 | Randolph |  |
JULIET TO SARAH.
Yes, my dear Sarah, it is time that I should forget
myself, for a while, and remember those that are now, as
I have been, away and apart from their home. I have
received all your letters, I dare say; for none are missing;
and, until your last, I had contented myself with
replying to them, at second hand, believing that I was
acquainted with all. I was mistaken, I see, now; and
though not disposed to take you very seriously to task
in the matter, yet, I do think it a part of my duty to treat
it somewhat so. I am afraid that you do not think
enough of this strange correspondence. No, I do not
express what I wish; but I mean to ask you, if it be not
rather more grave a matter, than you are willing to acknowledge,
even to your own heart. For my own part, I
will tell you, frankly, that, since Mr. John Omar's return,
we have had a long conversation about you;
and I made no scruple to keep the extent of my knowledge
a secret, until I had arrived at the limit of his.
He is naturally unsuspicious; and, when he found how
completely I had tricked him, with all my artlessness, as
you have been pleased to call it, he really looked a little
have said some spiteful thing, had not the gentleman,
about whom you are concerned, been present. However,
we were all good friends again, in ten minutes; and continued
our chatting. He declares, without any hesitation,
that you are in love, at last; but then, no human
being can believe that he is serious; for he seems to have
taken up the very character of extravagance, levity, and
frolick, that his excellent brother threw off, so wisely,
just before he left us. Indeed, I have been frequently
struck at these changes. Unlike as they appear to be, from
all that I am able to discover, and every observation adds
new strength to my opinion, they are really so very much
alike, as to be able to change characters, completely.
Thus much, and in this grave way too, to prepare you
for what is to follow. But do not be terrified. I do not
mean to carry these airs much further. I was never
made for a preceptress—and, I find it not a little awkward
to give advice;—so, what I do give now, must be
charitably taken; or, I have done playing Minerva.
I have thought over your whole acquaintance, with the
stranger, so far as it has been communicated to me; and
the result is, that I hardly know what to say. I cannot
say that you have been imprudent; for, if the poor creature
would follow you, how could you help it? But—
I fear that---pardon me, Sarah. I declare that it brings
the water into my eyes, to say it, even half in earnest—
I fear that you have been imprudent, in some way. Before
I said this, I should have asked you perhaps; but
would not the question itself imply that I suspected you?
Yet, let me tell you, from what I judge. You are such
an altered creature. Your very hand writing is disordered;
and your language is so, too. Now and then, by
flashes, a spirit breaks out, that I never saw before.
This, again, is succeeded by words,—single words, and
phrases, which are really alarming, when I remember
what you have been. They are mournful, touching, yet
natural. By this, I do not mean that you were ever
affected, or unnatural, but that these are heart-felt.
They have distressed me, me, who knew you so well,
when, perhaps, another, not so familiar with your style,
would observe nothing of the kind, in them. But Sarah,
let me assure you—I can safely say, that, in all the letters
together, which you have written to me, since we left
Philadelphia, (and they fill a large part, of a very large
drawer,) there is not so much passion, and brokenness,
and strange beauty and fervour, as in two or three of
your last. Yet, you have experienced many vicissitudes;
and though there was once, a singular abruptness—a
masculine vigour, (have you forgotten that?) in your
style; yet, it wore off, and you were remarkable for serenity,
until of late, when you have returned, all at once, to
it. Passion is always abrupt;—so is strong emotion. Indeed,
you had become so sober, at one time, and so severe,
that I almost trembled to write to you. But now;
—how is it, now?—Ah, Sarah—you have a woman's
heart, after all! and I can prattle with you again, as
freely as ever.
But—“a deaf-and dumb man.” what am I to think of
you? That you are interested in him? Yes—that you
love him? No.—Take care, Sarah; you are too confident
of your own strength. You are daring, too.—If
you love—deafness, dumbness, blindness, would hardly
be a fatal objection to you. Consider of this well. The
advice had better be months too early, than one moment
too late. If I know any thing of symptoms, yours are
sufficiently decided; and my opinion is—That you are
cruelly deceiving yourself. I may be wrong, but such is
my belief. If you thought that you felt any tenderness
for the poor creature, you would tremble to speak of him.
You would be ashamed, and terrified. You would stifle
the thought, immediately, at the risk of suffocation; for
in her sober senses, any rational woman would do this,
as a matter of religious duty. I forbear to urge any
argument on this point. If argument be necessary—it
is already too late. No, my dear, dear Sarah, your danger,
I am sure, lies in your self confidence. You are
“cruelly agitated,” without suspecting the cause. The
deaf-and-dumb man is the cause. Your proud heart is
your letters; such, from such a woman as you, now that
I see them all, and know the whole, do alarm me—inexpressibly.
That a girl, who has scarcely read a dozen novels in
her life; whom I have seen laughing over some of the most
pathetick, and sentimental scenes of the drama;—one, on
whom all poetry that tells of “love, still love,” operated,
only to make her beautiful lips curl, in scorn—that she
should be so at the mercy, of one or two whimsical adventures,
as to believe—but, before I advance another
step, Sarah, let me beg of you, to answer me—do I know
all---is there nothing untold;---nothing---I ask you, seriously;---and
I will tell you, why. It appears to me so
utterly improbable that Sarah Ramsay should be troubled
in this way, merely by the circumstance of having
been once in a grave-yard, with a deaf-and-dumb man;
by having seen him, at glimpses, and doubtfully, two
or three times; and, having been assisted in a trying moment,
by the same person, even were that assistance as
critically rendered, as she at first supposed.---Nay, this
seems so impossible, I might say, that I am driven to the
belief that there is something untold. Yes---there is.---
Sarah, my dearest friend! my sister! my dear Sarah! I
implore you to tell me. It will ease your own heart.---
But, if it may be---for there are some things; some, that
a woman will not tell to her own heart; some, that she
should not.---If this be one of them---it is enough. I am
satisfied, without wringing the confidence, like blood,
from your poor heart. Yes---satisfied; for this letter will
do all that such confidence could. It will awaken you,
dear Sarah, to a sense of your danger. Nay, it were better
perhaps, that I should not know more, whatever there
may be to tell. We are sadly unwilling to relinquish
such things. I have found it so;—and the heart of woman
is always young, tender, and mute, till that feeling
of shame is gone, But then, when she has once learnt
to talk of the forbidden thing; once taught her lips to
pronounce the forbidden name—once learnt to hear her
own voice discourse upon the theme of treachery, she
Thus, it is said, that women never stop half way with
crime or virtue;—and thus I am sure, they that have been
under any constraint, become imprudent, when that is removed.
That feeling of shame, Sarah, has been an unreasonable
restraint to you. Even if you have felt tenderness,
you have never dared to show it. The fear of
ridicule appalled you. It is not wonderful; ridicule has
shaken stouter minds than women ever ought to have.—
I could never love her, whom it would not disturb. It
may be better, therefore, that we should not speak at all
on this subject, again;---no matter whether it be, at present,
a trifle, or not. Because, unless we agree to this,
I should expect you to laugh at me, if it were a trifle;
and should conclude of course, if you did not, that it was
serious.—Otherwise, I may live to hear the insensible
Sarah, muttering a sweet formal incantation aloud, to
the blind boy; invoking him, by some name—which, but
to have heard pronounced by another, once, would have
been death to the poor trembler.—There, my dear Sarah;
have I not played my part mighty well? I think that I
have; and I am sure that you will think me fairly quit
for some of your ancient lecturing, on similar subjects,
when I wanted a guardian, dear, more than you ever
will.
And now, let me take a more natural tone. I should
be really glad to hear, that my beloved Sarah, whom I
know better than they that think her cold and insensible,
had some truly romantick, high-hearted fellow for a
husband—not for a lover—the romance of a lover is too
often sickening and artificial; but, when a husband, a
sensible husband is romantick, the character is respectable;
and the deep, thrilling, passionate beauty of romance
is never so well set off, as by dignity and wisdom.
To such a man, would I fain see my Sarah wedded. I
should be happy, then;—or, if that be too much, for we
are seldom happy here, I believe; and it is better for us,
that we should not be, I should be less unhappy than I
have been. Yet that is saying little.—Supply the deficiency
yourself, dear Sarah; and believe, as I do, that it
weltering of the heart at times; or, they wean us from unsubstantial
things. And why should we complain?—
surely not, that we have found the truth at last!—Do we
complain that we are awakened from a delirious slumber?
Would we be deceived, forever?—lie, forever and ever,
dreaming of imaginary virtue, in imaginary beings?—
No, Sarah;—and, instead of sorrowing that the delusion
has passed; and that the wicked are no longer seen as they
were wont to be, on beauty and majesty, we ought to rejoice.
And so we should, were it not for our self love.--
We cannot bear to confess that we have been duped—
cheated, so miserably, as we sometimes are, into enthusiasm
for the wicked and—but whither am I wandering?—Sarah—I
have given you a practical illustration,
of what I cautioned you against, in the last page;
and I would tear this out, with a blush, and a few tears
perhaps, at mine own weakness, were I not more ashamed
of such a weakness, at such a time. Perhaps however,
with me, it is a symptom of strength, rather than
passion, that I am able to support any allusion to this
painful subject. There was a time, when I could not;—
nay, it is not long, since the most delicate touch would
have taken my breath away. I can think of it all, now,
more steadily; my feelings are strangely altered; and I
cannot readily believe that my heart is already so sound
as it appears;—I choose rather to believe that the wound
is festering yet;—that “the living stream lies quick below.”
While I believe this, I shall be more safe. It is
dangerous reviving certain associations. I have experienced
that. It is like retreading on crushed flowers with
our naked feet. We may affect to go there, with indifference;
we may know that there is no fragrance, no
beauty left; but the very earth is aromatick, impregnate
with their essence. The odour and oil follow us--haunt
us---even in our sleep. This looks well. When people
can talk so, there is, in general, little to be feared; but I
have learnt caution---and this, I hope, is for the last
time with me. And as for you, Sarah, the edict against
you, is in full force. You are not to allude to the past.
And now, let me reply to your kind questioning. It
is very true, dear Sarah, that I am not so happily situated
as I could wish; but why should I disquiet you? You
cannot relieve me; and we are too far apart, for such safe
correspondence, as would justify me in dealing very plainly.
Beside, I have lost a part of my sensibility, by recovering
my health. I feel more serious, and am told
that my manners are so. Yet, I do not think that there
is any affectation of solemnity about me;—perhaps there
may be, of cheerfulness, sometimes; for, when my heart
has been right heavy, on some foolish account or other,
I have tried to avoid alike, the appearance of melancholy
or dejection, which might be mistaken for pensiveness,
or sentimentality; and that of great spirits, which all women
are apt enough to assume, whenever their hearts are
touched by disappointment. Do I write as I used to? It
appears to me that I do not. I think that I am getting
more into your manner, your old manner, I mean; for
your new one is quite a novelty!—there's no denying that.
Of one thing, I can truly assure you. It is this. I
never knew what were the consolations, or what was the
vitality of religion, till death had been brought home to
me. You will rejoice with me, that this knowledge has
boen purchased so cheaply. I begin to think many things
less valuable; and to look upon many others with different
eyes, than I did. Perhaps there is a certain evil
pride—as well as some respect for religion, at the bottom
of this. If you think so, aid me to detect it.
Yes, Miss Matilda is here, and is much kinder to me,
than before. Jane, alas, has had her trial, too. We
have seen but little of her, lately. So many deaths in the
family, I fear, have broken her spirits. Her manner is
not very cordial; and she is very thin; but I am sure that
her heart, poor girl, is kinder than it appears; and when
we recollect how mistaken has been her education; how
dazzlingly beautiful she has been; and then look at her now,
so wasted and pale, from confinement and real inability
to bring her powerful mind into action, without the excitement
of admiration, perpetually and publickly administered,
it is not wonderful that she is somewhat less kind,
know of many a sick heart that she hath comforted; and
were it not that her virtues are too stern and masculine,
she would be an example of discretion for the age.
Of Mr. Grenville, I cannot permit myself to say
much, because I have not known him long. Some years
ago, we met; and I took up an opinion against him, which,
like some others, I have had good reason to change.—
He remembers you; and you may have heard me speak
of him. He is about thirty-eight, I should judge; but
looks much younger. His mind is active and free, and
betrays an agreeable general information, that makes him
courted a good deal. I could not judge, whatever were my
ability, which is very slight, as you know, of his depth
or solidity, on so short an acquaintance; but, I am at
present disposed to think him an amiable man, with good
character, settled habits, a handsome fortune, and, probably,
a warm heart. Are you disposed for a bargain?
Come, what say you? I have no doubt; nay, I am sure
that he is well fitted to make any woman happy, who
may be ready to give up her heart to him. Only think,
Sarah—a snug fortune, (though that, I know, is nothing
to you—heigho!—but a little money, after all, is apt to
be a very comfortable—no, not, a little money—that is
one of the uncomfortable things of this life; for, if it were
not, I know not who would be more comfortable than
many a sweet girl in this neighbourhood.) There, Sarah,
farewell. I do not know when I have fallen, so naturally,
into my old humour; but the serious face that I
could not help fancying you in, when you wrote that interrogatory
about Mr. Grenville, did divert me, that's
the truth on't; and I laughed heartily, when I came to it,
again, in answering you. Yet—you must not laugh; at
least, not at him. He is far too respectable for such pastime,
I assure you. Once more, farewell dear Sarah,
and accept this long, endless letter, as an offset to some
of yours—(quite equivocal that!)
| Randolph | |