SARAH TO JULIET.
O, Juliet, I thank you, a thousand, and a thousand
times, for your last kind letters. They came almost together—on
account of some irregularity in the mail, I
suppose. But why have I not heard from you, of late?
Three months, nearly, since your last! Is the illness of
Mr. Grenville so serious, that you cannot spare a line,
dear? Perhaps a warmer climate would be a relief to
him; and, I am sure, that, in the approaching cold weather,
you would find it altogether more agreeable to be
in Charleston, than New-York. It is the Montpelier of
America, I am told; nay, I have experienced it;—only
think how delightful it is, to breathe an air of perfume
and warmth, in the very depth of December; to have the
honeysuckle and jasmine in blossom about you; and to
hear the waters gushing musically through the earth,
tread where you will, like subterranean melody—visible
musick, running in a steel-coloured, glittering labyrinth;
among the grass, and star-lit fountains. Stay—this
will never do. If I rave at this rate, you will think that
there is something serious, in the influences here. But
do not alarm yourself. The drawing master is gone.---
He came one day, and bade me good bye, with an air
that was very becoming to him. I was quite affected,
I declare, at the parting; for, every day, he was discovering
some new and strange property—so that I had
begun to find his society very necessary to me. Yes, Juliet,
I am serious; and I never think of him, of late, without
becoming more so. He has gone to Boston; and
really, in a manner, and after a fashion, so entirely his
own, that I never think of it without laughing. Let me
tell you how it was. He had returned to Hallowell, it
appears, where a class of young ladies had been forming
for him, whil he was here. They were fine, intelligent,
charming women, he says; and nothing would
have given him more pleasure, than to remain and teach
them, if his conscience would have permitted him to do it.
I smiled to hear him speak of conscience. But he
soon set me right; and, in three minutes, the tears stood
in my eyes—for which I have been heartily ashamed
ever since. His manner was inexpressibly solemn and
affecting;—he acknowledged that he had trifled with sacred
things; that he had spoken irreverently of the
scriptures;—but, heretick as he was, (for he was of the
faith of them that worship
one God, and
one only,) he
had yet some sense of religion—some of duty—some of
conscience. “Nay,” said he—and, extravagant as it
was, I could not, for my soul, disbelieve him—“Nay,”
said he, though I am cheerful, rash, and headstrong; yet,
what I believe to be my duty,
that will I do;---and if my
life were, this moment, necessary to the happiness of
mankind; or, if God signified to me, that the sacrifice
would be acceptable to him, this moment would I lay it
down; but I would lay it down in my own way---only
from the conviction of my understanding. My martyrdom
should be my own.”
I was distressed, Juliet; and, before I knew it, had
shaken hands, and parted with him, wishing him all the
happiness in the world, half a dozen times, at least:---
and then, after all that, what do you think happened?
Why, we sat down together, before a comfortable fire,
and talked for a whole hour! He appeared to be in excellent
spirits; yet, every minute or two, the conversation
would flag---and his countenance, which is really
noble, at times---full of meaning and soul---would change
its whole expression, to an air so abstracted and melancholy,
that I was sure his festivity was unnatural to him;
and that I had never seen his true character till that
moment. A silence would follow; for I preferred watching
his face, to entertaining him with my tongue; which
he would interrupt, every moment, by some sprightly
sally, uttered at random, as if his thought were in another
world---on times long gone by---or wandering into
futurity.
But, he has gone; and my days hang heavily upon me,
now. I had just begun to learn his real character—a
man of deep, but secret piety—proud—careless—and
unhappy. I shall never forget his haughty blue eyes;
nor their strange tenderness one night—when—but
no, let me change the theme.
Stay---I began to tell you of the manner, in which he
left us. I shall try to tell the story in his own words, if
possible. “I went to Hallowell, and began my school;
but it would not do. Not that I did not get well paid,
and plenty of employment; but my conscience would not
be quiet. Among others, I have taught an amiable and
sweet child, in a dozen or twenty lessons, how to colour,
shamefully too, one picture! It was wretchedly done;
and I never saw it without a spasm of the heart, particularly
as I did not know what I was after, myself; nor
how to amend my own blundering; the chief notion that
I had of colouring, had been taken from the red, blue, and
orange pictures, or tables, as they were called, over
looking-glasses. Another constant trial,” said he, “was
this:---There were a family of intelligent and accomplished
girls in the neighbourhood, who, I have no doubt,
had learnt the art properly; and, as they visited at this
house, I was fearful that every hour would capsize me.
These were the only coloured lessons that I gave; for
the others, I had less fear---they were either in pencil
drawing only, or Indian ink; and were, really, quite as
tolerable as any that I had seen. How, indeed, was I to
protect myself? There was only one way. I spoke of
mine as a new style---Italian, of course---scorned all
the older fashions; and ridiculed all the common methods,
(of which I was supremely ignorant,) and invited
comparison. This saved me. Every body could see a
difference, and every body took it for granted that the
difference was in my favour. I continued to eat and
drink well, it is true, with my earnings; but I could not
sleep. I felt that I was a scoundrel;---and so, one day,
while this uncomfortable feeling was upon me, I happened
to pop into a little room, appropriated to the Washington
Benevolent Society; and to reading. I took
up a paper. I saw an advertisement for a person, to conduct
a wholesale and retail store, in Boston; good recommendations
to be required, &c.---the latter of which
I knew that I might have, from anybody in my native
town, if it were only to get rid of me. I, immediately,
wrote to the printer, with the air of an old acquaintance,
signing my true name---for it was impossible, I knew,
that a man should remember the names of all that had
been introduced to him; and my manner was exactly
calculated to make him suppose that we were well acquainted,
and that
he had forgotten my name. The truth
is---I had never seen the man in my life. I had never
been in Boston, except once, when I ran away, and got
lost, of a Sunday evening, in State-street---I wish I could
stop to tell you all about it, but I cannot---and nearly
ruined my poor master, who, to save expense of agency,
had commissioned me to buy a handful or two of goods;
under which authority, as his letter of credit was not
limited. I took the liberty to buy whatever I took a fancy
to---and left him to sell them, and pay for them, as he
could---charging him with all the expenses of the journey,
into the bargain! Well, I requested the printer,
that I mentioned, to tell the advertiser that I was his
man, when I knew his terms.”
“This morning I have received a letter, from a man,
that says, “Come to me directly. If we can agree, well;
if we cannot, I will provide you with board, till you can
find a place to suit yourself.”
“I like this proposition---and as I have a prodigious
hankering not to die a fool; an event that inevitably
happens to a New-Englander'---(yes, Juliet, the creature
is a yankee!)---“who dies, without having seen Boston,
I have been about taking leave of my scholars, and
shaking hands. I have received some blessings---a few
tears, which were very precious to me---and about twice
as many dollars, that were, at least, quite as indispensable;
and now, Miss Ramsay, farewell! I hope that we
may meet again.”
“I hope so,” said I. “I do hope so, indeed. If you
should write to any body here---and I know that you are
a favourite with Dr. Plumber, and lawyer Kidder---for
a bad reason, too, I hear; that of telling a good story---”
“A reason that I am ashamed of; and have done with,
forever,” said he, interrupting me.
“If you should write to either of them, I shall be gratified
to learn that you are well.”
His eyes sparkled.
“And there is another,” said I, archly, I thought, but
be did'nt seem to think so, for he frowned---and departed.
Farewell, Juliet. I am impatient to hear from you.
