University of Virginia Library

SPENCER RANDOLPH TO SARAH RAMSAY.

You have not returned my letter, Miss Ramsay; you
have dared to read and retain it, notwithstanding my
presumption. I expected this, I confess; but still, so
much depended upon it—so much, that you, yourself, are
ignorant of, that I trembled for you. I cannot explain
myself, in this letter; and, it is highly probable, that you
may never receive another;—but be assured that your
nobleness and generosity on this occasion, the most trying
of your life, have literally saved you from destruction.
You are amazed. You do not believe me—yet,
as true is it, thou excellent and strong minded woman,
as that I have meditated evil against thee, and relented.
But what evil? Lady, I cannot tell thee; I may never
be able to tell thee; but my heart quakes at this moment,
and there is a scorching heat about it—and a sensation,
as if all its blood were filtering through it, drop by drop,
when I reflect on what thou hast escaped. Farewell!
heaven bless you!—heaven, in its mercy and compassion,
bless and sustain you, dear Miss Ramsay. Does it offend
you? Are you not dear to me? Have you not been
so; and have you not known it too, for a long time? You
have; then why should you affect any resentment at seeing
the word inadvertently written, which you have read,
again and again, in my eyes;—and, which—pardon me,
dear woman,—which I have seen, legible engraved, in
the very apple of yours. Farewell—yet, before we part,
as a memento of my sincerity and affection for you, I
pray you to listen to my admonition; and let it sink into
your heart. You are imprudent—haughty—and too independent.
Had you been less so—I should never have
succeeded as I have, with you. It was on your excess of
these qualities, strangely disguised, to be sure, but not
so completely, but that my eye detected them, in our
first conversation, that I grounded my hope. Do you
know, what that hope was?—it was to destroy you. Do
you smile? Remember how far I have gone—how completely

you have been in my power—and then tell me,
proud woman, what saved you? Was it your own
strength? No—was it that I had no opportunity, or did
I want power? Ask yourself—remember where we have
been, and how; alone, hour after hour; and then attribute
your safety to its true cause—my forbearance. You once
desired to know who I was. I told you—but you were
not satisfied. I saw it; I saw by the colour of your eyes,
and the heaving of your bosom, that you were not; but
you dared not risk another question. It is now time
that I should tell you—and—but no, Miss Ramsay,
that may not be at present. At some future hour, perhaps,
when we least expect it, you shall know the truth.
In the mean time, remember my words. Be more guarded
in future;—stifle the tenderness that you feel for me;
and pardon me, I beseech you, for the evil that I have
meditated against you; and the evil that I have done you,
in awaking your great heart, not to disquiet it forever, but
to prevent it, from ever sleeping again, in consideration
of my forbearance and sincerity.

Are you offended? You are. Do you believe that
you have been in such danger? You do not. Yet, I—I
who know woman, and know how to assail her, under
every temper and similitude, I can assure you, that you
have been so completely in my power, though you know it
not, that I could have destroyed you, utterly, if I would.
Reflect for yourself. Has not the time been, when, no
human being could have persuaded you that the hour
would come, when you could sit by any man, as you have
set by me?—when you could feel your heart swell to
bursting, if he laid his hand upon yours—and when—
but no matter. What you have experienced, will be a
lesson; a bitter one, I confess, but one that you will never
forget. Can you forgive me, Sarah? No—for a while,
you cannot—will not; but, one day or other, you will.—
I am sure of it.

You need not return this letter. I shall never receive
it, if you do; for, to-morrow I am going to New-York
on business; and I know not how much further, nor how
soon, I may return.

You are fond of poetry, I believe—I enclose you a
piece written by a Mr. Molton, sometime ago. By the
way, that man, of whom I once heard you speak,
in a manner that disturbed me exceedingly, was named
Molton, was it not? Do you know his first name? Was
it Edward? If it was, I anticipate your pleasure in receiving
the hymn, on the opposite page; for that was
written by a man named Edward Molton, some time
ago. I have heard a good deal of him here; and not a
little that would have alarmed me once, although I remember
that your eyes flashed fire, when you spoke of
him; and your lip writhed with bitterness and scorn—
and hatred—and terrour too, I thought. How was it
Miss Ramsay?—and who was he? I ask you, somewhat
confidently; not because I look for any answer; but, merely
to show you that I have read your heart, even in its
concealment. Have you not loved Molton? You have
—I am sure of it. He lives at the south—at New-York
perhaps?—or at Philadelphia? If so, I shall probably
meet with him; and, if there be such a man upon this
earth, it shall be my business to become acquainted with
him—though you and I, Miss Ramsay, should never
meet again. They tell a story here of him—to this effect—that
he stole upon the innocent heart of a lovely
young creature here, who became in time, passionately
fond of him. They say that she was a woman of extraordinary
genius—that her talents were of the highest order,
—that she was timid, gentle; and yet, so full of heroick
principle, that—gracious God!—can there be such a
woman upon this earth!—when he grew weary of her, he
had only to acknowledge some unworthiness of his past
life—some dark secret of his early days—and, much as
she loved him—though her heart-strings were interwoven
with his—though she felt, as if the same blood
circulated in the veins of both—and their vessels and arteries,
intertwined and communicated with each other---
yet---yet!---she tore them all away at once---ruptured
them all—and lay down, alone, smiling in her tears, and
bled to death. Is it true, Sarah? Have you ever heard
of it? But let me give you the poetry, of this Mr. Molton.

What think you of it? I am told that he wrote a
good deal, in his early days; and then, deliberately abandoned
it; and that this, with one or two other little pieces
that I have, were the last of his productions. But can
this be the same man? Would your Molton have written
a hymn? He might; for this one, it is said, had little
of what the world calls religion, in him; and cared
more for poetry than doctrine, on such occasions. Perhaps
he was like him, who said—“Je crois de la religion
tout ceque j'en puis comprendre—et respect le reste, sans
le rejetter.”

Once more, Sarah, farewell!—remember me, as one
that hath repented of the wrong done to you---and atoned
for it, to the utmost of his power; and ready to atone for
it, with his blood.