 | Randolph |  |
SARAH TO JOHN.
In a letter from Mr. Grenville, whom you may recollect,
to my father, that arrived just now, as we sat at the
breakfast table, is one for me, from our dear Frank. I
have scarcely time to scribble a word; but have determined
to keep a sort of journal; and, when the sheet is full,
to send it.—The carriage is at the door.—Frank is well
—when I have read it, at leisure, I will tell you the particulars.
We left New-York about two hours since, rose
very early, and are just recovering from the depression
and desolateness that followed. The air is yet wintry.
Four o'clock.—We shall not reach New-Haven to night,
and father begins to wish that we had taken the steam
boat, as he recommended at first, and sent the carriage
round by land. He is quite distressed about the horses;
and I am tempted to laugh, sometimes, at my own insignificance
in comparison. We have just dined; and, when
we stop to-night, I shall make it a point, to say a word
to Juliet.—Heaven bless the dear creature.
Nine o'clock.—It has rained all the afternoon; and I
am in quite low spirits. My good father, minding his
habitual reverence for regularity, rain or shine, gave me
a very broad hint, a few moments ago, that I must not
think of sitting up any longer than ten, in the parlour;
and, after complaining, with much emphasis, of having
been jammed up in a close carriage with all sorts of
trumpery, “cakery,” band-boxes, and girls, in his good
natured way—which you know there is no resisting,
he signified that, when travelling, one ought to go to bed
at least one hour earlier than usual. I looked at the
clock, and smiled, but I was obliged to go. It stood at
nine, and was the Q. E. D. to his proposition; a proposition
that, more simply conceived, would have stood thus
“Come Sarah, pack off! give me a kiss, and pack off.”
Nay, at this rate, I shall never begin to make up my
despatch for Juliet. So, I will leave off here; write
what I can to her, and enclose it, when I can.
New Haven.—At last we have arrived. Really, it is
a beautiful place, and I have been all over it, I believe.
We drove in, over a pleasant road, just as the people began
to get abroad, in the morning, and have been constantly
occupied since, in racing over the colleges, and
examining the fine cabinet of professor Silliman, whose
travels in England and Scotland, you have reason to remember,
for their beautiful, unpretending simplicity;--and
whose travels to Quebec, &c. just issued, I take to be one
of the most egregious, and ill-judged pieces of book-making,
that was ever perpetrated by so worthy a man.—
But the cabinet is truly magnificent. The professor is
a man of science; and a work conducted by him here, I
am told, is thought very highly of, by our arrogant
friends abroad.—The reputation of the college is on the
in America. There are three or four very beautiful
churches too, all in a cluster; and, if I may be allowed so
to speak, of different orders; one, at any rate, seems really
Gothick, and the others, I have not quite pretention
enough to give a name to, but they are very pretty. An
object of considerable curiosity to strangers, too, is a
grave yard. It is full of native marble, of every variety,
found, they say, at Middletown, close by—oh, I must
not forget a trivial incident, that occurred in our rambling
there. It is a traveller's privilege, you know, to be
startled, with the commonest thing, when he has nothing
else to do.—I was reading an epitaph, when my father
touched my arm, and pointed to a figure at a distance,
that was leaning against an urn;—it was twilight,
and his person could not be distinctly seen, but there was
something uncommon, and even striking in his attitude.
My father took my arm, and, as we returned, we passed
near the place, but the stranger averted his head, folded
his arms, and took another path.
“Did you not observe him, before,” said my father,
carelessly. There was something in his tone, nevertheless,
that startled me. I turned and looked in his face,
and it instantly flushed across my mind, that there was
some suspicion there. I stopped. I laid my hand upon
his arm. I remembered how he had resisted, longer and
more earnestly than he was wont, my importunity to visit
the church yard.
“No, sir,” said I, “I never saw the man before, in my
life, to my knowledge.”
“I am glad of it,” was the reply.
But why was he glad of it? Who was the man? Some
student, probably, who chose to saunter after us, or rehearse
his attitudes, under the affectation of melancholy,
(for such was his appearance) and settled despondency,
before us, because he saw that we were strangers.
“He has followed us a long time,” said my father.
“Followed us!—who—that man!”—I exclaimed. It
now occurred to me that there was somebody near me, as
I came through a long entry, rather dark, from the cabinet
of Mineralogy.—Was this the same person? My
father's arm—I remember, but he took no notice of it,
whatever, or whoever it was; for it had passed very
quickly.
“Yes,” answered my father, “I believe that I have
seen him, twice before to-day; both times, he seemed to
be observing us; and once, I am sure, he avoided us, as
if he were unwilling to be seen.
There cousin; if I would stop just there, a very pretty
effect might be produced; but unfortunately, the matter has
become quite intelligible, since our return. We happened,
at tea, to speak of two tremendous rocks, that can be seen
from almost any part of the city;---one, in particular,
which rears itself up, as from the midst of a plain, blackening,
with its shadow, a vast extent of blue water and
green turf below. Our landlord heard us, and, as is the
fashion here, I find, entered into conversation with us,
exactly as if we were in his bar room. My father was
mightily pleased with this; and, in his blunt way, kept
him in conversation, till the whole mystery came out.---
It seems that there is an asylum for the deaf and dumb
here; and the pupils are perpetually playing some mad
prank in the neighbourhood;—not long since, they built
a great fire upon the top of one of these rocks, at midnight.
The effect was terrible—it looked like a furnace
in heaven; and the people were all thrown into consternation
for awhile. There are several exceedingly interesting
creatures, among the helpless association,—gifted
beings, whose intellectual faculties seem but the brighter,
for the darkness that abides upon their physical organs.
How providently are we fitted for such deprivations. If
we lose our sight, our feeling becomes all the quicker
for it. And so with all our other senses. Have you
forgotten our blind friend, Dr. —, the lecturer on opticks,
at Edinburgh? Did you ever hear him maintain
that it would be better to be born without eyes? He does
it, something in this way. I believe. First, he proves
that his touch is better than our sight; for he can discover
the most delicate scratch, made with an etching tool upon
a polished steel plate, with the end of his finger, honed
for the purpose, when the naked eye cannot. “The sense
so delicate, that the least thing destroys, or impairs it;
subject to many peculiar, unknown, and distressing diseases;
and always impaired by age and sickness. Once
gone, there is no help for you. It is too late then, to cultivate
the sense of touch. But if you were born blind,
you would get the same exquisite sense that he has. And
that cannot be destroyed. Lop off that finger,—it still
exists in another. Lop off the hand, the arm, the body;
yet while there is one spark of life left, the faculty of the
touch remains—it still feels. Therefore, it is better to
be born blind!”
O—there is one thing, that I had well nigh forgotten.
My father, you know, is little curious, or suspicious,
about what concerns me. Therefore it is, that, feeling
proud of his confidence, I cannot conceal anything from
him. Be careful then, hereafter, of what you say; for, if
he should desire to see your letters, I shall certainly
show them to him. I mention this because, lately when
I received an anonymous note (relating to Molton,) his
pleasant eyes grew serious, and he remarked, with some
little petulance, that I seemed to be rather too full of negotiation.
So—be wise in season, and, whatever you
write of your own, take care not to put that which concerns
another, in the power of accident.
the poor deaf and dumb creatures of the asylum.
| Randolph | |