateful for it; and, in time,
may be nearer what you desire; at present, I do not attempt
much; for another of your maxims is ringing in my
ears; a maxim, the truth of which is confirmed by every
day's experience; that is—that they, who attempt most,
particularly in the way of reformation, often effect least.
They think the work too easy...aim at too much...are
easily discouraged, and become worse than ever. I have
found it so.

I saw John about the letter, which you so lament having
written. He won't part with it; but, catching somewhat
of my levity, (for, to all the world but you, Sarah,
I am still the same frivolous, noisy blockhead, without
heart or bitterness,)—he has endorsed your recantation
upon the back. Nay, more—he has repeated the lesson to
Molton; who with his own hand, wrote as much upon
the back of your insulting note to him...adding a cold
compliment, at the same time, to your consistency. Cousin,
were you right in sending that note? was it prudent?
was it like a Christian? You see that I have caught your
own manner. And are you not a little too inveterate
against him, wicked and vile as he undoubtedly is?—
Nay, is not your asperity, your prejudice so great, that
they blind you to some fine virtue in his character?
You know that you are violent, and decided in your temper;
and perhaps—perhaps, cousin, you have been precipitate
in your opinions respecting him—some others,
I mean, than those which relate to his personal courage.
I only mention the thing. You will meditate for yourself;
and determine, I am sure, when you do determine,
generously.

We will not dispute any more about poetry. I have
been extravagant, I admit; but you perceive that I do not
suffer any of that drunken exhilaration of the heart,
which unfits a man for sober and substantial enjoyment.
Poetry is to me, no longer, a madness; it is only a rich
and beautiful halo, with which, when I please, I can invest
what I will; and straightway, for my own entertainment,
hear musick, and smell incense, and see moonlighted
drapery, and feel the touch of soft lips, awhile, all about
me;—having all my senses illuminated, hallowed, and
purified, with vision, and lustre, and odour—without
sensuality too.

That is a bold decision. But I cannot help agreeing
with you. The gentle and sweet Julia, with all her
frailty, would never have been so desperate... but I am
amazed to hear you speak upon such a subject. How
dare you?...but no, there is no daring in it. The impurity
must be in the mind. There can be no affinity, to be
feared, between the pure in heart, and the pestilent vapour
that issues from the alembick of Rousseau. It
would, it must pass over the untainted and unsullied,
like foul breath over christal.

Still, my dear Sarah, I do not believe that it would be
wise, in the present fashion of the world, for you to acknowledge
that you had read La Nouvelle Heloise.
Not that I would have you deny it; but it would be more prudent,
I think, not to own it unnecessarily. By some, you
are already thought a prude. They would rejoice to know
that you had read and criticised that work, of all others.
And men, my dear, who might not have wisdom enough
to understand you; or magnanimity, or charity enough to
allow your true motive, might easily insinuate some unkind
thing; and unkind insinuations, however gently
breathed at first, against a woman, soon become malicious
and deadly. Few of us are so insignificant, as not
to be capable of making any woman uneasy, for a time;
and most of us rejoice in an opportunity.

Sarah! I have read again, and again, what you have said
of—of—no! I cannot write her name. It is too painful.
I sometimes find myself, unconsciously, weaving the initials
only together; and I awake, as from a trance, when

the spell is completed, with a most distressing tightness
at the heart, and my veins, about the forehead, throbbing
with a painful heat and hurry—so!—never mind the
name. I am wrong. I confess my fault. I will be kind to
her, though they have been most unkind to me; for the
memory of the past is here yet—the urn is shattered—
true;—but the “scent of the roses will hang round it still.”
Where, in the name of heaven, did you learn to touch, as
you have, upon every successive spot, that had life in it,
about this heart of mine? O, Sarah!—“that bridge—the
rock—the wood—the hill!”—you know not what you
have said! You have profaned; yes, you—you!—the holiest
and greenest spot of all the wilderness, that she and I
have ever met together in. There, went we together; sat
together; leaning against the same tree, together; tasting,
together, of the same spring; united in heart and spirit;
or, as your favourite says—(It is wicked to quote poetry
at such a moment—I confess; but, did you never laugh
out, to keep yourself from crying?)

But I must quit the theme; it is too oppressive for me—
another word, and my heart would run over.

When you can, I pray you, let me know all that is
proper and fair for you to communicate, respecting
Helen. I begin to feel a strange interest about her. Am I
right? Is there not a peculiar appetite for excitement, in
the deserted heart? It appears to me, that I covet something,
I know not what; but something, that I cannot do
without, to occupy me inwardly, with that sweet delirium
which—bless me, I am getting back to the old
story again. Yet, one word I must put in, even upon
the prohibited theme—it is this: I may burn incense
to others—but it must be at other shrines, in other temples.
She who trod mine, in her nakedness and beauty,
hath departed—and no other shall ever stand where she
stood. I owe that to her—that!—and it shall be paid.

Mais, après tout—ma cousine—ìl valait mieux, que dit le
“fou” Rousseau—ìl valait mieux ne jamais goûter la félicité,
que la gorûter, et la perdre!

Adieu—