 | Randolph |  |
One word more. You will hear of my fickleness—that
I am in love with others. Do not believe it. I am not.
I have been. I have compared you with many women,
in all parts of our country; and I am, nevertheless, more
resolutely attached than ever. For my disposition—it
is fiery, I know. But it is capable of becoming whatever
you please to make it. I am rash, to be sure: but,
when the happiness of others, of them that I love, is at
stake, I can endure anything. As for what I am, you
already know me. But I ask not your answer to what I
am now; but to what I shall be. Hereafter, you may
compare me with whom you please. If I cannot abide
unworthy of you. If you go to Boston, you will hear
much against me—and much in my favour. Believe
neither. Judge for yourself. I know my own character,
and what I am capable of. No other human being does.
When you desire it, you shall know it, as it is—enthusiastick—impassioned—devoted
and ambitious—doing
whatever it does—with all its heart, and all its soul.
Some interest, it is possible, you may feel, respecting
my family. Much you must feel, at some future period,
if I should ever meet you as I hope to. In the mean
time you may believe me, when I say that it is, altogether,
unexceptionable. All are respectable and honest.
And some are higher in the estimation of the world than
mere honesty would place them.[1]
They are not fashionable
people, but they are good.
As for my attention to other girls, and “falling in love
with every girl I see,” that is altogether unfounded. I
trifle with, or treat with respect, as they happen to deserve,
coquettes or fine women, when I see them (and you
do the same, with men)—but as for love—never! That
is a passion of no common seriousness with me. It is
inappeasable. I never felt it—as an enduring passion,
but for you.
Remember me. I shall never forget you—and—be not
precipitate.
| Randolph | |