 | Randolph |  |
I have been here nearly three weeks; and have not seen
a line from any one at home, with the exception of a few
words from my poor cousin. Am I not treated with the
most unparalleled neglect and cruelty? Had I searched
so unkind. I have written letter after letter to him; but
they all remain unanswered. Nay—he told me when I left
home, if I did not receive the money from the estate—never
to return to him; for he would never see me again. I do
sincerely believe, that it is his wish that I never should.
I have only to submit to it a little longer. I left home
with reluctance, more especially, as I had not seen you,
my only friend, for so long a time. My own feelings
warrant me in claiming your friendship; for I feel for
you a sentiment the most pure and exalted; a sentiment
that neither time nor absence can alter or diminish. It
is founded upon the most imperishable basis—that of gratitude;
and strengthened and confirmed by a thorough and
intimate acquaintance with your heart and character.
I have received much attention here. There are several
genteel families about; and I have had invitations for
every day in the week. My health is much better than
it has been for a long time, notwithstanding the fatigue
of the journey. And, after a while, I shall be able to enjoy
myself, I hope, if that can be called enjoyment, in
which the heart has no share. We had a delightful excursion,
lately, to a mountain in this neighbourhood. It
commands a beautiful and extensive prospect. But I
thought, while I stood upon it, how much its beauty would
have been enhanced, had you been near me. I think of
you every day, and almost every hour in the day. I am
interested in every thing which relates to you; and even
Mr. Stonebridge does not pray with more sincerity for
your happiness, than I do.
Poor Mary!—you think that she will be unhappy. Heaven
forbid. Were she my child, dear as she would be to
my lone heart, I would follow her cheerfully to the grave,
rather than her fate should resemble mine. But I will
not think of it. My suffering hath taught me to fix my
hope upon somewhat less fleeting than earthly enjoyment.
I am ashamed to send this scrawl; but it has been written
in such a hurry—you must excuse it. * * * *
The next, in order, my dear brother, is the following:
I have once ventured to ask Molton the name of the woman;—but
he silenced me, forever. I shall never dare
to repeat the question.
“Can it be possible, my beloved friend and brother!—
Are you indeed about to forsake us. This is an unforeseen
event, truly. But I have suspected it, more than once,
during your last visits, from your countenance. Yes—I
was sure that you had something of the kind in contemplation.
I am not at all surprised at it. Your feelings
have been too often put to the trial; and your sympathizing
heart cannot bear to witness any longer, the suffering
of one, for whom you have professed, and for whom,
I believe, you truly feel, a friendship. Dear and sacred
will be the memory of that friendship to my heart—I cannot
tell you how I feel—I have wet the paper with my
tears. I cannot bear to write farewell. May I ask you
sometimes to think of me; and, when I am gone to another,
and a better world, will you look upon my poor boy, and
be a friend to him;—upon my babe, if it survive me, and
bless it. I shall not be long here. It is impossible that
I can wear much longer in this way. But while I do
live, my prayer shall be offered up for your prosperity
and happiness, both here and hereafter. May we meet
in heaven!
| Randolph | |