JOHN TO SARAH.
I have just arrived, dear Sarah;—and, from the hour
of my departure, until my landing at Jamaica, I had never
an opportunity of sending you a line, or explaining
the cause of my absence. Frank was sick—and the
boat that brought me the letter, was ready to sail again,
before I received it. In an hour I had embarked; and
now I hope that you will forgive my long silence, and be
charitable to me, and kind, and tell me all that has happened
to you, in that cold climate of yours. Mr. Grenville
suffers, cruelly; and he has just determined to visit
the Havana.—Juliet would go with him; but her health
is very delicate, about this time, and he will not permit
her to think of it.
Her deportment is full of the most piteous and tender
solicitude; every movement of her lip; every emotion
of her face, is earnest with affection, altogether unlike
the timid eyeing, and passionate low-breathing, of Juliet
Gracie. There is a composure now, in her very sweetness;
a dignity, a serene, womanly self-possession, altogether
worthy of Juliet Grenville—and her husband is so conscious
of all this; so grateful for it, that I can hardly look
upon him, feeble and wasted as he is, without a feeling
of envy. Upon my word, Sarah, when I gaze about me,
and find two such women as Juliet, and—may I name
her?—Helen—so full of love and watchfulness, so beautiful
and so sincere—one, all passion and enthusiasm; the
other all mildness and purity, with a spirit of trancendent
power, tempered only, not extinguished, by gentleness—yet,
both loving, almost to adoration, the men of
their hearts—O, I could lay me down and weep for melancholy,
that there is no such woman for me—no dear
one, who will watch the changing of my countenance, as
something upon which her destiny is dependent—the
deepening of my lips—or eyes—as matter essential to
the comfort of her heart—no blessed one, to whom I can
turn in sorrow and desolation, and feel her soft arms
twining about my neck—her warm cheek upon mine,
and her beautiful hair blowing about my eyes. Ah, no,
Sarah;—there is to be no such luxury for me. I have
lived and mingled with the world; communed and dwelt
with many women; lovely and innocent ones—and counterfeited
many passions; but never to this hour, have I
found one to love me—never;—and I shall go to my
grave, unhonoured and unknown; no woman to weep for
my memory; no children to bless me—none to remember
that I have been. Year after year, hath passed away;
and many have stood up before me, thrilling with passion
for one another, and received the benediction of love;
yet I have been, forever, desolate and alone. No heart
ever beat against mine; no lips ever tingled with the touch
of mine;—no step ever faltered; no voice ever changed,
when mine was heard. Yet, what have I done? Who
can charge me with ought of impurity or licentiousness?
Why then are my faculties wasting away—the inexhaustible
tenderness of my heart, like a secret fountain,
left unbroken and unvisited, to sink into the sand—feeling
no emotion, creating none. Is it that I have been too
good? Can it be, that, to women, there is a witchery
and enchantment in the aspect of profligacy. The licentious
are beloved—the wicked are married—doated on,
to distraction and death. The sound of
their voice thrills
like electricity, through many a pure heart; the glance
of
their eye penetrates and dissolves. At the touch of
their hand, soothed, and subdued, the lovely and wise,
bow down their heads to the dust; loosen their tresses;
and weep to be embraced.—O, Woman! What a lesson is
this to the virtuous—what discouragement to self-denial
and greatness. Can it be true, that, familiarity with the
profligate, hath a spell for the faculties; and that he, who
hath spoiled and rifled many a precious heart, is, therefore,
more seductive and winning—more courted, even
by the virtuous and pure;—for the enchantment of his
manner, perhaps—for his reformation, it is
said;—and as
a
trial? But is it not a lesson to the
good—doth it not
teach
them, that there is an attractiveness in manner, to
be sought after, unlike the austerity of virtue—an attractiveness
that is delirium to woman. Shall the wise and
good learn this—or shall they abandon it to the dishonourable
and profligate?—Sarah—is it not the fault of
women, that virtue is ashamed to show its face; that it
is obliged to counterfeit the deportment of vice, ere it can
obtain admission to woman? Is it not a reproach to
you? And is it not true? Who are her favourites?—
What their history? Is it not full of seduction and death?
Deliberate villany, and idolatrous passion? It is. And
who are rejected and abandoned?—The tame and spiritless?—the
unfashionable?—They are the men that live,
as men ought to live—men, that feel their accountability
to heaven—that approach woman with a breathless awe,
ready to bleed and die for her—but unable, in the faintness
of their heart and voice, to trifle with her loveliness;
trembling in her presence, as if in the temple of something
consecrated—faltering at her approach, like them
that are conscious of angelick visiting, or invisible guardianship;—afraid
to
imagine aught that is earthly or
sensual. Yet!—such men are ridiculed—their veneration
laughed at; and themselves shunned. They are
right—women are right---the presence of such men is a
perpetual and burning sarcasm upon them.---Who that
hath so much of mortality and infirmity, as women, could
endure to be approached, by such infatuated and mistaken
worshippers. Every ascription of praise is an insult.
If the heart stop in its awe---there are cruelty and bitterness
in it; for what can be more cruel and bitter, than to
approach a woman as if she were something more spiritualized,
more etherial, than the daughters of earth. Is
it not saying that she ought to be---what she is not. It
is burning incense to Chastity, before the image of Mary
Magdalene, or the woman of Samaria.
