University of Virginia Library

SAME TO SAME.

I am more composed, this morning, dear Juliet;—nay
—this afternoon, I should say, for I never opened my
eyes, after I shut them, last night, until about an hour
since. It is near evening now. The letter, that I began
yesterday, has gone, I see I am afraid that it will distress
you, dear Juliet;—and I am sorry that I gave
the order, as I did last night; but then, I did not expect
to be so well. I have nobody to blame;—poor Mary
did, just as I ordered; she put the letter in the office, at
the last moment, before the mail went out—and the doctor
forbade her to wake me.

Yes, Juliet, I am in New-York. Nay, more---I
have set my heart upon a disclosure; and I will not be
baffled now, though it cost me my life. It is one of shame,
terrour, and dishonour, Juliet—yes, dishonour, for I have
fallen in my own respect; and I shall not spare myself.

I have met Randolph again. You were right, in your
belief. I loved him—even without suspecting it. But I
was awake, before I received your letter, Juliet.

Yes—I have met him again. He fled—and I—even
I, Juliet, have followed him here! What think you now,
of your sister, Juliet? I disdain to palliate—to shrink
--or tremble. I am prepared for every thing—for anything.
My whole nature is changed. I am no longer
sensible to fright and remorse;—no, nor to shame. I am
indifferent almost—almost, Juliet, to thy opinion. Judge
then, to what a depth I have fallen. I am sitting alone,
alone—no mortal near me—my countenance, I am sure,
is very stern; and big drops of sweat are falling upon
the paper, as I write. What supports me?—I know not.
Two days ago, I was so weak, that I could scarcely raise

my hand to my head—yet now—I am sitting unsupported,
unsus— * * * * * * *
* * * * * I have recovered Juliet—
it was only a momentary faintness. I had been thinking
too intently,—my head was low; and, when I arose, it
grew suddenly dark—the pain is rather severe, yet—I
must lie down, awhile.

12 o'clock.

I have had my table brought to my bed side; and, lest
my strength should not endure to the conclusion, I will
begin with that which is the sum and substance of all
that I have to say;---and finish the letter, as I can.
Spencer Randolph is a married man.

There!---there! Juliet, I defy thee, now; I have told it!
---my heart is lighter, by a world.

But let me tell thee, just as it happened, how I arrived
at the truth.

I loved Randolph, as I have told thee, before; but I
loved him, before I knew it; and, when I knew it, I cried
for shame and vexation. How had he won me? I knew
not—I was afraid of him:—and the only thing, I believe
it was the only thing—that really touched my heart, in
his whole deportment, was the tone of his voice.—That
used to thrill through and through me, particularly
when he read. I knew not what secret power the man
had over my thought; but, it did seem, that he understood
every pulsation of my heart; and read to all the
mysterious movement within me; for, whatever he read,
seemed to have a fiery adaptedness; a something, fit and
appropriate to my very thought and feeling at the time.
I was unaccustomed to tenderness. I had ridiculed it.
The tenderness of the world—of the stage—of novels,
was all sickening to me;—but his—ah, it was so deep,
and strange and passionate, that my heart caught the
infection, and palpitated at his voice, as if there was
something alive here, that answered every word. But I
awoke. I perceived my danger. Yet I strove to conceal
the knowledge from him. I deceived myself. We
parted, as friends;—and I felt as if a part of my own
heart had been torn away.—I began to view my conduct.—I

was very sick and low spirited. There was something
to tremble for, I confess;—and yet, I could find
little to blame, in him. It had been rather my fault,
than his.—I had thrown myself, literally, upon his bosom,
in the consternation of my thought, when the first
feeling of love came to me; and what could he do?—
He could not cast me off. There was only one way
left. He adopted it. He fled. Nay—to consummate
his purpose, and to atone for his own thoughtlessness,
he affected to be cheerful and friendly; and, when he
wrote to me, it was to prove that he felt nothing, to keep
him silent; and nothing to make his pen treacherous to
himself or to me.—That letter, I sent to you. Your
answer came, nearly at the same time, with another
from him.—another, that almost drove me mad. What
was I to do? I had still enough of my native character
left, to take a resolution; and to carry it into effect, on the
spot, though it ruptured every blood-vessel within me.
—I wrote to thee, Juliet;—and to him,—to him, as I
thought, for the last time. I felt sick—and I felt a
melancholy pleasure that I was:—the time might
come, thought I, when, he—for I thought only of him—
you were forgotten, Juliet—and my heavenly Father
was forgotten, in my humiliation,—when he might weep
for me, as for one untimely perishing. There was a
sweet, dangerous consolation, in the thought.

An answer came. I read it. I shook with affright. I
felt myself accountable for whatever might happen.
I wrote to the mad-man, to stay his hand, until
my next letter arrived.—He obeyed me;—and, when
the post came in—instead of the letter, he received me—
me—to his bosom; sick, even unto death, and terrified,
almost to dissolution.—His countenance was death
struck.-I stood in the street.-I know not if I were recognised—I
care not:—all that I know is, that I found him
alive:-and that, when I put my lips to his hand—it was in
the street, Juliet,—I would have died there willingly
—that they might have grown to it. I stood quaking
before him. His lips quivered. He threw his cloak
round me—and asked me where, in the name of heaven,
we should go.—I cared not—I told him so—I was ready

to go any where with him.—“No”—said he—affectionately.
“No, Sarah, though you forget yourself---
I will not forget you.” The rebuke went to my heart.
It was cold, though tender. But it was the rebuke of a
brother, more than that of a lover.---I could not bear it---
I burst into tears.---I believe, that I fainted---at all
events, I know that I was insensible; for, when I opened
my eyes, I was sitting by a fire,---a snug little family of
quakers about me, and Randolph was holding my hands,
---and the room was full of camphor and spirit. I
was quite ill that night; and I saw no more of him, until
the next morning. But he sent to enquire for me.---
In the evening, we came to an explanation. He loves
me---I am sure that he loves me:---and I glory in it!---
glory in it?---glory in the love of a married man!---
* * * Am I not fallen, indeed!---O, Juliet,
Juliet, pity me.---He fell upon his knees.---He besought
me to forgive him, and forget him;---and, when he discovered
how deeply he had injured me,---I thought
that he would go distracted upon the spot.---Some
strange, mysterious words escaped him;---and his forehead
quaked, as with the passing of an apparition.—He
took my hands—he held them like a dying man.—
“The power of blood is upon me!” said he. “I meant
only—what was innocent—or, at least, I meant not to
be guilty;—but I have broken into thy heart, Sarah, and
there is no more sleep for it, on earth.—I can never
marry thee.—I speak plainly. There is no time for trifling;
no—I can never marry thee, never!—But—I love
thee. I never meant to tell thee this. I fled from thee,
to avoid it.—And I tell it now, only to comfort thee, in
thy humiliation and bereavement.—'Tis only of late,
that I knew it myself.”

“Why, Randolph?”—yes, Juliet, I had even the indelicacy,
shame on me!—to ask him why he could not marry
me.

“There are two reasons,” he answered, gasping for
breath—“two: one only of which I can tell thee—the
other must die with me, in all probability.—I am a
married man.”

O---Juliet!---that was the blow that I wanted!---that

was it!---I thought that I should never breathe again.
The blood stopped in my temples, all at once; and---
and---and here I am---what say you to the tale?---am I
mad, or not? Is there any comfort; any hope for me?---
May I not pray for death?---Randolph has left me. He
has gone to your neighbourhood.---Why did you ever
leave this city?---He will see you probably---nay---he
has promised to see you.---O, in mercy, write to me.---I
care not what it be; but write to me,---if it be only to
say that you abandon me forever!