SARAH RAMSAY TO SPENCER RANDOLPH.
Randolph, I pity you. Would that I could despise
you—but, though you deserve it, I cannot. You have
called me haughty. Yet—you have humbled me to the
dust.
I am imprudent, you say?—In what?—That I have believed
in, and trusted to you, as an honourable man?—
You are right—Sarah Ramsay has been one of the
haughtiest of women; one of the most insensible. Was
this a reason for pursuing her, haunting her, breaking
down her spirit to this—and desolating her heart—till
she has not even the strength, to lift up her hand in
supplication—nor enough even to resent the indignity of
your approach.
You have spoken plainly, very plainly, for a man to
speak to a woman;—but I am not yet so utterly abandoned
of heaven, as to believe you. No, Randolph—No!
it is not true, that you could ever have destroyed me.---
It is not true, that you could have corrupted my heart.---
Wicked and treacherous as you were; insinuating and
persuasive--vehement and terrible, as you were, at times,
I should have resisted you, forever; and---the first hour
that uncovered the blackness of your nature to me---
would have been liberty to mine.---True, I should have
felt, what I now feel, an insupportable humiliation, at
your unworthiness.---I should have shed many bitter
tears; tears, that would have blistered the heart of any
honest man;---but they would have been shed, less in
sorrow for myself, than in shame for you.
Why have I written to you?---for two reasons---Nay,
for three. To convince you, that, humbled as I am, I
have yet the power to say, firmly, farewell forever!---
To remind you of that scene, where you had well nigh
betrayed your cruel purpose—when I awoke, for a moment---as
if my limbs had been fettered by a serpent---
that should convince you, that you never would have prevailed---but---I
cannot reason, I scorn to reason with
you, on such a subject.-- A third motive, and the last,
is this.---I have not returned your letter.---Nay, I am
willing to own that I shall keep it, and that it will be
dear to me, while I live, as something that reminds me
of an escape, little less than miraculous;--but most of all,
to command you---nay, to entreat of you---never to mention
Edward Molton to me again---and never, if by any
chance you should come in his way, never, if you have
any respect, or any compassion for me,
never to mention
me to him.
Farewell Randolph, farewell; you little know the heart
which you have lost.
