SPENCER RANDOLPH TO MISS RAMSAY.
If the deepest contrition and sorrow; if a determination,
which nothing but death can prevent me from carrying
into effect; a determination to repent, and be forgiven by
a woman, whom I have deeply wronged; if the knowledge
of this can be any consolation to that woman;—I
would have her know it. Sarah—dear Sarah—believe
me. I have wet the pillow with my tears. I am unable
to sleep; and I have arisen, at midnight, to tell thee that
my heart is breaking. To-morrow, I was to have departed
for the south; but I dare not go—I dare not.—
There is a spirit standing in my way; the spirit of a
wronged and beloved one, and I dare not advance a step.
Here I shall abide, Sarah, even here, whatever be the
consequences, till I hear from thee, in reply. I do not
ask thy forgiveness yet—I do not deserve it. But—appoint
me to any trial—name the hour and the day, when,
after having passed through all that shall be required of
me, I may venture to approach thee again, in the hope
of forgiveness; and I shall not despair of deserving it.—
Let not my prayer be in vain. It is for thy sake, Sarah,
for thine alone, at this moment, that I pray this; for I
tremble and faint, when I reflect upon the insupportable
humiliation, to which I have subjected thee. Can I be
forgiven?—on any terms—I care not what. Trust me
—I have wronged thee, dear; but I am able and ready to
recompense thee.—Gracious God!—what do I say!—no
Sarah—no!—fly me!—avoid me!—rend my letter in pieces,
and scatter it to the winds. There is a fatality that pursues
me. I cannot, cannot give thee comfort. Where
am I? In truth I do not know. My birth has been mysterious—my
dwelling, not among men. I know not
where I am, or what—but—nay, nay, Sarah, I cannot
break thy heart at once—I cannot tell the whole truth,
unpreparedly—it would kill thee. I can only say, that, in
seeking to ensnare thee—I have enmeshed myself. I
never knew it—I never suspected it; and, when I abandoned
thee, in compassion and magnanimity, as I
thought—even then, I was more in thy power, than thou
wast in mine.—O, what blindness and infatuation. The
tyger, at the mercy of his prey. Thy letter awoke me,
Sarah—so calm—so affectionate—so sorrowful. Oh—
it went to my heart. Tears—tears—the first that I
have shed for many a weary day, fell, like rain, upon the
paper. I have never knelt—never, scarcely, in my life,
except to thank God for some favour, already received;
never in sorrow; never in shame; never in humility;
but, when I read thy letter, dear—an irresistible something
plucked me to the earth, and held me there. I was
choking; the hand of God—of the living God, was
upon me. I arose, labouring, blinded, and distressed,
as if a ligature were drawn about my naked heart, by the
hands of a giant;—as if it had been pressed and pressed,
till there was no moisture left in it. I felt an alarming
heat in my brain. I arose—a strange faintness and
darkness came over me, and I fell, with my arms across
upon the table. What saved me from death?—Sarah, I
know not. For a moment, I was inconceivably frightened.
I had not the strength to call out for assistance;
and I verily believed that I should never arise again.—
But I did—after a few moments, I was able to lift my
head. I looked at my fingers—the sweat had oozed out
of their ends, and stood upon the table in drops. My hair
was wringing wet; and the linen, about my throat and
bosom were; as if I had been taken out of the water.—
Yet, I was soon upon my feet. Up I stood.—I did not
kneel—I would not—and I reasoned with myself. Was
this the apoplexy?—No—there was no rushing of blood
in the brain—I had not been disturbed by passion. But,
it might be so. Well then, thought I—let it be so.—
Two more such shocks, and I am no longer a burthen,
and a curse to them that love me. And why should I live
longer—why wish to live.
And then, Sarah, even then, I would have written to
thee, and told thee of my contrition, but I was ashamed
to do it. I was afraid to do such a thing from fear. I
waited, therefore, tillto-night. I am well, now, comparatively
well—and, the refore, do I write to thee, and pray
thee to forgive me. Let me know it soon—very soon, for
I am weary of life.
