University of Virginia Library

SARAH TO JULIET.

I am ill, dear Juliet, quite ill, and have been so, for
several days, or I should have written to you before. I
thank you for your cruel letter. It had the effect of
alarming me into a sense of my danger; and I know not
what else might, so deep and wonderful was my infatuation—
was, do I say? It is—even to this hour, it is—
although I am now fully awake, to the danger that I have
escaped—and to the character of the man; and to his
design. Ask me not how I have learnt this. I cannot
yet bring myself to tell thee. I can only say, dear Juliet,
that,—ah, I cannot speak it, for shame and sorrow—
no matter—no matter, Juliet--Randolph might have been
dear to me, in time. But that time is past. We shall
never meet again, except by some accident, which is not
likely to happen. He is a bad man, I fear;—or, at least
that he has been, I have no doubt. But do not alarm
yourself about him more.—I have been imprudent—I
feel that I have. I feel my own weakness. It has
taught me compassion for the weakness of others. And
I do believe, Juliet, that I shall never speak, scornfully,
of any human being again—of any woman, I mean;—for
I now begin to understand something of that tremendous
spell, with which the destroyer approaches them.—
I awake and wonder at myself. It seems impossible
that what I have experienced, hazarded, felt, is not a
dream?—I ask myself, again and again, if my nature be
altered—if I be the same woman that I was?—And I cannot
yet even understand the power, or the means, by which
the alteration has been affected. Have I been asleep, all
my life, asleep upon a precipice?—Have I been deceived

so long, and so utterly, in the knowledge of myself?
Thoughts that I should have derided and mocked at once,
are now the perpetual residents of my bosom.—Dreams
at which, I should have wept once—are common to me,
now, night after night; and feelings, to which, I have
been a stranger all my life; feelings, which I could not
even understand in others—trances that were—that are
a destroying fire to me. Nay, the deportment and accent
of endearment and passion, which, to see another
exhibit once, was enough to cover my forehead with
blushes—and, make me faint at the heart, with compassion
and shame—all these things have been familiar to
Sarah Ramsay.

O Juliet, I cannot proceed. Your letter is before me.
My hand shakes; and a quick feverish sensation, like the
breath of serpents is constantly passing over my lips.—
Yet, I cannot withhold my counsel and prayer for thee. I
think of thy situation, continually, dear. O do not, dear
Juliet, do not despond. The peril is chiefly imaginary,
depend upon it; and is abundantly aggravated by apprehension.
Be firm and confident, and prepared---use a
continual and gentle exercise; and, I am sure, that heaven
will bless thee at last--thou wilt awake, dear, with the
mouth of thy babe clinging to thine---and thy husband---
Nay, Juliet---thy husband will be away; but a better than
he, a wiser, a surer help, even thy God, will be near to
thee. Farewell!---I will write again, as soon as my sore,
and mortified, and humbled heart, shall have the strength.