University of Virginia Library

JULIET TO SARAH.

Yes—he did take it for an invitation; nor, was it wonderful.—You
did not mean it as one, I am convinced; but
you said about as much, dear Sarah, as that you would
be glad to hear from him. I have read his letter, with
perfect astonishment. It is the most impudent, familiar,
and presumptuous thing, that I ever saw. Did you not
think so? “Shall you answer it?” you ask. Answer it?
You answer that letter! Why, Sarah, I can hardly believe
my senses; that, you should not have returned it, instantly,
is a matter of astonishment to me; you who have
been so cold and prudent:—but that you should think of
answering it;—that is past my comprehension. You
were more intimate with him, than I had any suspicion
of; or, he has, beyond all comparison, the most assurance
of any human being, to write you such a letter.—
—Perhaps I am too much in earnest—too plain spoken.
I hope not, dear Sarah, for I would soothe—not
irritate your poor heart, at such a moment. Who is
this Randolph?—what is he?—Sarah Ramsay cannot answer
me that:—no, not even Sarah Ramsay, that woman
of strength and decision; she, who was always so prompt
and energetick, and circumspect; yet, Sarah Ramsay is,
disquieted, when he hath left her—acknowledges it—is
anxious to see him again: repeats, with emphasis, his wild
and improbable tale—a tale, that shows him to be an unprincipled
impostor, even if it be true: permits his hand
to rest upon her shoulder, for some minutes, without being
aware of it;—suffers him to swear, more than once,
in her presence;—nay, repeats his profanity, levity, and
irreligion,—and, finally, receives, reads, and does not
return to him, a letter, which he had the audacity to address
to her. Sarah, I thought that I knew you well.
I did not. There is something in your character, recently
developed, which is new to me, unexpected, and
alarming. Am I taking too great a liberty?—Dear Sarah,
I will not believe it. The time is not yet come,
when, between Juliet and Sarah, the plain language of
truth and soberness, shall be offensive or hateful. I am

married too, you will recollect, my dear, strange sister—
and that gives me many privileges, as a counseller and
matron. Who is this man? I ask again. I would
have you find out? but, I would never have him suspect
it. You affect to treat the matter with levity; you are
remarkably direct and ingenuous. Do not deceive
yourself; you are in danger; and, were I not sure of it,
I would not, for the world, awake you to the knowledge
of a secret so alarming. Yet, I must—Randolph is dear
to you. Yet, you do not know it. Your heart was in
sorrow, and he came to it. You were lonely and dependant.
He kept up your spirits, and startled you, with
his originality. You were proud, and cold. He determined
to subdue you—by a careless indifference. He
has succeeded. You are more in his power, than he
dreams of. I am glad that he is gone—very glad. But
I give you no advice, dear;—consult your own understanding—be
prudent, and leave the rest to heaven.—
Examine your own heart, as with a knife; and then, my
own dear Sarah, let me pray you to act, as you would
have done, a year ago, had such an adventurer thrown
himself in your way. Am I unkind, uncharitable, ungenerous?
I cannot afford to be generous, my sister,
where, to give away aught of indulgence, is to give away
something of your happiness. I cannot be charitable, at
least, not very charitable, to such levity, assurance, and
avowed demerit as his. And, I must not be kind to
one, who has so unkindly; so unaccountably, too, let me
say, trespassed upon the solitary and benighted heart of
a proud, high-minded woman; yet, a woman, that was
sincerely pious; until she, herself, has learned to repeat
his impiety. Sarah, I know that I am severe—and I
hope that it will be undeserved—I hope so, indeed. I
would rather endure thy rebuke, in return, than that
thou shouldst deserve mine, for a single instant. It
makes my heart bleed, when I think, how lonely and exposed
thou art. Yet, do not believe, Sarah, that I have
any feeling of hostility or resentment, against this man,
on account of his profession; or, that I would be angry
at his familiarity, because he is poor. No—mine is not
such pride. I respect poverty; but I would have the
poor man honest, and prudent; wise and religious—and,
I should not like him the less, for a little modesty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

My poor husband is quite unwell. At times—oh,
Sarah, I am in need of consolation; and now that my
heart, which has been kept up till this moment, thinking
only of thee, is left to itself—I am almost blinded with
my tears. Grenville is unwell; and I am afraid that I
must lose him, for a time. How shall I exist without
him, Sarah; and now, too, when the presence
of a husband is as necessary, almost, to my support
and sustenence, as the feeling that there is a God, and a
good God, forever about me. Perhaps I am in a perilous
way, myself, dear Sarah. I have many fears; much
sickness at the heart, and strange tremours, that alarm
me, inexpressibly; the more, probably, from the fact, that,
in my present situation, it will be impossible for me to
accompany my husband abroad; and that in his, it will
be equally impossible for him to be with me, in the hour
of peril and agony.—I have a melancholy foreboding,
Sarah; a superstitious apprehension upon me, that I am
ashamed of, even while I submit to it. The period, it
is true, is some what distant; but, I feel every blow of the
clock, upon my heart:—nay, within it, like a creature,
waiting for death, and certain that it is at hand. Yet, these,
I am told, are the common apprehensions of women, in
my situation, for the first time. Every thing alarms
them; their spirits are forever in travail, and they suffer
inconceivably, in their anticipation. I wish that I were
wiser; more confident; and, at least, as well prepared for
death, as I have been. But now—O, Sarah, I cannot think
of it, without quaking. I am in health now; happy, loving
and beloved; and, if I die now, it will be suddenly; without
that lingering, wasting, wearing preparation, which
reduced me, gradually, before. And yet, there is a
sweet thrilling in my veins; a rich, warm flooding of my
poor heart, at times, when I think how many have escaped---how
many, that were weaker than I—how many,
that think little of the peril;---and that, if I do escape, and

should be so blessed---O, merciful Father---let me but live
to embrace a creature that owes its little life to me, and
then, O, no—I could not then, consent to die—I could not—
it would break my heart, to think of leaving its helplessness,
to the mercenary. O, no—if I must die, it were
better, perhaps, that I should die now—nay—I cannot
think even of that.—Father!—Father!—thy will be done.
Do thou support and sustain me, in the coming trial!
Teach me to submit to it, whatever it be, unaided, and
alone, without repining! And, if it be, that I am to endure
the agony of a mother, with no father, no husband
near me, to feel with me, to pray for me, to weep for me,
to support my fainting spirit, and bless the babe that is
born to him—O, do thou, thou! O my Father, be with
me; and let thy care be upon him, wherever he may be;
afar off—and sorrowing, for his wife,—O, wilt thou!