SPENCER RANDOLPH TO MISS RAMSAY.
That you may know, at once, all that you have to apprehend,
Miss Ramsay, I have chosen to write my name
in the very top of this letter.
It is from Spencer
Randolph. Have you the courage to proceed?—the
magnanimity? If you have, let me counsel you to proceed.
You will find nothing to make you repent of it.
But, if you tremble—if you have not the fullest confidence
in yourself, and me—I pray you, I entreat you, to return
it. Do not proceed. If you do—mark me—you will
have contributed directly to an event, of which you do
not even dream at this moment. Yes, if you read this
letter, that event will certainly happen. Dare you go
on? Yes, you will.
You are, probably, distressed at the liberty that I have
now taken. You ask yourself, what I have seen in your
conduct to encourage me. I answer nothing—nothing,
Miss Ramsay—or nothing, except your independent
tone of feeling, and sound practical good sense. They
have encouraged me. I do not deny it. But, to do what?
Not to violate any duty, any law, even of decorum; not
to intrude myself, unbidden, upon the thought of a woman,
that I respect. No. What then? Merely to converse
to her—not even with her. I do not ask you, Miss
Ramsay, to reply to me. That were more than I could
expect, even from your independence. I only ask you
to listen. Is there any fallacy in this? You have not
been afraid to listen to my conversation. Are you afraid
to read it. But the world may know it. And is that a
reason, Miss Ramsay, why we should not do what is innocent?
The world know that I have conversed with
you; that I have visited you; and that you have received
me kindly. Was there any danger in this? No. Any
reproach? No. Is there more peril now, that I shall
corrupt or poison you, by my writing? Then why any
fastidiousness?
Reflect for yourself. What makes those men, who associate
habitually with women, superiour to others?---
What makes that woman, who is accustomed to, and at
ease in, the company of men, superiour to her sex in
general? Why are the women of France so universally
admired and loved for their colloquial power? Solely
because they are in the habit of a free, and graceful, and
continual conversation with the other sex. Women, in
this way, lose their frivolity; their faculties awaken;
their delicacies and peculiarities, emit their own perfume;
and unfold all their beauty and captivation, in the
spirit of intellectual rivalry. And the men lose their
pedantick, rude, declamatory, or sullen manner. The coin
of the understanding, and the heart, is interchanged
continually. Their asperities are rubbed off; their better
material polished and brightened; and their richness,
like fine gold, is wrought into finer workmanship by the
fingers of women, than it ever could be, by those of men.
The iron and steel of our character, are hidden, like the
harness and armour of a giant, in studs and knobs of
gold and precious stone, when not wanted in actual warfare.
In England, men show their own estimate of female
conversation, by never exposing themselves to it, if they
can help it—preferring the bottle to it—the race-course
—the gambling table—clubs—and routes—where women
are never seen, or never expected to converse. In France,
men adjourn from the table, like rational creatures, to
the parlour, the very name of which is a compliment to
the women, where they sit and converse with rational
females, from choice—or flirt with irrational ones, for
amusement. But, in England, how is it? The men drive
the women from the table; and sit, and guzzle wine, till
they can't see out of their eyes—rather than listen to
their conversation.
Have I said enough? Will you permit me to write to
you? You have nothing to fear. I shall do it hut seldom;
and will never offend you. I anticipate your answer.
You hesitate—you are undecided; but, at length,
you will consent. I foresee that you will; and I thank
you for it. If I should be mistaken, you have only to
return one of my letters, unopened, and you will never
hear from me, again.
I am now in Boston—probably, behind the counter of
the greatest scoundrel in it. I have just learnt that fact;
and shall leave him, immediately. Not an hour has
passed, since I was on the point of throwing him out of
his own window, into his wife's lap, (a charming woman,
by the way,) as she sat, working muslin, at her own,
just opposite, with a narrow alley between us.
He charged me with having done something underhanded.
It was an unlucky word—and I insisted upon
an explanation. Happily, for him, he thought of one.
“Did'nt I pass you, the other day,” said he, “when you
were writing at the desk?” And did'nt you, as I passed,
put your hand over the paper, to conceal it? Your hand
was over it—the paper was under it;—was'nt that underhanded
work, then?”
What could I say? Nothing. So, I shall leave him,
in about an hour—to do, God only knows what—for, I
have fallen acquainted with a young haram-scarum chap,
with more money than brains, who has a prodigious
notion of going into business.
I shall write to you, again, one day or other—for, it
is in vain to deny it, next to the pleasure of talking, is that
of writing another to death. There is this great advantage,
too, in writing, over conversation---that I can take
up just as much time as I please, without the risk of being
interrupted, and have the talking all to myself.
But, I cannot bid you good bye, without telling you
how I got the recommendation required, from the people
of my native town. They were cautious fellows; and,
much as they desired to be quit of me, yet there was no
knowing what might happen on my way to Boston; and
it would be, they thought, rather an awkward thing to
read, that a young man was taken up, on suspicion of
some fact, or other, (though, if they had known me well,
they would never suspect me of anything like a fact,) in
whose pocket was found a paper, recommending him to
all whom it might concern, signed by several respectable
merchants of —. I don't say where, for I
have still some respect for my native town, and for the
mother that bore me.
Well, as soon as I was ready to depart, I went round
to every man that I thought sufficiently a stranger to me,
for my purpose; and asked him, resolutely, to give me a
certificate of my worth, and talent, and probity—(not
property—I beg that you will be careful how you pronounce
that word—for I never was so far gone as to demand
such a certificate)—and all that. They hemmed
and hawed—and invited me to call again—as often as I
pleased:—in some places, a partner was out—in others,
a principal—and some did'nt know what to write—and
some could'nt write at all. I saw that all were afraid to
begin; so, I sat down, and wrote a recommendation of
myself, and thrust it into the first man's face that I
caught, with a countenance that proved to him, that it
was better to sign anything, than put me to the trouble
of calling again. In this way, by downright travail of
spirit, I obtained six signatures.
With them, I arrived in Boston:—and, the next morning,
at day-light, my temples throbbing with the noise
of the streets; and my feet smarting and sore with the
pavement, I found out the “wholesale and retail store.”
The prospect, I confess, was none of the pleasantest, at
first;—and, before I made myself known to the master,
one of the most orthodox of human creatures—undergoes
family prayer, regularly, every night, without considering
it in my salary—and locks his very kittens apart—
male and female—and cheats, like no man on earth, except
himself—I ascertained that his assortment of goods,
at wholesale, consisted of refuse looking-glasses—Attlebury-jewelry—tea,
by the pound—remnants of calico
—and the fag end of all the auction rooms in Christendom.
Yet, I enlisted. Don't you pity me? We struck a
bargain directly.
Adieu, Miss Ramsay.—Heaven bless you!
