 | Randolph |  |
SARAH RAMSAY TO JOHN OMAR.
I know not what to believe. She is too exalted, too
pure of heart, I am sure, to permit any affection, there,
for the dissolute, however specious they may be. But
Molton—the remorseless villain; O, beware of him.---What
infatuation? Will you permit the serpent to enfold you
all,—I know not how to express myself. I am troubled,
almost to suffocation and blindness, at the thought of him.
Would, that I had less sensibility; yet, why should I
wish it? Would we pray for torpor, numbness, to escape
the pains that accompany sensation? Are not even these
pangs, these palpitations, these tears, these tears of
scalding humiliation and self-abasement, which Juliet,
the meekest creature upon this earth, has wrung from
me, by her reproaches,—no, not by her reproaches. but
by the kindest admonition, in the world; are they
not better than insensibility? They are. We have our
sense of suffering, and joy; of agony, and rapture; most
exquisitely proportioned to each other. He, who has
the least sensibility to pain, has the least to pleasure.
Let us not lament, therefore, that our senses are not
sealed up, our touch deadened, our ears stopped, our eyes
shut, to the beauty and the harmony that surround us;
because it may sometimes happen that, that harmony is
too loud and frightful, or that beauty, too terrible. No; if
insensibility were better than this nature, which is so
delicately interwoven with all the crimson labyrinth of
our blood, the ten thousand delicate fibres of our being,
tangled, as they seem, wandering as they appear, without
order, through all their offices and appointments; thrilling,
to agony, when the finger of the Almighty hath
touched one of them, in rebuke—sending his electricity
through the whole web:—no, if insensibility were better
than this state of exquisite being, death were the consummation
of happiness. But what have I done?---fallen into
the same errour, which I have so often reprimanded in
you....fine writing....but no matter....it came, spontaneously
from the heart; unstudied, unpremeditated---and, I
trust, will so appear.
But, let me return, for a moment, to Molton. My
suspicions are all awake again. I have just arrived at the
whole truth of an affair, which I once hinted at, in one of
my earlier letters. I am now mistress of the whole, and I
give you leave to take what steps you please, for your own
satisfaction, in the case. If the stories be, as I have no
sufficient to establish the deliberate and settled wickedness
of Molton's character.—They are as follows. Let him
reconcile them, if he can, to aught that is less than devilish.
The disclosure is confidential from me. A strange
accident brought me acquainted with the whole. I believe
it; and, the only anxiety I have, now, is, to discover my
anonymous correspondent, and ascertain in what country
Molton was born. I used to think him an American;
but I have many reasons to doubt that, of late. But,
whoever it be, that gives me the information, that I now
have, there can be no doubt of his sincerity and truth,
for I hold his address, under seal, with permission to
open it, whenever Molton can be fairly confronted with
his accusers.
When a mere boy, he was surprised, at noon day, attempting
to enter a lady's bed chamber. She was much
older than Molton, and knew so little of him, that she
was willing to believe, whatever he would say, in palliation
of his audacity. He told some story, I know not
what, to a friend of her's, and she affected to believe him;
but, it was only affectation. Her blood will run cold, to
this hour, at the mention of his name.
The next, is an affair, yet more atrocious. He was
deeply indebted to a family, every member of which, had
loved him, almost to veneration; and trusted to him,
when he was friendless and alone. He felt grateful;
and they, who knew him well, do say, that he would
have died, at one time, to prove it. A beautiful little
girl, a mere child, innocent and unsuspicious,---(Cousin,
I know not what may be thought of this plain dealing with
a man, on such a subject; but you know that I have been
accustomed, from my earliest infancy, under the direction
of my departed mother, to think, and speak too, at
proper seasons, of many matters that seem to be prohibited
to the women of the world. Yes, to them, that are
to be wives and mothers, it is forbidden even to think of
the sacredness and obligation of such offices!---I have
been taught better. I have been made to understand,
that the duties of marriage, and the education of children,
are things of awful import and solemnity; involving all
life and immortality. But the fashion of the time is different;
women are mothers, now, ere they have thought
of infants, in any other way, than that of babies and dolls.
Children are bearing children, educating children; and
boys are fathers, nurturing spiritualities, ere they have
learnt the commonest principles of self government.
Cousin, forgive me---the subject is one, that will always
carry me away with it; and I have touched on it now,
that you may not be astonished at my using the freedom
that I do, with a man, in communicating certain affairs,
that relate to the arch imposter, Molton.
I was proceeding to mention his unspeakble wickedness
toward that child. She was the pride and darling
of the family, to whom he was so deeply indebted;—and
the chief sustenance of a widowed mother. Molton used
all his power to corrupt that child, even in her blossom;
—persevered for years, and finally went so far as to enter
her room at night. The poor little creature was terrified
almost out of her senses—shrieked; and, in her terrour,
had so little suspicion of the truth, that when she
encountered Molton, as she opened the door, she threw
herself into his arms, for preservation. Heaven!—what
was his heart made of, that it did'nt stop forever on the spot!
Judge you, cousin, of that man's address. He was
scarcely suspected, even by the child. Nothing of his
whole life was known to resemble it; and even they, who
felt some suspicion of the truth, had not the courage to
whisper it to their dearest friend, still less to him. And
such was his hardihood, that he spoke of the whole adventure,
as of a dream;—and with such an air of innocence,
that he was never asked to explain, why his door
was left open, that night;—for he slept in a room near
the child; and a servant, in passing by it, had observed
her light flash in upon the opposite wall of his chamber;
stopped, and found Molton's door ajar.
The third case of this nature, now in my possession,
(but I am assured that there are many more)—is the
following. He met with a school girl of high enthusiasm,
and promise. He was kind and friendly to her, speaking
freely to her, of her inadvertencies, more like a brother,
artifice of his; for, to such perfection has he carried it,
that, while he censures and chides, there is a deep flattery
in his manner, which he insinuates, like a poison,
into the heart that listens to him. All speak of this—and
all wonder how it happens, that they, who are rebuked
by Molton, often feel proud of it, and colour with a pleasurable
agitation. But I am in no such doubt. They
are off their guard. He appears to them so frank and
sincere, so incapable of flattery, that they rejoice to believe
all that he says. And in all that he proffers in the
way of admonition, there is forever somewhat which is
racy and spicy, somewhat of that which all love, after
having once tasted it, as the very aliment of their being.
Another cause may be, that he never compliments one directly,
and as if premeditatedly; but, always, as if by surprise;—as
if he were taken, off his guard---and had spoken
the whole truth, from his very heart, by accident,
without intending it. Again—he never pays the compliment
of his censure, to a fool; and, generally, it is apparent,
that, in them, whom he most censures, he is most
interested. And finally, all grant to him, a remarkable
discrimination. He treats no two human creatures alike.
By his very tone, look, and language, they, that know
him well, can perceive the exact degree of estimation, in
which he holds all that he has any knowledge of. I have
wandered again, cousin; but, I hope, not widely from
the subject. We will now return, if you please.
After exciting some interest, it is said, in the heart of
this unexperienced child, he went abroad, and did not see
her again, until she was engaged to be married, to an excellent
and altogether proper young man. He then visited
her, again;—used all his art; attempted to poison
her affection, excite her distrust, not of her lover, for that
were a vulgar stratagem, but of herself. You smile; but
so it was, and the poor girl was seriously indisposed, in
consequence of the agitation, that he kept her in, by painting
the disorder and agony that would follow her who
married, without a certainty that she loved. But he failed.
The destroyer was touched with the spear of Ithurial,
and he stood suddenly, before that innocent creature,
I have finished for the present. It matters little what
Molton may say about all this;---his word will not weigh
with me. There is a deliberate baseness,—an essential,
constitutional wickedness in his character, that would
neutralize the fairest appearances, the most plausible tale
in his favour, were he not, what I am assured that he
has been, the greatest liar in the world. It is said, to
be sure, that he is now as remarkable for his scrupulous
regard to truth;—but I do not believe it. A habit of
lying is not so easily, nor so soon overcome. It is one of
the most inveterate that can be formed; and will always be
seen in the shape of exaggeration, concealment, distortion,
subterfuge, or duplicity, long and long after it has
abandoned a more alarming countenance. The heart
remains the same; and the mind is doubly dangerous.
Tell our beloved Juliet, that I have cried over her dear
letter, and the lock of hair, till my eyes are sore, and till
there is a pulse all over my body. Your last intelligence was
as welcome as unlooked for. It is possible---possible,
dear John, that;—but no, I will not indulge a hope so
desperate. I would have written to her, but we are to go
away to-day---immediately, I find, instead of to-morrow.
I shall write from the first room that I can sit down in,
with any comfort. Farewell. Keep me informed of
Frank---and BEWARE OF MOLTON. Let that ring in
your ears, night and day.
The two men---take care how you interfere. They
are ministers, who are not to be thwarted. Beware!---
the blow is only suspended awhile;---but it will fall—it
will!---Be discreet and silent.
| Randolph | |