University of California Berkeley * . . / St A NOVEL. Had heaven but tongues to speak, as well " As starry eyes to see; ' O, think, what tales they'd have to tell, " Of wandering youths like me." TOM. MOOTIE. tfje atttjot of aoflan antr IN TWO VOLUMES. VOIi. I. PUBLISHED FOR WHOM IT MAY CONCERN 1823. Eastern District of Pennsylvania) to ivit-. BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the twenty-eighth day of July, in the forty-seventh year of the Independence of the United States of America, A. D. 1823, Charles I. Jack, of the said district, hath deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words following 1 , to wit. " Randolph, a Novel. Had heaven but tongues to speak, as well < As starry eyes to see; O, think, what tales they'd have- to tell, " Of wandering youths like me " TOM MOOH&. By the author of Logan and Seventy-six. In two volumes." In conformity to the act of Congres of the United States, entitled, "An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the Copies of maps, charts, and books, to the author and proprietor* <>*' such co- pies, during the times therein mentioned." And also to the act, enti- tled, "An act supplementary to an act, entitled, f direct personal commuriication/lbefore they threatened me: or, before they applied for the injunction, I could have satislied them, that the first mode of proceeding was child- ish, and the last unwise, to say the least of it. There would have been more discretion in silence; and if they do not betray it, there is no other human being, not even B VI the Chancellor him sell', able to trace the history of their unhappy friend, in these volumes; or even to divine the cause of their application to him. The story is too remarkable, and the events too recent, to be distinctly told; and the little that is revealed, in its truth and nakedness, will be intelligible to only two hu- man creatures; and is barely enough for the justification of an unfortunate and injured man, with them that are ac- cessible to no other means of justification. Chance may, one day or other, when he is in his grave, bring the right persons acquainted with all that is material. They will weep then; and he will know it In the mean time, the publick may be amused, and agitated, perhaps, for a little season, without any suspi- cion of the truth. "W. V. R. "Bridgewater." p. S. "He forgave them and blessed them with his last breath." As for RANDOLPH, he has nothing to complain of. I have drawn him better than he is. If he be disposed to quarrel he knows where I am to be found. ^\ LETTER I. Baltimore, &4th 7Vav. 18 . -N O, dear; you are mistaken in Molton. He is not the abject creature that you believe. I have no proof to of- fer you, it Is true; nothing but my bare word; and that too, founded upon an interview often minutes. But, nev- ertheless, I do entreat you to believe me; or, if that be too much, Sarah, let me beg that you suspend your opinion awhile, and not express it, to any human creature, until you are assured that you are not wronging a noble na- ture. I wish that you could have seen him, cousin, when I handed your note to him. You would have given up all your prejudices, I am sure, on the spot; nay you would have wept. As he read it, I saw a slight convulsion pass over his broad forehead; it contracted a little too, and then, there was a quiet hectick; and his patient light blue eyes flashed fire; and, if I must tell the truth, there was an angry fierceness in his look, for a single moment, that, in spite of myself, made me tremble; but, when this was followed, as it was, almost immediately, by a mortal paleness, and a slow, calm movement of the arm and hand, as he reached out the billet to me, it was really appalling. It almost took my strength away. Such a delicate creature, so effeminate, and sickly! it is un- accountable to me, how his presence should so affect me. I took the billet I read it. Shall I confess the truth, Sarah? I was shocked. All that you had told me, might be true; he might be that consummate villain; as plausi- ble, and as cowardly, as you had persuaded me to believe him; but never did I so falter and wane before any mor- 8 BANDOLPH. tal man, as before that feeble and emaciated being; with whom I had sought a quarrel; against whom, for- getting my own manhood, I had volunteered so many maledictions. Sarah hear me! By heaven, we have wronged him! I care not what proof you have to offer me; nay, though it be that of your own senses or mine I would sooner doubt them both, than believe that Ed- ward Molton is a scoundrel. No the great God of heaven would not permit a scoundrel, so to profane and counterfeit the heroick bearing of innocence. Are you not amazed? I am. I read over what I have written. I think over all that has passed since we parted; and I look in upon myself, with a strange feeling of doubt and perplexity. How is my opinion changed! how have I confirmed all your predictions, when you bade me be- ware of listening to him, or looking upon him. You foretold this; yet I laughed at you. You said that, if I permitted myself to hearken to him, I was lost. I have hearkened to him. He has used no argument; no ex- postulation; no entreaty; no defence; yet, I declare to you, my dear Sarah, that I am ready, at this moment, as you said I should be, to bleed and die for Edward Molton for whom? Righteous heaven! for the destroyer of Ju- liet the murderer of William. Yes, yes! give me more proof more! I am not satisfied; or, I shall turn apos- tate to my cousin's memory ; yea, battle for the man that slew him; and bleed for him, that spoiled and blasted the sweetest creature, by the God who made me that ever inhabited this earth. 0! Sarah, what is this surpassing, and mysterious power? Is not Edward Molton fashioned like ourselves? feebler, it may be, in physical, and in intellectual re- source? and yet, if they, that know 7 him, are to be believ- ed, so damnable a villain, that his very breath is poison, insinuating itself, like a subtile vapour into the sound and pure of heart; and there operating, like death, till all is blackness and ashes. But can this be? Would our Maker permit it? Arc we to have no defence; not even from wisdom, doubt, or experience, against the wily and insidious? I am not old, it is true; but I have seen much of the world; and I never yet saw a confirmed villain, in whose lineaments, the Deity himself, had not written his RANDOLPH. 9 history and character. And yet, here is a face, youth- ful, frank, open and dignified, where there is not a line, nor a shadow, but what looks like the boundary or com- munication between kingdoms, upon a map, rather than the secret and dark tracking of banditti; and yet, you would have me believe that he is a magician in power, and a devil in heart; confirmed and established, in the most appalling and deliberate criminality. I cannot be- lieve this, Sarah. I choose rather to believe that we are deceived, in some likelier way. But, if I should write forever, I could not communicate a thousandth part of what I feel toward that man, that injured man. I say this, boldly; I am ready to meet your ridicule, perhaps your scorn; but, I will not stir another step in the af- fair no, not even to call him out, which I would rather do, a hundred times, than suffer the compunction that I now feel, for having thought of such a thing. Sarah; can you believe me! I was afraid, yes, actually afraid to tell him my errand; and, to this moment, he does not know that I had aught else with him, than to deliver your note. Farewell! I am prepared for all that you can say. Yet I shall meet you, without trembling. I am prepared even to be classed with the fools and coxcombs, that are also subject to him; nay, prepared to have my motives, and possibly my personal courage impeached. But no I am wrong; forgive me, Sarah. You will not be so unkind; you will only say what you believe that I am infatuated. Farewell, JOHN OMAR, Miss Sarah Ramsay, New-York. LETTER II. REPLY. I New-York, Q9th November, Is it possible! / pity you. Your letter, dear John, arrived almost as soon as we. I received it, in the B2 13 RANDOLPH. parlour, and, though I trembled, I am sure, from head to foot, yet I had the presence of mind to open and read it, hy the side of my father and mother. This was the on- ly course left to me; for your imprudence, in directing it as you did, made them watch every movement of my countenance; and what could I have done, if my father, my kind, dear father, had asked me for it? 0, let me en- treat you cousin, to be less precipitate. It will be fatal to you, one day or other, I am sure. You are so direct, sudden, and rash, that I am always quaking for you. I am interrupted ah! - I am called I have re- turned and left them all talking about you; but, I have only a moment to spare, lest my absence may be taken notice of. There are only two things, or perhaps three, that I have time to say now; and they are these. You are infatuated. Edward is a villain: but I want you to tell me, exactly, how he looked and acted, (for he is a masterly actor, and can deceive any human being, youthful and artless as he appears, with the counterfeit of any passion, feeling, character or emotion.) Let me hear this, by the return mail; and I will then inform you of some other circumstan- ces that have come to my knowledge, since I left Balti- more. But there is one favour, that I have to request of you; be a little more temperate in your style. You know my opinion of such things. I hate fine writing in a letter, just as I hate fine talking in conversation. Adieu, S. P. S. I forgot to say, that, notwithstanding my predic- tion, I am really amazed, astonished and confounded at your extravagance. Nay, although I foretold it, I did not believe it myself, cousin that you, you should have been such a upon my word, if out of the abundance Of the heart, the pen had written, you would have found rather an ungracious word, where that blank is. But tell me how he managed you. Defend yourself, I en- treat you; John hearken to me defend yourself, or I shall despise you. Nayj at this moment Sarah, the RANDOLPH. It "proud, unfeeling Sarah," is weeping for you weeping with shame and vexation. These blisters on the paper, these blots and blurs John! I do not pften weep; but, if you do not give me better reasons, than any that I can imagine, in your unexampled apostacy, I shall be tempted to swear, never again to shed a tear, whatever may become of you; nay, to requite you with scorn and derision, for the distress that I feel at this moment. Af- ter all that I had said to you, too! Why, pride would have withheld you, if you were like any other human be- ing. But, good bye! let me hear, immediately; I shall not sleep, till you are restored to my respect. S. EDWARD MOLTOJT TO MART HOWARD. Washington, . I shall obey you, imperious girl. You know your pow- er, and you abuse it. It is as I foretold you, when I de- tected the first yearning of your heart. But beware! no woman shall hold me in thraldom longer than I can revere her. "Love!" O Mary! you know not what love is. Do I? look at me; look in that glass there is the face of the haughty Edward. That death-like aspect these sunken temples that is thy work. I do not krtow myself. The fire of my eyes, it may be, is not yet utter- ly quenched; but God knows that it soon will be. And, even now, there is something in their lustre, unlike the colour or brightness of health; and were I to see it in the eyes of another, in thine, Mary, I should weep; but, it is, there is a melancholy gladness about my heart, that comforts it, like the touch of a beloved hand, gently put upon a wounded part. My character is gone. What of that? It was sacri- ficed to thee. My health is blasted death is within me my vitals are decaying; I can feel them weakening and detaching themselves, while I write, like the fila- ments of life from a dead heart;- but what of that? Then art the happier for it 12 RANDOLPH. Even now, I was on the point of slaying another mail to thee! O woman! woman! what art thou made of? So beautiful, yet so deadly! I hear the echo of his depart- ing step, now. The noise of the door, that he hath shut after him, is sounding in my ears now, like something miraculous; as if a dead man had arisen, from hefore my feet, and walked leisurely a\vay from me. What saved him, Mary? I know not, unless it be his resemblance to to by heaven, I will write it, though it kill thee! to Juliet! there! He knows not that I suspected his errand; no! for, if he had, he should never have left my presence, alive! What! bearded, baited, cursed and threatened, by child- ren, even in the solitude of my own chamber! No. George, George! it was well for thy brother, and for thine too, William, poor William, that I was not obliged to trample on another of your headlong, impetuous blood. But let me proceed more gently. Here is the precious note that he brought. O, would that the writer were a man! Read it read it, Mary, and tell me that you won- der at me. You ought you will I have surpassed my- self. The boy came to murder me, and he went away my vassal. What a retinue I shall have! the gallant, the athletick, the noble in heart, the wise, all subject to me me! a weak and miserable creature, on whom the weakest might set his foot if he dared. Read it! and wonder, as I do, that my heart was not shivered into ten thousand pieces, when I read it. (XOTE ENCLOSED.) Baltimore, , Monday morning. SIR If you dare to set your foot within my father's house, you shall be treated as you deserve, by tht servants. I will not see you. My opinions are well founded, and not to be shaken. I shall be on my return to New-York, when you receive this: and there is then, only one thing that you can do, to alter or change my hatred and con- tempt for you; and that is, to repent and die. You have slandered a woman, whose only fault was her tender- RANDOLPH. 13 ness for you. You have not the courage, and the great- ness to acknowledge it : and, I believe, are too abject, even to take the field in defence of your own miserable" vilhiny. Farewell, sir. I do not pray that you may be hanged, or drawn and quartered; no but I do pray that you may live, till your heart ache at the recollection of your crime, as mine does at this moment, while I say that I pray God, in his mercy, to forgive me for having pro- nounced or written your name. Once more, farewell. Do not flatter yourself that I have avoided you from fear. No. I do not fear you; but I loathe and abhor you, as something unnatural and base. You are welcome to show this letter, if you dare; the name I shall write, at full length, giving you all the advantage of your meanness; and you may show it, as I have no doubt that you will, to prove that you are on goo*d terms with one of many, that detest and execrate you. I have told the bearer to avoid you that you were to be avoided and shunned. SARAH RAMSAY. Now, what think you, Mary? Is not that about enough for mortal patience? What would you do? Advise m% counsel me. Shall I follow her to New- York, to France, to the ends of the earth till I accomplish my purpose? What say you? speak but the w r ord, and so sure as my name is Edward Molton so sure as I am beloved of thee, thou terrible woman, so sure will I bring that haughty girl to my feet as I have thee. Nay, start not, Mary. Is it not true? Thou thinkest that I am in thy power. True I am; to a certain degree, I am; but thou art abundantly more in mine. What! do I boast? I do, and defy thee even thee 9 thou mysterious and pas- sionate creature, with all thy loveliness and wrath, to rebel. And why? Because thou fearest to die; and I do not. Thou wouldst not survive my abandonment of thee; thou wouldst go to thy grave, guilty, broken hearted, and shivering. But I I should die like a hero a mar- tyr, in my own blaze, laughing at the devils that beck- oned to me, and covering up my poor shattered heart, in its mortal spasms, from all, but most of all, from thee : for thou, woman, were I dying for thee, shouldst never 14 RANDOLPH. know it; and I would haunt thee, yea, I would, forever arid ever, for thy desertion of me even if thou wert un- faithful to my memory. WhatL have I not purchased thee? purchased thee, in blood? And shall I permit an- other to approach thee? never! And better 'twere for him, to penetrate the cavern where sleeps the young pan- ther, under the watch of its famished mother, than go near where thou art sleeping! Mary! I would make the world a solitude, had I the power, were one of its inha- bitants but to think of thee, irreverently. I intended to tell thee how I received the boy, that came to fight me; but I must defer it, till I meet thee. I overcame him I put the billet into his hand; and, after a few words, I was calm, very calm I bade him go in peace. He thought that I knew not his errand; and well for him was it, that he did think so. Death! that I must conceal and darken the working of my soul before such children! I cannot tell thee, Mary, how I did it; Hut, I did it. In one word, I conquered him. Thine f for ever, Farewell! EDWARD. JOHN TO SARAH. Annapolis, (Md.) Dec.. I shall try to be "temperate" in my reply. Whether I shall succeed or not, will depend upon the route that my thoughts take. At present, I feel calm, and affectionate- ly disposed; but you have wounded me, somewhat cruelly Sarah, and somewhat carelessly; and my nature may take fire; yet no, my dear Sarah I will not believe it; it was not unkindly meant, and I cannot retaliate upon you. Your sentiments, respecting an epistolary style, are precisely my own. Nothing is so tiresome to me, as the conversation of one that talks "like a book;" and what RANDOLPH. 15 is good letter writing, but written conversation? free, natural, and unstudied, touching us rather, with its readi- ness, and simplicity, like the playfulness of a well bred woman, or the pleasantry of one, that ah! I am trans- gressing again, so no more of'that. OfMolton. When he handed me your letter, I read it; and, I am not ashamed to say, that I read it, as for the first time. How different did it appear to me, while you read it, with your lips quivering, and your eyes darting fire about them, when I thought that he deserved your keenest, deadliest invective. But when I read it in his presence; that calm, beautiful self-possession, that gentle and deep serenity of his, -which seemed disquieted but for a single moment, as he read, I am sure, with a convul- sion at his heart; that unmanned me; I could have wept almost, for having so dishonoured hiin. Abuse me, Sa- rah; I can endure it; but the truth I must tell. When 1 had done, I reached the letter back to him, without daring to lift my eyes to his face. I was overpowered with shame and sorrow, for the part tl\at I had acted; and yet I was unspeakably happy that I had not, after my na- ture, abruptly insulted him, at once; and that continues to be a great consolation to me. But what converted me, you ask. Let me tell you. The repose and steadiness of his look; the quiet, habit- ual dignity of his motion; the musick of his voice, so manly and composed, so unlike what I looked for, from one so emaciated and girlish. Little and effeminate men are so apt to be petulant and waspish, you know. He was leaning upon his hand. A silence, I should think, of four or five minutes, followed; after which, he slowly raised his head. His pale blue eyes had become intense- ly dark; and his light, silky hair, was disordered, strangely, by his hands, just as if he had been tearing it while I was looking down upon the floor. "It is hard to bear,*' said he, looking me full in the face, "and I have only one reply to make to it. Do you believe that I deserve it?" The question was so abrupt, that it disturbed me; and I knew not what I said; but, to my last hour, Sarah, I shall not forget what he said no, nor what he did. 16 RANDOLPH. He arose, and came to me; deliberately folded his arms: and never changed his attitude, or voice, or look, till I was ready to fall at his foot. "Sir," said he, "I understand vour embarrassment.- I knew the cause. Your cousin Sarah, a high minded, but very imprudent girl; nay sir, you will hear me out, I hope has endeavoured to persuade herself, that I am an accomplished villain; nay, to persuade you. You are young and passionate, precipitate perhaps; and you adopt- ed her opinions. But you had never seen me. She had never seen me. You have set with me but a few moments, and are convinced that you have done me wrong. Is this wise? Is it not as great an infirmity, to retract an opi- nion hastily, as to adopt, or advance it, hastily? If you are generous, I have you in my power; for, where the generous have done wrong, their atonement is dispropor- tionate, enthusiastick, injudicious. I am unwilling to take advantage of this. But I wish you to judge for your- self. I do not ask you to go among my friends; (his countenance darkened it was even melancholy) for I have no friends; but I bid you go among my enemies. Listen to them, hear their stories, examine them; and, if they be not more cunningly devised, than slander and falsehood usually are, you will find enough there, with- out hearing the other side, to set your heart at rest. Their stories neutralize each other. Am I so artful, as they pretend? Then how can they, poor simpletons! so plainly foretel my designs?" Am I so cautious? So difficult to elude, or detect? > so wise too, as they pretend? Then how happens it, that so many of my secret and portentous conspiracies, the most subtly conceived; the most darkly perpetrated; are a subject of familiar gossipping to the whole city? What! am I able to blind the good and wise; to set the laws of my country at defiance? laugh to scorn the ministers of justice; baffle them all all! except the feeble, and timid, and shortsighted? Am I so weak, think you? so \ ery weak, and foolish, as to lay bare the mysterious and hid- den operations of my heart, before women and children? sir ... I leave you to judge of me, for your- self." "You have been cautioned against me. KAJTOOliPH. If I see it in your eyes. You think better of me than you intended to; nay,~for it has been a common expedient with that extraordinary woman, your cousin, the bitterest enemy that I have on earth, I believe, and perhaps the most to be dreaded . , . You have been told . . . yes, I see that you have . . . your emotion betrays you, . . . your conscience is in your face you have wronged me. Sir. 1 What then? Do I reproach you for it? No. I forgive you Nay, as I was 'about to say, you have been cautioned against me, as a being of con- summate address (I started, and looked him full in the face; but he betrayed no emotion. Was it chance? or how was it that he used your very words?) One whom, it would be fatal to your faculties ... to your liberty, to approach! Did you believe her? Did she believe it herself? No sir, she did not. Perhaps it was the rhetorick of the sex . . . pray, do not be offended with me I know your cousin Sarah, better than you do (What did he mean by that, Sarah? Has he ever seen you? It could not be an idle boast; such men do not boast; . . nay, it was rather a threat, delicately uttered to be sure; but, nevertheless, a threat, which I should have resented on the spot, but for what followed.) She is a generous, heroick girl; but she has wronged me, and shall one day confess it. (This was said, in a tone of such solemnity, that my blood thrilled ... it was really awful ... it sounded like prophecy.) "No Sir. She did not believe it. But she knew this, that a man must be magnanimous indeed, who would . T are to be the friend of another, whom he had heard call- ed a villain; -nay, of one, whom lie himself, it may be, had called a villain, after he had been told too, that such was the power and authority of that villain, that no man could withstand, or resist him! .... Is it not so? She affect- ed to believo that you were convinced when you were not when you only suspected it of my evil nature- and she predicted, nevertheless, that you would become my friend, the moment that I opened my mouth . . . O, it was indeed a masterly contrivance! . . . for, no mat- ter what proof I offered, there is not one man in a thous- and, nay, in ten thousand, who after such a prediction C 18 11ANBOLPH* would dare to believe me an injured fellow creature; and still less, is there one that would dare to avow it. I have done Farewell, Sir." This was, as nearly as I can relate it, dear Sarah, the substance of our conversation. But his manner, that it was, which oppressed me. I felt humble and heart smit- ten while he spoke, ... I forgot the little difference in our ages; and I listened to him, I declare to you, like one who hears patiently, some much older, and wiser, and better man, upbraiding and admonishing him, with the voice of compassionate authority . . . What did I, when he had done? .... Ask me Sarah, ask me, if tliou durst ... I gave him my hand; and I would have fallen upon his neck .... and I would have wept, but for the shame that I felt to weep before such a noble crea- ture. I awoke, as from a trance, when he had finished; and all the echo of his deep solemn voice had died away. I saw Ms great heart heave, as I took his hand; and there was a motion of his fingers, after they passed hurriedly through his beautiful hair, and over his hollow clear temples, just as if he dashed away a tear with them. There 1 have made my defence. Despise me, if thou canst. Scorn me, trample on me; but remember, there will be a day of retribution for thee. Sarah! I can see thee weep- ing . . . Gracious God surely I do see something . . . . 1 left off abruptly Sarah, for my candle was very low; and, per- haps, the painful agitation, in which I have been kept for a whole week, together with the unpleasant, strange soli- tude, about this old house, was the cause of a singular, deception hark! .... . . . i .: : - *% Again! . . it is very strange ... I could have sworn that some one was breathing near me; and, as I turned, there was a soft sound, that, to my ear, seemed like naked feet . . . passing secretly away from my elbow ... I wish that I was out of this uncomfortable old mansion, these fancies are very child- ish, to be sure; and yet, they agitate me, as if I were some foolish girl, shut up in one of the old haunted ruins of ... but this will never do ... On looking back, I find that I was about saying that I could almost RANDOLPH. 19 see thee keeping; yes, weeping Sarah, in contrition and bitterness, for what thou hast said of Molton. Good night! . . U is dark as Egypt already; and these last words are scribbled by chance; and all connected toge- ther, for I dare not lift my pen from the paper, lest I should put it down in the wrong place. Farewell, Good Night. JOHN. MARY TO EDWARD MOXTON. Washington) Dec. . My own dear Edward, I have just left the President's house. I have come away early disturbed by another resemblance- but no, I will not regard it. There are faces that haunt me, turn where I will; and sometimes, I should almost fancy myself surrounded by the painted, embroidered puppets of St. James . But stay, let me divert my thoughts I have come away, wearied to death, and heart sick o ' their wretched folly and parade. O, Edward, when 1 used to listen to thee, till I thought my heart would burst, and hear thee talk of this great people, so full of republi- can simplicity, so stern and spartan-like, "a common- .wealth of kings," till thy strange face shook all over, with the passion beneath it, like the reflection of some thing terrible in troubled water; my spirit arose, to in - tercede for them, among the kings, and princes, and no- bility of Europe. I scorned and mocked at the follies of the old world.' and my chest heaved to participate in the wise and axvfuf solemnities of this. Why did I trust to thee, Edward? Thou art altogether an American. Why did I follow thee, hither? Shall I tell thee what I expected to see? I^will men and women Lacedemonians, at least characterised by ; - SO RANDOLPH. N< V sublime plainness and strength full of republican gran- deur, august in republican sobriety and steadiness; be depended upon: they are confidential and not to he betrayed, but they are sufficient to justify me in saying, that economy is the least of their motives, for this abrupt abandonment of society. I have heard some whispering to-day, relative to her deportment at head quarters. The story has gained prodi- giously, and assails me now at every corner, in a multitude of romantick and wonderful shapes. You shall be kept informed of all. John is bewitched, I believe. He has for- given Molton the trick; for, indeed it deserves no- better name, in getting the house? and has actually been closet- ed with him for some hours, and refuses to communicate with me. RANDOLPH* 4 1 Upon my word! three whole pages! the longest let- ter that ever I wrote in my life. Yours, my dear cousin, FRANK* /}; ,;.:,?V i T^ '.' ! .-'tfi *!'' .*/' -I' SAME TO SAME. The plot thickens upon us. John has just left me, and I must write you by this post. We have had the strang- est conversation in the world. He is in love with Juliet! yes, truly, respectfully and tenderly. I am bound to believe him; he has come to me like a man, and told me so, I verily believe, the first moment that he knew it him- self. I suspected Jane, for a while; but then, f thought that he had too much chivalry, in his disposition, for her. Are we alike, cousin? People say that we are; but it ap- pears to me that we are not. And who shall judge? Stran- gers will see likenesses, a family likeness, between persons at first sight, who, to them that know both intimately, are totally unlike. May it not be so in the mind and character? 1 think that John has more real extravagance than I, and less that is artificial more appearance at?d less reality, on many subjects; and I would have added, but for thai last sentence, which, on looking at it again, has utterly discomfited me! that I had more modesty! Mr. Arrinaut has been here, to call Molton to ac- count. I wish you could hear John describe the meeting. It almost brought tears into my eyes. He was Motion's friend! yes -can any thing under God's heaven, amaze you, now, Sarah? After some conversation, in which Mr. Arrinaut lost all command of himself, while Molton maintained the most invincible composure, the former struck the latter. John immediately interfered but what did Molton? He smiled. "Leave the room, my friend,'* said he, to my brother; "leave me alone, with this mad- man: 1 shall find a way to tame him." My brother went out but stood at the door. A singular altercation E 4 KANDOLPH. took place: on one side a great deal of loud violence; on the other, the deep inward tranquillity of a hero can he be a coward. Sarah? hut hear me through. All this appeared but to incense Mr. Arrinautthe more. He had giv- en a blow it had been endured not a muscle stirred in defence; his lip only writhed and quivered, and his haughty blue eyes lighted up with a preternatural brightness as if he had said boy, you are no match for me, even in physical strength. Nay, Mr. Arrinaut had called him a coward, and a scoundrel. My brother heard it his blood boiled, and he looked to see the glitter of some weapon. But nothere was only the glitter of the eye; yet that was deadly. Molton smiled and it was then, that my brother shut the door. The most provoking, insolent language was continued on the part of Mr. A. and endured by Molton, until my brother lost pall atience; at this moment, just as he was on the point, (you know his impetuosity; and a legion of devils, at such a moment, would not frighten him) of bursting open the door, cursing Molton to his head for a poltron, and perhaps throwing Mr. A. out of the window he heard the names of Maria Howard, and Helen somebody (the last name he did not hear,) pronounced; and, the next moment, a loud shriek, and the sound of one dashed against the door where he stood. ... He retreat- ed, stunned, as it opened in his face, and saw a man stag- ger against the wall his cravat stained and torn, and the blood gushing out of his mouth. Molton followed; his hands all red quivering like a young lion over his prey; and was only prevented, from completing his work of death, by the interference of my brother. But how could he do this? you will ask. So I asked John, but he could not answer me. Brother, said he I would sooner encounter anybody anything than Ed- ward Molton, at such a moment. There was nothing human in his countenance. I had thought him feeble and sickly; but his arms were now bare how, I know not he w r as in his dressing gown when I left him; and his muscles looked as if they would burst through the skin. You know the size of Mr. A. yet he was dashed to the KANDOLPH. 43 tarth, by Molton, like an infant senseless blinded and red with his own blood, as if a thunderbolt had struck him. It was half an hour, before he recovered and, when he did, the first object that his dim eyes en- countered, was the face of Molton, who stood over him, with his brow gathered, and arms folded, so full of mor- tal determination, that my brother expected him to fast- en upon his victim's throat, at the first respiration. Verily, thought my brother, that man hath a devil. The poor fellow shut his eyes again, with a faint groan shivered, and turned away his face. At this moment, Miss Howard entered the room; but, so worn and wasted, that her own brother did not seem to know her She threw herself upon his bosom, and sobbed aloud. The sound of her voice appeared to affect him. His eyes lost their intentness of expression his brow grew smoother; he heaved a deep deep sigh; his eye-lids quivered his lips trembled, and he kissed her, murmuring in her ear, some low sounds of endearment, in a broken voice. "What did he, my brother': -what has he done to thee?" said she. "Helen ha! Mary; forgive me, dear," said Molton, as if recollecting i^-ne If instantly "what done to me? he profaned thy brother with a blow; I bore it he cursed him I bore that he called him coward I bore that but then, poor young man he nam- ed thee, love, irreverently, andand there he lies." His voice trembled, as he said this: and John said that his countenance softened to a melancholy, beautiful gentleness, kinder than humanity far kinder and he added, "Mary, his punishment is with thee now. What shall be done to him?" "Forgive him," she answered, putting her hand through his rich hair, and pulling his forehead to her lips "for- give him, and let him go in peace." "Forgive him! never! but he may go in peace." "O, but thou wilt forgive him, dear" said she; "who could have resisted her?" said John. "No!" was the reply "No! not if it were my own fa- ther; he has dishonoured thee, Hel Mary." She lifted herself up raised her head from his bosom; 44 RANDOLPH* looked him full in the face. "Brother there is a prom- iseis it forgotten? I hoped never to claim it. I de- mand it now." "Beware" said he, solemnly. "No, Brother. Now is thy time of trial. Hast thou a great heart? Prove it. Go to the sick man give him thy hand say that thou forgi vest him." "I thought his spirit would rend his chest," said John. He stopped. "Sister, you know not what you demand of me," he said drew one long breath, that you might have heard in the next room and obeyed; obeyed too, so magnificently! O, it w r as godlike! he gave Mr. A. his hand Nay, his eyes were wet; for his heart once touched, would have way. "I endured much from you, Sir," he said, in a low .voice; "and I could have endured anything anything but that. Sleep quietly; you shall be taken care of, as my own brother; and, when you are well enough, I will convince you, that you deserved nothing less than death death, here and hereafter, for your blasphemy but you are too ill to converse." Thus ended the affair. It occurred yesterday morn- ing; and to-day Mr. A. set off for his farm in Virginia; and John says, that, when they parted, he and Molton, they embraced; and Mr. A. said "Sir, you have forgiv- en me, hut I shall never forgive myself. Ididdeseme death: and any man that ever says to me, of that woman, what I said to you, shall receive 'death at my own hands, or I will receive it at his." There, cousin, I have related the whole, as nearly as I could, in John's own words; and, allowing all that I think right, for his extravagance, I cannot but add, that there has been something sublime in the carriage of Mol- ton, on this occasion. What think you? . . . . Was it not, as John calls it, regal? .... He cut me to the heart in describing it. He cannot be a coward! no! we are wrong. THANK, BANUOLPH. 45 *fe. ANSWER. No, I am not at all staggered, Frank. My opinion is unchanged. The only difference that I know is, that, at present, I believe Molton a more dangerous man than ev- er, because less feeble and effeminate. I have received both of your letters at once; and have read them with an ea- gerness that has left nay heart palpitating so, that I can scarcely see what I am about. But let me answer them in the best way that I can. You have a noble heart, Frank; but, like your bro- ther, you are disingenuous; not, to be sure, in the same way, but after a fashion of your own, that is almost as bad. However, as you have complimented my sagacity so handsomely, by this last reformation of yours, and be- come so suddenly, what I said you were, at heart, a man, I have some encouragement to proceed. And I shall proceed, cousin, unamiable as it is in a woman, to talk so authoritatively; and unwilling, as all men are, to see their dictatorship usurped their prerogative encroach- ed upon. Once for all, I would have you understand, that I respect you, now and that I would ratherconia.it a fault, by admonishing you too seriously, than that you should err for the want of that admonition. You speak of religion. I am glad of it; but I do not like the manner in which you speak of it. There is somewhat of your habitual levity in that part of your letter. Religion, my dear cousin, is not a thing to be lightly talked about; nor is that proud submission, which -disdains to repine, under any calamitous dispensation ot Providence; any bereavement; or any humiliation, at all worthy of the name that you have given it. It may be stoicism it may be pagan greatness; but it is not resig- nation. Resignation is meek and lowly; submissive and silent. No, Frank if you have any respect for me, I pray you to think more seriously, when you men- tion aught of religious experience to me. I do not inter- dict the subject; by no means 1 would" rather invite your attention to it; for I know of no man, who would be a nobler ornament to any society of sincere believers than you would be, were you vitally'affected. You know that I 46 RANDOLPH. care little for forms or ceremonies; but I look to hear men, and gentlemen, certainly, whether they he professing Christians or not, speak of religion with less flippancy, than you sometimes do. And now, while I think of it, I beg the favour of you, to get a letter of your brother, which I wrote to him some weeks since, in which, in the distraction of my thought, (and wickedness of my heart I may as well own it at once) I am sure that I recommended the spilling of blood. Heaven forgive me! I have bitterly repented since, and I pray you so to inform your brother; telling him, at the same time, of my shame and contrition and counselling him to forbear, if he cannot quite forgive the wretch. Nay I have too much of natural infirmity about me yet, dear cousin, to trust myself with his name. In spite of my sorrow for what is past, the thought of him sets every vein in my |>ody tingling. Yet what an escape I have had! Can I ever be sufficiently gratetful for it a duel might have followed from my rashness. Yes, you are like your brother; worse in some points better in others. And now, while it occurs to me, there is one point, in which I would recommend a little discipline. You are too passionately fond of poetry; lie of musick. By the way, that puts me in mind of our quarrel last summer. Have you forgotten what I told you of Byron's plagiarism. Do you remember what I showed you in Wordsworth, and Mrs. RadclifT, that he had stolen? and when you quoted something of his, in prose, respecting "the mirror," which is shivered by some- thing or other in every piece of which, Memory, while looking down upon it, beholds the beloved image multiplied. I told you then, you know, that 1 had seen it somewhere, I was sure, notwithstanding his lordship's self complacency, where it is introduced or the childish praise that I have seen lavished upon it. Well, some days since I met with it again; and copied it for you. It is in the twenty -third letter of the NEW HELOI^E and reads "Qu'on brise ce fidele miroir de Julie, sa pure image tie cessera de briller jusques la dernier frag ment," &c. Are you surprised at my avowing, that I have read this work of the "Divine Rousseau/' as he has been call- RANDOLPH. 47 ed? -"The apostle of affliction?" I hope that you are not. I read it deliberately, knowing its character. And the result is not, what he so pleasantly predict- ed in his preface. I do not believe that I am yet, "unt Jille perdue!" Pardon my French. You know that I am not very ostentatious of such things. But, on this occa- sion I use it, as merely introductory to my opinion, which is deliberately and temperately formed, that Jean Jacques Rousseau, is a fool. That is coarse language, Frank; but I do not shrink from discussion. The man's vanity has turned his head. There is one letter alone> in which his little knowledge of human nature, is made so shockingly evident, that we should never forgive it, in an ordinary writer. After Julia has resisted what, even to me, appears to have been much trial, and, perhaps, temp- tation when all is passed she deliberately invites her lover to her room. O, it is base and contemptible. No woman could have done it. A wanton would not. Nay, Julia herself, Rousseau's Julia, never would have done it. It was impossible. She resists when tempted; but un- tempted yields. Thus much for Rousseau. He is not merely a distempered madman. He is a fool. His an- gels are gross and sensual; he But let us leave him and go, as fast as possible, to what more deeply af- fects ourselves. This will be a long letter, cousin; I fore- see that; but, be patient what you get extra now, will leave you the less to receive hereafter. You are under a melancholy misapprehension respecting the woman of your love. You left her no choice, but that of forgiving you, when you appeared careless of her opinion; and did not seek to soothe or conciliate her and, consequently, of forgiving you at the expense of your esteem and respect:~or, of bidding you farewell. I am not at liberty to say more upon the subject. But of one thing I can venture to assure you. She loved you. And such wo- men do not easily forget their love. Whether she ever felt aught of that passion before, you, perhaps, know better than i do; but 1 believe that she never did. If so, she will never forget you. 1 have heard a good deal of your con- duct of late; you are wrong I know your pride it is un- worthy of you; and, surely, you were never fitted to make 48 RASTDOXPH. so gentle and patient a creature as she is, happy, if you can so soon wear the semblance and bearing of a stern man. I know it all, Frank you have met and passed her, even her, whom you so love yet, with a most unkind in- difference. I know your reasons; some little civilities have been omitted by others; but are they a reason why you should wound her, so unfeelingly, even if she be with them. Frank, you have a noble heart; everybody respects and admires you, for your bearing under this humiliation; and your magnanimity in confessing the fact, that she has abandoned and rejected you, looks well in the eyes of the world. But search your own heart what was your true motive? Was there no selfishness, no affectation of doing what was difficult no disdain of the world's opinion in it? Yes, Frank, I do believe you. I have no doubt that her happiness has been your chief aim; that you pray for it, now, devoutly. Let it continue to be so. Be a brother to her; watch over, pray for, guard her, while you have life in you. That you can do, and the time may come, when she will want such a brother. Nay, it will come. In the mean time, when you meet her, if you ever do, be gentle and kind in your deportment; let her not suppose that your tenderness and respect have turned to hostili- ty, indifference, or contempt. No I know you well, Frank; and I know that, when that face of yours looks sternest, there is a yielding and tender spirit at the heart, who would weep, were it gently bidden to, by the one it loved. Your duties are not, cannot be discharged, toward that woman, while it is possible for you to be of any use to her, in any way. Woman is naturally helpless and depend- ant; but she is especially so. Remember how she has loved you your meetings the bridge the stump the hill top the rock all of which I remember, from hearing only faint allusions to them. Judge you, then, how her heart must thrill yet, when they are thought of. The secluded life of Molton, of which you speak, is strictly in character. The catastrophe is approaching; he knows it. We shall find him prepared. He will re- ceive us at last, like the coiled serpent. Wo to the loot that would first crush him. Be it my fate; 1 shall RANDOLPH. 49 not shrink from it. The proof accumulates the scene darkens and we shall burst upon him, when he least expects it, with Nay, I must not babble at this rate. 1 am now satisfied of one thing and that is, of the iden- tity of Mary Ho word with Helen; of course, then, she is notliis half sister. But what is she? His mistress? For the honour of human nature, 1 hope not. O if I might tell you all but i cannot. Her family her history her name, and sorrows they would bring tears into your eyes, but to hear the simplest relation of them. Can it be, that he was her betrayer? O righteous Heaven! when shall his course be arrested? When no, no in thine own good time oh, our Father, wilt thou withhold thy pesti- lence, and turn back the destroyer! The whole of the interview, which you have so vividly described, is of a nature rather to astonisli than to con- vince. It is possible that Molton may not be a dastard; but still it is equally possible that he is. The most pusillani- mous animal will guard its young; and may not the coward, his mate? At any rate,it is, if not a sublime moderation -sublime acting; and that, you know, I should look for, from him. Nay, such things are unnatural. They may he in nature, to be sure, but that does not make them natural. Farewell r-*, 6ARAH RAMSAY. FRANK TO SARAH RAMSAY. My excellent Cousin, How thankful I am, for your sincerity and plainness, I will riot attempt to say, just now; but, the best proof that I can possibly give you, of my sincerity, will be by my conduct. But let me answer your letter in detail; and the first thing that strikes me. is, (a rare fault in you,) a remark that is quite unintelligible. What do you mean by this "Such things are unnatural. They may be in nature, to be sure, but that does not make them natural." 50 RANDOLPH. Jj I hope that you are not getting fond of paradox; but real- ly, that looks not a little like it. Pray, is not that natural, of course, which nature produces? Don't forget to an- swer me. 1 hope, my good cousin, that, hereafter, I. shall ap- proach holy things more reverently; I would say, less "flippantly," did it not look like resentment, to retort, even in a quotation, a word so emphatically used; and, I beg of you, hereafter, to continue the same friendly manner with me, when I approach them lightly; and rebuke me, as you have now. I shall he grateful for it; and, in time, may be nearer what you desire; at present, I do not at- tempt much; for another of your maxims is ringing in my ears; a maxim,' the truth of which is confirmed by every day's experience; that is that they, who attempt most, particularly in the way of reformation, often effect least. They think the work too easy.. .aim at too much.. .are easily discouraged, and become worse than i$yer. 1 have found it so. I saw John about the letter, which you so jjtnent hav- ing written. He won't part with it; but, ratMirig some- what of my levity, (for, to all the world but you, Sarah, I am still the same frivolous, noisy blockhead, without heai*t or bitterness,) he has endorsed your recantation upon the back. Nay, more he has repeated the lesson to Molton; who with his own Imnd, wrote as much upon the back of your insulting note to him...adding a cold compliment, at the same time, to your consistency. Cou- sin, were you right in sending that note? was it prudent? was it like a Christian? You see that 1 have caught your own manner. And are you not a little too inveterate against him, wicked and vile as he undoubtedly is? Nay, is not your asperity, your prejudice so great, that they blind you to some fine virtue in his character? You know that you are violent, and decided in your tem- per: and perhaps perhaps, cousin, you have been pre- cipitate in your opinions respecting him some others, 1 mean, than those which relate to his personal courage. I only mention the thing. You will meditate for your- self; and determine, I am sure, when you do determine, generously. RANDOLPH. $1 We will not dispute any more about poetry. ,1 have been extravagant, I admit; but you perceive that I do not suffer any of that drunken exhilaration of the s heart, which unfits a man for sober and substantial enjoyment. Poetry is to me, no longer, a madness; it is only a rid and beautiful halo, with which, when I please, I can in- vest what I will; and straightway, for my own entertain- ment, hear musick, and smell incense, and see moonlighted drapery, and feel the touch of,,soft lips, awhile, all about me; having all my senses illuminated, hallowed, and purified, with vision, and lustre, and odour without sensuality too. That is a bold decision. But I cannot help agreeing with you. The gentle and sweet Julia, with all hei frailty, wouljl never have been so desperate . . . but I an, amazed to hear you speak upon such a subject. How dare you?...but no, there is no daring in it. The impu- rity must be in the mind. There can be no affinity, to be feared, between the pure in heart, and the pestilent va- pour thaWssues from the alernbick of Rousseau. It would,' it mbst pass over the untainted and unsullied, like foul breath over christal. Still, my dear Sarah, I do not believe that it would be wise, in the present fashion of the world, for you to ac- knowledge that you had read LA NOTTVEIXE HELOISE. Not that 1 would have you deny it; but it would be more pru- dent, I think, not to own it unnecessarily. By some, you are already thought a prude. They would rejoice to know that you had read and criticised that work, of all others. And men, my dear, whe might not have wisdom enough to understand you; or magnanimity, or charity enough to allow your true motive, might easily insinuate some un- kirid thing; and unkind insinuations, however gently breathed at first, against a woman, soon become mali- cious and deadly. Few of us are so insignificant, as not to be capable of making any woman uneasy, for a timej and most of us rejoice in an opportunity. Sarah! I have read again, and again, what you have said of of no! I cannot write her name. It is too painful. I sometimes find myself, unconsciously, weaving the ini- tials only together; and 1 awake, as from a -trance, when 92 the spell is completed, with a most distressing tightness at the heart, and my veins, about the forehead, throbbing with a painful heat and hurry so! never mind the name. I am wrong. 1 confess my fault. I will be kind to her, though they have been most unkind to me; for the memory of the past is here yet the urn is shattered true; but the "scent of the roses will hang round it still.'* Where, in the name of heaven, did you learn to touch, as you have, upon every successive spot, that had life in it, about this heart of mine? O, Sarah! "that bridge the rock the wood the hill!" you know not what you have said! You have profaned; yes, you you.' -the holi- est and greenest spot of all the wilderness, that she and I have ever met together in. There, went we together; sat together; leaning against the same tree, together; tasting, together, of the same spring; united in heart and spirit; or, as your favourite says (It is wicked to quote poetry at such a moment I confess; but, did you never laugh out, to keep yourself from crying?) "Congiunti eran gl' alberghi; "Ma piu congiunti i cori: "Conforme era 1' etate; "Ma'l pensier piu conforme." But I must quit the theme; it is too oppressive for me another word, and my heart would run over. When you can, I pray you, let me know all that is proper and fair for you to communicate, respecting Helen. I begin to feel a strange interest about her. Am I right? Is there not a peculiar appetite for excitement, in the deserted heart? It appears to me, that I covet some- thing, I know not what; but something, that I cannot do without, to occupy me inwardly, with that sweet deliri- um which bless me, I am getting back to the old story again. Yet, one word I must put in, even upon the prohibited theme it is this: I may burn incense to others but it must be at other shrines, in other tem- ples. She who trod mine, in 'her nakedness and beauty, hath departed and no other shall ever stand where she stood. I owe that to her that. 1 and it shall be paid. fcANDOl-FH. 53 Jtfais, apres tout ma cousine II valait mieujc, que dit le "fou" Rousseau II valait mieux nejamais gouter lafclicitc, que la gor&ter, et la perdre! Mieu ANSWER. Est-ce possible! French and Italian in the same letter! at such a moment too, and from, such a man! Frank, I know not who is most to blame for it, you or I. I began, I helieve; and you, I hope, have ended it; for, I confess, that you have made me heartily ashamed of it. How natur- ally we fall into such ridiculous pedantry. Now, that French sentence of yours, for example- why was it intro- duced? It certainly is not what you think, unless, in- deed, you have amazingly changed since last June; for, on the third of that month, you say, "I am happier, even now, with the conviction of having been beloved by that woman, than I should be, in the possession of any other." That sentiment came from your heart. But this, it came only from your pen. The lines from Tasso, are not worth repeating. I see no particular merit in them. They are often quoted; and I am quite sure by Rousseau himself; and, if I recollect right, he accompanies them with a most liberal" transla- tion, indeed. No, no, cousin; let its be superior to this kind of childish pedantry. If we cannot talk in English, let us, at least, quote aptly; and on befitting occasions. I have seen writers, and you can recall some at this mo- ment, over whose pages we have laughed spitefully enough, too, at times who, evidently, kept a common pi ace book? for scraps of stuff, in French, and Italian, and Spanish; and, when they wanted a quotation, turned to that, culled one, no matter what, so it was in a foreign language, and then fitted the incident or sentiment to the quotation. Nothing is easier. The difficult', lies, when one is talking or writing, naturally, to remember an apt illustration, to fit the subject not in fitting the sub- ject to the illustration. An ill-timed story is not worse F ; -W 54 BANBOLPH. than an ill-timed quotation, lugged in, by the head and shoulders, as it often is. Another thing: you are quite too fine, here and there, in your last. There is too much tinsel; too little heart, at times. Be more careful, for the future or, rather, he less careful. Don't write for effect; don't study to captivate; and you will he much more likely to succeed. I hate antithesis point epigram and dirty ostrich feathers and they are the only four things, I helieve, that I do hate. Oh of the "unnatural things, produced hy Nature. Set your heart at rest, cousin, I am right and will con- vince you, in the morning; at present, I cannot. It is or it wants only five minutes of twelve o'clock of a Sat- urdav night, too, and I cannot, will not encroach upon the Sabbath; (as we Christians call theirs/ day.) Good night Good morrow! My proposition was, or, at least, may he resolved inta this: that in nature, some things are found, that are not natural. Is this denied? Are monsters natural? are the lame, and halt, and blind, natural? No! they are ex- ceptions to what is natural. Deformity and redundan- cy, are only so, by comparison with the general operation of nature. There is a general nature, and a particular nature. To be natural, we must resemble the former; not the latter; as a painter, or sculptor, studies the spe- cies, not the individual. Have I said enough? Yes, Frank, it is possible that I have not sought to cherish a truly Christian spirit, toward Edward Mol- ton; it is possible that I have judged him too harshly; hut, nevertheless, I have every reason to believe, that he is a hypocrite, a dastard, and a villain. When I see good cause to change my opinion, depend upon it, that I shall rejoice to avow the change, as publickly as I have the opinion. 'Till then. I hope not to mention his name again. I have some things to repent of. bitterly and seriously, in which he was concerned; and, while I think no better of him, I think much worse of myself. And, as RANDOLPH, 55 an especial favour, I beg of you not to mention any thing again, that, by any accident, you may chance to hear him say of me. I despise, I detest him. so heartily, that I cannot express to you, how humbled I feel, when 1 learn that he speaks of me. 1 am going into the country, for a week, where I hope to get permission .... But no, I will not excite your cu- riosity. Tell John to write me; and, if you please, you can direct your letters, for the next week, to Post Office, care of . Farewell- ANSWER FRANK TO SARAH, Dear Sarah Allow me, while my very forehead reddens with shame, to confess the truth. That French sentence, I took from my common place book .... just in the way that you said; nay, that you may not think altogether better 6T Hie, than I deserve, that very quotation from Tasso, was taken from Rousseau, as you conjectured! 1 happen- ed to get it for the purpose of comparing Byron with the original; when these lines struck me, and I transcrib- ed them; determined to introduce them, the very first decent opportunity, either in conversation, or writ- ing. I am very busy, this morning, and should not have written you, even these few lines, were I not anx- ious to shew my contrition, as speedily as possible, for my folly. I am still occupied with my observations. John is strangely myterious of late. Something, I should imagine, had been cleared up, in that adventure of Juli- et's; for he speaks openly, now, of his intention to win her, if he can. And I say, let him, if he can. I do not believe that she,will be easily brought to love another. But what do I say? is she not exposed to incessant im- portunity; a secret and ever active influence?. ...and may she not yield at last? Cousin, I cannot reason upon the subject But these, the following, are conclusions that I 56 RANDOLPH. came to, when I was able to reason. If she marry anoth* er, she must either love him, or not love him. If she do not love him, she is base, or weak; and I shall nev- er make myself unhappy about her. And, if she do love him, he will be either worthy of her, or not worthy of her. If worthy of her, then she will be happy, and that will make me happy. Arid if he be not then she will prove herself to be not the woman that I took her for. Behold my conclusion! Oh, I must not forget to tell you, that John has just returned from Washington. He saw Mr. Arrinaut; and Molton has not a more devoted friend on earth. He said to my brother, as they parted, with tears in his eyes, "you have wronged Molton we have all wronged him. He is an innocent man, so far as I am concerned; further than that, I have nothing to say. He has con- vinced me and I take upon myself to say, that Miss Howard .... or Miss , her real name, I am not permitted to tell, is a woman, fitted for the society of queens. My sister has been with herj and, I doubt not, is the wiser and better for it. My mother knows the whole she has wept over the letters that Mr. Molton sent to her, for her own satisfaction-- absolutely putting his life into her hands and she now speaks of Howard, as of a daughter," Ever yours f cousin FRANK. 3.YRAII TO FRANK. We have, at last, determined to go through New Eng- land; and I am to be left, next summer, they tell me, somewhere in the District of Maine; what will become of me heaven only knows. But I shall be among a host of relations, who, I am told, are the worthiest people in the world. Let this account for my levity, cousin, and apologise for the little that I have to say. Enclosed is the letter which led to the discovery of Helen, She was BAtfDOLPH. 57" thought to be in America, but where, it was impossible to conjecture, as all traces of a lady, whom they suppos- ed to be her, were lost in Richmond, Virginia. It was then that my father was written to; and his exten- sive correspondence was immediately brought in aid of the wretched parents. But all to no purpose, as a last ex- pedient, the advertisement, which you saw, was written. That led to the very point, by a most lucky circumstance. You know, that all dead letters, as they are called, after some previous ceremonies, are sent to the general Post Office, and opened. One of the clerks, struck by the sin- gular beauty of the writing in one, that he opened, read it; and, when he came to the bottom, found the initials H. W. O. He happened to recollect the advertisement, for he had pasted it up in the office; and, on comparing the whole, he felt himself justified in directing the letter, not to H. W. O. at the place where it was written, (the usu- al practice, when they apprehend it to be of importance,) but to m} father. He received it, and, sending immediate- ly for the young man, (a most interesting fellow, too, as pur fashionables say,) was confirmed, beyond all doubt, in the belief that Helen was the writer. The next thing was to ascertain where she was. The letter, as you perceive, was written in this city, but we were not sat- isfied with our inquiries here; and whether we should have ever fallen upon the right track, is very problema- tical, had I not seen the direction, one day, by chance, as my father was reading it again, and commending the style. Judge of my astonishment. I had h ard of Mol- ton's half sister; and I knew of a circumstance that seemed rather mysterious, if she were truly his half sister. So I wrote to Washington. The result you know. You may keep her letter till we meet. I am unwilling to trust it by mail, and I hope to see you soon. Mr. Ma- rion (the youngster of whom f spoke,) appears great- ly concerned in the affair; and a venerable old man has called, repeatedly, on my father, since < left the city, I am told, who is determined upon taking some serious mea- sures. There is one thing certain: they say, that, if Mol- ton be her betrayer, he is, actually . at this moment, hold- ing his life at the mercy of the law. I should begin to 58 RANDOLPH. pitv him, sick and wasted as he is, were lie anybody but Edward Molton. if I heard that he was arraigned for his life. It is even said (but this in confidence, Frank, you understand me, and will have an interest in keeping it to yourself) it is said that there was something inexpli- cable in the death of William. -Do you start! And that I tremble, Frank-^and that an inquiry will yet be in- stituted. If so, let Molton beware! There is an incon- ceivable mysterious ness about all that concerns that man. Something has happened of late, to make me question my own knowledge of his affair with Juliet. His cha- acter darkens, and she she is mad, I verily believe; for,! have good reason to think, that she let it not hurt you, my dear Frank, to hear it that she laves him yet. Yes, I am aware of tne contradiction; but hitherto I have been mistaken. SARAH. ( 'The following was enclosed. ) New - York, Well, Edward, to continue, where I left off; and this I hope will be the last of my journalizing. I like no place yet, so much as Richmond, after all. The people here, are pleasant; there is enough of parade, and uproar, to remind me of London; much opulence, but it is all mer- cantile opulence; and the manners, of the people are those of the newly made gentry. Here is none of that lofty, imposing, natural gentility, which I have seen at Richmond. The people of Virginia, to say the truth, are much more like our nobility, than any of their coun- trvmen. Perhaps, we may attribute something of this to their slave population. They carry that air of do- minion, like the still more southern planters, (which be- fits them, in a republican land, only when surrounded by their slaves,) into all the concerns of life. This I like, where I have seen it; for there it was proper enough. How I should like the same lordly air, in New England, a nation of men, I do not pretend to say. But one thing you must have observed. It struck me at once. From Boston to Charleston, there is so much mannerism, that 1 think I could tell a Philadelphian, a Baltimorean, a RANDOLPH, 59 New-Yorker, a Bostonian, a Virginian, or a Charleston man by the very cut of his coat or his walk, and, certainly, by his pronunciation. A stranger would hardly believe this, vet the natives aver it; and the little experience that I have had, leaves me no reason to doubt it Moreover, there is such an i n vincible nationality, if I ma> so express myself, in the people of each city, that tjieir very opinions are peculiar and characteristic!;; nay, their dwellings, their spirit of enterprize, commer- cial speculation, and literature are so. An amusing jeal- ousy exists among them, too. They have a court lan- guage, of their own, in every state; and all that live out of the capital, are provincials, of course. Nay, the peo- ple seem to partake of the age and rank of their respec- tive places of residence. A Philadelphian carries his nose above all the world, except the New-Yorker. One boasts of his literature; another of his great canal. A Bostonian talks about letting money at 5 per cent, in- terest; India dock; the "dome" the Exchange: Bunker's Hill; Faneuil Hall, &c. and fancies that all rivalry is presumptuous. The New-Yorker carries you over the CITY HALI,; talks of De Witt Clinton, and a superannuated old gentleman, to whom the Emperor of all the Russiashas lately sent a ring; - lounges up broad- wav, and swears that "that are is the capital of all North America." But go to Philadelphia, and you are "done up" at once, with criticism, and taste, and science; they make the handsomest gigs in the world the best boots and are the most regular bred people in the union; have, what they call, the Water Wwks (where a wooden image holds a wooden swan through whose beak, a little squirt of water runs up, now and then, to the height of ten or a dozen feet,) and a Masonick Hall, where there is a wooden Washington; a picture gallery, among which is a picture by Mr. West, the vi- lest thing that he has ever done, in my opinion, where, after you have paid for admission, you are made to pay 12 cents more, for a criticism, evidently written by somebody that never saw the picture. Next, you go to Baltimore, and there you find, among a people of adven- turers, slave dealers, privateers men, broken merchants, pirates, mail robbers* and rioters, the same ridiculous pre- 68 RANDOLPH. tension, in another shape. In Baltimore, they do not value themselves for their literature, or age, or wealth; hut for having shot General Ross, at North Point; -for having built two monuments and several of the best privateers that ever infested the seas; and for having grown up faster than any people, ever did; not even excepting those of St. Petersburg, when they exhausted the resources of the whole Russian Empire. Thus a Baltimorean comes from the "fast city in the union;" he proves it by referring to the year 1752, when there were only three or four miserable hovels, where the city now stands, and all their commerce was carried on by one or two fishing smacks. A Philadelphian proves, that he is from the "first city in the union," by referring to the last census, where, it appears, that there were more cattle, within the liberties, than within those of any other city of the United States. A New-Yorker, to prove the right of his city to the first rank, refers to the next census. And a Bostonian, appeals to history, and shows that Boston is first, be- cause oldest. And when you get to Charleston, you find the people there, affecting the same airs, on just about as rational grounds; one of which, if I am not mistaken, is the de- fence of Sullivan's Island, forty >r fifty years ago. But in Richmond, I have found nothing of this. The distinction that they seek, is one, that is perfectly evident, they have found, from that air of self compla- cency and negligent superciliousness, which charac- terise them. They affect to disdain all competition with the plebeians of the north; commerce is beneath them; literature O, it is all froth and flummery except what is imported: though, perhaps, an occasional look into a Philadelphia publication, is taken, by way of seeing what the pleasant barbarians of the north are about. Shall I go on? I will, for one more page, and then, farewell forever, to this ungenerous return, for so murh politeness and attention, as I, a stranger, have recei ved from the people of all these cities. Yet would you he- lie ve it. / am only repeating, what they say of each other! nnd what is believed too, by each, of all but themselves! RANDOLPH. 61 I spoke of their character. I will give you an exam- ple or two. In Philadelphia there is all the cold, plod- ding, cautious deportment, of suspicious age, toward a stranger, even when well recommended. You deliver your letters and are asked to call again are told that the gentleman will he very glad to see you at his count- ing room. He will be happy to see you, any where, but at his dinner table, or fireside. He is afraid of his daugh- ters or his spoons. Yet, after a time, strangers are de- lighted with the Philadelphians. They are sincere, cor- dial, and direct; well informed, polite, and sufficiently indulgent. But I never knew a stranger, of a few days, not superlatively introduced there, who did not curse them all, for a sordid, unfeeling, mercenary people. In New-York, there is a royal opulence, in their style of living; great warmth, approaching to imprudence, and very little discrimination, in their treatment of stran- gers. In Boston, it is much the same, provided one comes from England. There, he is feasted and feasted, and puffed, till he may literally eat his way, at the publick expense, from Dan to Beersheba. But in Baltimore, they have all, or rather had, for they are beginning now to be cautious, having been cruelly bit by a few of our stray nobility (by the way, remind me of this, when we meet, and I will relate some amusing anecdotes, in illustration of our impudence, and their credulity) a most improvi- dent warm-heartedness toward every thing in the shape of a stranger. Like people in their youth, full of youthful properties, unsuspicious, careless and noisy, the whole city is ringing, from one end to the other, if a stranger, of any notoriety an elephant, or a nobleman an Ameri- can general, or a pair of mustachios a brute, or a mountebank, appears it is all the same to them the dwellings are emptied, like the baby houses of children, and the streets are impassable till the raree-show has departed. You speak of their publick buildings. Some of them are beautiful, it must be confessed; but to hear the Ameri- cans talk about them, you would be led to believe that the seven wonders of the world, at least, were within 62 -RANDOLPH. the circumference of every city of the union. What is truly their own, is overlooked; the thunder of their ca- taracts; their rivers and mountains unrivalled and un- approachable are all forgotten, so laughably too, at times, that a friend of mine solemnly assures me, that, he lately had occasion to speak of the trembling, and con- tinual noise, that appears to issue from the earth, and fill the whole sky, within two or three miles of Niagara, to a man who had grown old in its thunder and spray, who, -he soon found, had never given himself any trouble about the cause of either; for he expressed some indignation, like one that resents an attempt to impose upon his credu- lity when my friend informed him, that the rest of the -world was silent and still, that other lands neither shook nor sounded and that other skies were as silent as these would be. if he should stop his ears. I have only a moment more in whicb, if you are not already wearied to death, you may follow me, dear Ed- ward, while I speak of the public k buildings. I will begin with Boston, because I begun there. There are some pretty churches; (including one that they mean to build, which is, already, the most beautiful building on paper, in the world) and some about as grotesque and fantastick, clumsy things, as you can well imagine. *The Exchange is a noble building hemmed in, arid blocked up, by an encampment of printing offices, tailors' shops, and shoemakers. Then, there is a State House, a great clumsy, awkwardly contrived affair, perched on the top of a beautiful round hill, like a fat man on a feather bed; much too big for the hill; with the head and shoulders far too big for the body. The Mall is beautiful and the stupendous undertaking which they are soon to begin, for connecting, with a solid block of masonry, a part of Northampton, 1 believe, with west Boston, is, it is in vain to deny it a a . They have a Court House, too, with a front of Chelmsford gra- nite; and its wings askew, which 1 particularly admired, from the position, where I stood. The State Prison, at Charleston, is however, of a better character. There Lately destroyed by fire. RANDOLPH. 63 is no pretension to beauty; but it is a strong, dark, useful pile of building. Several dwelling houses are noble one or two, (building near the State House) princely; and, taken together, I suspect that they are better built, and more comfortably arranged, than any others in this country. There are, also, four or five bridges, by which you enter the town; not one of which is even tolerable, as a matter of architecture. I must not forget the Mall, neither, as they call it, in a spirit of paltry imitation, together with their Park pJocSr and Suffolk place, and 4> Bowdoin square, and this court, and that court all of which, I am already American enough, after breath- ing the air, for a few weeks, to despise very cordially. But the Mall, as a walk, not as a Mall, is unrivalled. At a distance, the town looks like an amphitheatre, with a great brick pile, whose disproportion is not to be dis- covered, then crowning it, like a square of palaces. But the streets O, it is in vain to think of describing them. No stranger should venture abroad, without a chart and pocket compass. A gentleman, whom I knew, assured me, with a face that I shall never forget, (a by- stander would have thought that he was talking treason;) that, after twenty attorn pts, in as many different directions, to escape from an enclosure with a high brick wall, he was brought up, twenty times in succession, by the very place that he started from. It was a grave-yard. Every lane and alley, street and passage, seemed to terminate there, and only there. Start which way he would, east, west, north or south, the end of his walk was always the same high brick wall, with "the place of graves," within it. Thus much for Boston. But, when you get to New- York (By the way, I have overlooked New Haven, and its churches and colleges;and Cambridge all of which are exceedingly wonderful and imposing to the inhabitants and professors,) you find yourself arrested, in a noble street, by a truly magnificent building the City Hall. It lias two fronts; one of fine marble, and one of browu freestone! You may judge of the effect, when you stand at the ends. There is a house in Boston, constructed in the same spirit of pleasantry. Approach it as you will, the front being of granite, you perceive the ends to be * 64 RANDOLPH. ,^ brick. That is a truly American spirit; showy and boast- ful, without propriety, fitness, or taste. But you can not approach even the City Hall, without perceiving some- what more of the same spirit, in front; for the enclos- ure there, is askew; so that you cannot enter it, and march directly up to the great steps. No; you must oblique and manoeuvre, or you will never get there. 1 know of no- thing else worth description. There are some paltry publick buildings, many handsome private houses, and a ^respectable penitentiary]F(a matter of which the Ameri- cans seem especially jealous and, toward which, they are often abundantly magnificent, perhaps with a pre- sentiment like that of Swift, when he founded a mad- house, and made all things comfortable about it.) Well we are now at Philadelphia. Of course, the Pennsylvania Bank is to be praised again; (for the Uni- ted States' Bank is not yet thought of:) no! for once I must disappoint you. I don't like it. It is too cold, for- mal, and quaker-like. We don't want Greek temples for banking houses. No I do not like it. It wants that which gives a charm to every thing, and without which, the purest and most beautiful creations of genius, are base and inefficient; it wants suitableness. The water- works, of which you have heard so much, are paltry: the markets fine particularly the butchers' division; but the market-houses, throughout the country, except in Boston, are contemptible. The Schuylkill bridge is a pretty affair enough; but you will be surprised, after all that you have heard of it, when you know of what it is built. Is it iron? No! Stone? -No! What then? Deal boards and logs. There are some respectable private buildings, country seats, wire bridges, wire fences, and publick institutions; but nothing that I think worth troub- ling you about. We will now go to Baltimore, if you please. There you will find the handsomest, because the most appro- priate, publick edifices in America. With the exception of the capitol at Washington, a magnificent pile of stone and marble painted! and a sweet, pretty church at Richmond, the description of which has gone the rounds of Europe, like a problem in geometry, defying all con- .RANDOLPH. 65 Jecture as to its purpose; and the city hall in New- York; ami and and there is none so truly beautiful. First, there is the Cathedral, a heavy pile of granite, somewhat after the fashion of St. Peter's; and the grand- est building, of its dimensions, that I ever stood within: then, there is the Unitarian church, a piece of exquisite deception manufactured of lime-stone, wooden-bronze, and pine-marble; that is, without punning, or attempt- ing to pun plastered and stuccoed, till the eye is com- pletely deceived into a notion that it is stone. Then, fthere is a pillar, which is (or will be,) a round, substan- tial affair of marble, called the Washington Monument. Edward, I must be serious here. I cannot write or speak the name of GEORGE WASHINGTON, without a contrac- tion, and dilation of the heart, if I do it irreverently.-^} The pillar is grand plain substantial; and I like it better than I should, a work of ten thousand times more architectural merit. It is only wonderful to me, that a series of blundering, should have^roduced so simple and august a thought. But, I suppose 'that the building com- mittee could not agree upon the ornamental partlike all who cjuarrel about matters of taste and so, awarded such as they could agree upon; which was, naturally, the simplest proposition. But was it wise? Would it not have been better, had the money which this pillar has cost, been applied to some equally permanent, equally ornamental, and more useful purpose such, for .instance, 'as a hospital for the men of the revolution? [Will not others look for the same reward? and will riot monu- ments, in time, become as common in America, as titles are, even now? to say nothing of the ridiculous conceit of perpetuating the memory of GEORGE WASHINGTON by a work, that must crumble in a few centuries. | . . . Why is it, Edward, that I never think of that man, without sitting more erect in my chair? When I was at home, I dreaded to approach him. I feared that I should find him, as I had others, who were called great. They were pyramids at a distance: hut, when I approached I found them built of pebbles. 1 came. 1 stood upon his grave. I plucked off a branch from the dark cedars, that had sprung from it. Were they instinct with 66 RANDOLPH. his spirift They had heen nourished with his hlood and substance. The thought makes me tremble. Some fancy possessed me. I went home, and bent one of the beautiful little branches into the form of a weeping willow pasted it on paper, and painted the grave un- derneath it, with all the shadow and desolation of truth. God of heaven! Edward not a flower sprung there! What would I have given, for one blessed little violet, that had blossomed, perhaps, out of the moisture ef the giant's heart! Might it not be? He was gentle; and if warmth and richness of soil were enough, his tomb had been a heap of blossom and verdure trodden and crushed incense and odour . Farewell my heart is too full for trifling, now . Good night. (CONTINUED.) Morning. As this letter is the last, probably, that I shall write in the form that you have directed, it would be a pity to seal it, without the improvement, as they call the application, or moral of a sermon, here, accompanying it, like a subtilely distilled essence, with which you can reanimate the earth that goes with it, whenever you please. The application, then, is, is really, I forget it entirely; let me go back, for a moment . O I have omitted, I see, to speak of several things worthy of a traveller's notice in Baltimore. There is the Exchange, the best contrived building, and, to my taste, more entirely beautiful, of the kind, than any that I have ever seen, except that at Berlin, (the new one, I mean.) Yet, here is the same base, showy spirit, of which I have before complained. It is plastered all over; and this plaster is cunningly managed, by the applica- tion of gray paint, to look like stone; nay, even the real stone about it, is painted. Upon my word, I should prefer the sober honesty of Dutch brick; this is rouging, with a vengeance. The publick authorities, and publick edifices, paint and patch, and cheat; and how can they have the face to scold the women for such things? Ano- ther fault is, that, as you stand beneath the dome, you are RANDOLPH. 67 immediately struck with a painful sense of instability in the pillars. They are massy Dorick and of beauti- ful Italian marble, imported with their capitals; but they rest upon the brick pavement. A slight expense would remedy this. Let a few bricks be taken up, and a frame of marble, of the same colour as the columns, be set in, even with the pavement, and the sensation would never return at least to me; for, between ourselves, I shall, probably, never see it again. Another fault, I discover- ed. I am sure that it is one; the arch on the front side, as you stand in the centre of the building, facing the great entrance, goes beyond a semi-circle and, un- luckily, begins to contract, before it unites with the pil- lars; and then, it changes its direction. The sight was painful to me and mine is not an experienced eye. There is a Medical College there, t oo, furnished, I am told, with the best philosophical apparatus, in the country. It may be so; but they are well supplied at Cambridge, and in Philadelphia. However, there is one thing, at which you will smile. At the Hospital, the students are set to studying not morbid anatomy 0, no that might shock and distress them but dead people in wax work .* There, Edward, I cannot go On my travelling spirit my familiar has departed. Have I not caught the true manner? Are not my decisions, just as off-hand and pe- remptory my tone, as pert and arrogant, as would befit a publisher of travels. One of my countrymen, they say, here; and, really, I am ready to believe it, for no one has done justice to this noble, generous, boastful people, was once making a book, at the rate of one hundred miles a day. He came to a tavern. "Give me some bacon and eggs," said he. "We have none." "What no ba- con and eggs?" he repeated, \\hippedouthisjournal, and entered "No pork this side of the Alleganies; bacon and eggs, not to be had, for love or money." Farewell; once more, farewell of one thing, only, I can complain, in sincerity; and that is, of their too little republican plainness, among this people. They have tou much deference for us; in fashion opinion literature and the arts. This should not be. In literature, they are * No longer to finest collection, of morbid anatomy in the country, nnt> 4. 68 RANDOLPH* our equals; (I speak of the present generation.) In arts, particularly that of painting, they are, abundantly, our superiours. And, in what others, have we a right to dis- pute? What do we know of musick, or architecture, or sculpture? Nothing certainly, nothing of the latter, and not more than they do, of the former. Adieu, forever adieu, to journalising. W. H. O. JOHN TQj SARAH. Midnight How long it is, dear Sarah, since I have written to you! But you will forgive me, knowing, as you do, my propensity for doing such matters, by fits, and starts; beside, Frank has become your correspondent; and, I dare say, that you no, I won't say what I was going to. It would have been affectation. I take it for grant- ed, that my letters are acceptable to you; and that, when they are not, you will tell me so. Frank is another man, of late. He is strangely af- fected with what, I know not; but he has grown very pa le; and I find him constantly in company with a cou- ple of strangers, an old man, and a young one, whose countenance has something very pleasant, though very fiery, in it; the manner of the old man is noble arid erect; but he seems to be feeble, and, I should think, very sore at the heart. How is it, cousin? I ask you, because I have reason to believe, that you know them b oth. Did you not introduce them to Frank? Nay, I do not blame you. My numberless indiscretions have offended you; or is it because I am younger, a very little, by the way, though, than Frank that you dared not trust to me? But, no matter. There is my hand. I forgive you. Your reasons are good, I am sure. Take your own good time to explain them; and believe, meanwhile, that your secret, though you dared not trust me with it, is safe. I know not if these men are watched; but I have some reason to suspect it; and, if you are any way concerned in the mat- ter, you can apprise Frank of it. I cannot. We have quarrelled, lately, and I shall not be the first to ad- vance. They never go out, I find, except after nights RANDOLPH. 69 and then, with abundant caution, like conspirators. Nay, cousin, seriously, if you were not concerned in the affair; or, if I had met them alone, and seen their move- ment, such as I saw last night, when somebody follow- ed me to my very door stopped, when I stopped re- treated, and went on, just as I did, like the echo of my own footsteps- -evidently, as I have reason to believe, while mistaking me for the younger of these two I should inform the police, immediately, and have them both taken into custody. Juliet (cousin, I feel a sense of suffocation now but it must come.) Juliet will not listen to me. I know not whom she loves; but. be it whom it will, it is a love that will carry her to her grave. It is unchangeable immortal. Nay more than this, there is somewhat inexplicable in the deportment of Molton toward her. Am I his confidant? I believe that I am. At one time, I thought that I could read his heart. He appears to have no disguise. I am obliged to believe him; for there is no trick, no subterfuge, no artifice about him. If I ask bim a question, he either answers it, at once; or says plainly, that he cannot, or will not. I find, too, that he has not been so intimate with her, as I supposed. Tell me, Sarah, tell me, my dear cousin? Do you believe that it is Molton, whom she loves? Tell me plainly*. 1 can bear it 1 am sure I can. It may kill me in time; because, with him for a rival, 1 have no hope; but it will not do it immediately. If she do not, how is it, that his name his very name, so agitates her? I have seen her colour to the eyes, and then become so deathly pale, that I had not the strength to touch her she was like a corpse -at the sound of his voice, as he passed, one day in the street. If I thought so by heaven, I would blast him forever. What! O, no no no! He is all that is noble. He is in my power, Sarah; and I cannot use it ungently. But no no!- I am the veriest blockhead in the world. Is not her emotion natural enough, when she hears the voice of her destroyer; William, alas, thou wast dearly loved, too dearly perhaps, for thine own peace, but who would not have died, as thou didst, to b so lamented! GrS 70 BANDOMU, You know that Maria or Mary Howard is not his sis- ter. But do you know, who she is? It is in vain to con- ceal it any longer. Perhaps you know it all; for Frank did, I believe, as soon as it happened. I have determin- ed to sound Molton's heart, I have had a terrible suspi- cion sometimes, but he is inaccessible to me. He on- ly smiles, looks me in the face, and shakes his head as much as to say; "Forbear my heart has no door for the suspicious." I speak of Juliet. He betrays no emotion. I even mention Hrlen; the colour of his troubled blue eye deepens, but his voice changes not. Gracious heaven; what a woman she is; so beautiful, so mournfully and touchingly beautiful! O, I feel sometimes, when she sings, as if I could lay down my head in her lap, and weep there forever, at the sound of her voice; and then, her dark, lustrous eyes at times they are fastened upon the face of Molton, as he sits by her, and reads (O, would that you could hear him read there is no musick HkeUt so impassioned so solemn so thrilling) with an expres- sion, that is no, it is not love it is not tenderness it is something more terrible. At such moments, I knew not what to think of her. I am the only visitor. Nobody else is admitted; and I go there, I know not why, perhaps, as I went to the dramas of Germany to be agitated, and alarmed. Shall I ever be able to read his heart, as he does mine? I fear not! yet he is but little older, a very little older than 1 am. Where has he learnt his art? it is that of a long apprenticeship to death, I was near saying but, certainly, to calamity and trial; if not to somewhat yet more dreadful. Nothing seems to appal him. I have seen a pistol held to his breast and the agitated finger of a man, choking with passion, was upon the trigger. Was he so well prepared for death? He smiled; he never put out his hand, he would'nt deign to put it aside from his heart; and yet, upon my forehead, and I was only a spectator, tha sweat stood in large drops. The same severe quiet spirit, he carries forever. He was riding through Connecticut, Helen says, not long since when several good people came out against him, with staves, thinking to take him, dead or alive, for RANDOLPH, 71 ridine} on a Sunday. He smiled and suffered them to gather round, until they were ready to unharness his car- riage; when he leisurely drew his pistol looked to the priming; "gentlemen," said he, "you profess to be citi- zens; but my notion is that you are highwaymen, and I shall not consent to be stopped under such a pretence." The good people instantly abandoned the horses, and took to their heels; but, willing to quicken their pace, Molton made deliberate aim at one of them, and shot away a part of his camblet cloak, in mere wanton- ness. The other day, too but why recapitulate such things, He is a man of iron. He has none of the attributes of humanity. He is dying, I believe but he forbids me to allude to it, or to observe it before Helen ; for she appears to feel every change in him, like the touch of death upon her own heart I have seen her faint away; and lie, like a dead creature, for hours, when he happened to grow suddenly pale, and put his hand to his side. There is a ridiculous rumour about, which some experience of my own, makes me regard more seriously, than I would. It is said that the house is haunted! and I am sure that I heard noises there (in the room too, where Molton sleeps, and where I used to sleep) last night, that I knew not why, affected me in an unaccountable manner. I felt as if somebody were near me * * * * ah a groan # * * What! #*### ## * * It is Molton himself. * # * I went to the door, and spoke to him but either his voice had changed, or I was more disturbed than I afm willing to believe; for, when he re- plied, my terrour amounted almost to phrensy. The voice was not his. It was sepulchral. What could pos- sess me? I smote at the door It yielded; and I fell at my full length. The only thing, that I recollect, distinctly, is, that Molton stood, as if death struck pale ghostly pale, and shivering, with his arms outstretched, as I en- tered!~and that he exclaimed or at least, the words rang in my affrighted ears, all night long-" William! William!" The light fell from his hand, and we lay together in darkness, till they came to relieve us. How long we were so, I know not. But, it appears to me that we 72 RANDOLPH. are all mad!- When I recovered, for I was stunned, I saw Molton sitting at his table a naked sword lay upon it and a pair of pistols. Helen was sitting beside him, in her night dress, and clinging to him, O, with such distracted eyes, and bloodless lips, that my veins ran cold in looking at her. Molton never spoke nor moved. 1 waited like a cul- prit, willing to hear his voice: and not daring to trust my own. But his brow was calm and immoveable, as the coldest marble. I was fain to begin I faltered I mentioned the sound, the groan he awoke, all at once then, as from a trance. **I heard the same," said he; "was that all! We are children, indeed. Good night, John" 1 obeyed, like a child. I went, and left them together 1 went to my bed; but I could not sleep. All night long, 1 heard, as in the issuing air, whispers, and sobbing, as of some unhappy creature. Do not laugh at me, Sarah call these things childish or not, they are very terrible. Realities are not more so? Who does not suffer in his dreaming, more than he could, were he awake. Yet that is imaginary. But, O! how these pangs of the imagination, the spirit, how infinitely, they transcend, the gross corporal suffering of the body! Do you believe in spirits? Tell me, plainly. Doctor Johnson did wiser men, and better men, still do. The belief is universal too, among islanders, holding no com- munication with the rest of the world? Whence is this, says Dr. Johnson, too; "they, who deny it by their words, confess it by their fears." How many serious, sensible persons are living now, who do believe really be- lieve, that they have seen a spirit. Allow all that you can for a weak imagination deceit falsehood, and our love of the marvellous, there are still some things, at the men- tion of which, the blood thrills. Do we not all believe more than we are willing to confess? If not whence the painful interest, with which we sit and listen to the preternatural. Nay, whence the spirit that sets us explor- ing into mystery and horrour. If we were sure that there was nothing supernatural in either, we should disdain to en- ter their dominion. All people, ancient and modern, have believed in them. J need not mention the witch of Endor; RANDOLPH. 73 the spirit that passed before him, the hair of whose body- rose, and whose flesh crept thereat; nor the belief of the Jews, at the time of our Saviour, that evil spirits inhabited the bodies of men, and went forth at hib bidding; but I must remind you of the belief of his own disciples, who saw him after his resurection. They took himfor his awn spirit. It is no argument Sarah, that, being unsubstantial creatures, spirits, if they came to us, would be unseen, unheard, and unfelt. That may all be, and yet a spirit might be as distinctly before us, as are the images of mad- ness, or dreaming. Nay do we not often feel, what is not a ring upon the finger, after it is gone; pain even (as anatomists inform us) in a limb that we have lost? Do we not hear our name called in the woods; whispers in the wind? And our sight and touch, how often are they deceived by optical delusion, and sleight of hand? we learn to distrust our senses, after repeated deception. Where then is there any difficulty in supposing, that a spirit may be manifest to us, by some correspondent deception? Sarah 1 feel strangely solemn, as I write this I feel as if I were appointed to plead it as a matter of truth and soberness; nay, is it not in our sleep for instance? And why may not the death of a dear friend, afar off, be thus communicated, at the instant, to the surviver, if he be asleep? and if asleep, why not awake? There is no greater difficulty in it. He may be operated upon, when his eyes are shut, or made to believe- that they are open. My opinion is 1 cannot say that it is a belief yet that such things are. The reason, I dare not tell; but sonlething has happened to alarm me and greatly, too. Adieu SARAH TO FRANK. My dear Cousin, Summon all your manhood, I have a secret to com- municate; a matter of life and death, to you, I have made 74 RANDOLPH. a discovery. Prepare yourself, my dear, dear Frankj imagine the most distressing humiliation and disappoint- ment to a proud nature, a nature like yours, and be a man. Are you prepared? Listen! Juliet never loved you. The proofs are in my own pos- session. I have written to her, for her justification. In my opinion of her integrity, and beauty of heart, I have committed myself, all my judgment, and all my experi- ence. I have been cruelly mistaken. I have helped to delude you, my gallant and good cousin; you, whom I so love but, no, no; I will not weep. I loved Juliet, Frank; I loved her. You know that. I loved her, with all my heart and soul but the thought chokes me if she have trifled with you, I have done with her forever forever and ever. I may always love her but I shall never esteem her again. I have written to her warmly, earnestly; but, I believe, not angrily; beseeching her, on my knees, Frank, and in tears (it is no figure of speech) literally, on my knees, and in tears, to excul- pate herself. I await her answer. I can forgive her, if she have abused my love mocked at my judgment bruised and broken my No, no! I will not even write thus of her, till she be proved guilty, by her own sweet lips. O, Juliet! how I have loved thee! Come to me, dear come to me! let us weep in each other's arms. Restore thyself to my love and admiration, and I declare, that I will lie down and die, contented and alone. O, Frank, tomorrow I shall know the truth I expected her answer to-day: yes! and when the post arrived, and brought me no letter, I felt relieved by the disappoint- ment; and have written to you, because I cannot, at once, communicate the tremendous certainty that I expect. She never laved you; of that, there is now, no longer, any doubt; of that, 1 am certain. 1 only wait now, to learn that she has not dishonoured herself. If she have wilfully deceived thee, I shall never forgive her. I feel it, heremy resentments do not easily change, much as I have prayed that they might; and, if she have wilfully deceived thee, Frank, thou most generous man, I do fear that there will not be time enough loft to me for relent- ing. Even now, my cousin, now, while I am writing to RANDOLPH. 75 thee, I feel as if the hand of death were upon me. Fare- well O, Juliet! I wait her answer. In the meantime, he thou a man. Awake, Frank, awake! it will be the better for thee. Write to me immediately; I care not what: hut write to me. Whatever it he, it will be welcome to me; for it is proba- ble, very probable, that I shall be on my way to the north *-! hope never to return! O, Juliet! SARAH. REPLY OF FRANK. Wednesday Night, . I thank you, my noble cousin, I thank you. It is too true. "She never loved me." I have just left her. My hand is unsteady. Enclosed, is her reply to you. She was very sick but I have seen her. Yes! 1 have been at her side. What passed, I cannot tell thee perhaps she has communicated it, in her letter. If not, it is a secret, and shall die with me. Do I feel any self-abasement? No! Do I repine? No, no! God hath given me strength to face heavier trials than this. God hath dealt with me, mightily, before and no mortal knew it. Nay, at this moment, I am more composed than Her tears her tenderness her emotion at the bridge the fountain the hill the rock the stream! O, who would not have been deceived, as I was. We had visited them toge- ther. I knew not that they were already dear, so dear 9 so very dear to her: and when I saw her there, again traced her mysterious rambling to the same spot sur- prised her, at last, in confusion and tears O! how little thought I, that her trembling her speechless supplica- tion her shame were not for me! oh! not for me! 1 cannot go on! I know not what I write! Thursday Night, . Yes, cousin Juliet never loved me! But lest she may have forborne to tell thee so, and to justify herself, hear 76 BANDOLPH. me bear witness in her behalf. She never wilfully de- ceived me. She is the noblest and best of all God's fea- tures. To the last drop of my heart's blood to the last breath that I draw I am devoted to her. Weak and timid as she appears, she is full of sublimity and hero- ism. I hope that she will tell thee all O, I hope that she will; but no I need not hope it. She will not. Thy happiness is not so mortally engaged, as mine. But take her assurance believe her trust thy soul to her. I know not how thou hast been deceived but mine has been a delusion of my own. She was innocent, and her heart bled, when she saw it. -But, farewell. I can- not go on. A vessel is about to sail for France, next week. I have been down to secure a passage;- -I am not yet successful: but if I should be, I shall depart. Let us correspond. I cannot live here any longer. Ano- ther country.. ..another field. ...occupation, intense, inces- sant occupation only.. ..can save me from what? from delirium. ...madness....suicide. Tremble, Sarah, tremble. My hand has been already raised! What saved me? The Almighty struck it down! My brother stood suddenly before me. Whence he came, I knew not. It was like an apparition we had quarrelled and have been strangers for a month. He bore a billet from yes, I will write her name once more from JULIET! I copy it. The original I will never part with it shall be soaked in my heart's blood first. A moment later, and this hand had been stiff! A moment later oh! my brother! my poor, generous brother! how have I wronged thee. Farewell. He has enclosed a letter also. I know not what it is. I care not. I only know, that I love you all all ! with unspeakable affec- tion. Be kind to her, Sally O, be kind to her! She Vas never so worthy of your love or veneration. f Copy of the Note. J My excellent Friend, As you are about to leave us for a long time; and, as it is highly probable that we shall never meet again, i n this life, I have taken the liberty to address a few word s RANDOLPH. 77 more to you, on the melancholy subject of our last con- versation. I never wrote to a man, before; and, I trust, that you, who are now master of my motive, will not misjudge the action. I am in your power. I feel it, but I do not tremble; for, I am sure, that you are generous and noble. What was communicated to you, yesterday, I need not repeat, is of a nature never to be told, to any human being. This was my injunction, when we part- ed; it was the condition, under which, I committed my- self to you. Allow me, now, to add a qualification. You are at liberty to tell all that I told you, to whomsoever you may think proper, when 1 am no more. Your si- lence will not he long. I do not say this to distress you. J do not say it with any feeling of levity, or unbelief: ah, no, my friend! but in the firm persuasion, that our good Father hath already bidden me to the chambers of death. It would be weak, if not wicked, to pretend that there is no terrour in this feeling. No, my friend, were it permitted to me to choose, I have yet so much the in- firmity of woman about me, that I should cling to life; but still, as I am growing weaker and weaker, 1 feel that all the delicate fibres of my affection are gently and slowly loosening and detaching themselves, from the things of the earth; nay, from all that I have most loved here, and that they are continually losing somewhat of their vitality and attractiveness, till I am brought to believe, now, that the time will come ^and the thought is painful) when the tendrils, that a young heart puts forth too early, and too freely embracing and intertwin- ing with all that had warmth and affection in it, will become so deadened and seared, that they will be insen- sible of the moment, the awful moment, when their hold is utterly gone and relinquished, forever and ever. Heaven prosper thee, my friend! Watch thy faculties. Remember thine accountability to thy Father, in heaven; and acknowledge it, by thy life. Farewell. While I live, my friend, my dear friend, I shall remember thy generosity and greatness, with the feeling of a sister. JULIET K. GBACIE. Mr. Frauds Omar. U 78 RANDOLPH. (JOHN TO SARAH ENCLOSED.) O, Sarah, what a brother I have. How little I have known him. The gay, unthinking young man he is a hero. And Juliet too, what shall I say of her? Is it not strange that I never suspected the depth and devotion of Frank's attachment to her? He would never confess it; and his general hilarity, his free bearing, before all wo- men, deceived me. I thought, and we all thought, that he was invulnerable. Yes that man loved her; that man was worthy of her. What solemnity, what feeling! Indeed cousin, the tears, the steadiness of such men, men that are always cheerful and careless oh, they have weight, and'substance in them, like the smile of a man that smiles but seldom. I have seen men shed tears tears like sweat tears like molten lead but never did I see such tears, as escaped from the eye -balls of my poor brother, when I handed her note to him. "Are you prepared," said I as soon as I could speak;- for, when I entered the room, he was standing with his collar open a no, no 1 cannot tell thee pay no regard to what I have said, but listen "Are you prepared) brother?" said I. He shuddered. I reached him the billet, saying emphatically, "Be prepared for the worst." "lam," said he, in a voice that went to my heart. I thought that I should never be able to speak again. At this moment, he shut his eyes, two or three times, quickly; a dark spasm passed over his face , and a few drops, a very few, fell upon his naked arm. He started shook them off as if the skies had rained blood upon him; sat down; read the note; and, without uttering a single word, wrote a brief reply, which he read to me. I won- dered at his composure. Once, only once, he faltered, like one suffocating, as he read it to me; but he instantly overcame it, and went on, in a stern, deep voice, like one reading his own death warrant aloud to his mortal ene- my. O what a heart he has! so proud, so mighty. "Why, really, it was our notion, because he was never melancholy, never absent, abstracted, or thoughtful, and RANDOLPH. 79 always full of pleasantry, and 1'rolick, that he had no feeling. No feeling! Heaven! how we may he mis- taken! Never have I seen a mortal man so convulsed and shattered by humiliation; hut it is over now, all over. He is a man again; yet, how altered! His ve- ry countenance immoveable; his deportment like one, who has nothing of humanity left to him; no hope on earth and no wish for heaven; doomed to live, and die, for them that he cannot love. Within four hours, has this change been wrought; four hours, and his countenance is like something, upon which a stern sculptor has been at work, for that time. It is sublime, and unchange- able, I am sure. He will go to France, and, I think it probable, to the peninsula; but for which party he will pluck the sword, I cannot imagine. He appears to have some scruples of conscience in the matter. Farewell I hear him breathing frightfully loud, in his sleep 1 must awaken him. ***** Wednesday Morning . Ah, my poor brother! another escape, another, almost miraculous. I have just left him I have been with him all night long I heard him breathing aloud, and left my letter unfinished, last night, to run into his chamber. I found him senseless black in the face. It was with the greatest difficulty that we brought him to; but he has commanded my silence; forbidden me to mention it, even to the physician. But how could I obey him! I sent for our excellent Doctor. O, Sarah this is the second of these fits, within the last twenty-four hours the third will be fatal my brother! my poor brother! Wednesday 9 3 o'clock, P. M. He is better, the vessel has gone; we shall have him for a few weeks longer, therefore, if his life be spared. In the mean time, he is resolved. Nobody, not even his brother, I find, is to see the working of his heart. He is composed to-day; and there is a great serenity in his face, unlike anything that I ever have seen, in a living 80 RANDOLPH. countenance, except in Molton's, once or twice; such as I should look for, in one who had been familiar with death for a long, long time, in his very presence chamber. It rebukes all familiarity, all sympathy. I dare not touch upon the theme. I fear that it would jar him to dissolution; but how mistaken 1 am. How in- scrutable is the operation of such a mind, when the whirlwind hath passed over it, and it is literally upturn- ed, with all its riches, and mystery, to the light. He speaks of her firmly unaffectedly; but with a slight compression of the lip and a deep and impressive so- lemnity; and he no longer weeps, but he prays for her. I heard him last night, when he thought that 1 was asleep; and I thought that my heart would break. He had scarcely strength enough to arise from his bed; but he did arise, nevertheless, and poured out his devotion, with a fervour and inwardness, such as I never heard, from any human being before. He refuses all attendance; and we that watch him, have to do it by stealth; he spurns all consolation too, as something idle and unnecessary. Good bye enclosed is a letter, I think, in Juliet*^ hand writing. Brother, I believe, has a page or two* also ready for you; and, if he have strength, he will en- close them both in his. JOHN OMAR SARAH TO PRANK. Thereno man on earth is so well entitled to the en- closed, as you. I know not whom she has so loved, but I have a fearful, harrowing conjecture. I am satisfied of her principle and purity, and am happy. We depart to- morrow for the north, and shall go first to Niagara. I shall endeavour to write to her, the dear sufferer, on the route, and shall direct, to your care. One word more. We were both deluded by the same appearances. That she had loved some person, I was sure; and, having no suspicion of any other than Frank, except in one case, and for a little time, although I knew all, I supposed, who RANDOLPH. 81 have ever been suffered to approach her, I gradually yielded to the belief that it was he. What convinced me was, that she permitted your intimacy, after. I thought that she knew your sentiments. This was altogether so contrary to her general deportment, that I had no longer any doubt on the matter. But read her letter. There is her justification. Who can resist it; we have been mistaken, cruelly, I ^admit; but whom or what can we blame for it? Your delicacy, her unsuspicious, kind na- ture, or my rash judgment? Had you brought her sooner, directly to the point, we should all have been spared this shock; had she been less kind, more suspicious, or more vain, she would have taught you with her own lips, that you had nothing to hope, without subjecting you to the distress, that you experienced, when you were rejected; and, had she thought it possible that you would suppose yourself to be beloved by her, she would have pour- ed out the last drop of blood from her innocent heart before she would have permitted yours to ache, under the delusion. But, heaven be thanked, our eyes are open at last, and we have now, only to tremble for no, no, I cannot tell thee that, I am too hasty in my temper; and must watch it; beside, they tell me, (my enemies to be sure, but they are the right persons to go to, for the truth, sometimes) that I am arrogant, dictatorial. I be- lieve them. I am sorry for it. I will be humbler. I have been I fear under a delusion. I have been persuad- ing myself that I was altogether a New England girl, sen- sible, firm and high, like my mother. But I am wrong, I was too young when we left New England, and the south- ern air has changed my original constitution. I do not resemble my mother. O cousin, it makes me very sad to think of her, and I really yearn to see the places, and breathe in the wind that she was familiar with at my age. Perhaps I may, after a time, deserve the name that you have sometimes given to me, of the downright yankeegirl. Farewell, once more, dear Frank, farewell; and remem- ber the words of Juliet, "think of thine accountability. Show thy sense of it, in thy life." SARAH, :. : J ?7fd--^,-. '^ifrv/ c-.Ts-.y.t.-te H2 82 BANDOIPH. (JUXIET TO SARAH, ENCLOSED.} Ah? Sarah! you have cut me to the heart. I look back, my dear, unkind as you are, upon all .your past af- fection, and endeavour to forget that you have doubted me: but what shall I say to you? how can I defend myself? I have only my simple word to offer, and it may be, that my ^ord will be no longer enough to satisfy you. I must stop I cannot go on. Evening. I am much better, now, dear Sarah; and my heart, bleeding and exhausted as it is, hath forgiven you. At first, I was unable to answer you, at all or, even to meditate upon the subject. Your anger was too sudden- ly announced, for my poor nerves it fell upon them, like a clap of thunder. I have, always, been accustom- ed to indulgence and tenderness, as you know, my dear, rash friend; and, even where affliction hath, sometimes, laid her hand upon me, it hath always been with gentle- ness. Death came, too but, there was little terrour in his aspect; his countenance was mournful, and his tone, like that of a departed friendship, in our dreaming, was very pleasant, even while it made me weep. Judge, then, how little I was prepared for such a letter as yours. Sarah, I do not reproach you; I love you too much for that; but you may believe me, when I declare, that, I have never suffered so rude a pang, since my birth, as that letter caused me. But, it has given me courage; I am not long for this earth, my sweet friend; another season of flowers, will find me, I am sure, beneath that beautiful tree, which I chose, long, long since, for my place of rest; another year, and all my infirmities will be forgotten. Why should F be angry, then? why should I forbear to do the little good, that is left to me? and how shall I best do it? After much reflection, I have made up my mind to com- municate a few thoughts, to my dear Sarah; thoughts that, if I had lived and been happy, from my natural timidity and unwillingness to give pain, even when my judgment approves of it, she would never have heard uttered BANDOI/PH, 8$ with my lips. But it is better that she should hear them from mine, than from the harsher ones of the world. Sarah, you judge tor precipitately. You deceive yourself; and mislead others. You are kind of heart, high of spirit, and truly pious,* but your piety goes for nothing* beloved Sarah, where it interferes, directly, with either your head or heart .... Your temper, too, is violent, and unforgiving; not implacable, perhaps, but unforgiving. Remember these words. When I am gone, Sarah, they will be found true. I know that they look unkind; but, they are not so. I have often observed these faults in my friend. I could recall many illustrations; and cite many authorities, among them that best know you but I prefer dealing more plainly. I prefer telling you, in the plainest possible words, my dear friend, of your be- setting sins. And, having done that much, I will now pro- ceed, as well as a trembling hand and eyes nearly blind with weeping, will permit, to answer your charges, Yes, Sarah, I have wept; for it is a constitutional weakness, of mine, to weep at unkindness, even when assured, by my own heart, that I do not merit it. But let me enter on my defence, as patiently and del- icately as I can. You have been deceived, you say. I can believe it. I know your disposition too well, Sarah, to suppose that you would have wilfully contributed to the distress of Mr. Omar. But the question still recurs. By whom were you deceived? by what? Not by me. I am sure that you will deliberately acquit me of that. Not, I hope, by any circumstances, that a little more charity, (it is a cruel thing, perhaps, to say this, Sarah, but it is exactly what I feel, at this moment,) and a little more caution in you, might not have explained, by some other hypothesis, at least as amiable, as that which was adopted by you. Did I ever manifest aught, in word or deed, Sarah, before you, resembling love for Frank Omar? What, then, were the facts? But, let me begin with your earlier symptoms of precipitation in such mat- ters. There was poor William. What made you ima- gine, for a time, that he was the legitimate and chosen $4 RANDOLPH. lord of my affection? That you did, there can be no doubt, though you may have forgotten it now* What were the facts? The chief one, I am sure, was, my dis- tress, my agony and delirium, at the time of his death. You thought, and so did others, many others, perhaps, after that mysterious event, that my heart was buried with him. Did you not? And, then, another suspicion arose. Why did you always couple the expression of your sympathy with me, with that of hatred and detes- tation of his destroyer. Nay, has not he, that same Molton, has he not been publickly called the destroy- er of William and me? But ho\s of me? The charge is terrible, let it bear what countenance it may. It implies, that I am either base, or dying; dishonoured by the love of him, that you believe to be a monster of perfidy and wickcdness;~-or, broken hearted, as the surviver of him, whom that cruel man sent, so unpreparedly, to his grave. On that point, you were mistaken John was mis- taken; Frank was mistaken. I never loved William, other than as I loved many, resembling him, in generosity and goodness. The next thought, the next Sarah, was for a moment, yet more frightful. You have not forgotten it; you ne- ver can forget it. Do you remember my distress, my humiliation? And why were you troubled? Merely be- cause I had known the man, before he went to Europe. Merely, because you had heard of his standing by me, ^when I was at the instrument, and "reading my heart, with his arms folded." Was it prudent, dear, to infer so much, from the few incidents that came under your obser- vation. Suppose that we did "walk together?" You knew that my health demanded some such exercise; an.d who was better qualified to beguile the way, than one, whose extraordinary mind, and settled, unapproachable severity of deportment, left one nothing to apprehend from his conversation? But why need I dwell on him. You have acknowledged your errour there, and I hasten to forget it. But all these things did not teach you the circumspec- tion, that I have observed in your character on other oc- casions. You still believed that I had laved. Sarah! I will not deny it it is a thought too solemn for disavow- KANDOLPH. 85 al too sweet for concealment. You were right I have loved; but further than that, I cannot go not even to you. The object of that love no, it was not love! it was religion, life, idolatry; judge then of its power and truth; it lias brought me to the grave. But the beloved one, you will never know. Perhaps if the bashfulness of my very heart will permit it, perhaps 1 shall commu- nicate it to Mr. Omar; he is to be here, this evening; and I am endeavouring to prepare myself for the interview. How often O! how often! have I hushed the thought, as it arose, and I felt ray cheeks burn the while, that I was dear to that excellent, that noble young man. But it would come; itwould, no wand then, obtrude itself upon me when I was all alone; and I would determine to make myself understood. But how could I? His affection was so delicate, so profound; there was, I know not what, of reverence and awe, that I did not deserve to excite, and that I won- dered to see in him, about all that he said or did, when I was near. My friends observed it; 1 was rallied about him; and, at last, I determined to treat him less cordially. It was a vain determination he came I re- fused to walk with him, as usual. He was hurt, cruelly hurt, at first, as I perceived; but the next moment his eyes lighted up and I trembled for the inference that he would draw. 1 went out again with him, rather than be left alone in his company, as I should undoubtedly have been, for it was, as you know, the well meant, but indelicate practice of my good aunt, in what she thought her impenetrable management on such an occasion; and rather than permit him to believe that I abstained from walking, for that reason, or that I felt less freedom than usual with him. We visited some spots that were dear to me; he was so silent that I forgot, utterly forgot, sometimes, that he was with me; and when the sound of his friendly, sweet voice, awoke me from my passionate reveries, it was only to make me ask my own heart why I had permitted myself to imagine so vain a thing, as that he loved me, on no bet- ter evidence, than such solicitude and watchfulness, as this. We returned, my spirits were much depressed and, for the first time, I observed that his hand shook, and his, lashes glittered, when we arrived at the gate,-^He refuse 86 RANDOLPH. ed to go in. It was unusual with him? but still I thought little more of it until several days had passed, arid the looks and manner of the family convinced me that they thought we had had some quarrel. I could not well aban- don my walk. The season was tempting. The snow had just gone, and the tender green earth was just beginning to emit i ts own peculiar rich smell of invitation. I went alone* I came to the top of the hill; it was consecrate tomethere was one spot one! and, as I leaned against a slender tree there, and thought over the days of my untroubled innocence, the tears fell, all alone as I was, like rain upon the dry leaves below. Once, I remember, that I was startled, and I concealed myself, for I thought that some step was approaching. After this I descended. There was the very rock; and, near it, rippled the cold clear stream, where no, no I cannot tell thee that. I took off my bonnet, I scooped up some water in my palm, and tasted it, as I would tears;. my eyes were turned toward a distant opening, where I could just distinguish a tree, beneath whose beautiful branches I had once set and listened, till my heart ran over; there was the rock too the turf seat the pure water the No, no! my limbs were too weak to support me, and I was blind with my tears. I heard a rustling near me a faint whisper something touched me my blood thrilled at such a mo- ment!...hi such a place!. ..0, 1 dared not look up! I expect- ed to encounter the only human being, whose presence there, would not have been profanation. But I did look Hp it was not no, it was not he his portentous forehead Ms uplifted eyes were afar off. No it was Frank. I was glad to meet him; ashamed and humbled as I was, at being caught in such a situation; I was so glad to feel him near me, for it was getting quite dim in the wood, and there was a long solitary road to be tra- velled homeward that I believe I I was more than usually cordial, at least, I judged so, from the change that I perceived in him. His dark eyes glittered again; and there were instantaneous changes in his noble face, from red to pale, and pale to red, like the reflection of a passing sunset over a piece of statuary. Indeed he looked so handsome, and so happy, that I had not the heart to treat him coldly; and, if I had, what should I RANDOLPH. 87 have been, but a capricious girl -a child whose hu- mours were not to be understood, even by herself? Sup- pose that he had asked me, why I had altered in my deport- ment? or, as he once did? if he had offended me? what could I have said? Soon after this, I thought yet more seriously of the mat- ter, and determined to bring him to an explanation* Yet that was not easily done. An honest woman, I thought, would spare him the humiliation of an avowal. True but a modest one, would never suspect a passion, till it was declared. Nay, is it not a wise maxim to be- lieve all the pretensions of a man, hollow or false or at best, think of friendship only, until they are proved to be more serious? You can now judge of my perplexity. What was I to do? If I led him to an avowal, it must be by encouragement. But that would have been base, if I did not, as I certainly did not mean to return his love. At last, our dear William was slain; all the rest you are acquainted with; my illness, distraction, the sub- sequent kindness and attention of Mr. Omar, until he de- clared himself. Then, and then only, was it permitted to me, to deal frankly. I did so. I told him that we must part. This, I did, that I might not, unnecessarily wound him. Yet it would have been better, I now find, had I said, "as a friend, I shall always hold you dear; but as a husband I cannot think of you. I do not love you; I cannot love you I never have loved you." Yes, Sarah! I ought to have said just those words; but what woman could have said them, to such a man? Ah, it is no light matter for the proud in heart, the good and the free spirited, to go with their offering to the feet of any woman* and have it un-accepted. I do not say re- jected: still less do I say, trodden on, smiled at, and "scorned ; as he would have thought that his was, had 1 so treated him. Need I say more, Sarah? Need I appeal to your knowledge of my whole life? Do I hurt you, dear, by re- fusing to communicate the whole? ah! the hour has come; I hear his tread his voice he is ascend- ing the stairs. Farewell, for a few hours Fare- well! 88 ^;f ; ' KANDOIPH. Eleven tfclock, _, He is gone. It id nearly an hour since he left me, But it is only now that I have strength enough to draw myself to the table. He is an exalted young man, Sarah. I wish that 1 could love him. It would make me happy to reward such sublime devotion; and, were it not, that I judge of another, as of myself; (and /should be unutter- ably miserable, were one, that I loved, to marry me, with aught but such love as I felt for him) were it not for that. I should have been almost tempted to place my hands within his, while he sat by me, fallen upon his noble bo- som, and wept away the little life that I have left, upon the heart of a man that truly loved me. 1 was strongly tempt- ed moved not with compassion alone, but with pride and ad miration. But 1 forbore. Yet I did as much. What think you, it was? I communicated that to him, Sarah, which is unknown, and shall he, while I have life in me, to every other mor- tal, beneath the skies. I told him all all! my shame and horrour; my humiliation, self abandonment; and yes, I told him all. Was not that a proof of my reverence? It was. What I have not dared to whisper, even in my devotions; for God, I thought, must be jealous of the de- lirious and passionate love that I bore to one so little like Him - even that\\&\& \ told Frank Omar, without con- cealment, reservation, or disguise. I am in his power: I glory in it. And now, Sarah, my beloved Sarah, farewell. Our future letters, at least on my side, I am sure, will be much shorter, than those that we have interchanged hi- therto; and why should they not be? My breath is shorter; my slumbers lighter; and my poor thin hands; alas, Sarah, I am very weak and unwilling to go, after all for a tear fell upon them, as I held them up, and saw how trans- parent they were I am unaccountably affected at times; the veins in my forehead frighten me. They are much more like the delicate, faint wandering of blue stains in a flower leaf, as - ah - 1 had well nigh told his name , than ever and T listen too, sometimes, to my own Yoice, till I tremble all over. It is strangely clear. 39 Mournful, it may be; but, when it comes back to me, as it will sometimes, like a sweet bell tolling in the wind, O I could go and make my own quiet grave, with my own hands, just where we parted last we! yes and the violet should spring up where my first tears fell, when no, no! no matter what no matter \vho. It is all over. And then, too, there is an unnatural brightness in my eyes they ache dismally and there is a strange, un- easy throbbing at the ends of my finge s; and, altoge- ther, what with the tender and incessant watchfulness, the very affectionate and delicate attention that I per- ceive increasing every hour, with the carefulness to ex- clude every unpleasant sight and sound, from my dark chamber their serious faces the solemn whispering that I catch (for my hearing has become wonderfully acute of late) as my good doctor is continually arrested in the entry, by some one or other of the servants, or visiters; I really have enough, I think, to authorize my saying, that, if you would see me alive, my dear, excel- lent Sarah, you will visit me immediately. If you should not be able, for I know well how you are situated, let us continue to correspond. While I have the strength to pray, I shall pray for you. Do the same for me, dear, will you? Stay, it is possible, dear Sarah; and, perhaps, I ought to say, probable, that I may never be able to write to thee again. If so let this, my parting advice, be remember- ed. I adjure thee, solemnly, as a dying woman, Sarah, to wear, hereafter, a more humble and unpretending de- portment; for thy sake, dear, I beseech this; for thou art altogether more amiable, tender, and affectionate, than the world believes thee; but, chiefly, do I pray it, for HIS sake, who hath endowed thee with such aston- ishing faculties, and will demand a sure and steadfast, and benignant application of them. Piety, dear Sa- rah, true piety, is meek and lowly; yet sound and sub- stantial. Farewell! Nay lest this tnaij be my last letter, I will enclose a lock of my hair. You once thought it beautiful. There was another, one other, whose opinion was even dearer to me than thine; he thought it beautiful, too: ah! dear Sarah let it 90 RANDOLPH. not shock thee. The touch is harsh now, and I have tried, in vain, to restore the silkiness and lustre the truth must be told my hair is dead. Would he not be shocked at the sight? He would I am sure that he would; for even I, fortified and prepared as I am, for the reception of my bridegroom Death even I, am utterly overcome by a little lifeless hair, which I have been twining here, for some minutes, about my finger, to see if artifice would give to it aught of that natural, undulating flexure, which was once its beauty and vitality but no, no it is dead; a part of me is already dead and 1 1 can feel the remorseless influence coming nearer and nearer, every breath that I draw, to the fountain of my being, till all that hath greenness about it, is withering; and all that hath moisture, is drying up. A little longer a very little longer, and thy poor troubled Juliet will be at rest. Be thou the guardian of her fame, then thou, love! and she will requite thee for it. O, if it be permitted how tenderly watchful will she then be of thee and of one other whom heaven, forever, and ever, bless and protect Farewell, Sarah, Farewell! Thine, forever and ever, JULIET, JOHN OMAR TO SARAH RAMSAY. By heaven, it is true. It is just as I feared. He, against whom we have plotted he whom we had beset, like a wild beast, in the toils he hath escaped. Escaped! N ay, that were a trifle; but we are now in his power. Frank has gone to the south. I am glad of it glad; for some blood would be spilt, else. It is just as I feared. Do you not tremble, Sarah? Or, do you not anticipate the truth? Have you no chill? no spasm at the heart? Molton is the man. Edward Molton he, whom I could curse! I I - 1 know not what I say. But he is the man that Juliet laveS! How are you, now, Sarah? Hardly had we despatched the messenger to prevent your arrival, RANDOLPH. 91 than I discovered the true cause of Juliet's resuscitation. Molton had seen her. It was only for a moment; hut, gracious heaven! her whole body was instinct with a new spirit. She never appeared so touchingly, so delicately beautiful. Her parted lips her innocent, clear eyes- her sweet face, blushing through her tears her agita- tion oh! I could have fallen on my face, before her Yet, how did he behave? Listen. It was described to me, by Frederica; but whether she suspected the truth, or not, it were impossible to say. She is too generous, however, to betray it, even if she did. And you, my dear cousin, you will guard it, as your own honour. What an unaccountable creature he is how immovea- ble not a tear not one yet his chest heaved and the blood settled in his eyes and he staggered, when he touched her hand yet, not a word not a look not a gesture betrayed him. Once, while she was speaking to him, with that serious gentleness of her's, he held his breath so long, said Frederica, that I thought he would never breathe again. He. stood before her, as she sat looking Out of the win- dow, like an apparition uncovered his eyes cast dewn, and his hair strangely disordered. She lifted her eyes a faint cry escaped her and she would have fallen, but for his encircling arms. Was she sensible of the touch? Her colour came and went, rapid- ly; and, while his head was turned away, and the big sweat stood upon his lips, his very lips, Frederica says, that she saw Juliet open her eyes, with an expression so tender and happy, that She stopped there. She was unwilling to betray her own opinion. They con- versed for a few moments; and he appointed another hour to see her, when I am to be there, saying, as he de- parted, says Frederica, that "there was no hope for either." What did he mean? I know not, but I am determined to be present, and understand the reason of his calling. Has he come to be forgiven for the murder, shall I call it? no! it may not be the murder of William? Or is it i my hand shakes with the thought is it to disquiet a saint, in her last moments, with the renufcibrance of something, I know not what, but something, I am sure 5 92 KANDCTLPM. of tremendous emphasis, in her recollection of the past? Adieu, till the interview is over! Evening. 1 have just left Juliet. She is inconceivably better^ but this often happens in the consumption. Hectick and delirium delusion and brightness are our ministering spirits, then. And we, perhaps, are never nearer our utter extinction, than when our eyes flame brightest, and our garlands emit the most of perfume. What an inex- plicable creature is he! and she too! she is, alike, inca- pable of being understood. Where is her dread, now, of Molton? Why is he admitted? Does not her aunt remember him? detest him? Or, is it only a last in- dulgence to the dying girl? Really, I wish that you were here; and I have half a mind to countermand the courier, notwithstanding your necessities, and the order of Ju- liet. But stay I am summoned. He is coming up the avenue^ and I would be there to see the meeting. Twelve o'clock. He has gone gone! and poor Juliet alas! I am in greater perplexity and consternation, than ever? What has he done? What said to her? I heard all saw all ! But there was some other meaning in it than what I saw! Else, why was she so affected? b~ his first appearance, I mean; for she was calm, beauti- fully calm, after they had been alone. But that was th result Perhaps you can explain it. It is all i mystery to me. (A servant has just entered to say, that Juliet is in a, sweet sleep. Thank God! thank God!) Listen, then, to what I saw. I can see them yet hear their voices her's, clear, and soft, and timid his, deep and inward, as if his spirit were speaking, and not his lips. He entered. He was, evidently, prepared and sus- tained by some preternatural effort. He came and his presence was unlike that of humanity. Was he death- struck? I know not butjiis face was pallid pallidl it was cadaverous! quiet and established. RANDOLPH. 93 He went directly up to poor Juliet, wtiose hand hung over the pillow, against which she was leaning; and, it was evident that she had not the power to lift it, for the effort was made: it moved, but fell down again, like something lifeless, while she coloured, faintly. He took her hands, both of them, in his, with an air ah! he must have been dear to her once, and must have known it "Assure yourself, Miss Grade, my sweet friend," said he, in a firm voice, "that" She slowly lifted her meek eyes. He could not well bear it; for his manner was more hurried and tender, as he added "Forgive me. I would have said Juliet, had I not feared to distress you." Then, glancing his eye at Jane and myself, he added, "I feared, too, that it might be misunderstood." She motioned, faintly, to him, to sit down; for, I had observed that her eyes, surcharged with moisture and glossiness, were perpetually stealing upward, as if in meditation, timid and wavering religious meditation, upon his face, while he stood over heif. He did not ob- serve it; or, at least, he did not betray his observation. He obeyed- he sat down he still held her hand he looked at it his lips moved, as if he were talking to him- self a slight, tremulous motion, I thought, passed over his whole frame it might have been mine own agitation, however, or that of the light; for my hand was resting on the table, and it shook. His face was solemn, tremen- dously solemn and desolate; and once, when he drew a long breath, her hair stirred with it, and the strange spirituality of her form, awoke. I could have told her thought; his, I am sure that I could. She was always transparent; but he, his countenance was marble and death 'forever and ever except at this moment. He put her hand to his side her eyes were away but I could perceive the same bashful consciousness under her thick laslies. It was done with an expression of pain, and soreness; and, from the look of his unchangeable eye, as it wandered over her temples, her hands, her at- tenuated form, at the same moment, I could have sworn, almost, that he was deliberately comparing 'MS own/ situation with her's. What was the result? He re- 12 . *'--. r. 94 KANDOXPH. placed her hands they were meekly crossed upon her Jap; and a smile, yes, a smile, the second that I ever saw, of the heart, in Molton's face, played all over it; and the effect of that smile, so sweet, so melancholy, was such you will hardly believe it that my own eyes ach^d. 'I put up my hand to them they were running over? I looked at Jane the tears were there, too; at Frederick she was sobhing! "No n o!" said Juliet, "I cannot bear this! Fred- erica, dear, reach me that book, and the little packet, ther,e: Take them, Mr. take them, Edward. But do not open them, yet. There will be a time" (The smile returned, and he put his lips to her hand. Why cid she permit if? Who ever dared as much before? Yet she, sweet saint, as if utterly forgetful of our pre- sence, appeared to receive it as no profanation; but, ra- ther, as her lawful and accustomed homage.) "When I am no more, Edward" (I looked at him, as she said this; there was no change, nor shadow of change, in his face; but his eyes were nearly shut and his hands were locked, in" the attitude of one listening to strange musick, issuing from his own heart.) "then, you are at liberty to open it," she added. "And not till then, Juliet. 5 * "No*" "But, what if doatfi should be nearer to me than" "What!" cried Juliet, in a tone of horrour alarmed, it was evident, more by the look with which the words were spoken, than by the words themselves "What mean ywi, Edward! "I mean I know not what;* but it might happen, dear Juliet it might happen, that one could foresee his own death." Juliet raised her eyes in terrour he was leaning to- ward her; and I could see the blood rushing, hither and thither, about his temples, just as if forced there, by some fearful operation of the heart; as if it were pressed to suffocation, and discharging all its life, at once. She put her hand upon his forehead "Edward Molton," said she, in a tone so sweet, so solemn oh! I never heard aught that resembled it, before "Beware! beware! BANDO1PH* 95 there is One who can read thy heart, and will requite thee for the thought that was there. Look up, Edward! I forgive thee! It may be, as thou sayest, my Mend, that that Nay, I need not repeat it; but if it should be which God, in his mercy, avert then then, Edward, the seal may be broken." Molton arose. He took the papers the book; but his face was very stern, then and there was one moment, a single moment, when I thought that he was about to dash the book upon the floor his eyes lightened but it was all t)ver, instantly; and he stood high and dark before her, as at first, and full of tremendous repose. "I must leave you," he said, in a firm voice; "and, from the situation in which I now see you, it Is probable that we shall never meet again on this earth, Juliet; but but we shall meet, somewhere, sooner than they expect. Bear up, Juliet the hour is approaching. Go blithely to thy chamber. I shall to mine. It has no terrour for me. The time w r ill come it will when the horrible mystery shall be exposed to thee; when No! I must not trouble thee, woman! -Juliet! my friend! I must not trouble thee, at such an hour! Thou art prepared, I believe. Be so. It befits thee well. Expect nothing hope for nothing. Death is near thee* and they that would deceive thee, are crueller than death." (I would have interfered here^but Juliet forbade it; and Molton darkened all over, like a sorcerer, whose untimely spell is interrupted and broken, at the mo- ment of its consummation.) "No, Juliet! there is no help for^thee. All that re- mains for thee, now, is to die nobly and bravely. Lin- ger a little while, and I shall set thee an example ,ah* do not mistake me. I shall not do what thou dreadest Look up! look up, thou broken hearted woman! and believe m me; hear me say, that the time shall come, when all that troubled thee, will have passed away; when all the darkness and mystery, which I would not, even to thy solicitation, put away, at our last interview, shall be no more; andyet--believeme Edward Molton will never repeat that, which thy poor heart now thrills at the recollection of. Mourner! Juliet! farewell I" 96 Juliet gasped for breath extended her hand to him, with a smile of unutterable thankfulness. "Then," said she, "I forgive thee. Thou art still the man, that I took thee for. Farewell farewell, Edward! Repent, and be forgiven!" He dropped upon his knees he pressed his lips to her hand not, oh no! not with the look or attitude of love- no! but with something holier, higher, purer it was that of adoration that, with which a martyr bows upon the Bible, for the last time. He was at the door. Her eyes were shut her deli- cate lips juvst open and he paused; for, like us, it was probable that he thought her patient spirit had flown! He paused she raised her hand lightly, with a motion that he understood he! for, in an instant, he was ano- ther man; - the tears rushed to his eyes and he shiv- ered from head to foot as if his soul were rending it- self away from her frail tenement. Leave us! leave us, alone!" said he, hurriedly; "it is only for a moment." We glanced at Juliet she signified her assent and we departed. I was the last out; and, as I shut the door, I heard him say, "Are the letters all here?" and she answered, inarticulately, "Yes! it was for that, that I sent for you it was dangerous." He knelt by her, and, I thought, but I did not. turn fully round to look, that his arms embraced her, and that her head was upon his shoulder. The conversation was low, and interrupted, I thought, by deep emotion, silence, and sobbing; and Jane says that she heard your name pronounced, more than once, in a tone of great earnestness, like displeasure: - nay, though I did not listen, I confess that I thought the same, once, and I distinctly heard Juliet say, that "She (but whether she were then speaking of you, or not, I cannot tell,) had a noble heart, and a tender one capable of the most devout affection, and the most sublime sacrifice. Soon after this, Molton opened the door, and came out, and passed us, without appearing to see us the same imperturbable solemnity in his face the same re- gal carriage and movement of body. RANDOLPH. 9f When we re-entered, we were both struck with an es- sential alteration in the countenance of Juliet. There was something in it something that I never saw before, there; something that I should have called pride, re- sentment, or indignation, in any other face; but I feared to think it so in her's. There was the appearance, too, and Jane called my attention to it, secretly; and when I looked, I observed that Juliet's eyes followed me and, I thought, that she coloured and trembled there was an appearance, too, in the ashes, as if paper, and a con- siderable quantity too, had just been burnt there: nay, there were the leaves of a book, or my fancy deceived me, plainly to be seen, for some minutes after we enter- ed. But, from this moment, Juliet's whole manner was changed. She was more serious less pensive: more heroick and calm; and I was with her for a whole hour. What am I to think of this? Can we doubt any long- tr who is the lord of her heart? It must be Melton it is. And yet, we have been deceived before. Does she not know who his hnlf sister is? what her character is? and that he is, really and truly, the murderer of Wil- liam? that William whom she so loved? Let it have been done fairly, still it was murder in this terrible Mol- ton; for William was a child, a mere child to him. He could not have injured a hair of Molton's head. Then why did he slay him? Ah! Sarah! it may be, that I have thought too well of Molton. What! am I so base? this deadly infusion of envy and jealousy! O, forgive me, heaven! has this been able, so soon and so entirely,, to corrupt my heart? What! shall I doubt Molton wow, merely because I think Juliet loves him, when I have* withstood all else? prejudice, slander, and the influence of thy mortal hatred, Sarah? 0! man, man! how base and earthly are thy judgments! No, Sarah-^-I will not desert this man. But give me to see his guilt make it plain -and I will pursue him to the end of the earth. Yet, what is this, but seeking to gratify my own envy again? Ah! Sarah! I was not always so inveterate.-*-- There is some distemper in my heart some disorder*-*! 98 RANDOLPH. know not what; but it has changed my nature. All is greenness and bitterness, where once hell and fury! should it not be green and bitter? has not he pluck- ed out, by the roots, the blessed image, that death could not have defaced there dissolution and rottenness could not have corrupted! O, shame! shame! these transports, how unworthy they are of me! No. I will be his friend yet, in spite of my hatred and fear of him. 1 will go this day, this hour, and visit him as usual; and wo to the hand that assails him, without the majesty of the law- the law! ha! that reminds me of the two strangers the it may be . But, tell me, Sarah, tell me. Can it be possible that Juliet loved Molton? Did he love her? * If so, how could he have loved another? No! he could not. He never loved her, then. But did she love him? Sarah, I dare not answer that question. I feel my bones quiver in their sockets. Can she have loved him? and does she, after all? She knows that Helen is with him I am sure of it. Can her spirit en- dure such contamination?~-caw it? No! the touch of im- purity would be death to it! Good night! Morning. 1 have kept this unsealed to the last moment. Juliet is perceptibly better. It is pride; I am not afraid to say so, to-day; It is pride I am sure of it. She sits more erect; there is less of that tenderness, that thrill- ing tenderness, in her tone less languor and melan- choly in her eyes; there is even a dash of serious haughtiness. Heaven be praised! Do not inform Frank of this do not, I beseech you. Jldieu, JOHN. SARAH RAMSAY TO JOHN OMAR. I know not what to believe. She is too exalted, too pure of heart, I am sure, to permit any affection, there, for the dissolute, however specious they may be. But Molton the remorseless villain; 0, beware of him.-' RANDOLPH. 99 What tremendous apathy, is this? What unspeakable infatuation? Will you permit the serpent to enfold you all, I know not how to express myself. I am troubled, almost to suffocation and blindness, at the, thought of him. Would, that I had less sensibility; yet, why should I wish it? Would we pray for torpor, numbness, to escape the pains that accompany sensation? Are not even these pangs, these palpitations, these tears, these tears of scalding humiliation and self-abasement, which Juliet, the meekest creature upon this earth, has wrung from me, by her reproaches, no, not by her reproaches, but by the kindest admonition, in the world; are they not better than insensibility? They are. We have our sense of suffering, and joy; of agony, and rapture; most exquisitely proportioned to each other. He, who has the least sensibility to pain, has the least to pleasure. Let us not lament, therefore, that our senses are not sealed up. our touch deadened, our ears stopped, our eyes shut, to the beauty and the harmony that surround us; because it may sometimes happen that, that harmony is too loud and frightful, or that beauty, too terrible. No; if insensibility were better than this nature, which is so delicately interwoven with all the crimson labyrinth of our blood, the ten thousand delicate fibres of our being, tangled, as they seem, wandering as they appear, with- out order, through all their offices and appointments; thril- ling, to agony, when the finger of the Almighty hath touched one of them, in rebuke sending his electricity through the \*hole web: no, if insensibility were better than this state of exquisite being, death were the consum- mation of happiness. But what have I done? fallen into the same errour, which I have so often reprimanded in you.. ..fine writing.... but no matter....it came, spontane- ously from the heart; unstudied, unpremeditated and, I trust, will so appear. But, let me return, for- a moment, to Molton. My suspicions are all awake again. I have just arrived at the whole truth of an affair, which I once hinted at, in one of 'my earlier letters. I am now mistress of the whole, and I give you leave to take what steps you please, for your own satisfaction, in the case. If the stories be, as I have no 100 BANDOLPH. reason to doubt that they are, true, they, alone, will be sufficient to establish the deliberate and settled wickedness of Molton's character. They are as follows. Let him reconcile them, if he can, to aught that is less than devil- ish. The disclosure is confidential from me. A strange accident brought me acquainted with the whole. I believe it, and, the only anxiety I have, now, is, to discover my anonymous correspondent, and ascertain in what coun- try Molton was born. I used to think him an American; but I have many reasons to doubt that, of late. But, whoever it be, that gives me the information, that I now have, there can be no doubt of his sincerity and truth, for 1 hold his address, under seal, with permission to open it, whenever Molton can be fairly confronted with his accusers. When a mere boy, he was surprised, at noon day, at- tempting to enter a lady's bed chamber. She was much older than Molton, and knew so little of him, that she was willing to believe, whatever he would say, in pallia- tion of his audacity. He told some story, i know not what, to a friend of tier's, and she affected to believe him; but, it was only affectation. Her blood will run cold, to this hour, at the mention of his name. The next, is an affair, yet more atrocious. He was deeply indebted to a family, every member of which, had loved him, almost to veneration; and trusted to him, when he was friendless and alone. He felt grateful; and they, who knew him, well, do say, that he would have died, at one time, to prove it. A beautiful little girl, a mere child, innocent and unsuspicious, (Cousin, 1 know not what may be thought of this plain dealing with a man, on such a subject; but you know that I ha\e been accustomed, from my earliest infancy, under the direc- tion of my departed mother, to think, and speak too, at proper seasons, of many matters that seem to be prohib- ited to the women of the world. Yes, to them, that arc to be wives and mothers, it is forbidden even to think of the sacredness and obligation of such offices!- I have been taught better. ' have been made to understand* that the duties of marriage, and the education of children, are things of awful import and solemnity; involving all RANDOLPH. 11 that is religious and responsibe, happiness and virtue, life and immortality. But the fashion of the time is dif- ferent; women are mothers, now. ere they have thought of infants, in any other way, than that of babies and dolls. Children are bearing children, educating children; and boys are fathers, nurturing spiritualities, ere they have Jearnt the commonest principles of self government. Cousin, forgive me the subject is one, that will always carry me away with it; and i have touched on it now, that you may not be astonished at my using the freedom that I do, with a man, in communicating certain affairs, that relate to the arch imposter, Molton. I was proceeding to mention his unspeakble wicked- ness toward that child. She was the pride and darling of the family, to whom he was so deeply indebted; and the chief sustenance of a widowed mother. Molton used all iiis power to corrupt that child, even in her blossom; persevered for years, and finally went so far as to en- ter her room at night. The poor little creature was ter- rified almost out of her senses shrieked; and, in her ter- rour, had so little suspicion of the truth, that when she encountered Molton, as she opened the door, she threw herself inco his arms, for preservation. Heaven! wlrat was his heart made of, that it did'nt stop forever on the spot! Judge you, cousin, of that man's address. He was scarcely suspected, even by the child. Nothing of his whole life was known to resemble it; and even they, who felt some suspicion of the truth, had not the courage to whisper it to their dearest friend, still less to him. And such was his hardihood, that he spoke of the whole ad- venture, as of a dream; and with such an air of inno- cence, that he was never asked to explain, why his door was left, open, that night; for he slept in a room near the child; arid a servant, in passing by it, had observed her light flash in upon the opposite wall of his chamber; stopped, and found Molton's door ajar, The third case of this nature, now in my possession, (but I am assured that there are many more) is the following. He met with a school girl of high enthusiasm, and promise. He was kind and friendly to her, speak- ing freely to her, of her inadvertencies, more like a bro- K 102 RANDOLPH. ther, than aught else; and this, it would appear, is a com- mon artifice of his; for, to such perfection lias he carried it, that, while he censures and chides, there is a deep flat- tery in his manner, which he insinuates, like a poison, into the heart that listens to him. All speak of this and all wonder how it happens, that they, who are rebuked by Molton, often feel proud of it, and colour with a plea- surable agitation. But I am in no such doubt. They arc oif their guard. Reappears to them so frank and sincere, so incapable of flattery, that they rejoice to be- lieve all that he says. And in all that he proffers in the way of admonition, there is forever somewhat which is racy and spicy, somewhat of that which all love, after having once tasted it, as the very aliment of their being. Another cause may be. that he never compliments one di- rectly, and as if premeditated ly; but. always, as if by sur- prise; as if he were taken, oif his guard and had spok- en the whole truth, fro^n his very heart, by accident, without intending it. Again he never pays the compli- ment of his censure, to a fool; and, generally, it is ap- parent, that, in them, whom he most censures, he is most interested. And finally, all grant to him. a remarkable discrimination. He treats no two human creatures alike. By his very tone, look, and language, they, that know him well, can perceive the exact degree of estimation, in which he holds all that he has any knowledge of. I have wandered again, cousin; but, I hope, not widely from the subject. We will now return, if you please. After exciting some interest, it is said, in the heart of this unexperienced child, he went abroad, and did not see her again, until she was engaged to be married, to an ex- cellent and altogether proper young man. He then vis- ited her, again; used all his art; attempted to poison her affection, excite her distrust, not of her lover, for that were a vulgar stratagem, but of herself. You smile; but BO it was, and the poor girl was seriously indisposed, in consequence of the agitation, that he kept her in, by paint- ing the disorder and agony that would follow her who married, without a certainty that she loved. But he fail- ed. The destroyer was touched with the spear of Ithu- rial, and he stood suddenly, before that innocent crea- RANDOLPH. 103 tare, in all the terrour and hatefulness of his true pro- portions. I have finished for the present. It matters little what Molton may say about all this; his word will not weigh witii me. There is a deliberate baseness, an essen- tial, constitutional wickedness in his character* that would neutralize the fairest appearances, the most plausible tale in his favour, were he not, what I am assured that he has been, the greatest liar in the world, .t is said, to be sure, that he is now as remarkable for his scrupulous regard to truth; but t do not believe it. A habit of lying is not so easily, nor so soon overcome, it is one of the most inveterate that can be formed; and will always be seen in the shape of exaggeration, concealment, distor- tion, subterfuge, or duplicity, long and long after it has abandoned a more alarming countenance. The heart r emains the same; and the mind is doubly dangerous. Tell our beloved Juliet, that I have cried over her dear letter, and the lock of hair, till my eyes are sore, and till there is a pulse all over my body. Your last intelligence was as welcome as unlocked for. It is possible possible, dear John, that; but no, I will not indulge a hope so desperate. 1 would have written to her, but we are to go away to-day immediately, 1 find, instead of to-morrow, I shall write from the first room that I can sit down in, with any comfort. Farewell. Keep me informed of Frank and BEWARE or MOLTON. Let that ring in your ears, night and day,. The two men take care how you interfere. They are ministers, who are not to be thwarted. Beware! the blow is only suspended awhile; but it will fall it Be discreet and silent. SARAH RAMSAY. JANE CARTER TO MATILDA. My dear JHunt, I should not have deserved your reproaches, I am sure, had I been left to the dictates of my own inclination; but 104 EANDOLPH. o much sickness, so much mortification and disappoint- ment; so much of, I know not what, have happened, to per- plex and thwart me, that I am really sick at heart. O, I do "wish you were here. How incensed you would be! Juli- et is still the only subject of all the care, and all the ten- derness of the house and neighbourhood. Nothing but "Juliet! poor Juliet," is to be heard. If I want any thing done, the servant is in her chamber, or watching at her door. If I send my own girl on an errand, she is sure to loiter; and, when my patience is utterly exhausted, and I could sit down and cry with a good heart, home she comes with a malicious account of some stuff or other that she has heard about the sick baby. Indeed, aunt, I know not what restrains me; but the people here do act so like fools, that often and often, I am on the very point of tell- ing them so, in plain English. It is just as you said, after all. I don't believe that the child is in any danger. To be sure, she looked very pale and thin, but she is quite too etherial to perish, to die even with that most sentimental of all complaints, the con- sumption -O no, it would be quite too vulgar for Ju- liet R. Gracie to die, outright, like a com mon mortal; and it has often puzzled me, to conjecture how she is to be managed, when her time comes will she pass offin a vapour the exhalation of a dew-drop a tear? ha! hal ha! her lovers, I take it, would be confoundedly puzzled^ since the doctrine of transmigration is done away with, and translation, and vanishing, and transfiguration, are gone by. Shall she go like Numa? Elijah? or what? or whom? the fools! Indeed aunt, 1 had well nigh hinted it to her, in the presence of one of her fellows too, that she had gone quite far enough. The patient creature! What think you she did she opened her languishing dull eyes at me, with such a spiteful appearance of resignation, 1 declare that I was ready to laugh in her face. But what the men see in her, to doat on, and fuss about, as they do, I cannot imagine. There was your favorite Omar, this evening, on one side of her, with his mouth open; and that precious devil, Molton Lord, can't help laugh- ing now--to see one of those chalk-faced puppets, in such RANDOLPH. 10$ a taking, with a fellow, that has debauched more women, than any other man of his age, in America. She pretends not to know this. But ; know it* well; and if John Omar were not such a fool, in this thing, I mean; for, in other matters, he seems not at all deficient, I would tell him the whole truth but I dare not. I am afraid of him, now; for he knows, by some means or other, that it was by my management, that Molton was twice admitted. Accursed folly, it was too, in me the shock has only given new life to her! But for that! no, aunt; let us leave this subject, only I did not look for this result I confess, in her weak state. I want your advice. What is to be done with her? She will get well again, 1 am sure, if it be only, saint as she is, to plague and torment me, into a consumption. Alas aunt, [ know not where to look, or whom to call my friend. All that loved me, Juliet has enticed away. I am nothing, absolutely nothing now, in the house of my own father. Nay, I had not an evil spirit; I wished her well, i am sure, till many days of intolerable humiliation, and many and many a night of shame and sleeplessness; till out of them, a devil had birth. Sometimes I am sorry for it. Sometimes, I could lie down and weep nay, go down on my knees before Juliet her- self; and what! 1! 1!- 1 kneel to that child! a pennyless, wretched, sick, helpless child: an orphan, des- titute and houseless, but for the foolish compassion of my foolish father! to her, who has thwarted all my schemes of happiness in life soured all hearts against me; turned love into a poison, and friendship into hatred! But for her, I might have been a wife, a mother!- blessed God! a mother! with my own babe, naked and beauti- ful, nestling in my bosom; beloved and respected by all the world. But for her /ier/ accursed be that witchery which has impoisoned and alienated all that loved me but for her, I might have been the wife of thou know- est whom, aunt; but now, oh my heart will burst and shiver at the thought all is not yet known it may be it will be, perhaps pity me then, pity me aunt, if there be any thing of humanity left in thee yea, thou wilt pity me. But for her, too, L had been the friend, 4he bosom 106 RANDOLPH. Mend, of that haughty, cold, implacable yankee girl that Sarah Ramsay. But what am I , now? Shunned, hated not absolutely, despised Oh, no! that they hav'nt the courage to express; nay, nor to feel. They dare not cannot despise me. Yet she pretends to piety she! to piety. What shall I do? Really, aunt, there are terrible thoughts in my heart at times. Come to me. I never wanted your assistance so much. This step-mother of mine is a good natured idiot; doatingly fond, as she is of her neice, she has such a clumsy way of sho>\ ing it, that, I am sure, Juliet is oftener distressed than relieved, by her manifestation of it. Let us reason for a moment. Suppose Juliet should die. Then it is highly probable, with my fortune, and the remains of what, you know to have been a remarkable fine person, and countenance, that I may regain the ele- Tation, which I have lost, by the continual sickness of my family, and the perpetual contrast, of my showy manner, with the quiet, sweet, obedient, and domestick habit of Juliet. 1 am not made for the fire-place. She is. I would to the saddle, if I might; but ,as that would not be permitted, in the way I wish, in tilt or tournament, I must abide by such distinction as is accessible to me. If I cannot command armies, I can give laws to fashion. If I cannot be the champion of our rights, in the Senate Chamber, I can, in the ball room. If I cannot cry to horse! to horse! I can call for, hob or nob, and "money in both pockets." But suppose that she should recover. This, I expect; not, because there is any such opi- nion here; no but simply because that would be just ex- actly the awkwardest, and most unpleasant thing in the world for me. For this reason, I look upon it as a mat- ter of certainty. Well then, we are to suppose that she is well. What will she do? If she would marry* marry any body, I don't care whom she might have her choice of all the world; there would be enough left for me after she was served. You see how humble I am. My tears scald me while I write but my lips smile I can feel them smile, as if they were convulsed and writh- ing . \Vell if she will marry, all will go right. A will live and die, on the civilest terms in the world RANDOLPH, 107 with her; send her my cards regularly; and takeher'sin return go to her christenings, and let her come to no. the thought is frightful to me But I will go to her funeral, with the best bred air in the world. But suppose that she won't marry. What shall we do then? You know her art. Under that appearance of meekness and gentleness, she has a devil of a temper, when roused. Mine, aunt, mine itself, is less terrible. I've seen it up once, only once; her eyes flashed fire, and Molton stood quaking before'her, as if blasted to the ve- ry heart, by the brightness that issued from her. The fool! she was in his power and he forbore to use it. He trembled yea Ned Molton, Ned Molton himself, trembled and wept ah a thought strikes me. She loves him yet. Juliet, beware! he is no trifler a se- cond time. Yes aunt yes! I want none of your coun- sel now, my mind is made up. Juliet shall marry some- body; she shall; or, she shall go to her grave dishonoured. There ; have told the secret now. The horrour with which my heart laboured, is before thee. I am tranquil now. Ah! it grew suddenly dark, just then and I stopped. Was the moon in travail, aunt? Did some spectre pass between rne, and the light, just then? Or was it poh, poh it was it was merely my own blood that blinded me, as it arose and boiled I feel it retreating again, and my temples are easier, and 1 see perfectly clear again, now. Farewell) JANE. MAD. MATILDA TO JANE. !* . ." ' '! ' ~ ,} .-. " <,'* ' ' -vj.}) T-?: Jane, are you mad? What a risk you have run! Your letter came to me, unsealed! What miracle has preserv- ed you, I know not; but all my examination satisfies me, that there has been no time here, for it to be read in the office. Do you make some inquiries there. Do be more careful. Your passions will destroy you. I iniist see you I must, you say. There is a meaning in your let- ter, that freezes my blood. Beware! Hold your hand. Stir not, to the right nor to the left, 'till I am by your side. *'T 10S RANDOLPH. You are on a precipice. A single step may shai^r you, everlastingly. But stop that is dangerous to write about. Your thought, fairly carried into execution, may prevail. She must be married. She shall be. Many reasons conspire to render it indispensable. The expense of her maintenance the sympathy that she excites the necessity that there is, of disguising our hostility to- ward her; and yet, poor innocent, I could almost weep, when I think of her. But no, it must not be. It is too late to relent, now. She must be sacrificed. She must; for, if you live together, Jane, it is in vain to disguise it; she will keep all the men, that are worth a thought, in a state of perpetual hope and anxiety about her; and you will be overlooked, except, (where captiv ation is only for an hour,) in the fashionable world. Indeed, the more that I think of it, the better 1 am pleased. There is a man, too, exactly in the humour, for our purpose. Do you remember Grenville? He still thinks of Juliet; and you know that, but for Molton. she would probably have given herself up to him. I think that i can manage the matter here. I am his confidant; and if we can compel Juliet to marry him, what harm will be done? She will get a tight young fellow, with a plenty of cash, a good heart, and a good profession. Yours, my dear niece, M . P. S. Don't forget to seal your answer. O by the way, you are under a mistake; Miss Ramsay is not ayan- kee girl. Sh^ has only the yankee temper, with a little southern heat, superadded. Her mother, however, was altogether a female yankee cold, insensible, handsome, and sober. EBWARD MOLTON TO GEORGE STAFFORD. I cannot reply to your kind letter as it deserves for, just at this time, I happen to be very busy; but, in a brief way, I will try to answer some of yoir enquiries. KANDOLPH. 109 What do I think of our literary journals, authors, re- views, and editors? you say; and what are they about? In answer, I say, that by and by, I shall enter more ast large, into their characters. At present, I can only re- lieve you, by saying, in general terms, that they are cowardly, mercenary set. Not one in a hundred of them,, has the courage to take a decided stand, in pronouncing any judgment. They content themselves and by they, I mean now, such men as "Robert Walsh, junior, Es- quire; 99 they content themselves in retailing the imported literature, and the imported criticism too would you believe it? of your unprincipled journals. Even he, who has the impudence to set himself up, as one of the guar- dians of American literature, as one of them, to whom it is authorized to look up for countenance and protection, is consuming his strength, in the manufacture of a oaily paper; and in the monthly compilation of a museum, made up, God help our patience! of the refuse haberdashery of Great Britain. O, that sucli men, with the present ed- itor of the North American Review at their head, were* for a little time, held up to the indignant rebuke of the American people, as they deserve! What do they pre- tend to do? What have they undertaken? And what have they done? What have^ve permitted them to do? Stafford, my blood is ail in a tingle, at the tljpught of their presumption, and our abjectness. I tremble, all over, when I think of what they have dared to undertake, and dared, in the desperation of their audacity,- to do. But, I am ashamed, and could weep, for vexation, to think how tamely a great people have submitted, to whatever they have chosen to do, with them, and for them.: Robert Walsh, for example, is put, by his friends, in the first rank of native criticks. The others publish, what they call a North American Review. But of whom do they write for whom? Not of Americans not for A-nericans. They abound, chiefly, in original reviews of works that are forgotten, merely, because it is the fashion at Edinburgh, and London, to deny our erudi- tion ; and to be very pedantick, where there is the least danger of exposure or contradiction; or ihey, now and then, enter the lists with the English and Scotch re - 110 RANDOLPH. viewers, in praise of some poem or novel of the day pub Hshed in your country, not in ours which never makes its appearance here, or perishes in the first edition and then fancy that the> are establishing the reputation of American literature! Blockheads what care we for the present race of English writers? Are our reviews to be made upon that side of the atlantic, and republished, under the title of Walsh's Museum? Or, as in the North American, are they to be confined to the works of another people; and now and then, as it will some- times happen, of a native writer, after they have been amazed at meeting with his name in some European journal. There was Brockden Brown, for example and the Federalist. Our American reviewers took up the cudgels in their favour, most gallantly but when? how? when there were no longer any body to contra- dict them; when there was nothing to apprehend and when it would have been infamy, to forbear. Stafford, I am an American I glory in the name. Were I an Englishman, I should glory in the name of an Englishman. But then, as now, I should lift up my voice, in unquali- fied denunciation of such conduct in my countrymen. What! shall these men be paid, by our best people, for a continual violation of their duty, their avowed duty? Shall they be permitted to transgress forever? to set their very title page at naught? to sneak away from all accoun- tability? to lie by, and cower, and skulk, under one pre- tence and another, when a new American work appears? to shuffle away from a decided opinion, on any American work, until the publick have pronounced their judgment? No Stafford! I say this and, Englishman as you are, you cannot but agree with me. I say that it is the duty of an American reviewer to take some notice long or short for, or against every work that appears* If he cannot do it himself let him get somebody else or abandon the name of an American reviewer. And I say that, to nothing but cowardice or incapacity, should a failure to do so, be attributed. Can you wonder at my warmth. Our press, young as it is, abounds in the bright prodigal issue of authors, that only want to be taken notice of, to become competitors with the best and RANDOLPH. lit proudest of yours. You smile I can forgive you for one who has been accustomed, as every American of my age has, for twenty years past, to the more insulting doubt of his own countrymen, cannot be angry with a foreigner, for doubting that we have common sense. Take up one of our last numbers of the NORTH AMKRI- CAW or the MUSEUM or Port Folio another paltry counterfeit. Look at them. What do you find in them? Remember that they are American publications, profess- edly written, or compiled by Americans, in the hope of advancing the reputation of the country! Heaven, what a bitter sarcasm upon our quackery and pretension; our yankee tricks and all our honesty and intellect, are the mere title pages. One, you will find made up from Campbell's cast-off Magazines and the newspapers of the day; another of stupid reviews stupidly remodelled the other, a body of prize essays, written, one would be tempted to think, to prove to the people abroad, that, barbarians, as we are we are able to translate the ti- tle pages of very learned works, in Italian, French, Ger- man and Latin; but let me explain myself. First you come upon a review of somebody an Italian; whose name it may be, that the editor of the North American while upon his travels in Greece without an allusion to which, he cannot blow his nose happened to hear. The title page, of course, is given to you in Italian. The next will be a mass of erudition having about enough to do with the subject, to make you believe it a transcript of some student's common place book diligently copied, and adroitly tacked together probably with a running title in German or French. Pshaw T have not pa- tience with such foppery. If we are ever to obtain a literary character, it must be by a bold, high handed carriage of ourselves. The Scotch have been trodden into coalition like muscles in the mud; and, after a time, if kicks and cuffs won't do, we may have the same good luck. But, by the way, I would not have you utterly mis- understand our literary character. The NORTH AMERI- CAN REVIEW, as it is now nailed (in derision, one would think) is no longer what it has been. Time was, when 112 BANDOXPH. the hands of mighty men were to be seen, even in the clumsiest of its decorations. !t has been (if you will al- low me to amuse myself for a moment) a great Banking House a Treasury where you were sure to find ore, and ingots and bars, though the former might not al- ways have been purified, nor the two latter coined or stamped. Then there were the most powerful, rich, and beautiful issues from it, whenever the pressure was greatest. It could have withstood then, the run of all North America. But how is it now? Not much unlike the Bank of Amsterdam, after the eruption of Napoleon a place of subterranean darkness and emptiness: a place of discount and deposit for bad paper (which were better fitted for any other place of deposit J drawn by bankrupts who live by overdrawing countersigned by Mr. Eve- rett and endorsed by him, when very questionable upon the patience, folly and good nature of a publick, who only want to be run upon for five minutes, to be- come sensible of their own precarious situation to check 100 per cent, at least, offhand; and to dishonour, forever, every future draft of the concern. In short to say all in one word There were such men as Daniel Webster, Justice Story, Mr. Dana, and Mr. Sparks, among them and there are now, only the Everett and company, to manage the institution. But there are nevertheless, two or three scientifick works of great merit in our country at the head of which we may place, Silliman's Journal. More of him anon and of Cleveland too (an honour to our country) and of Hayden, a devilish clever fellow in his way. Good by, Stafford Good by but, in mercy to our reputation, do not believe that either Mr. Walsh, or Mr. Everett, or their solemn retinue of essay writers, form any part of our natural-born Americans. No they are creatures of another element, unworthy of breathing the same atmosphere. Where is their manhood? They have none. They are always in the rear of publick opinion always hesitating always qualifying so that, happen what may, they are never in a great peril of being either remarkably right, or remarkably wrong. RANDOLPH. But is there nothing absolutely nothing, to commend, in the North American? Yes now and then by some strange accident, they do get a sensible essay into their paper, which smacks of America; and not unfrequently, you find a page or two, that seem to have something to do with the subject. But farewell farewell, for the present hereafter I shall put several of these gentry in training. They deserve it; and, if you please, you may publish" what I say and give my name, on demand, to all who have the heart to ask for it. MOLTOJT. JOHN TO SARAH. 1 have just returned from Molton's, and we have agreed upon a time, when he will be as little occupied as possible. He does not suspect my object, I am sure; but I am determined, whatever be the peril, to bring him direct- ly to the point, on the subject of your letter. The inter- view is to be this evening. He is darker and sterner than ever; and, yesterday, when I called, for the first time, since Juliet and he met in my presence, he refused to be seen. But I saw her his wife? yea, his wife. She was wasted away, almost to death; and, when I entered, she started, as if the tread were hostile; nay, during the whole of my visit, for I desired much to see Molton, un- social as he is and was not deterred, until she went her- self, to get permission, and returned with a promise from him, to see me in the evening her eyes were glancing, vividly, and continually, toward the door, the court-yard, and the high road, as if something evil were at hand. She is a majestick creature; and the tone of her voice, went to my heart. We spoke of foreign parts, and she manifested, at times, a remarkably familiar and apt ac- quaintance with every thing of interest; at others, it was less so, evidently from her confusion and anxiety. She must be very young, yet I should think not more than eighteen; and , for an English woman, you know, that is little better than childhood. The servant brought her a L ,. . 114 RANDOLPH. folded paper, while I was there; her hand trembled as she read it; and the colour flew into her face, as she told him, tearing it in pieces, and returning it, to bear it back to the person from whom he brought it, with her compli- ments. 1 wish that you could have seen her. She is more sinned against than sinning; yet the fierce spirit of her eyes; the quick movement of her beautiful lip, when agitated; and the white lustre of her hands, when she put aside her redundant black hair, somewhat angrily, while she tore the billet indicated a disposition com- pounded of fiery and strange elements; one that I should tremble to encounter, in its wrath. Farewell! The moment that I have done with Molton, I shall write you the particulars. A singular affair happened night before last at Jane's. Somebody attempted to break into Juliet's room, but was frightened away. A pistol was fired, and it was then discovered to be a woman some mad creature, we suppose. Juliet was inconceivably alarmed, but it is all over now. JOHN. P. S. I open this to say that yours, from NEW-HAVEN, is just received. I have no time to read it now and have put it aside, to be read and answered, to-night, after my return from Molton's. SARAH TO JOHN. In a letter from Mr. Grenville, whom you may recol- lect, to my father, that arrived just now, as we sat at the breakfast table, is one for me, from our dear Frank. I have scarcely time to scribble a word; but have determin- ed to keep a sort of journal; and, when the sheet is full, to send it. The carriage is at the door. Frank is well when I have read it, at leisure, I will tell you the par- ticulars. We left New- York about two hours since, rose very early, and are just recovering from the degression and desolateness that followed. The air is yet wintry. RANDOLPH. 115 Four o'clock. "We shall not reach New-Haven to night, smd father begins to wish that we had taken the steam boat, as he recommended at first, and sent the carriage round by land. He is quite distressed about the horses; and I am tempted to laugh, sometimes, at my own insig- nificance in comparison. We have just dined; and, when we stop to-night, I shall make it a point, to say a word to Juliet. Heaven bless the dear creature. JViwe o'clock. It has rained all the afternoon; and I am in quite low spirits. My good father, minding his habitual reverence for regularity, rain or shine, gave me a very broad hint, a few moments ago, that I must not think of sitting up any longer than ten, in the parlour; and, after complaining, with much emphasis, of having been jammed up in a close carriage with all sorts of trumpery, "eatery," band-boxes, and girls, in his good natured way which you know there is no resisting, he signified that, when travelling, one ought to go to bed at least one hour earlier than usual. I looked at the clock, and smiled, but I was obliged to go. It stood at nine, and was the Q. E. D. to his proposition; a proposition that, more simply conceived, would have stood thus "Come Sarah, pack off! give me a kiss, and pack off." Nay, at this rate, I shall never begin to make up my despatch for Juliet. So, !> will leave off here; write what I can to her, and enclose it, when I can. NEW HAVEN. At last we have arrived. Really, it is a beautiful place, and I have been all over it, I believe. We drove in, over a pleasant road, just as the people be- gan to get abroad, in the morning, and have been con- stantly occupied since, in racing over the colleges, and examining the fine cabinet of professor Silliman, whose travels in England and Scotland, you have reason to re- member, for their beautiful, unpretending simplicity ; and whose travels to Quebec, &c. just issued, 1 take to be one of the most egregious, and ill-judged pieces of book-ma- king, that was ever perpetrated by so worthy a man. But the cabinet is truly magnificent The professor is a man of science; and a work conducted by him here, I am told, is thought very highly of, by our arrogant friends abroad. The reputation of the college is on the RANDOLPH. increase; and the library here, is one of the most respect- able in America. There are three or four very beautiful churches too, all in a cluster; and, if I may be allowed so to speak, of different orders; one, at any rate, seems really Gothick, and the others, I have not quite pretention enough to give a name to, but they are very pretty. An object of considerable curiosity to strangers, too, is a grave yard. It is full of native marble, of every variety, found, they say, at Middletown, close by oh, I must not forget a trivial incident, that occurred in our ram- bling there. It is a traveller's privilege, you know, to be startled, with the commonest thing, when he has noth- ing else to do. I was reading an epitaph, when my fa- ther touched my arm, and pointed to a figure at a dis- tance, that was leaning against an urn; it was twilight, and his person could not be distinctly seen, but there was something uncommon, and even striking in his attitude. My father took my arm, and, as we returned, we passed near the place, but the stranger averted his head, folded his arms, and took another path. u Did you not observe him, before/* said my father, carelessly. There was something in his tone, neverthe- less, that startled me. I turned and looked in his face, and it instantly flushed across my mind, that there was some suspicion there. I stooped. I laid my hand upon his arm. I remembered how he had resisted, longer and more earnestly than he was wont, my importunity to vi- sit the church yard. "No, sir," said I, "I never saw the man before, in my life, to my knowledge." "I am glad of it," was the reply. But why was he glad of it? Who was the man? Some student, probably, who chose to saunter after us, or re- hearse his attitudes, under the affectation of melancholy, (for such was his appearance) and settled despondency, before us, because he saw that we were strangers. "He has followed us a long time," said my father. "Followed us! who that man!" I exclaimed. It now occurred to me that there was somebody near me, % as I came through a long entry, rather dark, from the cabi- net of Mineralogy, Was this the same person? My RANDOLPH. ,117 blood thrilled at the time, and I turned and caught at my father's arm I remember, but he took no notice of it, whatever, or whoever it was; for it had passed very quickly. "Yes," answered my father, "I believe that I have seen him, twice before to-day; both times, he seemed to be observing us; and once, 1 am sure, he avoided us, as if he were unwilling to be seen. There cousin; if I would stop just there, a very pretty effect might be produced; but unfortunately, the matter has become quite intelligible, since our return. We happened, at tea, to speak of two tremendous rocks, that can be seen from almost any part of the city; one, in particular, which rears itself up, as from the midst of a plain, black- ening, with its shadow, a vast extent of blue water and green turf below. Our landlord heard us, and, as is the fashion here, 1 find, entered into conversation with us, exactly as if we were in his bar room. My father was mightily .pleased with this; and, in his blunt way, kept him in conversation, till the whole mystery came out. It seems that there is an asylum for the deaf and dumb- here; and the pupils are perpetually playing some mad prank iiz the neighbourhood; not long since, they built a great fire upon the top of one of these rocks, at mid- night. The effect was terrible it looked like a furnace in heaven; and the people were all thrown into consterna- tion /or awhile. There are several exceedingly inter- esting creatures, among the helpless association, gifted beings, whose intellectual faculties seem but the brighter, fo> the darkness that abides upon tlieir physical organs, .flow providently are we fitted for such deprivations. If we lose our sight, our feeling becomes all the quicker for it. And so with all our other senses. Have you forgotten our blind friend, Dr. , the lecturer on op- ticks, at Edinburgh? Did you ever hear him maintain that it would be better'to be born without eyes? He does it, something in this way, I believe. First, he proves that his touch is better than our sight; for he can discover the most delicate scratch, made with an etching tool upon a polished steel plate, with the end of his finger, honed for the purpose, when the naked eye cannot. ' of what would darken the heart of any human creature, disappointment in love, or fame, or ambition all in good, part; and even the rest, he takes like one, that is too good not too proud, to repine. In early life, I have heard it said, that he lost the woman of his heart, by death. That were enough to account for the beautiful shadow that abides, forever and ever, upon the landscape of his affec- tion. His manner and style are his own. He is precisely among authors, what your Westall is among painters. I cannot imagine, and do not know a truer parallel. He has written part of Salmagundi Knickerbocker's New- York Biographical Sketches of the American Naval Commanders, during the last war the Sketch- Book, and Bracebridge Hall with sundry little things, "Recollections of a Student" in the New Monthly and some criticism on Campbell, in a very sensible way. PAULDING. A little, slender, sharp, dark-looking man, with an expression of habitual discontent in his eyes strong natural talent and a happy, though not a fine turn, for sober irony and sarcasm. You would swear that he was forever fretting, and quarrelling at the heart, with all the world from the very countenance of the man and that it never could be otherwise. He is the very opposite of Irving, with whom he was associated in making up Salmagundi; and not at all companionable, or social. There is an air of constitutional disdain of the world with a great deal of artificial disdain, for that very world, which he is continually courting, indi- rectly, in all that he does and says. Yet I would trust to his heart, I think, rather than to Irving's, if I wanted a friend that would go to the devil for me. He is a fellow of strong mind witbout brilliancy and a little a very little playfulness: but a homebred talent vigor- ous pure and lasting. He has written a good deal only a part of which, I can now call to mind the Back- woodsman (a poem) a satirical novel, telling the story of our revolution part of Salmagundi and "Letters from the South." He was born in Connecticut, New- England. . RANDOLPH. 139 NEALE. It is impossible to know this man well. I have taken a good deal of pains to understand his char- acter, from those who have seen him, every day, for ma- ny years; but no two of them seem to have the same opin- ion of him. By some he is thought to be all that is bad short of being an outlaw; by others, all that is noble and high of heart. The majority, by a thousand to one, are of the former opinion. I confess, that he is continually baffling me, in my estimate, not only of him, but of his tal- ents, they are so various, contradictory, and capricious. Yet, I do believe that he has great power, and a good heart, which, if it be not dampened by continual disappointment; and kept down by a mighty pressure, at the hazard of crushing all its principles of vitality, will either purify itself, at last, in its own fires, or be consumed to ashes. Nay there are those who expect to see it fall in, every hour, alleging that it has been for many years, inwardly consuming. He is a yankee too a self educated man born in Massachusetts or Maine whose whole life has been a tissue of wild and beautiful adventure. He was horn of poor parents; put apprentice to a shopkeeper, without education ran the gauntlet, it is said, through half a dozen professions; and, finally, at the age of twen- ty three or four, sat himself down to study the law, with- out, at that time, understanding the rudiments of Eng- lish grammar. He is about five feet, eight or nine^-well made light brown hair, light complexion; small, clear, serene, blue eyes large mouth very high forehead stooping in his gait; about thirty now, with a settled expression of haughtiness, and proud discontent-in his very tread-look, and tone. His eyes are full of it his forehead is full of it his voice nay, every thing about him, gives note of an unquiet spirit, continually at her incantations. Rouse him, and you hear his voice, like an alarum in your blood. He is certainly unamiable and, in the opinion of women, very ungenteel; exceedingly positive, loud, abrupt, and imperious; and yet, I am told that no human creature is gentler or fuller of frolick or more of a boy, than he, when he is at home with them that have long known him. His contempt for the world is more 140 RANDOLPH. natural than that of any other man, whom I ever knew; yet even his, I am sure, is partly affected. Else why that continual effort for the notice of the world? Why so ambitious? studious? headlong? Men may say what they will about being above the opinion of the world. They cannot be so. Such men would instantly die. They could not live for a moment in a world, about whose opinion they cared nothing; they would be like some an- imal in an exhausted receiver. They would ascend to the skies by their own levity their own impalpability* The law of attraction could not operate upon such spirit- ualities. No no the flame of ambition cannot burn for a moment, where the breath of the world cannot reach it; and, wherever you see an ambitious man, you may be sure, that you have misunderstood him, or that he lied, when he talked about a carelessness of the world's opin- ion. They say that he is overbearing and quarrelsome; and, if so, of course, he is cowardly. The public opin- ion is very much against him so far, I mean, as mere popularity will go; but, the most that 1 can learn of evil in his character, except what is to be inferred from general prejudice, I should be inclined to think had grown out of his haughty temper; his vanity; his unwil- lingness to soothe and conciliate, what he calls the rabble; and a wounded and impatient spirit, sore with continual buffeting gored into warfare and determined never to yield. I ask them if he is melancholy low spirited or troubled with ill-health, like other men of a literary or poetical habit. But I am told that he is never melancholy; never low-spirited that he is never more than serious, angry, or stern; sustained by unexhaustible animal spi- rits and never sick. If such be the case, he may do something to redeem himself, after all. Let him learn a little discretion subdue his hot temper hurry less, in his manifestation of feeling, and who knows if he may not die a very decent sort of a man. He has written more books, I believe, than are either known or read. He can write a variety of hands and, in a variety of styles but does, generally, write in a fluent, illegible, positive, perpendicular scrawl;-and in a style overflowing with start and turbulence. I have RANDOLPH. 141 seen a few pages, I confess, of his, that were full of a deep, quiet beauty; but, in general, I would as soon think of amus- ing myself, with a regiment of your horse guards, each blowing his own trumpet with both hands, and galloping about me, continually over a cast-iron pavement, as with one of his furious set-to's 9 in what I dare say, he thinks fine writing. He wrote KEEP COOL; NIAGARA; GOLDAU; OTHO; and was editor of the TELEGRAPH, and one of the editors of the PORTICO, I have heard, for a long time. Some other works are attributed to him. EVERETT. This young gentleman, with a counte- nance like a boy, and the ambition of a giant, is about five feet, seven; reddish brow T n hair, smoothed aslant over his forehead; and fine eyes. He is at the head of the Everett school a body of foolish young men, who have counterfeited his gesture, tone, carriage, and manner of wearing his hair. He is a man of fine talent great pe- dantry; a rambling sort of imagination, and a sickly taste for the ancient and obsolete. He is now the main conductor of the North American; or, rather, the head of a class, made up of rich young blockheads, whose fa- thers were rich old blockheads; patricians, graduated and patented, by the lump, at the University of Cambridge, who have been endured by the publick, in the high places of literature, till they really believe that they have a right there. He was a clergyman, and would be a poli- tician. .1 know nothing more of him. His works are brief essays on Architecture Theology -Greece Him- selfand matters and things in general. Heisayankee, too, about thirty. He has a brother, who, I am told, is quite a poetand an adventurer, in the most heroick meaning of the term. PIERPOXT. This man is six feet high thin black hair bushy eyebrows dark, expressive eyes about thirty-eight or forty writes a hand like copperplate talks remarkably well but rather too sensibly makes poetry in the same way, generally: an imitator of , Campbell, Beattie, and Darwin with a talent equal, if 142 "RANDOLPH. not superiour, to either and has been satisfied with do- ing about a thousand lines of very pure, agreeable, quiet rhyming, with, here and there, a magnificent burst of light, or a vivid picture, sparkling with regular vivacity as much out of place nine times out of ten as an eruption of rockets would be, at a concert of flutes and pianos, where people look rather for "bottled velvet/' than Champaigne. He is a clergyman, now was a merchant after practising as a lawyer; born in Con- necticut, New -England. Thus you perceive that our literary men here, are nearly all New-Englanders, or YANKEES and, generally, under the middle size. DANA. Here is another of the amiable school, who, of late years, have made pure poetry so very common- place; and all the pestilent inquietudes of life, so beauti- ul, in their patient yielding to them, that we have no heart to pity a n^an, though he be dying in a consump- tion, when we have once heard the comfort and consola- tion, attendant upon such a death, described by Percival or Dana. He is a yankee light hair light blue eyes middle stature feeble of health and author of the IDLE MAN, a work of uncommon merit. He was the editor of the North American: and was turned out, for writing the best thing that ever appeared in it a review of your Hazletton the British poets. Dana is a poet but not one of them that dazzle and confound you, by their eagle flights rushing, headlong, through the skies nestling among the stars and roosting with constellations. He is more swan-like; contented with floating over the blue waters of the wilderness, through sun and shadow, star- light and cloud gathering wild flowers with his bosom, while he is drifting down the current till he falls asleep in the ambush of his own nest an entrenchment of water lilies and flowering weeds. He too, was educated for he bar. PERCIVAX I don't know. But I hear that he is fee- ble of health has been a doctor a lawyer and is about to be an editor. He is a Connecticut man, too. WALSH Is a small, cold, sober, quaker-looking crea- RANDOLPH. 143 ture, having a good deal of unaffected simplicity about him, with a face well characterised; and, I should think, from the expression, a very good sort of a man. But more of him, by and bye. He is about five feet, six rather deaf pale dark hair and eyes wears specta- cles talks like a book, but without passion and seems, generally, a good deal dissatisfied with all the world. I do not know him well personally, I mean. He is a Marylander; and was intended for the bar. WAITER. This young man was little known. He had a brilliant, but confused beauty, at his heart; a great deal of downright poetry, and was one of the most elegant men, in his manners, that I ever saw. 1 met him once in Boston. He was educated for the ministry; but there was more of the man of the world, in all his doings and sayings, than of one who should be set apart from it. His character was not fully developed when he died, al- though it was at the age of twenty-six or twenty-seven. He was five feet, ten, at least light brown hair large hazleeyes and a fine melancholy face. He wrote SUXEY, and some smaller poems. He was born in Boston, and educated at Harvard. Good bye I must throw by my pencil. E. MOLTON. I have opened this again, to add a P. S. P. S. A friend of mine, (I am sure that I know the fellow, for nobody on earth dares to talk like him,) has just been giving your counsellor Phillips a dressing. I Happened, accidentally, as I was about to fold this, to cast my eye upon the breakfast table, where several pa- pers and letters had just been left, by the penny post; my eyes were attracted to a newspaper, by a column, that appeared to be made up of dashes, and exclamations. I took up the paper read it (it was the New England Galaxy a newspaper, of which the editor, a precious chap is one of our best and bravest, although, to be sure, the.*- do call him a blackguard.) I knew the article im- mediately, and enclose it, herewith, for your arnusnient. Tell me, if you do not think the said counsellor, and the said counsellor's letter to the king, fairly treated. Phil- 144 RANDOLPH, lips, I hold to be a compound of effort, imitation and pre- tence. Look at his imitations of Curran's playfulness, and pleasantry; sarcasm and sublimity. What monstrous carricatures they are. If Curran happen to be guilty of the possessive case, or of alliteration, Phillips will never be contented with less than a speech-full of both. If Curran speak of a buoyant pestilence, Phillips, on the first pre- tence, gives one a particular description of it, with the harbour regulations, and quarantine laws; all in superfine poetry. If Curran happen to quote a line of an old song, in some case of crim. con. we are sure tohear, line after line, song after song, from the counsellor, on the first case of crim. con. that he has the misfortune to be retained in; and that, too, with an inaptitude of illustration, so mis- erably conspicuous and obtrusive, that one cannot help pitying him. If Curran, roused and inflamed with in- dignation, discharges his great heart, in one volley of tempestuous heat, which terrifies and confounds us, like an exploding thunder-bolt, the counsellor is sure to light- en at us, all day long, when ever the title of the cause is the same for any resemblance is precedent enough for him yet, his lightning is never the sudden combustion of a great bosom, devoutly conscious of being inhabited by the Divinity, and exasperated with the goading and heat of its continual presence, into an unexpected erup- tion but it is what we may call, a genteel illumination a transparency not the battle itself but a picture of it, beautifully illuminated, with coloured gas not the flash of the firmament, darkened with evolving thunder clouds, but set thick with glow worms and Chinese crackers. If Curran but take up the naked heart of some scoundrel witness; prepare to penetrate and explore it, even to the place where the black drop is lurking; dazzling and blinding us all the while, with the inces- sant play of a weapon, whose unspeakable brightness and edge, makes our blood tremble, counsellor Phillips will be sure to get hold of somebody's heart, no matter whose, nor when, nor where and all the while, flourish- ing his dainty fingers about, like a lecturer upon nose- gavs, set it all round with surgical instruments, and fire works 'till it logk like a cutler's shop, on a birth night j RANDOLPH. 145 a steel porcupine; or a barber's cushion, in a "new estab- lishment." Counsellor Philips always appears to me, when he is in a transport of eloquence, to be transported, secundum artem. He has persuaded himself, I am afraid, that losing one's subject in a speech, is equivalent to losing ones-self. I never can get the notion out of my head, when 1 hear him, (you have not forgotten the dinner at Brimstone Hall, and his oration, in reply to a toast from Carter) that he has committed a speech to memory and that, happen what may, he will be delivered of it. And yet, say what he will, and how he will, I am always in a sort of perplexity about his design; and troubled, too, with a kind of insupportable gossipping pity and compassion that wants the dignity of interest just as if 1 were listening to a human creature, who was continually exposing himself, without suspecting it; to some poor fellow, who, having no command over him- self, his thought, language, or organs of utterance, in publick, comes into a place where he is not wanted, after having prepared himself, brimful, of the wine and bright- ness of a great speech, for a great occasion has begun to deliver it exactly as he did not intend to saying just what he meant not to say and, in a tone of voice entire- ly different from what he intended- so as to give to sar- casm the force of explanation; and to playfulness the ac- cent or outcry rather of a belaboured heart jumbling all together pell-mell "pump or no pump" as Salma- gundi says. Such are my notions of this man. I have often ex- pressed them -and, allowing a little for exaggeration, I think that my good friend here, in rubbing down the counsellor, has had an eye to some of my extravagancies, at the same time. What think you, Stafford? Is it not a good deal in my manner? A little caricatured, per- haps; but, nevertheless, very like me. COUNSELLOR PHILLIPS. With feelings of indigna- tion that we cannot suppress, and that no honest man, who looks earnestly to the growth of a sound judgment among our young men, ought to suppress, even if he could, 146 RANDOLPH. have we risen from the "LETTER OF COUNSELLOR PHIL- LIPS TO THE KIKG." Who can endure such stuff? Some nun , but who can listen to the shameless, tasteless, un- thinking and profligate applause that is lavished upon it. What is it? \> hat are all his speeches? N othing more nor less than this Splendid rigmarole entangled and glittering rhapsody without argument, without sinew, without bone, muscle or arrangement a shining and fan j tastick assemblage of rattle-traps and pastework. Do we deny Charles Phillips genius? No but it is the genius of delirium and infatuation. He is merely merely a genius he is destitute of talent. There is the bloom and the incense, but not the stamina of the true flower. He is a poet too and his poetry is prose, and his prose poetry. Has he passion? No He is only an actor an actor too, who, were he playing the very Lears of the drama sweating in agony beneath the load of his humiliation aye, in the very tempest and whirlwind of his passion, would be completely disconcerted, if a feather swayed awry, or the moon went up the heavens iw-picturesquely. He has been compared to Cumw/ He! to Curran! "Hyperion to a Satyr." Powers of Eloquence! What has he of the Curran? of his wit! his genius? flashing its hv raciiations forever and ever? What of his all- elevating eloquence? What of his passionate and tempestuous en- thusiasm, that lifted up and swept away, as with the over- powering authority of inspiration, all hearts and heads, all judgments, spirits and intellects. Curran was a LAWYER. Phillips is not and cannot be. He wants the edge the adamant all the powers of analysis and de composition. He wants other faculties. Curran's, it is true, was not the lawyer-like attitude o f a colossus; eternal immoveable; but it might have been. It was not, because he smote, and toiled, and battled for a nobler, higher and more glorious elevation; for that of the advocate. Curran was an ADVOCATE. The explosions of his elo- quence unpremeditatedunlocked for were, as if Paul, in the midst of Mars-Hill, or where he shook Agrip- pa upon his throne had stretched forth his arm, RANDOLPH. 147 and cried, behold! and as if, then in the east, or in the west, or wherever he had pointed, some apparition had suddenly stood up, with its forehead in the sky or chariots and horsemen were thundering in the air. But Charles Phillips! could he do such things? Never. The most fearful charm that he ever wrought before the heart of man, in mystery, passion, or enthu- siasm, was the sickening, baby incantation of the nur- sery. compared to Curran: the contemptible trash of the witches of Macbeth, divested of its ferocious truth, and sparkling with conceit, compared with the wizard sum- moning of Prospero, in his cave, when the moon stands still in the sky and the round earth quivers to the cen- tre. Curran always forgot himself. Phillips never. Cur- ran was an orator Phillips a rhetorician. Cumin could hold you, in spite of yourself, till all your faculties were gasping. Phillips never even intoxicates you never el- evates you never makes you forget, either him, or your- self. And yet Charles Phillips has been classed yes, yes! Charles Phillips! with John Philpot Cui-ran. As I hope for mercy, the only thing I know in favour of counsellor Phillips is, that John Philpot Curran used to permit him to sit at his table. Curran rode the thoroughly trained war-horse hoof, muscle and limb for the trial husbanding his wind his great heart quaking to meet the battle. Phillips frisks "about upon an ill-broken colt, eternally kicking up his heels and entangling his hoofs in his trappings and finery or running himself to death, like Bucephalus, from a sha- dow. Curran is an eagle breaking through the thick- est cloud, with one clap of his resounding pinions wash- ing purifying drenching himself in the fiercest element of heaven a spirit baptized in fire Phillips -O, what is Charles Phillips a hair brained poet a humming bird, a glittering insect, bathed in dew, revelling in perfume, sparkling from head to tail, with twinkling ornament and buzzing and blundering about, without aim or object, except to be heard and seen. And yet Charles Phillips's speeches are spoken of, as the creation of feeling and eloquence. God of heaven! 148 what a profanation. Feeling! the man never felt ex- cept for a mis-printed sentence or an unmusical termina- tion. His feeling is mawkish sentimentality the whim- peri ng,lack-a-daisical stuff of song books. Not the loud pulsation of a heart suffocating in its own thought fes- tering in its own indignation, or dissolving in the sym- pathy of godlike natures. His eloquence! it is froth'and flummery. His style of writing holds about the same re- lation to Eloquence, that the tones of a Cremona do, to the rolling organ or the rattling thunder. Look at the effect. Hear Curran for a moment on he goes, fearless and proud in his stepping, his heart gushing out with the pure element of his thought suddenly his eye quickens! it flashes fire! his form contracts his action is hurried an overwhelming burst of eloquence succeeds! filling all hearts, shaking all bosoms, thrilling every artery of your frame as if a cloud had passed over your heads, for a moment, charged with the electricity and the reverberation of heaven. You look back upon your feel- ings. You are on a dizzy and perilous height but you can trace your course you can see how you got there. You are not ashamed of your nature or of yourself you are proud of the transport that you have felt; glad that you were capable of acting and thinking with such gen- erous madness: and glorying in your relationship to a creature, so capable of moving heaven and earth, as it would seem. But how is it with Phillips. You rise, heated not by overwrought enthusiasm but heated, and feverish, ashamed of yourself, emasculated, dastardly; with a gen- eral sense of weariness, lassitude and oppression, as of excessive indulgence, satiety and self dissatisfaction as one would feel, who had broken a tedious fast upon sweet- meats, or been imprisoned all night long with singing birds in some milliners shop. ^ Let CuBiiAN be summoned from his grave. Bid him walk into the council chamber of his sovereign, and lift up his voice in behalf of the woman of sorrow. Would you hear any of this endless sing-songsee any of this eternal twinkling or metaphor and foppery? No. You would not see a creature decked out in tinsel and RANDOLPH. 149 paste -work, from head to foot, perpetually writhing himself into attitudes and flourishing his arms, and nodding his head, merely because, when he nodded, there was a scintillation of spangles about his " baby brow" and because when he tossed his arms upward, his robe threw out a few changeable corruscations, for the mob to wonder at! No! But you would hear a deep voice an awful silence would surround you every pulsation of your heart would be counted. You would see a man, stand- ing like the prophet when he rebuked the waters; and the kingly tides went rolling backward, encumbered with horse and horsemen, banner and chariot. You would see a hand- writing upon the sky and you would believe, whil you heard in imagination, the Angel, the Exterminator placing his foot upon the East and upon the West, and preparing to pour out his vial you would believe that "already" the, kingdom had departed from George and the sceptre from the house of Hanover. You would stand too like him of old- who saw his fellow man swept upward to the everlasting skies, in a whirlwind of dust and fire you would be prostrate and breathless bowed down, and blind with apprehension and dismay. Thus would you feel, were Curran to address his sovereign. But how feel you now, when Phillips does this? Oh, it is sacrilege to compare such men! JOHN OMAR TO SARAH RAMSAY. I have been away ever since the night when I saw Mol- ton; and I have just left him again, having heard the rest of his story. Will you hear it? You say, if I remem- ber right, that his first offence was stay, I will refer to the letter itself; lay it open before me, and answer it, in my usual way, line by line. *##=*##*## * Sarah you must wait. 1 have lost your letters, or, what is worse, left them in Molton's study. What if he should see them! 1 will go this instant* O 150 RANDOLPH. Heaven be praised! Sarah I have them again un- touched unprofaned. Molton had followed me out, it appears: and there lay the letters, folded, one within the other, just as I left them, on the table. I beg ten thous- and pardons for my carelessness but I was afraid to leave them at home, and have carried them always about me. I took them out there, merely to see how his story, and that which you have heard, would correspond; and that I might refer to them, if necessary, to refresh my memo- ry. But let me proceed. I entered, abruptly, upon the sub- ject of my visit. I told him that I would not be his friend at halves, that I respected him, and desired to respect him. It was later than I intended; and he took out his watch, with a serious air, and laid it upon the table be- fore him. I asked no questions, but began, and went through, without flinching, the whole that I had heard. His countenance never changed, once, only excepted, when 1 thought that he smiled inwardly. "Do you believe the stories?" he said calmly. What could I say? I did not believe them. I told him so. He smiled. "Mr. Omar," said he, "this will be a lesson to you. What you have heard, is from good authority; yet, you have dared to believe it untrue. On what evidence, I do not ask you. It is enough for me that you believe me innocent. Had you believed me guilty, you would have gone home as you came. I should have disdained to reply. Do you fully acquit me?" I bowed I know not why; for I saw something sarcastick, in his manner, such as I would use to a petu- lent, inquisitive boy to one that I was making a fool of. There was a dead silence. His face grew more so- lemn and pale. He looked me full in the eyes; laid both of his hands upon the table, and pronounced these words, deliberately, in a low voice, that 1 shall never forget, never, to my dying day "The stories are true," Was he mad? 1 looked at him. in amazement. Was it his voice? I know not. It did not sound like his; nor had I ever heard aught that resembled it, from RANDOLPH. 151 f 'Mr. Omar," said he (at the sound of his voice then} I recovered instantly from my consternation.) He took no notice of my surprise; and I began to doubt if my ears had not deceived me. "Mr. Omar the stories are true." . I started from my seat. Nay I was on the point of strik- ing him. I raised my arm, but he struck it down, lifeless, at my side. "Boy," said he, "sit down. Had that blow alighted on me, you had been a corpse, at this moment. Sit down, and hear me. The stories, even as you have them, arc from my own lips. I betrayed my- self. The secret was my own but I chose to betray it-" I shuddered my whole side was numb. And I sat before him, like something helpless, and at his mercy. I shall now endeavour to give you a faithful account of all that passed between us, at this interview; and I would have you reflect on the character, that he betrayed in his reasoning. "Yet, you must listen to my account of the same trans- actions," said he. 'You shall. But beware how you lift your hand against me. A blow, t cannot en- dure. I have sworn never to endure it, again; and I never will. If you are angry with me, strike me to the heart. There lies my sword. There are my pistols. 1 am weary of life. I will uncover my breast to you. I will not defend myself. But, again, do I say to you, John Omar, as you value your own life, do not lift your hand, to give me a blow. It has cost more than one man dear- ly, already. But, to the point. I thank you for putting your question home, without circumlocution or apology. It shows that you have a good opinion, at least, of my temper and self command." "Nay," said I, interrupting him, "even more than that; it shows that 1 do not believe what I have heard. No man, if he believed that another was a villain, could speak to him on the subject, without hesitation. He would fal- ter ." "You did falter," rejoined Molton. "But, no matter for that. You have, on the whole, dared to tell me, what the world has thought proper to say of me. And, although RANDOLPH. it is very true, that, by asking me, directly, if I be guilty or not guilty, you manifest much confidence in me; and much more than you would have done, by coming at me with a side wind; yet, after all, your very question might have been an insult." "An insult! how so? I do not believe what I have heard." "Not entirely, you should say," he replied; "but, to a certain degree, you must believe it, or you would repel the whole, at once, with indignation. Would it not be an insult* think you, to ask a woman if she is virtuous?" "Why to be sure it but I do not ask you any such question. 1 only tell you what they say of you, abroad." "True. But do you not watch my countenance, all the while; and do you not look to hear me defend myself, in- dignantly, with the vehement courage of an injured and insulted man." "To be sure but then, I do this, that I may be able to defend you, myself." "To defend me! What w r ould a modest woman say to a champion, that would throw down a gauntlet in the same way, in defence of her reputation? Would it not be an insult?" "Not, if her reputation were attacked." "I beg your pardon. The highest and most unap- proachable purity, is only dishonoured by it: a second rate purity may be honoured by it. Were I, in your es- timation, utterly guiltless, you would mock at these tales; and deride them, as the clumsy invention of idle and wick- ed gossips. But being, what I am, not utterly guiltless, in your own estimation, but only guilty in a less degree, you have had the courage to tell me what people say, in a manner that convinces me of your respect. Not men- tioning it at all, would have been the^roof, that you held me to be wholly guilty, or wholly innocent. But what is the matter? You look puzzled." "I am puzzled; I confess it. And yet, an illustration occurs to me that but illustration is not argument," RANDOLPH. 153 'I beg your pardon : illustration is analogy; and what is analogy, but argument? But no matter about that, for the present. Let us hear your illustration." "Well then it was to this effect. Suppose that I had heard George Washington charged with habitual drunk- enness; and suppose that I was intimate with him, as I am with you. I should scorn to reply to such a charge. I should never mention it to him, at all, in all probability; and, certainly, never, as I have mentioned these matters to you, watching his countenance all the while. You smile. You are preparing to overthrow me entirely. I see it in your eyes; and, I believe, unless I very much mistake your character, that you would not care what became of your own hypothesis, while you were demolishing my il- lustration. Is it not so? What say you?" "Never mind. Go on finish your illustration." "Thank you. I feel it like a reprieve. 1 was about to say, then, that, if I had heard Washington charged with having been, on some one occasion, drunk, instead of being habitually so, I should, were 1 his friend, probably enter into a defence of him, with great warmth; and, pro- bably, on some occasion or other, ask him about the truth of it. And why? Because I might believe the latter charge to be possible. This confirms your doctrine. I believe, that you are possibly guilty in some degree. But did I believe you altogether guilty, or not at all so, then I should never have mentioned the matter to you. In the first place, I should not dare to mention it; and, in the latter, I should scorn to. But, what are you mu- sing about?" "I can hardly tell you," said he, after a pause. "A strange hypothesis, that I cannot immediately master, is disturbing me. At some future period, we will have some talk about it. It is an alarming paradox, and, if I am right, will explain certain operations of our mind, that have been, for a long time, unintelligible to our meta- physicians." "Pray, what is it?" "In one word, then, it is but we cannot, well, dis- cuss it, now. It is, that the more improbable a story is, O 2 154 ^ % BAWDOLPH. the more probable it is. I am very serious. I state it as a paradox; and, at present, omit all its qualifications and exceptions. People that lie, are often, nay, generally, more plausible than others. You will hear a man of ve- racity tell a common story, so as to look suspicious; while an habitual liar will make up a very uncommon story, that shall appear probable. The former disdains all trick; he has never been doubted: and he never trou- bles himself to ask, if what he relates be probable. But the latter seeks to make whatever he may tell, probable in the minutest particular. He is full of circumstantiality; he gives place, time, and language. It is a well known mark of suspicion, in courts of justice, that the story of a witness is very particular, consistent, and circumstan- tial. It looks like a prepared tning. Arid men of experi- ence know, that a witness upon the stand, if he be very scrupulous and honest, is much more liable to contradict himself, and to become embarrassed, than the perjured scoundrel. The former will hesitate, and qualify, and weigh; where the latter swears it out, roundly, promptly, and without any embarrassment." "A man -that makes up a lie, then, will make it proba- ble. To my notion, then, a story is more likely to be true, from the very want of plausibility upon the face of it. Liars are ingenious and ready. If a man should say to me, therefore, that Washington was habitually in- temperate, I should be more apt GO believe that he was telling the truth, than if he should sit down and tell me a long and particular story, about having seen him drunk on some one occasion; and how he was dressed; and what he said and did; and when it was, and where; and who was there, &c. &c. So that, to despatch this affair, at once, it would seem, that a story may be the more probable for its very improbability.' 99 There, Sarah, I think that I have given you a fair sample of Molton's manner, when he trifles, with that air of earnest pleasantry, for which he is so remarkable; and, now, I will attempt to repeat the remainder of our conversation. After a few moments, he turned toward me, again; and addressed me, as nearly as I can recollect, in the very words following. RANDOLPH. "The first story that you heard is true. When I was a hoy, between 16 and 17 years of age, I was a kind of under-strapper in a large store; and lived at the house of my master. A very pretty, or rather, a very good- looking girl, a relation of the family, was on a visit there, at the same time. For a week or two, when we were alone, she was rather condescending; und used to talk to me, very graciously, about novel -redoing. At last, she prayed me to borrow one, called ARIEL, from a friend of her's, promising to lend it to me, when sh* had done with it. I borrowed the book, and was very impatient to read it; for I read with exceeding avidity, whatever came in my way. She read very slowly, and 1, with un- common rapidity." "One evening, after tea, there came a barrel 0f Med- ford crackers, to the house; which, for some reason or other, was put into the closet of this girl's room. \I held the candle, I remember; and while 'they were stowing away the barrel, I saw the novel lying on the mantle*- piece." , "The next day, while I was at the store, a sudden De- sire took hold of me, to eat one of the *'Medford cracl ers." I cast about, for some time, to see how I shoulc manage the matter; and at last, determined to run home for a moment; go up to my chamber, which opened into the same landing with her's; arid, if I found her door open, as it generally was, in the day time, to slip into her room, and get a supply. I am too old, now, to laugh at such things, or to wonder at any thing; or else, I should say that I ne~ver knew an example of childish infatuation like mine. I was not hungry. I had enough to eat, and of the best quality. Yet, so it was; I had a longing, such I suppose, as women have at times, and green girls for blue clay, chalk and charcoal; and I determined to gratify it. I went home; and, as I passed the parlour, I saw somebody, whom I took to be the girl in question, with a baby in her arms. I was certain that it was she. I saw her as plainly as I now see you; and I would have sworn that it was she. I hurried up stairs, stepped soft- ly through my room, and found the door of her's, contra- 156 ry to what I had observed, whenever I had occasion to go to my chamber in the day time, shut. I attempted to turn the handle very softly succeeded; and was opening it, gradually, inch by inch, for fear of being heard; when, somebody, a woman too, about half dressed, sprang toward it, and shut it violently in my face; but, unluckily, not witfiout seeing me." ** And here, oy the way, I have a hint to give, which may be useful* one day or other, to some unhappy fellow, in a like predicament. Doors are apt to creak; there are two ways of preventing it lift, or bear down upon the lateh; and open or shut it, swiftly. But, if neither will do, follow my example mew faintly, like a cat; or make a noise like a sleeper, snoring; do this, and you will be safe, any where, provided you keep time with the creaking of the door. But let me return to the crackers. My heart, itself had well nigh exploded with shame. I was innocent, but appearances were enough to hang me." <*What could I do? My trepidation was excessive. Net that I feared any living creature, in the way of per- sonal chastisement; but I was terrified to the heart, at life. It has been a long one, and full of self-denial, in relation to women. I have led many into peril; but I never availed myself of it. Yet, of this, I have no witness; and I disdain to use asseveration." "When I first saw this child, she was a pretty little creature, about eleven years old, I believe. She became very fond of me; and I loved her, as I would have loved my own sister. She had an innocent and caressing way with her; w r as remarkably affectionate; and, to my thought, felt, even at that age, with more of the feeling of a woman, than of ti child." "Some years afterward, I met her again. She had grown tall and ugly; was careless in her appearance, awkward, hoyden-like, and slovenly. I remonstrated with her; I taught her to w rite and draw. 1 had con- tinual opportunity to profit of her unsuspicious, grateful temper; but I forbore. I never toyed with her. I never trifled with her; I never romped with her; I never kissed her; and I never attempted any liberties with her. I w ill not say, that, while directing her, in her drawing or writ- ing lesson, I may not have laid my hand over her lap, or half encircled her waist, with my arm, as she leaned over me. She betrayed her feeling toward me, in several ways; once, when we firsi met, after a separation of two or three years, by catching my hand and kissing it, as we both stooped, at the same moment, to pick up some- thing that one of us had dropped; and, many times, by 162 RANDOLPH. coming into my chamber, which was opposite to her own, anu challenging me, by her countenance and hilarity, to a game of romps: not by words that she never did; for she was afraid of me, and more afraid of my opinion." "For a long time, we lived together in the same house. Her chamber and mine were so situated, that I continual- ly passed her door, when I went to bed, and when I rose. She knew this, of course; yet, so neglectful was she of propriety; or so indifferent to it, that I have seen her, again and again, dressing and undressing, night and morning, often, when the door was ajar; and, once or twice, through the key-hole. You look indignant; look so I do not blame you. I am no listener at key -holes; "but I hold it to be something brutish and insensible, to pass by any opportunity of seeing a beautiful woman, (nature's masterpiece,) naked, without profiting by it. "More than once, have I seen that child lying, in the moonlight, almost naked; or, of a warm summer morn- ing, in her quiet, untroubled innocence and security; and I have stood and contemplated her, with a feeling more nearly allied to religion* than to impurity." "One night, she was terrified in her sleep; and left her bed, precipitately; ran into a neighbouring chamber, and crept into bed, with an old negro woman, to whom she declared that a black man had been attempting to strangle her. I heard the story at the time, and laughed at it, as the dreaming of a child. But, at last, I learned to avail myself of it, in my own defence. It was nearly ^ year after her fright; and happened somewhat after this fashion. I had seen her naked, no matter how nor where; and I had good reason to believe that she knew it, at the time. Nay, I still believe so. Some other sus- picion entered my heart, about the same time; of what na- ture, I need not declare, since 1 am perfectly satisfied that her thought, like my own, was innocent. As I lay meditating on the whole of my acquaintance with her, a strange curiosity arose in my heart, to ascertain the truth of my conjecture. My plan was immediately formed, and deliberately executed; but, with no disposition to injure the poor girlj far less, with any thought of her dishonour- RANDOLPH. 163 I meant to give her, as I have given more than one wo- man, a lesson, that she would never forget, i did not mean to sacrifice her; but I meant to place her in such a situa- tion, that she would have been in my power: what I mean by, being in my power, is only, that she should not dare, on her own account, to call out, or resist me." "I went to her bed. I lay down by her side, and put my arm, very gently, over her, so that it rested upon a little child, that slept with her at the time. And this re* minds me of another of her little imprudencies. While she was in bed, the uncle of the child used to go up, and take it out of her arms, and whip it; and this uncle was a young man, and no relation of her's, either by blood or marriage." "She awoke, and asked "wfio's this?" I did not reply, because I thought that she might mistake me for her usual companion, a woman who grew somewhat accustomed to familiarity, before she married the scoundrel, who has driven me to this defence." "She was terrified, and repeated the question. I had no other object to answer. I had ascertained that she neither wished for me, nor expected me; and I assure jou that, till I had tried the experiment, I did believe both. Her friends ought to thank me for having ascertained the truth, and vindicated her purity from all suspicion. I arose, immediately, and returned to my room. But hardly had I thrown myself into my own bed, 'when I heard her cries. They alarmed me. For the first time, I began to tremble for the consequences of my own in- temperate and wicked curiosity. I opened my door, and she threw herself into my arms, gasping for breath, and shaking from head to foot. I asked her what was the matter. "O, there's a man in my room! there's a man in my room!" she kept continually repeating. I pretend- ed to search the room, while she ran down stairs, and jumped into bed with a man and his wife; and there lay, poor creature, quaking all night long. The search for the man was in vain, of course." "It is wonderful how accident will oftentimes befriend the villain. My door I had purposely left open, two or three nights before, under pretence of carrying off 164 RANDOLPH. the smoke and smell of the charcoal, which arose from the wood that I was in the habit of burying every night, in the ashes, that I might have a good bed of coals in the morning; but, in reality, to facilitate my escape, if there should be any outcry. On this very night, it so happened that one of the servants, in passing my room, saw the light of her candle flash upon the further wall of my chamber, opposite to the door; and mention- ed it. To this, my practice, of late, to leave the door open, was a complete reply." "I had taken care to shut the door of the girl's room, when I entered, lest some person might pass, while it was'open, and suspect something. The consequence was, that I had to open and shut it, on returning; two things that I foresaw might give me trouble, if any alarm should happen before. But mark my good fortune. Nobody could open the door without making some noise; althotigb he should open it, as I did, softly for a moment, and then, very swiftly. A lady \*ho slept below, main- tained, that the whole was another dream of the poor girl's; and declared that she had been wide awake all the while; that she heard her cry out, wAo's this; and all the subsequent confusion; but that there was no door opened or shut. "Of that she was positive!" The poor girl, on the contrary, maintained that it was opened and shut, with some violence. She was mistaken both were mistaken but, in the mean time, I escaped. Their con- tradiction neutralised the testimony of each. I was par- ticular in shutting it, though she was at my heels, lest she might see me enter my own room, which was exact- ly opposite to her's, but I shut it very softly." "There was another fact. The poor girl said, that she felt the beard of a man, when she put up her hand, and touched his face; and that it was very strong and harsh. I remembered that she had touched my face, and took care to shave, very closely, the next morning, before I appeared. My smooth chin I dare say, was observed. Then, if you add to this, that she had been just as badly fright- ened before, by nothing at all, you will not wonder that* after all, considering the infirmity of human testimony., RANDOLPH. 165 I was not even suspected, except, perhaps, by the girl herself; who, I believe, regarded it, if she did sus- pect me, as a/roJicfc/" "The affair, as I tell you, passed over, without any attention; and no living creature could ever have known the truth, but for me. At length, I began to feel some distress about the matter. I was afraid that the poor girl might be troubled all her life, to determine whether the whole was an apparition or a reality. I was unwilling to let her suffer in that way; and equally unwilling to tell the truth. And why? Because the plain truth would be less probable, I knew, than a lie, such as I could readily invent. I chose the latter, and told it to her own brother-in-law, my most intimate friend, a good and wise man. He knew me, and believed me; and pledged his o vvn faith for my veracity. The family continued to treat me as usual. I visited them all, and was beloved and respected by all. This pained me. My blood was troubled. I felt that I did riot deserve it; and I could hard- ly refrain from telling the truth, many a time, when the thought came over me. Was that man to blame? No! He was deceived; and deceived by a man who never at- tempted to deceive, in vain; by a man who could, and can deceive any human being; by one, to whom many years are but as a single day, if his purpose be deception by myself.Tht story that I told, was this: I acknowledg- ed that it was I, myself, who visited her in bed but I told him, at the same time, that it happened in my sleep." "You have not forgotten," said I, "that, when I was in love with Mary-Ann, (one of my early flames,) that Joe (the blockhead who is the author of all this mischief) endeavoured, continually, to discourage my affection for her, chiefly by ridiculing my confidence in her; nor have you forgotten, that I tore her from my heart, forever, in consequence of her having permitted him to kiss her. I never forgave him for it, of course, although the attempt was made with my own approbation.'* "You know, too," I continued, "that his present wife slept in the same bed, frequently, with the girl, of whom 166 BANDOLPH. we have been speaking; that, on the very night when this affair took place, Joe was married to her." "Now, these things were all true, Mr. Omar, and he knew. them to be so: but listen to the remainder of my story." "This same Joe, by the way, I may as well give you some notion of. He is the most unprincipled and con- temptible profligate, that I ever saw; and, either the greatest liar, or the most successful villain, among women, upon earth. I know not how he used to succeed as he did; but that he did succeed, to a certain degree, sometimes, I know, of my own knowledge. The sum of his fascination; and his manner of fondling and whin- ing himself into the hearts of women, I am perfectly fa- miliar with. He danced prettily; wore pomatum in his hair; affected to be quite miserable, and sentimental, and very affectionate; quoted poetry; and particularly a versi- fication of Sterne's Maria, and some lines from Camoens, in that devilish lackadaisical manner, which to some wo- men is perfectly irresistible; a part of the last, I can remember." "For I was made in joy's despite, "And meant for misery's slave; "And all my hours of brief delight, "Fled, like the speedy winds of night, "Which soon shall wheel their sullen flight, "Across my grave!* 5 "You have no idea of the effect produced upon the women of his intimate acquaintance, by the occasional repetition of these lines. Those who could not understand the po- etry, understood the tone and all were deeply affected. They wept with him, pitied him, either sobbed upon his bosom, or let him sob upon theirs; nay, some of them went into '-a melancholy;'? one grew very thin, to my know- ledge, and another very fatj the latter of whom, he secret- ly married; and that too, after swearing to me, that he would not think of such a thing, without consulting me. It was that man, who first reconciled me to the company RANDOLPH. 167 of abandoned women. Thus much for his character, Mr. Omar; and now, for the tale that I told, in my own defence, interweaving much truth, with much false- hood, merely that the poor girl might not be under a de- lusion all her life, in the matter; and that I might not be utterly reprobate in their opinion." "I lay that night," said 1, (the night of his marriage,) "ruminating on my past life; recalling my early love, which he had turned to bitterness; I remembered the pang that it gave my heart, when he told me that he had succeeded; and, while I remembered it, I fell asleep; for so vividly and strangely interwoven were the imaginary and the real, throughout the whole of the adventure, that they cannot, even now, be separated in my recollection. He came to me, I thought, and I reproached him. for having drugged my wine-cup with poison. He defended him- self on the ground, that he had done it with my permis- sion. We wrangled for some time, until he, himself, as I thought, proposed that 1 should make the same attempt upon the woman of his heart, who lay in the next room. I arose, and went to her bed, and lay down by her side, as I thought; nor did I awake, till I heard a loud outcry; which, when I first awoke, and found myself in bed with another person, in a strange place, was more like a dream to me, than any thing that had passed. At length, however, I remembered enough to assist me in recover- ing my own room. &c. &c. &c." "That, Mr. Omar, is the substance of my story. It was beliered, as I have already told you, and by one, who knew me, most intimately? and why? because itvvas probable. He knew that I had never taken any liberties with the poor girl; that I had never corrupted, nor sought to corrupt her; that I was not a sensualist nor a protti- ga e; that I had lost my early love/in the way that I mentioned; that Joe was married in the night, when the affair took place; and that his wife did sleep* frequently, in the same bed with the girl. Therefore, as I have told you, he believed me. But, had I told the truth, he would not have believed me. It was too improbable. Do you doubt this? I appeal to fact. I did tell him X68 RANDOLPH. the truth, the simple, unadulterated truth, afterward, freely, and of my own accord; yet, he did not believe me." "Yes the account that I gave, was believed. But, what of that? my conscience grew uneasy. I had told a lie. That was nothing; I cared little for that, then. I regarded it as a legitimate and lawful exercise of my imagination, like writing a novel or a poem. But, the thing that pained me, was, a doubt of my own motive. I had deceived one, that loved and respected me. It lay heavily at my heart, until I had added two or three more deceptions to it; when, all at once, they became insupportable. They would have crushed me; but I arose, with a convulsive effort, and threw them off, for- ever. I told the truth. I turned self-accuser, before a mortal tribunal. I disdained to parley with dishonour. I denounced Edward Molton, with my own mouth. Who thanked me for it? Who thought the better of me for it? Nobody nobody! John Omar, look at me if I would, I might be ten times the villain that I am, or ever have been, and pass through life, unsuspected. You look upon me with amazement. You wonder at my infatuation. You would ask what I can hope to gain, by laying bare my whole heart, before the uncharitable and distrustful; before them, whose very self-love will pre- vent them from respecting me, when they find how they have been deceived. My answer is a very simple one. I have done my duty; and whatever I hold to be my du- ty, that will 1 do, whatever happen. I have learnt to disregard all other considerations, of late.") "Can it be your duty," said I, after a pause, "to pub- lish the shame of a family, with whom you have been so intimate? to put in jeopardy, the peace of a woman, who, whatever might have been the character of her hus- band, is now tranquil, and respectable, and unsuspect- ed?" "Yes It is my uty. Her husband has driven me to it. He has presumed too much upon my patience; and, not only he, but his whole family. He, in particular, has, almost while i held his hand in mine, sought to damn my reputation, secretly. Let him take the consequences. RANDOLPH. 169 By showing that he is a profligate, and a liar, I can best defend myself from his aspersions. I feel no hostili- ty to many of the females; but wo to the men, if they provoke me. My character shall not go down to my children profaned wo to them that compel me to stand at bay. I will execute justice upon them." I was alarmed at his countenance; it was full of un- sparing denunciation. "Justice!" said I "it is vengeance." "Be it vengeance, then. Call it what you please. My own heart tells me that I am doing rightly; that I have forborne too long; so long, that, unless I awake and prostrate my assailants, I may be bound down, and im- prisoned, forever, like Gullivar, with cobweb; which, had I not slept too soundly, might have been broken asunder, by a breath. I ." He stopped suddenly. I looked up. His eyes were ri vetted upon the clock. It wanted five minutes of twelve. Not another word was spoken, till it struck twelve. Never did I endure such an awful silence. His eyes were shining and motionless; and his lips open, as if he were some criminal, awaiting his doom, and feeling its approach, in every beat of his pulse if his pulse did beat for mine stopped; and the clock, too that ap- peared to stand still, for a time. He then turned slowly toward me, and demanded if I would take a bed with him. "Your room is just as you left it; you are our onty guest, our only material guest, I should say; dare you sit with me for one hour longer no more?" "Dare I ? I do 'not understand." He did not appear tojheed my reply; and I repeated it. "Yes, sir 'dare you? Dare you jfc- up, face to face, with a -with a mortal man, wlfti his countenance, looks like mine at this moment; moves like mine ~-is bleached and blasted stained like mine Sir my friend Omar do not leave me alone, to night, Do not If yqu are a man, you will 170 RANDOLPH. I was terrified with the horrour that his face expressed. I knew not what to say. I could not comprehend his purpose. But I said, as coolly, as I could. "No, Mol- ton I will not leave you 1 " He sprang from his chair; he seized my hands; he almost embraced me; nay, I could swear that there were tears in his eyes. But he shook in every joint. "Very well I have your promise 1 ." The most astonishing fixedness followed, as he said this; his lips moved but his voice died away, in a hol- low, inarticulate whisper; and his eyes were fixed upon the terrace that passed the window, with an intentness that made my blood run cold. Why was /affected in this manner? /saw nothing heard nothing; but the atmosphere grew chilly, all at once, about me, and my chair rattled against the table. He breathed aloud. The blood rushed over his face again: he wiped off the clammy sweat, that adhered to his brow; arose, and walked to the terrace, opened the door, and was gone for a few moments. When he came back, he was entirely composed; a faint smile, but a bitter one, was upon his lips, and his blue eyes were unnatu- rally glazed. "Let us continue our discussion," said he. "We shall not be interrupt ^d again, to night." He looked at the watch ---"No, the hour has passed that was the third time." "Interrupted!" said I, inaudibly "how? Interrupted!" "Hush hush! This is no proper place, for such ques- tions. You are young. Beware, lest you bring it back; would you have your lips dry your throat scorched your heart turned to cinders your ." I obeyed less, 1 am sure, with any apprehension of spiritual things, than out of respect to the tremendous agitation that I saw in him. Cousin, if ever there was a man on this earth, supremely wretched, that man is Edward Molton. No matter whence it arises I care not 1 ask not it is our duty to pity him, and pray for him. He resumed, as follows with a tone and manner, of such perfect unconcern, that one would have thought that RANDOLPH. J7j nothing had happened, or that he had no interest, whatev- er, in the matter. "The third charge, is, if possible, more serious. Ye it is true I do not deny it. I did attempt to win a wo- man away from her solemn engagement to another, and I failed. Why? Perhaps I could give a better rea- son than any that you have heard; but one that 1 have ever loved, i cannot speak of irreverently. Her own heart must judge her. But the facts are these. I saw her by accident, when she was a school girl. I thought little of her, at first, until a circumstance made me believe that she had a better mind, than I had ever suspected.-*- I saw her in tears, shaken with ungovernable emotion and shame. I soothed her and her manner, afterward, was that of deep interest, not of tenderness^ so much as of awe. She was afraid of me. Sir I am not a man to be deceived in such things. I have had too much expe- rience. I have done with falsehood, for I am not long for the only place where falsehood is permitted this vile earth. The devils are true to each other. You may be- lieve me, then; and I declare to you, solemnly, that this girl loved me; loved me, as passionately and as tru- ly, as any child of her age (for she was onlv 15 or 16) ever lov^d a man of mine. I knew this, felt this, and there was two other persons, at least, who saw enough, in her manner, even in their presence, to justify them in saying, as I do, that she laved me. Yet I took no advantage of this. We were often alone, and once, in particular, when we had little hope of ever meeting again. Yet I forbore to signify any other than the solicitude of a brother, for the true welfare of a young, and beautiful, and innocent sister. She expected more but she was impressed, I am sure, with more reverence for me. Why did I forbear? I loved her indeed I did not so much for what she was, as for what I believed that she would be; and 1 cautioned her, with all the feeling of a lover, but with the manner of a friend, against many things of vital importance to her, her sudden and enthusiastick prepossessions and prejudices; the consequence of flat- tery, for she was much sought after, and, I have no doubt, 172 9 RANDOLPH. truly beloved, by several young men of good talent, and respectable family, at the time. But why did I forbear? From principle. I believed that she loved me. Grant that I was deceived; grant that my vanity, which was inordinate in some matters, though I believe not in these, had deceived me. Yet I loved her; in that, I could not be deceived, but I forehore to communicate, by the slightest touch, or tone, or look, one thought of what I felt. Was there no forbearance in that? I treat- ed her as something hallowed, I used no caressing manner: no squeezing of hands; no embracing; no touching of lips or forehead. No! never did I attempt either. Why? She was a child. I was afraid of familiarising her to such things; afraid of corrupt- ing even the atmosphere of her thought afraid of breathing upon her innocence; afraid of "dashing the tremulous dew from the flower" of brushing the **soft blue from the grape." 1 was poor. I saw no likelihood of being otherwise, for ma$y a wea- ry year. I was but just entering a profession, perilous, and uncertain. Many years were to be spent in my no- vitiate, for i had no education. I *was taken from school at twelve, my mother was a widow 7 woman, poor, and kept a school for a living. And many years more must pass, before ought to think of loving. What then? Was there nothing noble? Nothing of self denial? Nothing heroick, in this sacrifice? I leave you to answer it. Did I not know that the heart once touched like the lips, with a live coal, is forever callous to all but the like touches, again; that the uninhabited heart, will have a substan- tial tenant, evil or good rather than be iiaunted by the shadow of a departed loved-one? Yet I left her- left her, in silence in ignorance of rriy feeling." "Well I returned to my home entered upon my studies toiled day and night, as no other man ever toiled, in America. What was my reward? I heard that she was to be married. Did I repine? No. I heard that the affianced man was worthy of her; that she loved him and I was happy. Nay I had no wish to disturb her or him." RANDOLPH. ITS "It happened, however, that one who knew them both, gave me good reason to believe that I was remembered yet; that he, the lover, was uneasy, when my name was mentioned; and, from another quarter, from a man of hon- est and substantial principle, who knew her well I heard this, perhaps incautiously. "I do not believe that she loves Mr. G." (the name of her lover) Nay, the same man advised me to see her. Perhaps it was only a piece of pleasantry in him but I thought that there was some significance in his manner. But I refused. Why? I trembled to disquiet a young heart, in its pleasant dreaming; for, if it awoke, what had I to offer it? No- thing? I was poor and proud destitute and with a prospect of being so, forever." "But, nevertheless,we met met, just where I had seen her before. Twice were we visiters of the same place at the same time leagues and leagues from our home. I treated her as a married woman. I spoke of her lover, as her husband, for some days. At last, however, something, I know not what, set me upon the suspicion that she did not love him, as she could love nay, as she had loved, even in her childhood. I trembled for her. Bid she love me still? It were too much to imagine that. But that she felt a deep and sincere respect for me, I was sure. I was afraid to trust myself with her. Two or three weeks had passed, during which, the letters of her lover (who was at a great distance, and in the habit of writing every week,) did not arrive. I studied her coun- tenance. There was some concern in her eyes but it was not that inward, that profound, quiet agony, which true love would feel; the love that I would inspire. Other circumstances occurred to strengthen the suspicion, one, only, of which I shall name. I was walking to church with her. I spoke of the power that a woman lias, to win whom she pleases. J said, emphatically, that it was in her power. She replied, in a manner that, had we been alone, it is probable I should have profited by that if it were true, she knew whom she would win." She did not mean her lover, by that, I am sure; sure, from her voices sure, because she was not a fool; and there was Q 174 RANDOLPH. a mysterious meaning in her manner, that Would have been ridiculous, had she meant Mr. O. for what need of mystery with him every body knew that she was en- gaged to him No she meant me." "But I took no notice of it, either then or afterward. The time was now at hand, for my departure. It had been unaccountably delayed; and I was really anxious to be gone. My nights were troubled and sleepless. I retired early, but it was not to sleep. If, said I, she do not love him; or, if she do love me what a fool I am, not to speak; should I ever forgive myself, were she to marry him, and be wretched? but would it not he dis- honourable to break such an engagement as theirs asun- der? No it was doing as I would be done by. That was my rule of action." "The next day was a sort of religious festival; and I had determined to stay no longer than, till that was over. In the morning, therefore, after breakfast, contrary to my usual custom, which was, to read to the women, a great part of the forenoon; or, at least, to sit with them, I retired to another apartment, and began writing. There is the letter, sir. Read it at your leisure. It expresses all that I felt. It occupied me, in writing and copying it, nearly all the forenoon; and when I came down, I learnt, to my astonishment, that Emma, (let that be her name; it is sufficient for our purpose;) had gone to bed, sick. I was alarmed; but my vanity, which, like that of all others, I suppose, will find aliment, in unsubstan- tial things colour and fragrance in the very air made me suspect the cause. I determined to try the ques- tion fairly. 1 came down, and sat below; and she soon made her appearance^ full of dignity, expression, and loveliness.'* "The letter was in my pocket. But how was I to give it to her? when? I determined to keep it, till I was ready to go; and leave it, beyond the reach of accident, in her possession; for, you will perceive that 1 took no advantage of her situation. Had I been the scoundrel that some affected to think me, would i riot have assailed her, in the heat of her resentment against the supposed RANDOLPH. ITS neglect of Mr. G? Would I not have demanded, at least; an immediate answer? Would I have put myself, as I did, into her power, without demanding that she should put herself at all in mine? Would I have left it in her power to take me, when she pleased, as a sort of Hobson's choice. These are rational questions. Let the rational answer them. No that woman may not know it, but I paid her a greater compliment, than she will ever receive again, should she live a thousand years. She may but no, I do not believe it I was about saying, that she may think me base and unprincipled, t ut no she knows me better. Her own heart will aquit me. I am willing to submit to that. And however she may find it expedient to revile me, or my memory, I shall forgive her, and attribute it to necessity. She dare not do me justice. But her heart will awake it will, am sure, one day or other; and she will feel sorry, and ashamed of having written me such a note, as you will find in the letter that I gave you." "But let me proceed. In the evening, as we sat together, in a mournful and distressing, yet sweet silence. After all the company had gone no, I am mistaken. It was before it was early in the evening; we had not yet come to the moment, when, about to part, perhaps forever, the approaching separation took its most touching and mys- terious movement and expression. I wrote upon a lit- tle card, something like this and gave it to her. "I have somewhat to communicate to you. Where shall I leave it? It is written. Shall I put it in your little green work bag, in the sitting room? " She assented, with considerable emotion. I placed that letter in the bag. She secured it, and returned. I sat by her, until I was sure that she could not read it, before I was gone; and then, I bade them all farewell; and departed the next morning, at day-light." "One year afterward, having good reason to believe that she really would be married to Mr. G. and being, I confess, rather anxious to set myself free, from so un equal an engagement, I wrote to her, and demanded, ra- ther cavalierly, I ana sure, a definite reply; and a return of my letters. Nay to tell you the whole truth, I had 176 BANDOLPH. already began to think of another woman. But, would I have married her, had she claimed my promise? Yes By my hope of heav.cn! Yes! though I had heen mise- rable forever, in consequence and she and she should never have suspected, to my dying day, that she had not always been the dearest idol of my heart. You will find her answer in the same letter." (both of which, f enclose to you, Sarah; and shall direct to Boston.) "She never wrote that answer, without advice. Nor is it true. Her lover, or some friend, was probably at her elbow; and it is rather her own vindication, than any thing else. I do not believe that she destroyed the letters immediate- ly: nor ever, without first taking a copy; and I know, that she entertained far different sentiments of my conduct, while left to herself; for her own aunt says, in a letter, which is in my cabinet at this moment, and was written some days after Emma had received "the papers," at which she affects to have been so "incensed," that Emma speaks of me with veneration no, that she "reverences" me That is all. Good night, Sarah JOHN. By heaven! I have discovered the cause of Molton's horrour. Last night was the night of William's murder, just two years ago; no wonder that he was afraid to be alone . 0, Molton ! EDWARD MOLTON TO EMMA RANDALL. L , 2d Dec. 181-. Read this alone, and where it is not possible for you to be interrupted. I hardly know how to address you, and yet 1 feel an insupportable anxiety to be thoroughly understood, before I leave you, perhaps, forever. You will be surprised, I know you will, at my writing you; but how else could I communicate with you? You are 4 RANDOXVH. 177" too narrowly watched by your friends, I admit, those who are, and ought to be most dear to you, but still, you are too narrowly watched, to afford any person, and par- ticularly me, an opportunity of unreserved and uninter- rupted conversation with you, upon any interesting sub- ject. I had determined, when I came here, to observe you closely narrowly, but secretly; to make myself mas- ter of your character; and, if possible, of your most hid- den thought. In some measure, I have succeeded, and yet on the very point, where I feel the deepest interest, I am still in doubt. You only can satisfy me to you then, I appeal. I did intend, too, to be watchful of myself; never to be thrown off my guard; to be discreet and reserved. But I could not I cannot be such a hypocrite. You have prevailed; I am about to leave you, and I cannot, will not lose you, forever, without making one effort to pre- serve you without first proving to you that I know your value. 1 mi think that 1 overrate it. You are mistaken. 1 do not. I know you as you are as you were, and as you will be. 1 cannot be deceived. For more than two years, your character has been my study my companion my support and impulse.* This is the truth. I am frank perhaps too frank; but you must not be offended. It would be unworthy of you. I should de- serve to be despised, derided, trampled on, were I the dastard to conceal such a passion as this, where I have so much at stake; and you will not, from affectation, the miserable prudery of your sex, feel offended at the decla- ration of one, who, whatever may be his faults, has man- hood enough to speak as he feels. Another thing, I had determined on, not resolutely, but in some measure. It was to treat you as the wife of another. It was in vain. You are not the wile of ano- ther, and I cannot so treat you, until you are so indeed, and beyond, forever beyond, my reach. * A lieby the way M. 178 KANDOLPH. I did determine too, and T mention these things, thai you may understand how feeble, how very feeble our best resolutions are, where passion is not prevented from lay- ing her hand upon them I did determine never to say "Hove," to any being on earth, until I was certain that she would reply "Hove." That too, is done with. I shall break my promise, and when I do, I know that I shall have risked enduring the keenest, the most deadly humiliation, that such a spirit as mine can ever endure. You, my dear friend (you must permit rne to call you so) regarding yourself as already engaged, are strug- gling to believe that the man, to whom you are engaged, is your husband. Emma, I tremble for you. He is not and possibly never may be. And what is the engagement? is it marriage? no. It is an understanding, that, if your affections are unchanged; if both continue to find none whom they love better; if both continue to feel, as during the first impulse of youthful affection, then both shall be married together. And that is all. Therefore, if you love Mr. G. and he be, indeed, the man -who de- serves you; if he be the creature, not of romance, or poetry, but of that towering elevation in real life, which must be the char acteristick of your companion; if he be so made, so fashioned, as to receive and communicate im- pulses, that shall outlast this life; in short, if he be the man, who is to be your husband, and who deserves to be, then must he glory in exposing you to competition. If he tremble he is unworthy of you. If he complain, though his heart break under the disappointment, he is not the man to whom you must look for counsel, comfort and greatness. For, is it not better to lose the womail of your heart, than to have her marry you, with abated affection, merely from a sense of duty, or propriety? *Ves he who wins you, must be willing to prove his confi- dence in you and himself, by arraying himself against the whole world, if it will enter the list for you. Em- ma! this is not declamation. It is what I feel. I could do all this; nay, I would do it. lam doing, therefore, as I would be done by; and if Mr. G. be the man that 1 de- light in believing him (for 1 would have no humble com- RANDOLPH, petitor,) he will be gratified, and proud, whatever be the result. Now then, I give you a proof of it. I throw myself on your generosity. I forget all my pride I declare to you that / lave you that I have long loved you; that I have never so loved any other woman never felt for another, so much of what I would pray to feel, for the future companion of my life, here and hereafter tender- ness, admiration and respect. You are already what I would have you be, so far as your character is develop- ed,' and you will be, all that I would hope to deserve. I am sure of it. For myself, I am, whatever I am, chiefly on your account.* I would be worthy of you. There is my proof. I address you as my equal. ' Do not believe that I am about asking any sacrifice, on your part, at this time. Indeed, 1 am not. It is all on mine. All that I ask is this. If you believe that I may become worthy of what I aspire to, think of me, and direct me. What I can be, I will be for your sake. Mould me to your purpose. I know what 1 say. I do not fear to say, that I will become what you would wish me to be; because, I know that you would never humble me in my own eyes; that you would never request, what it would be unworthy in me to grant, or you to receive. Again, I say Do not believe that I am aiming to en- tangle you in contradictory engagements. No I would sooner perish. Nor, would I, were I sure that you loved another, were I convinced that you so loved him, as with all your boundless capacity of devotion, you are qualified to love, would I open my mouth to you on the subject. In- deed, the hour that so convinced me, would be the last of our communion. I would leave you forever; I would never meet you again, never! As it is, then, I have my doubts. They are not the doubts of others; they are my own, firm observation of my own. I care not what Mr. Stonebridge says, or others. They cannot understand you, or me. You are not made for an ostentatious display of affection. Yours is silent, holy, unobtrusive and mysterious. There- *Another lie. M. 180 BAJTOOLPH. fore, have I my doubts, and they are terrible. Your happiness I care little for my own, in comparison, your happiness, here and hereafter, is at stake. Now, all that I ask of you, is this. Remember me. Think of me, sometimes. Betray this communication to no human being, tillyou are married. I know that I may trust you; and you know the value of the trust. You have that generosity, that made me love you, not at first sight, (for 1 was not a boy, when 1 saw you) but when I first made myself master ^of your character. This then, is all that I ask. Betray this to nobody to no living crea- ture, without my consent. But, when you are married whether to Mr. G. or another, for I feel that though he may not win you, it is equally possible, and more so perhaps, that I may not you may show him (your hus- band) this letter. If I am alive, at that time, it will be the surest marriage portion that woman ever gave to man. Nothing ever after will shake his confidence in your love if he have a noble spirit. Do not charge me with vanity here. I am vain. I know it, and am sometimes weak enough to glory in it. It is a diseased ambition, I verily believe; and I hope to outlast it. Still, in this case, I do honestly and from my soul, believe, that I shall be a man, whom your hus- band, whatever he may be, will be proud to have had sacrificed to him. In the mean time, I shall hold on my course steadily. You will hear of me, but not from me, unless you should indeed, be all that I could wish; and but no, I must not dream of such things. Yet let me be understood. Your present engagement may come to an end. Men and women are changeable; our affections run riot sometimes, and will not be restrained. If then I say it with trem- bling if such an event should take place; if, by any event, you should discover that you cannot so love your present contemplated husband as you ought, to be able to trust all your happiness to himall that I beg of you is, to let me hear of it. 1 shall understand you. You need fear no change in me. My constancy is not that of bo vs. It is that of experience and examination. When I love, RANDOLPH. 181 it is not, though my character would justify a different opinion sometimes, it is not precipitately, without exam- ination. Here is an example. I have never loved hut two women. To only one, have I ever said so much. The other, and you know her, thought that she did not love me. She was mistaken. She is now going mar- ried, and broken-hearted, to her grave. I did love that woman; I did, and confess it; but not, as I have loved you. There was tenderness in it; hut, very little respect. I never saw the time, when I would have married her, even if I had been justified by my circumstances. But, were I so justified, I would marry you; I would come to you then, not in the language of common love, to throw my- self at your feet, for you would dispise me, were I so ab- ject but to meet you as a man should meet a wo- man, with his heart in his hand in fearless equality, re- membering that I was paying to you the most unequivocal homage, that I could pay to any creature under heaven; and, though grateful, to suffocation if you received me, still erect and confident of my equality. Such would be my conduct, were it allowed to me, so to behave. Adieu! farewell! I am already tedious, I fear, and yet I have said but little that I would say. Farewell! may heaven bless you, Emma. May you find your equal a companion made to govern, not obey others. EDWARD MOLTOtf. One word more. You will hear of my fickleness that I am in love with others. Do not believe it. I am not. I have been. 1 have compared you with many women, in all parts of our country; and I am, nevertheless, more resolutely attached than ever. For my disposition it is fiery, I know. But it is capable of becoming what- ever you please to make it. I am rash, to be sure; but, when the happiness of others, of them that I love, is at stake, I can endure anything. As for what I am, you - already know me. But I ask not your answer to what I am now; but to what I shall be. Hereafter, you may compare me with whom you please. If I cannot abide 182 RANDOLPH. the trial, cast me off, abandon me, leave me. I shall he unworthy of you. If you go to Boston, you will hear much against me and much in my favour. Believe neither. Judge for yourself. I know my own character, and what I am capable of. No other human being does. When you desire it, you shall know it, as it is enthusi- astick impassioned devoted and ambitious doing whatever it does with all its heart, and all its soul. Some interest, it is possible, you may feel, respecting niy family. Much you must feel, at some future period, if I should ever meet you as I hope to. In the mean time you may believe me, when I say that it is, altoge- ther, unexceptionable. All are respectable and honest. And some are higher in the estimation of the world than mere honesty would place them.* They are not fashion- able people, but they are good. As for my attention to other girls, and "falling in leve with every girl 1 see," that is altogether unfounded. I trifle with, or treat with respect, as they happen to de- serve, coquettes or fine women, when I see them (and you do the same, with men^but as for love never! That is a passion of no common seriousness with me. It is inappeasable. I never felt it as an enduring passion, but for you. Remember me. I shall never forget you and be not precipitate. . / i M. (Answer received nearly a year afterward alluded to in the conversation of Melton. ) MR. MOLTON, I was this morning much surprised by the reception of another epistle from you; and extremely disappointed and chagrined at your interpretation of my silence, with regard to the paper (that) I found in my possession, after your departure from Leister. On the perusal of those letters, 1 was greatly shocked and incensedjf still the> *Anotber lie, meant, but not expressed M. f A Jib ladies never lie M, RANDOLPH. 183 would have been answered could I have hoped it would be believed; but bow could I hope for any such respect, from a man, who believed me capable of engaging myself, to a man (that) I did not love who could presume (that) I might be influenced in a matrimonial contract, by any other consideration than that of love; and this, your let- ter most unequivocally expressed you to presume and be- lieve. No person, entertaining even a tolerable respect for me, could have supposed (that) I would engage to re- pose myself and all my future prospects, upon the bosom of a man, to whom I had not extended all the ''boundless devotion of my soul." No; every new reflection that I bestow upon the subject, confirms me in the persuasion, that 1 never could hayereceivedyour papers, from a per- son of honourable and virtuous feeling; or who could have formed a just estimate of my character. Could you know me, and suppose (that) I would preserve long, the letters alluded to? I assure you (that) the im- pulse to commit them to the flames, was simultaneous with their perusal. I regret now that I obeyed it, since you request the return of them.* I can assure you (that) I regret as sincerely as you can, the moment that induc- ed yon to write them, for it compelled me to consider you in a different light from what I had always hoped to that of a friend. EMMA B. RAND AH. JV , Oct. 23, 18. ( Postscript, by John, to Sarah, in the envelope. ) . P. S. Mistaken girl! Where was the mischief of that letter? I pity her, Sarah. Tell me, does it not speak well for Molton? And can you believe that her answer came from her heart unaided, untortured? No! She was wrought upon suspicion was infused into her pure * Well managed. There is no convicting one of falsehood who talks in this way. It is laio\,er-like but may she not have had profes~ si'tnal advice ? The mortal antipathy that appears to the relative (thatj would justify the belief that she had and that her counsel was a law- yer an American and a Yankee, JV. 184 RANDOLPH. nature she was made to believe that Molton bad insult- ed her or sbe never would have charged the writer of that letter with aught that was not** virtuous and honour- able." What did he do? Admit that he was deceived in supposing that she did not love G. or that she did love him. What did he do? Nothing but this, in effect. He said to her Your happiness is dearer to me than my_ own* You are about to be sacrificed. I may be mis- taken. I hope that I am. But if I am right, call to me when you will, where you will; and lo, I am ready to save you, at the peril of my life and soul. And this this she has dared to call dishonourable and unfriendly. Mis- taken woman! her own heart rebuked her, when she wrote it. Nay, it was never written of her own free will. Her judgment was turned aside by "the powerful hand of some one, who never had seen, or never had known, the author of that letter. Her manner is more simple and direct. What advantage did he take of her? None. Did he even attempt to steal into her heart? No. Did he offer any endearment? No. Did he break in upon ano- ther's love? No! another broke in upon his. What did he, then? He attempted to restore a woman to him, whom he believed, to have been herjirst love.' Was this sinful? It matters not, whether he was mistaken or not. If he was mistaken, there was no harm done. He did not hurry her. He took no profit of her anger, or of his op- portunity; extorted no promise; nay, avoided even a re- ply, that she might have nothing to accuse herself of, if she married G. and yet, that she might have a steadfast hold on him. By heaven, it was the noblest, the most disinterested, and heroick evidence of love, unquestion- able love, that I ever met with! I think, as Molton does, that she will come to her senses that she will repent of having written that letter. Nay, if she have any heart left, she will weep, to think, how unkindly she requited the greatest offering of a proud spirit itself. I observe some pencil notes, in the hand- writing of Molton; but I have no time to read them. What a packet I have made of it! and yet, I am strong- ly tempted to add another that I received, this morning, MANDOLPH. 185 from my dear brother. He is going to New-Orleans writes in good spirits. But there is something in it, which I cannot put in your way. I am rather alarmed, too, ahout him; and shall go on, I think, to Charleston. Mien* JOHN. Molton has just sent me a letter. I enclose a copy. Read it. What does he mean? If my brother have any Mood left, he will return, and bring him to an account. Yes, I shall go to Charleston this very day, and leave direction, with Jane, to forward any letters that are left. FRANK TO JOHN. Charleston, May IQth, 18. Jfy dear Brother, I am ruined. Send me a thousand dollars. I have no time to relate the particulars; but, if you would save me from dishonour, send me the money. I shall wait only one post over the time. I am in good spirits very good can laugh, and talk, and play, and drink, and yes, yes! I am in -very good spirits. We talk of going to New-Orleans. A passage thence to South America, or the peninsula, I don't know which, will be the next step. Is brother, dear brother, for God's sake, write to me, immediately. Tell me, how is no matter for the name. Tell me. Let nothing prevent you. \ like this city. My letters have been of service to me, and I am, continually, at some entertainment or other, given in princely style, by some of the reigning nabobs. But this O, curse this aftectation. Brother, I can- not trifle. That day has gone by. I am too heavy here; too hot about the temples, for laughter. What Is festivity to me? the carousal of a charnel house? the feast of the R 186 RANDOLPH. sick chamber? Dear, dear Ju ah, no! the pale* lovely shadow went by me, last night, in my dreams; > and, I am sure, that, that no, no! I cannot speak it. If it be all over, seal your letter with black. No matter for the money, then -that will be sufficient.. Go where I will, I hear something of Molton. A gen- tleman boards here, who knew him in Philadelphia. He says that Molton courted a girl for several years, there; then persuaded a friend to take her off his hands; that the friend discovered something, just at the critical mo- ment of marriage; that the affair was broken off; the girl fell sick, and Molton, himself, went into the country with her, and his friend left the city: that Molton renew- ed his addresses; introduced another man to her; af- fected to quarrel with her; was turned out of the house by her father; that she married the man that Molton in- troduced and died in childbed a few months afterward. John, is this true? Can it be? Enquire into it. I give you the names. Love to Sarah. Her name was Marion, M. P. 1 find that I have known her. Her story made many a heart ache. FRANK, EDWARD MOLTON TO FRANK OMAR. I owe you no courtesy, young man. But, you have dared to love Juliet Gracie; and you cannot be en- tirely worthless. Are you a man? Awake, then. "Were you presumptuous enough to think of her, and yet, so feeble of spirit* as to throw away your life and facul- ties, like a foolish boy, at your first disappointment? You do not respect me. It is your own fault. Come to me, and I will make you respect me. You cannot support adversity. How then, could you calamity; humiliation; poverty, and death with a help- less woman a family, perhaps, dependant upon you For shame, Omar.- I know your brother. He is younger than you; but, on some accounts, I would rather trust RANDOLPH. I8f the happiness of Juliet to his keeping, than to yours. Do not be startled; do rv>t threaten me; do not distrust me. It would be idle. There is no time to lose. Come back come back. Juliet is at my disposal. Do as I bid you, and she may be yours. A plot is working for her destruction. Come quickly, or you will be too late. You are poor. No matter I have enough, and to spare. Are you jealous of me? Come to me, and I will satisfy you, that you have no cause that I cannot, will not see her again, while there is life in me. Do you tremble for the past? Then, you are unworthy of her. If her face be not a guarantee that you cannot doubt, you are too base of spirit, too base indeed, for her happiness. I make no professions. I say nothing of the past. Once, I loved her. I love her yet; but we can never be mar- ried. And it will be your fault, if she ever know that I love her. Her happiness is dear to me. I have made some inquiry about you; and I believe that you are better fitted for her, than any other, whom I know. Dare you come? nothing else can save her . The conspirators are at the work of death. ED: MO t TON. I fear that you are a gambler. If you are Sir be- ware. Do not approach me. I would rather encoun- ter a murderer. I would rather put an angel into the arms of one, reeking with the blood of his own father. What is Ae, but the murderer of soul and body wife and children father and mother people and kindred? MOLTON TO ASHTON. Rero. Mr. C. Ashton London. For the work which you have sent me, sir, please to accept my sincere thanks. I have not yet been able to study it, as I could wish; but I have read it, with some diligence; and, when I have a little more leisure, which I hope to have, after a few weeks, I shall make it J RANDOLPH. a point, to go over the whole again, carefully and delib- erately. ' I did not flatter myself that I was remembered by the author; or even by'yourself; for, though my acquaintance with you, was short and accidental, that which I had with him, was still more so. But it would be in vain to deny, that i feel myself flattered, by your remembrance, and notice. Perhaps, indeed, my pleasure is not a little enhanced, by the recollection of what would otherwise, have been a subject of pain; the extremely short and un- frequent opportunities that we had, of becoming acquain- ted. They left me no right to hope for your remembrance; and therefore, I believe, that it is the more flattering. You were one of the very few men, whom I saw abroad, that seemed to entertain an enlarged, and understanding sense of the American character. You, I have heard defend it, in a manner that brought tears into my eyes. I was an American. You did not know it. I was young; unknown; and, whether from constitutional coldness, and reserve in m, hindering or rebuking all advances; a deportment too dark and unbending; or a countenance too haughty and repulsive, to each of which, I have heard the consequence attributed; / had no friend; none, certainly, among men of my own age. There were a few, a very few of the wise and experienced, who, at times, condescended to make use of me; nay, there were two or three* and God \\ill reward them for it, older, and better, and greater, than the mass of mankind, who loved and respected me; made me their companion and their friend. Mr. Ashton, I have a proud heart. I would sooner die, than be the cause of humiliation, to one human being, that truly loved me. And, therefore, though they 'were my friends, the world knew it not. There were but few, whom I ever permitted to see us together. I never spoke of them. I never boasted of their affection or reverence;- no, for it would have been discreditable to them. The world had its prejudices. For myself, I scorned them. I knew that the time must come, when those prejudices would be forgotten. But I was unwilling to associate another, with me, in the mor .RANDOLPH. tal desolation that encompassed me, till then. On this account, when a stranger gave me his hand, it was re- ceived with a swelling of the heart; a choking, that none but men who have my feeling, and have heen as cruelly misunderstood, can have an idea of. He, 1 knew, could have no light motive for the movement. He could not be reaching after popularity, or influence. He could not be seeking for an acquaintance, merely; for there was that, I trust, in my face, little encouraging to such men. I could not flatter. I would not. If a man were good, I could think well of him. If he were religious, I could respect him. But he must be more than either; more than both: more than a good and religious man, too; for me to remember his face till the next day. You did this. You dared to single me out. I knew the risk that you run. The most charitable thought that you were mistaken and infatuated; many wondered at you; and some scrupled not to think you a bad man, because >ou associated with me. What had I done? nothing nothing. They were my enemies; and they knew not why. They have since become my friends; and on just as good a foundation. They then thought too humbly of me. Now, they have gone to the other ex- treme. They think too well of me. I look for a change of tide. I expect it; it will not ebb quite as far as it did before: but if it did, it would not move me. I wish that I had met you again, after our last conversation. I intended it, but my sudden departure, which I take it for granted, you have not heard of, or do not so cruelly condemn nie for, as others do or you would not have written to me, prevented me from fulfilling my appoint- ment. It was a painful thing to me, to disappoint you; it always is, to me, to break an engagement; but I felt an uncommon solicitude for your good opinion. Old as you were, Mr. Ashton, surrounded as you were by men, mighty in the ways of philosophy, I should have embraced you on th6 spot, when you uttered your testimony in behalf of my country, had I not been re- strained by respect for you. I was an American; nameless then but I should not be long so I was sure ,; . ,, , ^,-,^ r r ... 190 JRANDOLPH. of that events were then maturing, which, I had reason td believe, would, in their mystery and blackness, soon tyast my reputation. Would I involve you in my fate? ^To. And therefore, it was that I refused your invita- tions and avoided you, so frequently as I did. * I had no other way. 1 am naturally ingenuous; but, had I avow- ed the simple truth, you would have pursued me, in spite of my wishes, and partaken, assuredly in my dishonour. Thank God, however, that you have not forgotten me. Thank God! and I do thank him, my dear sir, in the sincerity of my whole heart and soul, that you have had the courage to remember me, and appeal to me, for the truth of that story. You shall know the truth. There is only one other man on earth that knows it. And I inform you, sir, as I would my father. Make what use of it you please. But observe I do not tell you the whole truth; I am only at liberty to tell that which con- cerns myself. Helen whose family you must know something of, and 1, once met, under circumstances of a very trying nature. She loved me. She was lovely intelligent and, as I thought, her own mistress. We met frequently. She did runaway from her guardian; and she did conceal herself for several days; but, contrary to the general belief, I do declare to you that I never saw her, until about two hours before I restored her to her home. Yes it was I, that restored her. I was amazed at her rashness; and, it was not till I heard the whole story of her suffer- ing, that I could persuade myself to believe, that one so young and beautiful, so passionately beautiful, could have so forgotten her station, for an adventurer; for what was I 5 but an adventurer? True, I was not base enough, nor wicked enough, to seek her destruction; but, when she was within my power; nay, I will not boast of it others would have done the same I spared her. I represented to her the consequences of her act to her friends her family herself. She trembled and wept. She even told me how long she had been absent and where. I was thunderstruck. I feared that it would be a death blow to her fame and I said so. Her reply was HANDO!PH. 191 a delirious laugh; and the next moment, I was alarmed by a noise at the door. "I am pursued," said she "it is he! It is he! I took down my sword. I planted my- self at the door. I would have slain the first man that entered, at such a moment, had it been mine own father. We were mistaken. It was not the scoundrel, at whose name, the poor creature shivered like a maniac, before, her keeper. But it was one that had pursued her to my room. She smiled bitterly, when she knew the truth, very bitterly ; and I do believe, rejoiced at the consum- mation of their guilt* not of hers. We immediately departed I took a carriage; and, on the route, brought her to some sense of her desperate rashness. I was poor miserably poor helpless, and beset. What should I do with a wife? She interrupted me, by producing a quantity of jewels, that, with my lit- tle acquaintance in such matters, appeared of great price. My amazement increased. What was I to think of her? Was her brain turned? Was she a spoiled girl, sick with novel reading? She was very young, only 17; had just been presented; ,was exceedingly sought after, even in her retirement, out of which she had emerged, at the in- stance of some quality lady, who was a distant relation. We had met but now and then; and my deportment had been, merely that of earnestness and frankness. On other themes, too, she exhibited a sober and well disci- plined mind. What was I to think? It could not be love for me. I demanded the truth. She told me. Gracious God, my very blood leaped in my veins. She showed me the evidences of a barbarity so horrible, that I could have gone out against an army to avenge it. All these things were to compel her to marry, either her guar- dian, or his son; for I have reason to believe that they had embezzled the chief part of her estate; and were wil- ling to avoid their accountability in that way. But enough. She consented, at last, to return. But only on this condition; for the performance of which. I pledged myself promising, if it were violated, to assist her. in any way that she pleased against them. The condi- tion was that they should forbear; and leave her entire- 192 BANDOLPIi. Iy to herself. I wrote a letter which was returned to me unopened. I am not a man to forget such things. But I can forgive them. I did forgive this. But I had soon reason to repent of my forbearance. I was publickly insulted. I bore it why? because appearances were against me. 1 was called a seducer, by whom? by Clinton Howard, the brother of Helen. He would never have left my pre- sence, had I not discovered that fact. I had already prepared myself. Another word and but no. 1 could have done it. After this I met with you. I loved you at first sight. By this, I mean, not that I thought of you then, as I do now, or, as I hope to, hereafter but, merely, that I felt drawn to you, with affection and respect. The very next day, after we last met, I was passing the square near where my chambers were when I heard some one calling out my name, behind me. I turned A hackney coach was approaching at great speed; as it came near, the blinds were let down and I saw Helen. Her hair was dishevelled and I suspected some violence. I was mistaken. The coachman drew up, and I enter- ed. She was alone, splendidly, beautiful, attired with her dress stained here and there and stiffened with what I discovered to be blood- her own blood! My horrour and rage were ungovernable. She had just escaped from the ruffians; and I, with the little money that I then had about me, abandoned my lodgings. I have never set my foot within them, since. 1 was indifferent about pur- suit; but she, poor Helen, she was distracted, and over- come, by her distress arid fear. With a feeling of res- pect for her desolation, I went immediately, took a li- cense, an irregular one, I admit, but I did not then know- it and, (it was all that I could get without going to Scotland;) and, in an hour from the time when I first met her, I had a title, the truest and holiest title, that the protector of woman can have. /ti-rts her husband. Yet, I cannot deny that there are times when we are both of us troubled in a manner, that I should deem un- accountable, were it not for the nature of our marriage. RANDOLPH, 193 I cannot help feeling, that, while there is any doubt about the legality of it, our endearment is, I know not hardly how to express myself, is not, what I would have it, altogether incapable of misrepresentation; and to her, it is infinitely more trying. But, in my own justi- fication, however, I ought to apprise you, that I did not know of any informality in the marriage, until about eight months ago. I was deceived. Helen was under a strange mistake. After our first adventure, she had employed counsel why, I never troubled myself to ask, who told her that, a license taken out in a dissenting Chapel, without a publication of the banns, would be complete authority. Alas, for our errour we were both cheated by it; and, remain now, only man and wife in the eyes of God not even in our own eyes assu- redly not in hers, with a feeling of absolute guiltiness now and then, to disquiet us, till we have an opportunity of re-marrying. I care little for ceremony but I care much for the legitimacy of my children. And she, poor heart, would be crazed, but for our temporary separation which we immediately agreed to, when I discovered the irregularity: The change of her name and the artifice (which I was brought to adopt I hardly know how) of passing her off for my sister. But I will not endure it much longer. The heat of the pursuit is nearly over, now; and I hope soon to obtain her consent to another marriage, by her true name, inpublick. She is very averse to it, nowbut that I attribute to her recent alarm. But the catastrophe. After our marriage, we departed. We were pursued. I found that Helen had large sums of money in her possession. They were bank notes, and as it was my intention to leave all my affairs and embark for the continent of America, I spared no expense, therefore, after exchanging the notes. We arrived at the coast, and there, were intercepted. The scoundrel who had abused her, was at ,our heels. He dared to claim, my wife. Nay, he put his ruffian hand upon her, in wrath What did I? I drove my dirk up to thehilt, in his side. I left him, weltering in his blood. And now, we are in America. EDWARD MOITON, 194 BANDOLPH. FRANK OMAR TO EDWARD M01TON. "Who are you, sir? Whence are you, that you dare t address a letter to me? and such a letter! Mr. Edward Molton, I know you. You are a scoundrel. I shall sail to-day. But, were not my haggage on board, at this mo- ment, I would measure blades with you, before I slept. Be not too secure. I know more of you, than you sus- pect. Where did yonjirst encounter William? Are you sure that he had fair play? sure? I have done with you. But, mark me! We shall meet again. And then I do not threaten you but your in- sulting proposition will not be forgotten. What! would you have me believe, that you could dispose of her 9 too. Accursed scoundrel the thought is madness. 1 prefer thinking you a liar than classing her with Marion, M. P. What! does that name startle you? MMton! Mol- ton! if the han^f the Almighty spare you, tUi my return, I will do my liest to offer you up in sacrifice to the bro- ken heart of that mother; and the untimely, blasted fruit of your villany. No I will not obey you! The story of your power is a lie or she the blessed martyr sh* is another Marion. F. OMAR. Answer to the foregoing, enclosed in one from Jane to John. Fool The consequences be upon your own head. E. MOI/TON, To Francis Omar, Charleston, 8. C. V To bejorwarded wherever he may be.f JANE TO JOHN ENCLOSING THE ABOVE, O, Mr. Omar, tell your brother to beware. I know not what he has done what said but * saw Molton's eyes, when he gave our servant the letter^ and I know him. , RANDOLPH. 195 If your brother be not gone make him go immediately. Don't let him come here. Don't let Molton meet him there. There is no help for him, if they encounter. - What has lie done? not insulted him? that he could bear. What has he imagined? nought of dishonour to him? for that he would smile at. There is only one thing that I can suppose and, if it be that O, Uod! there is nothing on this earth can save him. Perhaps he has slandered that woman that Helen! - Is it so? JANE. SARAH RAMSAY TO FRANK OMAR. ' I know the contents of the letter no matter how. Enough for our purpose, that I know them; and foresee- ing the consequences, have written as I have. Be not rash, my friend. There is more meaning in Molton's offer than you have been aware of. You have fallen into the pit that he dug for you. You have forever abandoned what you ought to have clung to, as your life and blood Juliet. Nay, have you not dishonoured her in your thought? What is the conspiracy that he al- ludes to? There is meaning in it. Who are the plotters? Be not precipitate. But, as you value meas you value Juliet O, avoid Molton. Your reply I know not what it was but it has parched his heart up. He has devoted you. Be a hero, for once O, do! my beloved cousin, and avoid the murderer. What have you to fear? He is a coward. I have said so from the beginning, have I not? But a coward may assassinate, or poison. Yet, if you do meet which righteous heaven avert before you join battle, throw my defiance in his teeth. Woman as I am, I contemn and dare him, to his utmost. Once I did this before Jane. Why? Because I saw her turn pale. I never shall forget fcdr looks. We were not friends, then. "Much as I hate thee, Sarah," said she to me, "I would not have Molton hear that, for the wide world. 196 KANDOLPH. It would be thy destruction. He never was braved with impunity. Nay, woman thy eyes may flash, and thy lip curl; but I have seen a mightier than thou a haughtier one, too at his feet, in tears, for having said less of him." I remember her words. I remember her looks. They awed and intimidated me. There was a mystery and a terrour in them. But I forget them, now I forget every thing. Thy safety only do I consult. I have a secret champion ready for him. I know not who he is; but there is his gauntlet (a packet was enclos- ed) and I will vouch for him. Give that to Molton, if you ever meet. I am assured of the power; it is a charm, a spell, a talisman, before which, his arm will fall lifeless. I know not what it is I do not even ima- gine. But carry it forever about you; let nothing tempt you to lay it aside; for he may fall upon you in the darkness and solitude he may (of that I am assured.) In my next to John, I will enclose one of several notes, that I have received, lately, from I know not whom. I have never answered them. I knew not who it is, or what; but no guardian angel ever did his ministering more diligently. I have Molton's whole life before me. know every spring of his heart; and, terrible as he is, I almost pant to encounter him, that I may open the mysterious packet, and confound him, Torever, and at once. Am I not strangely altered? I know not what pos- sesses me. What should I have thought, six months ago, had any one said, that I should live to receive anonymous letters treasure them as I do these doat on them and even my hand trembles, and 1 blush to the ends ef my fingers, at the thought even begin to meditate a reply. Yes, there are some things that I must ask. I will if it be only to detect all the villany of Molton. Ha! would any other theme have so excited me, so impelled me, headlong, as this has? Cousin, I cannot pray. It dis- tresses me. Gradually, have I left off the habit; yet, O! it had become cold cold and sad, lotg before I dared to omit it. 1 here was a rime; but ah, that time has pas- KANDOiPH. 197 sed when I could not sleep, if I had omitted my prayers. But now alas. I cannot sleep, do what I will; and I dare not cannot pray . Farewell .. i . SAB AH. Boston P. S. In my next, I will enclose one of my corres- pondent's notes John will tell you more about him; and I have no objection that you should contrive to let Molton get possession of it. I should like to see him, then. JULIET TO MADAM YERNON. Ah, my mother! I must unburden my heart to you.- I cannot, cannot live any longer, without sympathy. Pity me, dear madam, pity me. I am worthy of all your commiseration. Yet why should 1 repine? Are not these trials, painful and distressing as they are, to be borne with a submissive spirit? O yes, I feel that they are; but then no I cannot tell you more than this that I am wretched. I do not complain that I am spared a little longer; ah no, but I do think that death would be less terrible to me now, than I have thought it. I do pray for that consolation, which He only can give to a wounded and broken spirit. Can I not come to you? I know your poverty; it distresses me to hint such a de- sire, because I know that it will almost kill you to refuse me. But indeed, you know not how I am beset. There is an amiable man continually about me of late. J know not what to think of him; for his countenance is good, and his deportment mild and winning. But what is he here, for? I cannot but see that there is some motive. I hope that i am not vain; but, really, dear aunt, I do sa wish to be released from his attentions: they are too pain- ful to me. The shock that I have had, the consump- tion I mean it has made me too cruelly sensitive; and shattered my whole constitution. Sometimes too, this man, (Mr. Gren ville is his name) sits by me, for whole S 198 RANDOLPH. hours, in that hreathless, intense ah, what am I say- ing, no, 1 will not think of the resemblance. I will arouse myself. O my mother I can speak to thee; and, to whom else can I speak? He, whom thou. thy- self, didst appoint to me; even he, is a villain. He thinks that I love him. He is mistaken. He is base. I cannot love him tor how can we love, what we cannot respect? No, no; and yet, at the mention of his name the sound of approbation, where he is concerned, O, 1 shiver and burn all over. I am poor help- less destitute. Is there any succour for me? A heart so sore so desolate? I know not aunt; but a thought it was a terrible one a thought came to me once, in my desperation; and I have not shuddered at its return; yet, every nerve of my body shook, as with electricity, at first. I know not what I should do I am very wretched very. Were it not wicked, I should pray never to arise from that bed that, to which I am now going. JULIET JR. GRACIE. JANE TO MATILDA. Grenville is a blockhead. I have no patience with him, There he sits, moping all night long, by the side of Juliet, without opening his mouth; and only, now and then, catching his breath, as the tune changes. What a pity that so handsome a fellow should be such a fool. We must manage our cards well, or he will never get her; for she is prodigiously improved. Nay, aunt it gives me the headach, sometimes, to think on what we have prepared for her. She looks so lovely; so beautiful, so innocent; and then* her voice! I have heard it com- pared to a bugle, over the water but a bugle, a silver bugle, is not so clear and sweet. It is more like a bell ringing in the sky. Ah, my dear aunt, if that stupid fellow would'nt sit by her, so; and look so sad and sorry just as if he had eaten too heartily of cold apple dump- RANDOLPH. 199 ling she might he a most enviahle woman spend all her life between tract societies, and prayer meetings, and love feasts the happiest creature! ah, who can h'flp gaping? "To suckle fools and chronicle small beer" kill spiders, darn rags, and whip children O. there's nothing so pleasant. Nothing '-half so sweet in life" and then, if she should happen to lose one of her babes-~ why, it is only giving her new bonnet to quiet her. I have known it succeed, more than once, with bereaved mothers! You see that I am in excellent spirits. You think so, do you? Aunt, I could sit down and cry, with a good stomach this moment. I don't believe that I shall live long. I have been reading a system of domes- tick medicine; don't laugh at me and, at every page I found myself afflicted with some new disorder. Well, well come on, come on, directly, as you have promised; make Grenville hold up his head, and look like a man; and then aunt, my dear aunt, I have a fearful secret to communicate to you. Do you not feel cold about the heart! 1 do but it is done. No eye to witness it none, ft was tremendously dark. It thundered arid >it was done. And such was the ferocious exaltation of my spirit at the time, that I could have done the same deed, though the day of judgment had been at hand, O, aunt! I feel horribly about the forehead, very hot and scorching and my skin peals off, lately, with the fever of my spirit. Indeed I thought the earth did quake and and yes aunt, I did see, as plainly as I ever saw any thing in this life, the broad paved-aisle, and the altar, that you know I dreamt of; they opened in the darkness and I saw smoke issuing from them; I heard musick; and then I saw my mother too, as plainly as I see this hand sit- ting there, and looking at the poor little creature. Yet I did it. Yea and I should have done it, upon the very altar though it shook, at the time, with the divini- ty. Have you any notion of the truth? No you have not you cannot have. What? that the haughty Jane your pride, your idol that she should come to O, no, it were easier to believe her a murderess. Aunt, 200 AANDOLM. come, come! to me. Some incurable malady is upon me, I know not what it is; but, if you disappoint me again, I shall die. I am sure of it. Why did you not come be- fore? You might have saved- No, 1 cannot tell you what. But come; in mercy, come. What have I written? I know not; my brain is in a whirl and I am trying to read it but I cannot. 1 begin to pity poor Ju- liet But if I have told anything you must not believe it 1 am in such spirits! O, aunt, it is the pleasantest tiling in the world to feel so full of festivity no, no, it is a lie it is not it is frightful. What is the matter with me? Perhaps you can tell by the writing. Is it not strangely disordered? JANE. P. S. That Sarah' T can scarcely speak, for joy her threatening has come to his ears. Wo to her! I shall be revenged. ANSWER. Why did I disappoint you? oh, Jane! Jane! what have you done! I was sick with horrour and affright. "What have you done! That terrible letter . It threw me into convulsions. I am but just alive. Yet the carriage is already at the door. I will never, never, leave you again. This will be delivered into your hands, by William. I have ordered him to ride, night and day; and tell you that you shall not be disappointed, again. No I will sooner come to you, a corpse, MATILDA. SARAH TO JOHN. Boston. I promised to write to you and Juliet again, soon, and enclose one of the, anonymous letters. I would write in detail, and inform you how I am pleased with this hos- pitable, warm hearted people; but, I am yet a stranger; BANDOLPH. 201 constantly occupied by visiting; a ceremony, conducted in a fashionable way, that is exceedingly tiresome to me. When I have more knowledge, and more leisure too, I shall write to our beloved Juliet; and tell her all that I know, or can find out, concerning the good yankees, the sellers of wooden nutmegs; gloves, all of one hand; cuckoo-clocks, and Hingham-ware. So far as I have seen them, I like them. The country looks old, rich, and substantial; and the manners, 1 should think, were remarkably primitive. I speak of the country people. The buildings, publick and private, are adapted, admi- rably well; Jirst, for comfort and utility; and ihtn<, for show. With us, and further to the south, there seems to be a different tendency. But, perhaps I am prejudiced; for you know, that, where we have been generously treat- ed, it is difficult to see faults. "It is in vain, that we would coldly turn, "To them that smile on us ." Byron, I believe; but I have no knack at such things; and what possessed me to quote poetry, I know not; and to quote Mm, of all men breathing; him, whom I so hear- tily execrate and despise. I don't know when I have been in such spirits. Your note, announcing that Frank had gone to New Orleans, has made my heart light; but the first had miscarried I have not received it yet; let him wear the talisman, nevertheless; the tiger may cross his path, when he least expects it. But why not say more? You are on your return, I suppose. Shall you renew your intimacy with Molton? 1 hope not. But if you do, hunt him out of his labyrinth. Read the within, and tell me what you think of it. It is the fifth, that I have received. I already tremble; and, above all, I would have you ascertain if Molton be married. (ANONYMOUS, TO SARAH.) The life of Edward Molton has been an uninterrupted tissue of acts like the following. I make no apology for RANDOLPH. OP . * ' *--t^ ^ communicating them, after what I know of him, and, ol Miss Gracie. Bo it your business to communicate to her, so much of the whole, as will counteract the poison, that foe has infused. Do not mistrust me. I say nothing of Molton's talent. I only say that there is but one way of restoring that heart to soundness, upon which he has once breathed. Beware of him. He is -charged with many terrible crimes; with seduction; adulte- ry; murder. For the truth of these charges, I do not vouch; but there are facts, to the knowledge of which I have arrived, which I submit to you, in the following order, without comment. Confront him with them. Will he deny them? No but perhaps he will obtain your ear. If he do I know him he will prevail. You ask me, if "I know Mss Grane?" Believe me, you were very im- prudent, in permitting yourself to ask me any such question, particularly in black and white. It is perilous; and although such confidence is precious to me yet, en your account, I intreat you not to write to me again. What you have written, is sacred. It was rash, I con- fess, very rash in you, even to receive my notes. But, I do not mistake you. I know your motive; and I trust that my deportment has been such, as to convince you of my discretion. The only thing that I blame in you, is, your having acknowledged that you have received and read my notes. You ought not to let me know this I am the last man that should know it. But, it is done now, and cannot be helped; so, let me reply to your question. Yes I did know Juliet Gracie. Nay, more Iloved her. But that is passed. Still, however, I would preserve hep; watch over her, and restore her, wasted and weary as she is, to happiness and health. Edward Molton, at an early age, manifested the most depraved inclinations. Before twelve, he was a con- firmed liar; drank to excess; and stole whatever he could lay his hands on. He lived"in solitude. He was the chief pest of his family, and the bye- word of the town. Among the transgressions of his youth, I can recollect several, such as the following. He has deliberately in- sulted a lady, at a large dinner table, in two instances, RANDOLPH. 203 - <* i **V with an abrupt and brutal cruelty, that can only be pal- liated by supposing him ignorant of the commonest cour- tesies of life. Nay, he has presented a book, to one of the most accomplished and fascinating women, in our country, after violating the decorum of a family, by lending it to a youthful and superiour girl, who return- ed it, with this cutting remark. "I have read it, on your recommendation. But, do not (as he had promised) do not lend it to your sister. I have no fear that it would corrupt her, but- ." She could say no more. And the former lady returned it, almost in tears. After a rude and shameful outrage too, upon a young girl, a sort of apprentice w r here he once lived, in which, the consummation of his design was only prevented by his inebriety, and the interference of the lady, to whose government the girl was subject, he was a second time so forgetful of all that gives dignity to a man, that it was only by main force, that she escaped from his room, in- to which she had been beguiled. Not long since, in this very neighbourhood, he fell ac- quainted with a reputable married woman, a mother, travelling with her child; and ere he parted from her, which was at the end of a few hours ride, he made an assignation with her, to meet her at the house, where she stayed, and agreed to pass himself off for her brother. On another occasion, he entered, with a worthy and respectable man, without any introduction, into a house where the people of the place, (it was in the country,) were dancing. He soon singled out a young and inter- esting girl. Her lover was with her. She affronted Molton, and he determined to be revenged. He pursued her to h?r father's; and while the man, that was with him, sat down with a small company at cards, he employ- ed himself in the work of ruin. Not a quarte v r of an hour had passed, before Molton was surprised by the father himself, in an unoccupied room, with his daughter. He met with a woman, whom he had once loved, after her marriage with another, at noonday, by a formal assignation; and the story is, that they were both incon- ceivably distressed. Nay, he once visited the wife of 204 RANDOLPH. another man, in the absence of her husband; and who, he had every reason to believe, loved him, at night; and she was known to arise from her bed, and receive him. He fell in love, or at least, felt a singular interest in another girl, who was afterward married; and such was the infatuation of that woman, that she used to pass by his dwelling, continually, after her marriage, in the absence of her husband. He was criminally intimate with a woman, whom he introduced, in his audacity, at the peril of his life, not only into genteel and intelligent society, but into the house of his own mother; or, rather, he attempted this, but heaven interfered, and disappointed him. Nay, I do know of his having successively pursued se- veral women, for a long season, in one case, for whole years, without any serious design. But, there was one who had the spirit to requite him. She discovered the blackness of his heart; and tore her's away from it, for- ever. Was it not noble? heroick? They were to have been married. And who is she, with whom he now lives, in open de- fiance of public shame and honour? Perhaps her history may be none of the whitest, in the calendar of darkness. She is from England. One other, and I have done. That other is a case of singular atrocity. An innocent creature put herself in his way, in tears. Her sister had been betrayed. Mol- ton counselled her against the falsehood and subtlety of man; and, when he had won her whole confidence, would, perhaps, have destroyed her, himself; but she fled, and is safe. There is yet another. It is said, that he ran away, some time ago, with a sweet girl, from a nunnery, in Canada; was pursued, and shot, by the brother, on the way to New- York, where he fled, like a dastard. This tale is believed. And, since writing the above, two other cases have come to my recollection, which may avail something in your estimate of the man's character. He has been the cause of much jealousy between several married people; RANDOLPH. 305 and, on one occasion, I know of his having secretly cor- responded, tor some time, with a woman; an evidence of infatuation in her, surpassing aught that I have ever known: for she was a religious woman; the mother of several children; and she knew his character. Yet, she trusted herself to him. The last is a case, where he had insinuated himself in- to a house, how, it would be difficult to tell; for his man- ners are not conciliating and suddenly ceased to go to it. Nay, I have reason to believe, that he was formally requested not to enter it, again. What coujd have been the reason? You will, probably, never hear from me, again. I have communicated all. That there are suspicious stories, dif- ferent, and quite as shocking, of which the world has no mode of arriving at the truth, is true. But, I believe, that these are nearly all of his sins; nay, I might say, positively, that they were all, except some of a less seri- ous nature, the recital of which I shall spare you. Does he plead passion? No. He derides the plea. He has sinned, and continues to sin, in his own way, without consulting aught but his own heart; and what that monitor is, after such an uninterrupted violation of order and decorum, as I have exhibited to you, you may judge for yourself. And now one word of advice to you. You are very imprudent. The evidence that you have given to me, is conclusive. My last advice is Beware of Molton; and watch over Juliet. Only one thing can save her un- interrupted employment. She has an extraordinary genius; but she is undisciplined, and unable, except at intervals, to sustain and cherish it, as it deserves. Let her know that it is better to toil, regularly , one hour a day, than to work one whole day, in a week; or one whole month, in a year. It becomes a habit, at last; and she may gradually extend the time, until what would have intimidated her, at first, will become a matter, scarcely of observation, in her habitual practice. SARAH KA.MSAT, 206 RANDOLPH. SARAH TO JOHN. I write to you, again. I am terrified to death. I had Entirely forgotten the deaf-and-dumb man. Yet some- thing happened, a day or two since, which I was asham- ed to confess. The thought appeared so childish. I was standing at a counter 1 felt uneasy I turned, and there he was O. I should know his strange, melancholy eyes, wherever I met them. I was near fainting. When I recovered, he had gone. What a strange phantom it is, said I; ano^ from that day to this, I have started at the tread, or voice, of every stranger that I have met. I rarely go abroad: and, when 1 do, I see his manner his countenance* his very eyes, it would appear, at every turn. The consequence is. that 1 am sick weary. I must leave Boston I will. It is frightful, to me, to be so harassed. I feel like something haunted. But, as I was saying I had recovered I thought no more of him. But, just now cousin, it is not ten min- utes since he left me. I feel his touch yet. Would that he had spoken! O, with such eyes, such a forehead if he would only speak, I am sure that . No matter. He is not striking, Pthought him remarkably so, at first. His physiognomy has nothing remarkable; but the ex- pression that it is, which startled me. It is imperial. The profile is bad feeble, I think; but, in front No! how should I think of describing it? I only know, that he has, probably, saved my life; for, in crossing one of these vile slippery streets, here, I fell; and, at that in- stant, a carriage came thundering round the corner. The wheel touched me I felt it I almost felt the weight, crushing my bones. I was saved. The deaf-and-dumb creature saved me. He threw himself, they say, at the head of the horses, and turned them up the platform, so critically, that the fore-wheel passed over my foot, tear- ing and bruising it very slightly. Ah! I just begin to feel the pain. But where is he? I remember opening any eyes, while my father held me; and his countenance was near to mine with a strange expression; it made me shut them again. He disappeared. Nobody knows HT RANDOLPH. 207 how; and my father, I find, looks quite serious. Nay, I miss somewhat of his affectionate manner, now, more than ever. But enough of this. Give the enclosed to Juliet. SARAH RAMSAY. SARAH TO JULIET. You have often wished, dear Juliet, that my imperturb- able nature, as you have called it, might meet with some- thing to agitate it. Your wish is accomplished. I am agitated, cruelly agitated; not with the passion of love, that to which you seemed to look, with most assurance, for the desired effect; but with a strange, inexplicable in- quietude intensely painful and distressing, at times; and yet, so pleasant withal, that I would not entirely forego it. You will be startled when you know the fact. I have been pursued haunted for the last two months, by a deaf-and-dumb man. Who he is, or what is his object, I cannot conjecture; but he is, incessantly, about my path, besetting me at every turn, and occupying my thought, and all my dreaming. At times, I feel no little terrour about him; and then, my compassion for one so helpless and heroick,for there is really something heroick in his man- ner, entirely overcomes my terrour, and I only wish, while the tears fall from my eyes, that I were his sister, or some friend, and authorized to administer that conso- lation, which one so desolate and dark, must require. He has just saved my life. (Here followed an account of the transaction, exactly as it is related in the preceding letter, as to the facts; but the comments were more feel- ing and animated.) I promised to keep a sort of journal, you know; -and I was as good as my promise, until I had been so dis- turbed, by the frequent recurrence of this poor creature to my thought, that I abandoned it. The last part of it, that is intelligible, even to me, I find, is that, which des- v -Y v ' ;. u* .iJv.ujf. 208 RANDOLPH. cribes a visit to the battle-ground, near the Falls oi Niagara. I send it to you, just as it is. It was written with a trembling hand, you perceive; but a still more trembling heart, I can assure you. May 14th. Went to the battle-ground, in company with an officer, who was in the action, and under the command of colonel Millar. There is no hill, such as I expected to see, where the British artillery was posted; and several material errours, that my father had fallen into, from reading the account by Maj. , were corrected. After the Americans had obtained possession of the battery, they never lost it. The British, it is true, made several desperate charges; but were always unsuccessful. The notion that prevails, generally, is, that it was lost and won, several times. But, let me tell the whole, as nearly as I can, in the words of the officer. He was young, handsome, and modest; and, while he led us over the ground, he pointed out the particular spot, where any transaction of interest had occurred; showed us where //,e had stood where Millar was, when he was asked, ii he could ''carry that battery?" and replied, with more soldier-like pith than any Spartan ever did **/'W try." "The order came, to storm the battery." said the offi- cer. "I was in front of my company. 1 had never been closely engaged before: a few skirmishes, only, had been the whole of my experience. My feelings were not the most creditable to a soldier. I could have turned, and run, with a good heart, had not all the eyes of my men been upon me. We pushed on, at double quick time. I was near enough to see the faces of the men at their gnns. Just at that moment, 1 saw one of my lads gradu- ally sinking to the ground, with a face so horribly pale and ghastly, that I forgot my own terrour, instantly. I struck him with my sword; it was like electricity. He stood erect; and I gave immediate orders, in a loud voice, to bayonet the first man that lagged. The sound of my x>wn voice gave me new heart. Colonel Millar, too, was just in the rear, walking leisurely, backward and for- ward, with an enormous quid of tobacco in his mouth, which* all who saw him, could see. You would not easily - BANDOIFH. 209 guess the effect of such a trivial matter. But I have known that kind of unconcern, more effectual, in giving life to the soldiers, than the sternest and steadiest coun- tenance. It turns the current of their thought from dan- ger. A stern visage, on the contrary, teaches them that there is something to be feared; else, why such prepara- tion? Nay, I once saw General Ripley, when the shot was raining in upon us, address an officer, near me, thus: "A pinch of your snuff, if you please, lieutenant." Sir, we could have stormed I beg your pardon, madam. I forgot, then, that you were so near. Well, we reserved our fire. The battery opened upon us but they fired over our heads. We were about four hundred, and they were many times as numerous* We had been waiting, impatiently, for the word. It came. Fire! We took de- liberate aim, and poured in our balls, like hail, upon the men at the pieces. Every shot told. We saw them tum- bling about their guns, in dozens. When we carried the battery, we turned it, immediately, upon them. We con- tinued to be reinforced; and the enemy, we soon saw, meditated an attack, in turn. Then was the time of trial. All about us, there was a dead silence. We could hear the heavy roll of Niagara, however; and, now and then, a straggling shot, fired in the trepidation of some soldier. The moon was bright and beautiful; and the black clouds that were driven across it, by a strong wind, presented every variety of shadow and light. At one time, in the darkness, the enemy had approached so near, that we thought him a part of our troops. It was about eleven o'clock, at night." There, dear Juliet, I have given it to you, nearly in his own words. Ever thine, SARAH. P. S.--I am not a little mortified, dear JuKet, to find that* after all, I have been in no kind of danger! The carriage, it now appears, was not near me. I have this, from my father, who, I am afraid, has discovered the stranger. I await his questioning, with anxiety. In your T 210 RANDOLPH. reply, tell me how you are situated. How does Jane bear herself toward you? Is that aunt of hers, there? If so, I do pity you. Who is Mr. Grenville? What is he? I wait your opinion of him, for particular reasons, in con- fidence. There are some strange reports here. SARAH. JOHN TO SARAH. (Bearing nearly the same date, with one from her to him. The letters had passed each other on the road.} Sarah, my poor brother is an altered man, indeed. I thought that he had more fortitude more strength; or, rather, I did not believe that, with such a soul as he has, he could ever become so utterly prostrate, as I found him. He was pale; and there was something, in that paleness, that frightened me. So few weeks had passed, since we saw him, so gay and hearty; and now, his lips were parched; his eyes sunken and fiery; his form so emaci- ated. I sat down by him. I took his hand; nay why need I conceal it I fell upon his bosom, and wept. There was an unnatural gaiety in his voice, too, that went to my heart. I asked him if he had received my letter in season, (with a little money, which I had enclosed to him.) He grasped my hand. His voice trembled. I in- quired into his intentions. They were to go to New Or- leans. I was constantly with him, for the first week; and there came a letter for him, directed to my care, from Molton. What could it be? I thought that his heart would burst, when he read it. "Accursed slanderer!" he cried, tearing it, and trampling on it, like a madman. I asked him the cause of his wrath he tried to tell me, but he could not he was choking; and all that I could under- stand, was, that he, Molton, had slandered' Juliet. If that be true that it will be enough. I shall soon see RANDOLPH. him, and I shan't leave him, till I know the truth* Frank's baggage is, already, on board the vessel; or, I really believe, that he would return to see Molton; but, from the look of his eyes, I don't think that there will be much danger of his wrath cooling in this voyage; and his honour, I find, is engaged to undertake it. I am glad of it. I had rather meet Molton, than let Frank meet him; and, unless he play me some trick, which I am half inclined to suspect, from certain mysterious move- ments this morning, I shall see Molton long before he will. But, 1 must stay here awhile. I must see him fair- ly on board; and then, I will return. In the mean time, let your letters be directed as usual. There is a fellow at Jane's, who will take care of them, for me. Poor Frank!- there he is! leaning upon the table, with his hands pressed hard against his temples. I must finish. It will not do to leave him, alone, for an instant. Dear Sarah, adieu. Charleston, S. C. JOHN. P. S. I open this to say, that I have discovered the truth. Molton has offered Juliet to him! Frank is deli- rious with passion, in consequence* I know not what it means; but I will know. JOHN TO FRANK OMAR, Philadelphia, . It may lighten my brother's heart, to know, that the story which he has heard of Molton's baseness, toward Marion, M. P. is untrue; and that, to have felt a regard for him, is not so terrible a reproach, to a modest wo- man, as he has thought. I have made particular in- quiries, and have been so fortunate, as to find the very gentleman, at last, who, it was said, came so near being deceived by Molton. The facts, as related by him, are RANDOLPH. these: "Molton never loved her, and never affected to love her: on the contrary, she, herself, has always spo- ken of him, as having conducted himself in the most honourable manner. She was an ambitious, smart, showy woman, and Molton was on intimate terms with her, for years; but, while I knew that he had no intention of mar- rying her," said this gentleman, "because he, more than once, left off visiting her, on account of such a report, informing her of the reason, at the time I knew, also, that their acquaintance was not only perfectly innocent, but discreet. Nay, ask Molton himself. What he tells you, you may depend upon. It is true, that I loved Ma- rion devoutly to infatuation; and, it is also true, that I became acquainted with her, through the means of Mol- ton; and that, after we separated, she was seriously ill, J and went* for a few days, into the country, accompanied by Molton. Here, my knowledge of Marion and him terminated. There never was a more cruel and murder- ous slander, than this, of which you speak; and, were it not as ridiculous, as cruel, I should be tempted to hunt up the author. J have heard it before; but I laughed at it. There is not one word of truth, from beginning to end, in the induction that has been so wickedly drawn, from a few simple facts. The lady was imprudent, I have no doubt; for all women are so, to a degree, when in love. But she was innocent. I'll stake my life on that. Mol- ton was always too high minded, with all his faults, to deceive a friend, so basely. I was his friend; and he spoke to me of her faults, and virtues, without disguise, Nay, he told me all their acquaintance. She deceived me. She told me that he had, repeatedly, offered himself to her. I doubted this; and, when I told him, he denied it in such a way, and with such evidence, as left me in no kind of doubt. No the truth was, that she liked Mol- ton. I do not believe that she loved him; and, I believe, that she would have won him, if she could. I know that she tried hard," Thus much for his story. From ano- ther quarter, I learn, that the rest of the slander is as base a fabrication. Yet, the facts are nearly Ihe same. "She did not die in childbed. She is living yet. But BANDOLPH. her husband was, probably, induced to address her, in consequence of what Molton said to him. Nor, is it true, that there was any secret cause, for the interruption of the acquaintance between Molton and the family. It was a plain matter of fact. He is haughty, bitter, and sar- castick; and, when once provoked, difficult to appease. He affronted her, deliberately; and, as deliberately, re- pented of it. The first cause of their coolness was acci- dental; but it soon became so serious, that the father was obliged to interfere. Molton has since been srnsible of his unmanly and unworthy conduct; and, f am sure, if he ever have an opportunity, he will make an atonement proportioned to his transgression. Perhaps the birth of the child may be premature. The story abroad is so, I confess. But I would pledge my soul, for the innocence of Molton; and he, I am sure, would put his against the man, that would dare to insinuate aught against the purity of his acquaintance with that woman." Nay, bro- ther, you may depend upon this; for Molton, himself, has told me, in plain language, the whole extent of her im- prudence with him. It amounted only to a few tears; but, he declares, that he never even kissed her, in his life; and I believe him. "No," says he, "she is an innocent and wronged creature, so far as I know anything of her; and I have been very intimate with her, and for a long time." Farewell. I shall direct this to Messrs. Fairman and Baits, of New-Orleans, with leave to forward it, if you should have left there. Juliet is well. Sarah, I ima- gine, is somewhat in love! with a deaf-and-dumb man, too! but that is hardly to be wondered at, where one is so able and willing to talk enough for two: it would be no serious objection to her, that he could not speak nor *o him, that he could not hear! I shall tell her so, next. Dear brother, yours. sown. 214 RANDOLPH. EDWARD MOLTON TO GKORGE STAFFORD. No, Stafford, I never liked Byron. He wants natural steadiness and grandeur. He is too full of affectation. Nothing is unpremeditated, with him; nothing perma- ment. His ambition is affected; his melancholy affected;" and so are his love and his misanthrophy. If he really suffered, he would not be so forward to tell of it. Men seek concealment in their calamity, whenever that calamity is accompanied with wounded self-love. Not so with Byron. Whatever happens to him, is for the publick. His family distresses the holiness of his home the sanctity of a loved one, whose heart is bruised and sore, with his unkindness, in her retirement, are all ex- hibited as so many spectacles. His passions, and thoughts, are nothing more to him, than a kind of ware, with which he supplies the market a theatrical company, which he lets out to the mob, for tragedy or comedy, prose or verse. To-day the publick appetite is for the moody and myste- rious. Byron profits by it. He marshals a score of heroes, Tall of the same family; and exhibits them, with such an air of reality, and with so many of his own diseased attributes, that the world are willing to believe that they are drawn from life. Ridiculous. Two or three things alone that 1 find in his poetry, are enough to convince me, that Byron is, naturally, a pleasant, harmless , inoffen- sive sort of fellow, with no more gall nor bitterness of heart, than many a man, who is never suspected of hav- ing any at all. A sort of notion seems to prevail, that he is blood-thirsty. I do not believe it. Nor do 1 even be- lieve that he is really a brare man. My reason is this; and it is quite enough for me. He has published a note, to his British Bards, and Scotch Reviewers, which no brave man ever would have published. He speaks of having waited for the vengeance of whosoever might see fit to assail him, after he had published the first edition. Can anything be pleasanter? What had he said so peril- ous, to his personal safety? Nothing. But of whom was it said? of a set of poets the most patient of God's creatures* where powder and ball are concerned. RANDOLPH. though the most sensitive and unappeasable, where the paper bullets of the brain "only," are to be encountered. No Stafford. Byron is not a great man; by this, I mean, that he has riot that quality which makes bad men great, at times, immobility. Every thing shakes him; every thing disturbs him. That he is a great poet, I do not deny. But while I admit that, in a part of his labour he has never been excelled, yet I will maintain that no man has written a greater proportion of abominable trash. The fashion will soon have gone by, as it was with Walter Scott's poems, and will be with the novels that are attributed to him, now. But this must not be known. People forget the past, and regard the present, as an ex- ception to the vicissitude of fashion. If I should say, therefore, that the time is close at hand, when Byron's poems, and the Scotch novels, will be found on the same shelf with Scott's poems, covered with dust; a drug in Booksellers shops; and a part, too sacred to be touched, of the library I should be laughed at. Yet, it will be so. The fashion is passing away. The measure and manner of Byron, is worn out; and the novel writer is exhausted. I can remember, when it was little else than blasphemy to utter aught, against the poems of Walter Scott; I can remember when they were found upon eve- ry table, every toilet; when they were cited on all occa- sions; and his songs were to be heard, at every turn. Then it would have been thought madness to predict, what has since happened. Then, there was no such poet- ry, as Walter Scott's poetry; no such poet as Walter Scott. The Edinburgh Reviewers ranked him with Homer! and Lord Byron swore that his rhymes should live, when England was no more! How is it now? No bookseller is willing to have them upon his shelves.- They are seen upon no table no toilet;- and nobody pretends now, that Walter Scott was ever anything more than a pleasant, fiery sort of a rhymer; who, after draw- ing two or three strong characters, kept the same, con- tinually before the publick, in different dresses, and un* der different names, until they, simple souls, without 16 JIANDOLPH, suspecting the cause, grew tired of him, and his company, and come to their senses. The true reason was, that, in his new works, there was nothing new; nothing in character, measure, image, and little in incident. Had the name heen unchanged, the whole might have passed for one story. Bating a catastrophe, now and then, they had more connexion than the cantos of Childe Harold; and, finally it has come to this, that, of all his poems, that which first made him popular, the Lady of the Lake, is the only one that is ever spoken of now, with complacen- cy. Will this he the fate of the novels? Undouhtedly Though 1 do not believe, that Walter Scott is the author, for they are full of strength and destitute of ornament; yet I believe that they will share the fate of the poems, and that Byron's labour will go with them. Nay is it not so now? Has not his lordship discovered the fact; and adopted another manner, entirely contradictory to his old, in that Don Juan, which you have sent me? By the way, I should have written to you, on the subject of that poem, when I first received it, but I was constantly travelling. Yet, I shall endeavour to say a word or two here, before we part. But are there not other reasons, separate from the fickleness of publick opinion, which may lead to this re- sult? I think that there are. They have been much too popular, and too suddenly and vehemently popular. Such things, no matter what their merit is, cannot last. Besides, after admitting the merit of the writer, thedra- matick distinctness of his characters; for, after all, that is his chief, if not his only merit, for there is nothing rer markable in his style; there are so many drawbacks, so much trash so many chapters of tiresome pedantry horology law heraldry history ^and stuff, relative to individuals, that can be interesting only to those who know the parties 9 that I should not fear to utter the pre- diction, solely on that ground. But a great and conspi- cuous fault is this; that all his leading characters are the same. He seems to have no conception of mind, dis- tinct from the body. With him, the same body has always. RANDOLPH. 217 the same soul. Recall for a moment some of them, and point out to me where the real difference is. It is on- ly in a greater or less degree of vulgarity and that, of- tener in the dress and situation, than in the language; for his low-born often talk better than the high-born. In every tale, there is a deformed man; with long arms and prodigious personal strength: there is Dirk Hatterick, Ashley Osbaldeston Rob Roy the little Black Dwarf and the great Black Dw r arf, for example, all with the devil in their hearts. And here 1 cannot help making a remark that has long had weight with me. However it may be with Walter Scott, who i am told is lame, I was sure, the moment that I saw Byron, (and I did not know that he was clubfooted, till then) that that was the chief cause of his bitterness and hostili- ty to men. The mind accustoms itself to regard the body of a man, like his countenance, as in character with his spirit. There is the crook backed "tyrant" of Shakspeare, whom by the way, I suppose you know to have been a "marvellous proper man," and no more crook- backed than I am. Such men, like the diminutive and weak, cannot be magnanimous. What would be for- bearance in the strong and valiant, would be, in them, but pusillanimity. They are viewed with an evil eye. Women avoid themand fools, with better faces and feet, get ahead of them. The conp.qnpnre is, that they become dark, unforgiving, and terrible; their hearts secrete a continual poison; what is aliment to others, the smile of beauty, the movement and grace of fashion- able life is bitterness and death to them. Love and wo- men are to them a perpetual taunt. They cannot be loved they know that; if they have any ambition, they aim to be feared, as the next best thing, accessible to them. But I am wandering again. Let us return. There is also a series of mad women, you know, running through the whole set of these novels Meg Merillics$ Madge Wildfire: Ulrica; Edith; Helen McGregor; Nor- na of the Fitful-Head; and one or two others, whom i can- not recollect. And, after deducting these two sets of 218 RANDOLPH. dwarfs and mad women, what have we like a character left; nothing but what is common to many novels, if we ex- cept Claverhouse, which is only a sketch; Rebecca; Min- na; and Di Vernon; and the Waverly Heroine (who are all one) and the Knight Templar. The others are paltry. And 1 do say that we shall see the time, and soon too, when few persons will have the patience to read through some ot them, which are now thought the most of as Waverly, for instance. Can any thing be more tiresome than the first one or two hundred pages of Waverly excepting some part of the latter? I can remember when it first appeared. I read it with great difficulty. It was the most irksome thing to me, that I had ever met with such was the general sentiment, too. But the Scotch Reviewers pronounced it a miracle; and we, in our humility, echoed the edict. They, too, have declared that "Old Mortality" and "Waverly" are the best of the collection. We have been fools enough to be- lieve them. And yet, Stafford, to an Englishman, or an American, they are the most tiresome; and, for the very reason that they are the most grateful to a Scot their extreme particularity and locality. No wonder that a Scot finds entertainment in the barbarous gibberish of the natives; but must we, in spite of our teeth, be pleased too, with what is unintelligible to us? 1 hope not. No -the fact is that. thp. heat of these novels are those that are not national Guy Mannering is the best Ivanhoe the next. They are stories that men relish, who never heard of Scotland, and never wish to hear of it. The char- acters are not individuals but species: the language is not provincial, but universal. But the epidemick for Scotch poetry cloaks ribbands novels criti- cism science and musick, is rapidly passing off. We begin to be only rationally disquieted by it. But if I am to say anything of Don Juan, 1 must do it soon; my paper is nearly out. My first notion is, that at is merely a piece of pleasantry in Lord Byron; and that the world have sadly mistaken him, in supposing that he had anv design, good or ban, in sending it abroad. That it is profligate, I admit; but, is it more so, than Shak BAIfDOLFH. speare? his Romeo and Juliet nay even his Lear or is it half so coarse and brutal as his Othello? Why even now, after the pruning of a whole century a de- cent woman can hardly sit it out, without blushing to the very heart. Nay there is the whole school ofBE\T- MONT and FLETCHER Madam CENTLTVRE; and even that most genteel piece of obscenity, that was ever tole- rated upon any stage, the SCHOOL, FOR SCAIVDIL the greatest outrage upon decency that I know; and all the novels of Smollet and Fielding are they not unspeak- ably more coarse and shamefu,!? They are. But do not suppose that I mean to justify or plead for Byron. No. But I mean to say that, while the blasphemy, and detestable licentiousness of his poems are complained of it would be more decent to complain of it, a little more temperately; and after reading a little in Milton and Shakspeare. Treat it as it is sneer at it, as the pas- time of a wicked, dissolute man, worth reading, on account of its vivacity; but not to be dreaded, as it is, like death and rottenness, to the human heart. There, your re- viewers were foolish; but they have set the fashion, and we have followed it. They have called it the ne plus ul- tra of genius and wickedness; and we have repeated it. The opinion is false. It is no such wonderful thing, except for its eccentricity, as coming from the misan- thrope. You see with what facility it has been imitated. There are parts in both of the works that I sent you, so like the best part of Juan, that it would be difficult to de- tect the counterfeit. Nay, nothing is easier; and the ridiculous doctrine of association, I take it r was first gravely followed in Byron's Childe Harold. There, he was forever wandering. And it is my serious opinion, that, having become sensible, that it was easy to make that habit, and consequently, the writer, ridiculous, he tried his hand at Beppo, by way of anticipating such ri- dicule. M. G. Lewis did the same thing, you know, with his Giles lollop. Don Juan, therefore, is only a parody upon Childe Harold, by the author himself. And what is this association? That which keeps a man continually turning. The author tliinks of a horse that 220 RANDOLPH. reminds him of Bucephalus that, of a shadow that, of the moon that, of lunaticks that, of mad Lee that, of poor Swift that, of racing that, of the Olympian games that, of cards boxing bull fights Elgin mar- blesgladiators Greece Liberty the Turks Em- peror Alexander, &c. &c. in short, of every thing, and anything, but the subject in hand. And that is associa- tion! I have now done. 1 f you would have the venom of Don Juan diluted, make less noise about it. That is a sure way. At present, people are ambitious of trying the strength of their constitutions. Ever yours Dear Stafford. MOLTON. JULIET TO SARAH. Yes, my dear Sarah, it is time that I should forget myself, for a while, and remember those that are now, as I have been, away and apart from their home. I have received all your letters, I dare say; for none are mis* sing; and, until your last, I had contented myself with replying to them, at second hand, believing that I was acquainted with all. t was mistaken, I see, now; and though not disposed to take you very seriously to task in the matter, yet, I do think it a part of my duty to treat it somewhat so. I am afraid that you do not think enough of this strange correspondence. No, I do not express what I wish; but 1 mean to ask you, if it be not rather more grave a matter, than you are willing to ac- knowledge, even to your own heart. For my own part, f will tell you, frankly, that, since Mr. John Omar's re- turn, we have had a long conversation about you; and I made no scruple to keep the extent of my know- ledge a secret, until I had arrived at the limit of his. He is naturally unsuspicious; and, when he found how completely I had trickaySfiin, with all my artlessnes** as you have been pleased fir call it, he really looked a little RANDOLPH. angry, and coloured; nay, I do not know but he might have said some spiteful thing, had not the gentleman, about whom you are concerned, been present. However, we were all good friends again, in ten minutes; and con- tinued our chatting. He declares, without any hesita- tion, that you are in love, at last; but then, no human being can believe that he is serious; for he seems to have taken up the very character of extravagance, levity, and frolick, that his excellent brother threw off, so wisely, just before he left us. Indeed, 1 have been frequently struck at these changes. Unlike as they appear to be, from all that I am able to discover, and every observation adds new strength to my opinion, they are really so very much alike, as to he able to change characters, completely. Thus much, and in this grave way too, to prepare you for what is to follow. But do not be terrified. I do not mean to carry these airs much further. I was never made for a preceptress and, I find it not a little awk- ward to give advice; so, what I do give now, must be charitably taken; or, I have done playing Minerva. I have thought over your whole acquaintance, with the stranger, so far as it has been communicated to me; and the result is, that I hardly know what to say. J cannot say that you have been imprudent; for, if the poor crea- ture would follow you, how could you help it? But I fear that pardon me, Sar.^h, I declare that it brings the water into my eyes, to say it, even half in earnest I fear that you have been imprudent, in some way. Be- fore I said this, I should have asked you, perhaps; but would not the question itself imply that I suspected you? Yet, let me tell you, from what i judge. You are such an altered creature. Your very hand writing is disorder- ed; and your language is so, too. Now and then, by flashes, a spirit breaks out, that I never saw before. This, again, is succeeded by words, single words, and phrases, which are really alarming, when I remember what you have been. They are mournful, touching, yet natural. By this, I do not mean that you were ever affected, or unnatural, but that these are heart-felt U 220 RANDOLPH. reminds him of Bucephalus that, of a shadow that, of the moon that, of lunaticks that, of mad Lee that, of poor Swift that, of racing that, of the Olympian games that, of cards boxing bull fights Elgin mar- blesgladiators Greece Liberty the Turks Em- peror Alexander, &c. &c. in short, of every thing, and anything, but the subject in hand. And that is associa- tion.' I have now done. If you would have the venom of Don Juan diluted, make less noise about it. That is a sure way. At present, people are ambitious of trying the strength of their constitutions. Ever yours Dear Stafford. MOI/TOX. JU1IET TO SARAH. Yes, my dear Sarah, it is time that I should forget myself, for a while, and remember those that are now, as I have been, away and apart from their home. I have received all your letters, I dare say; for none are mis* sing; and, until your last, I had contented myself with replying to them, at second hand, believing that I was acquainted with all. I was mistaken, I see, now; and though not disposed to take you very seriously to task in the matter, yet, I do think it a part of my duty to treat it somewhat so. I am afraid that you do not think enough of this strange correspondence. No, [ do not express what I wish; but 1 mean to ask you, if it be not rather more grave a matter, than you are willing to ac- knowledge, even to your own heart. For my own part, f will tell you, frankly, that, since Mr. John Omar's re- turn, we have had a long conversation about you; and I made no scruple to keep the extent of my know- ledge a secret, until I had arrived at the limit of his. He is naturally unsuspicious; and, when he found how completely I had trickie^ftm, with all my arttessnesn* as you have been pleased to call it, he realty looked a little RANDOLPH, angry, and coloured; nay, I do not know but he might have said some spiteful thing, had not the gentleman, about whom you are concerned, been present. However, we were all good friends again, in ten minutes; and con- tinued our chatting. He declares, without any hesita- tion, that you are in love, at last; but then, no human being can believe that he is serious; for he seems to have taken up the very character of extravagance, levity, and frolick, that his excellent brother threw off, so wisely, just before he left us. Indeed, 1 have been frequently struck at these changes. Unlike as they appear to be, from all that I am able to discover, and every observation adds new strengtli to my opinion, they are really so very much alike, as to be able to change characters, completely. Thus much, and in this grave way too, to prepare you for what is to follow. But do not be terrified. I do not mean to carry these airs much further. I was never made for a preceptress and, I find it not a little awk- ward to give advice; so, what I do give now, must be charitably taken; or, I have done playing Minerva. I have thought over your whole acquaintance, with the stranger, so far as it has been communicated to me; and the result is, that I hardly know what to say. I cannot say that you have been imprudent; for, if the poor crea- ture would follow you, how could you help it? But I fear that pardon me, Sarah, I declare that it brings the water into my eyes, to say it. even half in earnest I fear that you have been imprudent, in some way. Be- fore I said this, I should have asked you, perhaps; but would not the question itself imply that I suspected you? Yet, let me tell you, from what i judge. You are such an altered creature. Your very hand writing is disorder- ed; and your language is so, too. Now and then, by flashes, a spirit breaks out, that I never saw before. This, again, is succeeded by words, single words, and phrases, which are really alarming, when I remember what you have been. They are mournful, touching, yet natural. By this, I do not mean that you were ever affected, or unnatural, but that these are heart-felt. U 222 RANDOLPH. They have distressed me, me, who knew you so well, when, perhaps, another, not so familiar with your style, would observe nothing of the kind, in them. But Sarah, let me assure you I can safely say, that, in all the let- ters together, which you have written to me, since w r e left Philadelphia, (and they fill a large part, of a very large drawer,) there is not so much passion, and brokeimess, and strange beauty and fervour, as in two or three of your last. Yet, you have experienced many vicissitudes; and though there was once, a singular abruptness a masculine vigour, (have you forgotten that?J in your style; yet, it wore off, and you were remarkable for se- renity, until of late, when you have returned, all at once, to it. Passion is always abrupt; so is strong emotion. In- deed, you had become so sober, at one time, and so se- vere, that I almost trembled to write to you. But now; how is it, now? Ah, Sarah you have a woman's heart, after all! and 1 can prattle with you again, as freely as ever. But "a deaf -and dumb man." what am I to think of you? That you are interested in him? Yes that you love him? JV*o. Take care, Sarah; you are too confi- dent of your own strength. You are daring, too. If you love deafness, dumbness, blindness, would hardly be a fatal objection to you. Consider of this well. The advice had better be months too early, than one moment too late. If I know any thing of symptoms, yours arc sufficiently decided; and my opinion is That you are critelly deceiving yourself. I may be wrong, but such is my belief. If you thought that you felt any tenderness for the poor creature, you would tremble to speak of him. You would be ashamed, and terrified. You would stifle the thought, immediately, at the risk of suffocation; for in her sober senses, any rational woman would do this, as a matter of religious duty. I forbear to urge any argument on this point. If argument be necessary it is already too late. No, my dear, dear Sarah, your dan- ger, I am sure, lies in your self confidence. You arc "cruelly agitated/' without suspecting the cause. The deaf-and-dumb man is the cause. Your proud heart is UANDOLPH. 223 the cause. I hope that I am mistaken; but, 0, Sarah, your letters; such, from such a woman as you, now that I see them all, and know the whole, do alarm me in- expressibly. That a girl, who has scarcely read a dozen novels in her life; whom I have seen laughing over some of the most pathetick, and sentimental scenes of the drama; one, on whom all poetry that tells of "love, still love," operated, only tq make her beautiful lips curl, in scorn that she should be so at the mercy, of one or two whimsical adven- tures, as to believe but, before I advance another step, Sarah, let me beg of you, to answer me do I know all is there nothing untold; nothing I ask you, seri- ously; and I will tell you, why. It appears to me so utterly improbable that Sarah Ramsay should be trou- bled in this way, merely by the circumstance of having been once in a grave-yard, with a deaf-and-dumb man; by having seen him, at glimpses, and doubtfully, two or three times; and, having been assisted in a trying mo- ment, by the same person, even were that assistance as critically rendered, as she at first supposed. Nay, this seems so impossible, I might say, that I am driven to the belief that there is something untold. Yes there is. Sarah, my dearest friend! my sister! my dear Sarah! I implore you to tell me. It will ease your own heart. But, if it may be for there are some things; some, that a woman will no*; tell to her own heart; some, that she should not.- -If this be one of them it is enough. I am satisfied, without wringing the confidence, like blood, from your poor heart. Yes satisfied; for this letter, will do all that such confidence could. It will awaken you, dear Sarah, to a sense of your danger. Nay, it were bet- ter perhaps, that I should not know more, whatever there may be to tell. We are sadly unwilling to relinquish such things. I have found it so; and the heart of wo- man is always young, tender, and mute, till that feeling of shame is gone, But then, when she has once learnt to talk of the forbidden thing; once taught her lips to pronounce the forbidden name once learnt to hear her own voice discourse upon the theme of treachery, she 224 RANDOLPH. becomes, like the true coward, preternaturally brave. Thus, it is said, that women never stop halfway with crime or virtue; and thus 1 am sure, they that have been under any constraint, become imprudent, when that is re- moved. That feeling of shame, Sarah, has been an un- reasonable restraint to you. Even if you have felt ten- derness, you have never dared to show it. The fear of ridicule appalled you. It is not wonderful; ridicule has shaken stouter minds than women ever ought to have. I conld never love her, whom it would not disturb. It may be better, therefore, that we should not speak at all on this subject, again; no matter whether it be, at pre- sent, a trifle, or not. Because, unless we agree to this, I should expect you to laugh at me, if it were a trifle; and should conclude of course, if you did not, that it was serious. Otherwise, I may live to hear the insensible Sarah, muttering a sweet formal incantation aloud, to the blind boy; invoking him, by some name which, but to have heard pronounced by another, once, would have been death to the poor trembler. There, my dear Sarah; have I not played my part mighty well? I think that I have; and I am sure that you will think me fairly quit for some of your ancient lecturing, on similar subjects, when I wanted a guardian, dear, more than you ever will. And now, let me take a more natural tone. I should be really glad to hear, that my beloved Sarah, whom I know better than they that think her cold and insensi- ble, had some truly romantick, high-hearted fellow 7 for a husband not for a lover tLe romance of a lover is too often sickening and artificial; but, when a husband, a sensible husband is romantick, the character is respecta- ble; and the deep, thrilling, passionate beauty of ro- mance is never so well set off. as by dignity and wisdom. To such a man, would I fain see my Sarah wedded. 1 should be happy, then; or, if that be too much, for we are seldom fiappy here, 1 believe; and it is better for us, that we should not be, I should be less unhappy than I have been. Yet that is saying little. Supply the defi- ciency yourself, dear Sarah; and believe, as I do, that it RANDOLPH. is better for us, these trials and disappointments, this weltering of the heart at times; or, they wean us from un- substantial things. And why should we complain ? surely not, that we have found the truth at last! Do we complain that we are awakened from a delirious slumber? Would we be deceived, forever? lie, forever and ever, dreaming of imaginary virtue, in imaginary beings? No, Sarah; and, instead of sorrowing that the delusion has passed; and that the wicked are no longer seen as they were wont to be, on beauty and majesty, we ought to re- joice. And so we should, were it not for our self love. We cannot bear to confess that we have been duped cheated, so miserably, as we sometimes are, into enthu- siasm for the wicked and but whither am I wander- ing? Sarah I have given you a practical illustra- tion, of what I cautioned you against, in the last page; and I would tear this out, with a blush, and a few tears perhaps, at mine own weakness, were I not more asham- ed of such a weakness, at such a time. Perhaps howev- er, with me, it is a symptom of strength, rather than passion, 'that I am able to support any allusion to this painful subject. There was a time, when 1 could not; nay, it is not long, since the most delicate touch would have taken my breath away. I can think of it all, now, more steadily; my feelings are strangely altered; ami I cannot readily believe that my heart is already so sound as it appears; I choose rather to believe that the wound is festering yet; that "the living stream lies quick be- low." While I believe this, I shall be more safe. It is dangerous reviving certain associations. I have experi- enced that. It is like retreading on crushed flowers with our naked feet. We may affect to go there, with in- difference; we may know that there is no fragrance, no beauty left; but the very earth is aromatick, impregnate with their essence. The odour and oil follow us haunt us even in our sleep. This looks well. When people can talk so, there is, in general, little to be feared; but I have learnt caution and this, I hope, is for the last time with me. And as for yotf, Sarah, the edict against you, is in full force. You are not to allude to the past. 226 UANDOLPH. And now, let me reply to your kind questioning. It is very true, dear Sarah, that I am not so happily situated as I could wish; but why should I disquiet you? You cannot relieve me; and we are too far apart, for such safe correspondence, as would justify me in dealing very plain- ly. Beside, 1 have lost a part of my sensibility, by re- covering my health. I feel more serious, and am told that my manners are so. Yet, I do not think that there is any affectation of solemnity about me; perhaps there may be, of cheerfulness, sometimes; for, when my heart has been right heavy, on some foolish account or other, I have tried to avoid alike, the appearance of melancholy or dejection, which might be mistaken for pensiveness, or sentimentality; and that of great spirits, which all wo- men are apt enough to assume, whenever their hearts are touched by disappointment. Do I write as I used to? It appears to me that I do not. I think that I am getting more into your manner, your old manner, I mean; for your new one is quite a novelty! there's no denying that. Of one thing, I can truly assure you. It is this. I never knew what were the consolations, or what was the vitality of religion, till death had been brought home to me. You will rejoice with me, that this knowledge has boen purchased so cheaply. I begin to think many things less valuable; and to look upon many others with differ- ent eyes, than I did. Perhaps there is a certain evil pride as well as some respect for religion, at the bottom of this. If you think so, aid me to detect it. Yes, Miss Matilda is here, and is much kinder to me, than before. Jane, alas, has had her trial, too. We have seen but little of her, lately. So many deaths in the family, I fear, have broken her spirits. Her manner is not very cordial; and she is very thin; but I am sure that her heart, poor girl, is kinder than it appears; and when we recollect how mistaken has been her education; how da zz ling ' y beautiful she has been; and then look at her now, so wasted and pale, from confinement and real inability to bring her powerful mind into action, without the ex- citement of admiration, perpetually and pullickly admin- istered, it is not wonderful that she is somewhat less kind, BANDOLPH. 227 than formerly. But Jane is a noble girl, after all. I know of many a sick heart that she hath comforted; and were it not that her virtues are too stern and masculine, she would be an example of discretion for the age. Of Mr. Greaville, I cannot permit myself to say much, because I have not known him long. Some years ago, we met; and I took up an opinion against him, which, like some others, I have had good reason to change. He remembers you; and you may have heard me speak of him. He is about thirty-eight, I should judge; but looks much younger. His mind is active and free, and betrays an agreeable general information, that makes him courted a good deal. I could not judge, whatever were my ability, which is very slight, as you know, of his depth or solidity, on so short an acquaintance; but, I am at present disposed to think him an amiable man, with good character, settled habits, a handsome fortune, and, pro- bably, a warm heart. Are you disposed for a bargain? Come, what say you? I have no doubt; nay, I am sure that he is well fitted to make any woman happy, who may be ready to give up her heart to him. Only think, Sarah a snug fortune, (though that, I know, is nothing to you heigho! but a little money, after all, is apt to be a very comfortable no, not, a little money that is one of the uncomfortable things of this life; for, if it were not, I know not who would be more comfortable than many a sweet girl in this neighbourhood.) There, Sa- rah, fareVell. I do not know when I have fallen, so na- turally, into my old humour; but the serious face that I could not help fancying you in, when you wrote that in- terrogatory about Mr. Grenville, did divert me, that's the truth on't; and I laughed heartily, when I came to it, again, in answering you. Yet you must not laugh; at least, not at him. He is far too respectable for such pas- time, 1 assure you. Once more, farewell dear Sarah, and accept this long, endless letter, as an offset to some of yours (quite equivocal that!) 228 RANDOLPH. JOHX TO SARAH. O, Sarah! Sarah! What have I seen. Where have I been! With whom have I been confederating? Stop. Are you alone? If not, go to your room. Lock the door. Now listen. Is the paper spotted? Are the spots red? Do not shudder, do not, though they be. Stay I will be calm. The red stains that you see there there they are continually shifting to be sure, but some will be there, when you open the letter they are blood. It is Molton's blood. He is an adulterer. Mary Howard is an adultress. Helen Molton is an adultress! She aban- doned her husband and fled with Molton. Retribution has been done upon him. He is dying. The blessed Saint is avenged. Juliet is avenged. William is aveng- ed. Frank, and the husband, and the poor, poor father, all are avenged. His blood is upon my hands, at this moment I cannot wash it off. I have washed, and washed and wept upon it but no, it will not depart. But let me tell the story calmly wait a little while * *= =fc I went at nine o'clock, this morning, to see Molton. I took my pistols with me. I was desperate. I did not believe him guilty. He had told me a plausi- ble story about Helen; and I believed it. But he never told me ah, this blood the smell is very offensive do you know any thing that \*ill take it out, Sarah? He never told me that she was married to another, when he came away; still less, that it was her husband, whom he had slain, upon the beach. O, no if he had, I should never have deserved the reproach of intimacy with a man, at the head of whose table, sat his mistress. No; I knew that she was his wife; that is, I thought so; and I kept the secret, because he prayed it. I 1 . Well let me to my story -.. As I approached the house, I was willing to see if Molton was in his study; and I went through the wood, therefore, at the back of the house. I thought it a pity to be disappointed again. I saw him. I knocked. The servant denied him. I KAXDOLPH. 229 wrote a line what, I know not; bat, here is the answer^ on the very card, too, just as it was written. "Young man.-*-I shall be at your service, at 10. It is now, 9:?, by my watch." E. M. I was unwilling to leave the gate; but, I had some sense of decorum left. I turned my horse into the wood, and rode about, determining never to quit him, alive^ till he had satisfied me, as to what he had said of Juliet^ what he wrote to Frank; and what Frank meant, by that mysterious allusion to the death of William. I had seen Juliet, several times, while I was waiting to see Molton; for he had been constantly denied to me, 'till 1 would bear it no longer. But she knew it not. At ten, precisely, 1 rang the bell. I was conducted in. Molton was in his dressing gown; and was paler and thinner, nay, sadder, 1 thought, than I had ever seen him. Am 1 intelligible? I must tell you all my weakness. My heart smote me, for a moment. I felt as if I were chok- ing. Might 1 not have been too precipitate? How could he look so if my blood mounted again. No- he was not innocent, look as he would! I know not what I said; but he sat, I remember, leaning upon his hand, with his eyes lifted, mournfully and fixedly upon mine; and the first words that he uttered, in reply, were merely these: and they were very calmly uttered.* "You have brought your pistols. I suppose?" "Yes," I replied, unwrapping them, and offering him one. He put it back, gently, and with a smile; a sickly, wan smile, not so much in derision, the habitual one of his face, at such moments, as in compassion, or pity. ".Nay, sir take it take one you shall take one;" said I, determined not to relent. He took one; but, with a carelessness, that looked more as if he wanted to convince me that he was just as little in my power thevs as before, than to exchange a shot. I trembled with passion. What! might I not be permit" 230 . RANDOLPH. ted to harm him, with a loaded pistol in his hand? De- fenceless, t could not. That , were the work of an assas- sin. But now, I prepared to fire I levelled. What prevented me, I know not. There was a dead silence. His melancholy eyes were rivetted upon mine, like one, weary of life, willing to die, but sorry to die, by the hand of one that had loved him; so, 1 interpreted it. Shall I tell the truth? My eyes ached filled and my arm fell down, powerless at my side the pistol went off a shriek followed and the apparition of my bro- ther stood before me. Helen appeared, for a moment; but, rebuked, I suppose* by some gesture of Molton, for no sound escaped him, she vanished again. I only remem- ber her, as I do all the restlike phantoms* that came and went, in noise and smoke, while the sound of the pis- toJ was still ringing in my ears; and I knew not that my aim at Molton's heurt had been abandoned. I regarded myself as a murderer. He sat without motion. Mybro- therjstood before me. I dared not embrace him; his counte- nance was stern, and I began to think, though it was broad day light, that I was dreaming nay, perhaps I am dreaming, yet! It is incredible that so much should have happened in so short a time. There is my watch and the hands would tell me but they lie yes, they lie that, not two hours ago, I had no blood upon my conscience. > Well Frank was there. It was Frank. Whence did he come? Did he drop from the clouds? Molton's hand dropped; he fainted: but scarcely were his eyes shut, than he opened them again and or- dered the door to be shut, and locked. "Young men," said he, "hear me. I have but a few words to speak. You have deliberately sought my life. I have known this, for weeks. There has not been a day, when your own was not at my mercy. You might have put me upon retaliation. Nay you have 1 speak to both to you, sir, and to you you have said things to me, which, the bare possibility that I am an innocent and injured man, ought to have prevented you from saying. Permit yourselves but to suppose it possible, for one mo- RANDOLPH. ment, that you have been deceived; and what must you think of your own conduct? You have pursued me, to ray own house. You have waylaid my path. You have compelled me to become a prisoner, in my own man- sion, that I might not have my blood upon your hands; nor yours upon mine. How many more there may be of you, 1 know not. But I hope your aim is accomplish- ed. If it be not, my patience is exhausted. I can go no further. In my day of passion, I did many things that I would avoid now. And, if I survive this, I shall apply to the law. Will you inform me, who is the other that has haunted me so long? lurking about my ground in this country, too like one prowling for a victim? You are silent. Are you ashamed?" "I know of none," said my brother, humbly. "Nor I I know nothing of the matter," said I. "What! Is the young ruffian, and his fellow, who were seen skulking about, here, some months ago, un- known to you, sir. A tall young man a drab coat and very erect, proud step " "I met such a man " said I, "this morning, in the wood." (For I remember that he turned, suddenly, as my horse dashed past him; and put his hand into his bo- som, like one surprised, where he ought not to be. Nay, I thought that he looked alarmed but I attributed that, afterward, I remember, to my own agitated appearance; and to the pistols, wrapped in my handkerchief, to be' sure, that I carried under my arm.) "I knew one suiting such a description, once," said my brother, haughtily "and I am glad to hear that he is so near to me. I did not know it, before." I looked at him as he spoke. His voice was altered,, and there was a cold, bright meaning, in his dark eyes. I knew not what to think. "Well," continued Molton, "you may marvel why I have shown sucii forbearance toward you. That I have, and that each may know, from the other, how I have treated him, \ will give you an opportunity of conversing together, after one or two short remarks. My strength ebbs apace. I am weaker than 1 thought. But, I think it is not mortal. You have, both of you, called me a cow- 232 RANDOLPH. ard. Did you believe it? If you did not, was it decent to say se? If you did, was it wise? Nay, was it bravely done? Would a stout heart ever battle with a coward? So much for what you have said. Now, hear me. There was a time, when, had you done, exactly what you have now done I beg you to excuse my inarticulateness it is not the loss of blood, but the consequence of agitation and put yourselves as much in my power, as you have on this occasion, you should have died, each by the hand of the other. You shudder nay, I can see a smile ga- thering in your faces. You do not believe me. But, hear me out. I was willing to try that, now. I kept you apart. One of you knows that our meeting was to have been, in silence, this evening. Had I not relented, I should have made the same appointment with you (he addressed himself to me) and each would have met his brother. Your shots would have been exchanged, in silence, and darkness. The signals the hour would have been the same each of you would have parted from me, where you now stand, and you never would have known the truth, till it was too late. Nay " I saw it all and Frank staggered into my arms. "Great God," said he, "it is true! He had well nigh done it, indeed!" I heard a strange sound at the moment; and, as I turn- ed my eyes, I saw Molton plucking his white handker- - chief, drenched with blood, from his side. It adhered closely, and ripped, as he tore it away; and he shook a little, as with pain. Many steps, and a bustle, were then heard in the landing. "I pray you, sir," said he, to me, "if you have any mercy on me, not to permit Helen to enter here, for the present." My brother sat down, like one utterly deprived of strength; and covered his face with his hands. I went to the landing, and saw Helen her hair all loose her dress disordered clinging about the knees of an old man the very old man, too I knew him, at the first glance that I saw with Frank, so long ago. . She called him father! father! dear father! But he stood BANDOLPH, 233 stern, and like a judge, before her. Yet he was her fa- ther he was.' for I saw his forehead move, at last; and his chest heaved oh, with such tremendous emo- tion I thought that his soul was departing, erect, from her habitation. But, the tears came, at last, and he fell upon his child's neck, and sobbed, as though his old heart would break. "Oh, my lost, lost babe!" said the old man. I had left the door open. I heard a noise, I turned. There was my brother; and Molton, with his hand upon his side, leaning against the door frame; his troubled eyes rivetted, with a look of strange inquietude, upon the scene. "What is the meaning of this?" he said, at last, in a voice scarcely louder than a whisper. But Helen heard him. Ears that love, are quick and jealous. They will have nothing of the musick, that they love, lost. "It is my father!" said she rising, and throwing her- self upon the bosom of Molton. He caught her in his arms. I trembled for the consequence; but the handker- chief clung to the wound, and his gown covered it. The old man arose came forward, with a firm step; exchanged a look with Frank, and would have taken something from his bosom; but Frank arrested his arm. ("He is a dead man, already," said Frank.) But he came forward, nevertheless, and was about to lay his hand upon Helen when the intrepid, cold eye of Molton lightened outright "By the living God!" he cried, "if nay, I am too rash, perhaps art thou, indeed her fa- ther? Helen, look up, love, is he thy father?" "He is!" cried Helen, kneeling, and kissing his feet, while her dark tresses swept over them, in her agony "O, forgive me! Edward. He is my lather." I do! I do.' 99 answered Molton raising her, and staggering. The father stood there not a limb trem- bled. Daughter!" cried the old man "hear me. Lift up thy hands. Renounce thy destroyer, forever renounce him, there there, where thou standest, before these witnesses; W 234 RANDOLPH, and thy father's heart is open to thee from this moment? I know his power I will forgive thee! bless theei weep over thee! forget thy shame, and thy dishonour! kneel to thee! if thou wilt. But but daughter I will never pronounce thy name, again; no human being knows it, yet none shall know it--~daughter! if thou wilt not, here, where /stand here, before the same witnesses, will I curse thee!" Helen only clung the more vehemently to Molton; and buried her face the deeper in his bosom. "Daughter! wife! a father's and a mother's curse! a husband's curse! a " She raised herface Lord! how altered it was! "Hush! hush!" said she. "Do not believe him, Edward do not. Father! there is my husband!" "He! he thy husband! then what art thou?" cried the old man. Molton's countenance, then, was like one falling asleep. Death was upon him. He gradually sank upon the sofa; and Helen stood over him, kissing his forehead wiping the sweat from his lips and answering their occasional movement; for no sound escaped them as if she under- stood it all as if her very heart had a language of its own, and kept uttering it, inwardly with a continual whisper of "oh, do not do not believe it, Edward! 99 But he gained more strength. His spirit awoke, for a moment. She was putting back his hair. "Helen! 99 said he his eyes were rivetted on her with such a look! O, of unutterable tenderness, struggling with death. "Helen! look at me. I never doubted thee. Yet here is thy father. Is there a husband, too? Look me in the face, Helen." "A husband! 99 said the stern father "Yes! What mock- ery is this?" "Silence! 99 said Molton. "I ask her. Helen! love, look upon me. 1 do not doubt thee, yet. Just whisper it let thy sweet lips move, and I'll believe them, say what they will nay, though thy husband stand before me, at the time." "Stand before thee! thou terrible man! By heaven, he shall stand before thee. ORFORD! ORFORD! I say." RANDOLPH. 235 At this name, I saw Helen shudder. She arose, and stood, fronting the broad stair case. I heard a step. The "young and interesting stranger," appeared. "Behold him there!" cried the father. Molton turned but when he saw his face, weak as he was, he half arose from his seat, with a look of incon- ceivable horrour and alarm. A convulsive motion of the hand followed like one grasping a dagger, and ready to give a blow and then he smiled smiled so beautiful- ly, so like a dying Christian that I could have fallen down, too, and wept upon his feet, and wiped them with my hair. " Young man," he said, "I am glad of this assurance. Our feud, I feared, was mortal. Let us forget it." He proffered his hand, as he said this; but Orford struck it away, with scorn. Molton's forehead reddened; a short, but fierce, bright struggle, followed; and, he then added, in a low, sweet, solemn voice "Men, bear witness for me. I hare offer- ed my hand, as a dying man nay, Helen, forgive me; something has happened more than thou knowest of, yet; do not look at me, in that manner i have offered it to one, that insulted and abused that woman, Helen to one, that would have taken her from me, when I was her hus- band Nay, sir or, if your name be Orford hear me, for one little moment; a man that would scourge a woman attempt to ravish a wife from her lord would be not the least likely to reject, with scorn, the hand of a dying man." Some movement of the stranger's arm, was here inter- cepted by Frank, and the report of a small pocket pistol followed, close at my ear. "What, sirs!" cried Molton, "have you no decency? By heaven, I have fellows that would grind your bones to dust, were I but to speak the word! and yet, at every turn, I am in danger of assassination. What! ho! Pedro! Cadiz! Marco! " Instantly, we were surrounded with six or eight of his young Spanish negroes. 236 BANDOLPH. "Boys! Throw the first man out of the window, that you see move his arm," said he, coldly; but with the as- pect of mortal determination. They stood ready to ohey. "As for you, sir Orford, as you are called I have little doubt that you are a cow- ard. Beware! Nothing can save you. if you advance a finger. Your conduct, on two occasions, within my own knowledge, justifies this opinion. But, you know him well, Helen. Will you not bear witness to his gen- tleness his humanity his courage? Why so silent, love? Nay, be not cast down. These are friends. I am glad to see the young man alive; not that he deserves to Ibe; but, I would'nthave such blood upon my conscience. It were fitter for the executioner. Speak, love. Shame the wretch, at once! Shame him to everlasting silence! Show him thy beautiful arms, scarred and bruised the places where the iron rusted into thy flesh- -the He- len, what ails thee? Why a voidest thou mine eye? Is there any mystery in this? Speak! I never saw thee thus, before. Speak! I conjure thee! Yet stay a thought a no, no I will not imagine it. I'll only remem- ber, dear, that come nearer, love, nearer nay, sir, be- ware how you move it will be the signal of your death I mention it for your sake tell me, dear. Something was said, but now, about some other husband; some other than me you see that I smile, Helen; but, while I re- member it, it were as well, 1 think, to smile with me- do smile, Helen, do I do not trouble thee to say no; but smile, dear, smile once, as Y have seen thee, when not a thousandth part so idly slandered. Tears! si- lence! Helen, beware! The eye of the Everlasting God is upon thee! Nay, nay do not press thyself to ne do not thou must answer me! Answer me, now! f will take nothing, but thy word. Arise, and answer ne! Thou knottiest me." Helen fainted. And Mol ton just saying to the blacks, in Spanish, Let them go free plucked the handkerchief from the wound, and fell back, saying faintly "Then am I, indeed, Saviour of men, what I most dreaded an adulterer,' 99 RANDOLPH. Justly afraid of the consequences, I persuaded Frank and the father to go, till we knew the result; but the hus- band would not depart, till the sight of Molton's shoes, full of blood, made him think, I suppose, that the wound had been given by his hand. I took advantage of the thought, and offered him my horse; and he is gone. Yes, he is an adulterer! But, what am I to think? You did not know of her marriage; nay, you did not even know, that he was the suspected one; or that he came in the vessel with her. Was the secret so well kept in Eng- land? But how could he have been so deceived? O, he must have known it. This tale is all a farce-^a farce, between life and death! No, that cannot be. Men become serious, then; and such men, who are habitually serious and contemplative, they would not be very likely to play such pranks. But, perhaps, the wound Ha! you know him, Sarah you have called him a "consummate actor." May not all this be an artifice. It is it u.ust be. At least, if he be not seriously wounded, it must be. But how shall we know that? I'll go myself. O, the thought is refreshing! look at my hands, Sarah! look; the blood has gone from them, with the thought and the paper, too O, it is all white again, as the driven snow! Ha! Frank is here. * * * * * * ********* ********** Well Frank has just left me. My suspicions are, again, at rest; and my terrours revive. Molton has sent for me. That shows no desire of concealment, cer- tainly. What, if I have wronged him? ah! ah! it will kill me. And you, Sarah but for you, perhaps Nay, I cannot blame you, for you taught me to avoid him. Frank says, that he has been here, for ten days, con- cealed; that he saw Molton three days ago, and agreed to meet him, on notice; that the notice was given him this morning, while I was there, no doubt; and that he was on the spot the study preparatory for the evening when, hearing my voice, which he di^ not expect, he wa RANDOLPH. stepped into the next room; that the sound of the pistol, and the shriek, alarmed him; and he entered, supposing, till now, that I had deliberately shot Molton. I now re- member the heroick conduct of that man. All the while that we were together, not a look, not a word, escaped him, to charge me with unfairness. He retained his pistol. Poor Molton. Yes, I must see him. The father, it appears, has relented somewhat toward him. He begins to believe it possible, that there was no such deliberate seduction, as he, at first, supposed. Nay, since he finds that, from the first, Molton used no dis- guise in his names for he lias a letter from him, signed "Edward Molton," he begins to think it possible, that he was deceived; for Helen had not been married one hour, when she escaped. The father prevented the publication; and, believing Molton's name fictitious, he never trusted it to any person in America; but always spoke of his daughter, and pursued her, as unmarried. Nay, when the thought came to him, that Molton might be innocent of the greater evil, he actually wept. My brother, then, ventured to tell what he knew, and what he had seen. The father shuddered. "The story of the guardian, is false," said he. *