 | Randolph |  |
FRANK TO JOHN.
What you have told me of Molton amazes me; but, I
am most concerned, and most cruelly sensible and interested,
in what relates to Mr. Grenville and Juliet. It
cannot be, I am sure, that her heart is made of such a material.
Yet, it may—and there is no reasoning with the
affections. The gentleman in question, I know nothing
of. The worst fault that I can find, is, what seems to
be something else, in your estimation. He has no enemies.
At least, it would appear so, at present. If it be
true, he must be insignificant. Virtue and distinction of
character, will have enemies. Good men are never without
them. Fools have no enemies. He who has no enemies,
has no friends. Jesus Christ had enemies—and
the best and wisest always have had, and always will
have. It is a part of heaven's appointment of trial and
temptation to man. Can the wicked and base feel other
than enmity, for him that arrays himself, boldly and constantly,
against their favourite indulgencies? No—unless
of him. He is unworthy of her. Beside, there is too
great a disparity in their years. It is less apparent now,
than it will be; his habits are settled, hers are not. A
man and wife, ought to grow old together, like their servants
and their furniture. It is preposterous to mingle
generations—nay, wicked. Heaven hath always paired
the youthful, unless, when it would punish vice, or
make avarice ridiculous, or lechery hateful. Enough.—
Of one thing, I am certain. She will never marry,
without a disclosure of her heart, and its whole history;
and God help the man that consents to occupy a tenement,
that is haunted by Molton. I know not who he is—I
know not what are his powers. He appears to be, only
a plain, positive man—very direct, and energetick; but,
he has the mysterious faculty of consecrating to himself,
and forever, whatever he touches, even in his wantonness.
I have found it so. I do not say this, in bitterness. But,
if Mr. Grenville have the courage, for she will never deceive
him, to run the risk of having his repose darkened,
and his temples bleached, by the presence of Molton's
spirit—let him, in heaven's name! But, mark my words.
The woman will deceive herself—Molton will abide
there, and he will know it. Her memory will be his—
her thought his—her tears, even in the arms of her husband,
his—and his alone, forever, and forever!
Let me quit the theme;—it is hateful to me. I could
throw myself down upon the bed, and weep, for very
sorrow, over the calamities, that I foresee. Poor, dear
Juliet! would, that I might save thee!—O, how readily I
would, even, at the peril of mine own peace—though my
heart crumbled in the effort. Yet, farewell!—it may be,
that heaven hath set its seal upon thy front—unspotted,
unprofaned, a sweet flower, to die in blossom. Would,
that it were so!—thy whole body, sweet, would gush up,
in violets and snow-drops—farewell!—and now, for a
livelier air.
This is a very pretty town, built chiefly of brick, with
a plenty of house room. They have a strange, convenient
fancy, in this part of the world, of building prodigiously
that it will cost the rent, to keep them in repair; and, not
unfrequently, I am told, there are to befound, some venerable
buildings, of twenty or thirty—ages?—no, years;
which have been so often repaired, and so effectually,
that, like the ship, in which Cooke sailed round the
world, there is not wood enough of the original stock
left, to make a tooth-pick of. The girls are pretty, but
singularly rude, here, and have been much more so, I am
told. Nay there was a generation, whose commonest
frolicks were, knocking off young men's hats, or taking
their arms, in the street; driving four horses, standing up,
over the side walks; tying old men's legs and arms together;
and chucking cold water into the bosom of a
dapper little parson, that once lived here;—and I am,
told, and what is more, believe it, that it was no uncommon
thing here, at one time, for the beautiful women of
the place, to manifest a somewhat unnatural precipitation,
in the birth of their first child; but, it never happens
to the same person, a second time, however. At
church, yesterday, a wicked fellow pointed out five fine
looking women, to whom this awkward affair happened,
nearly about the same time. The physicians were inconceivably
alarmed at first. It seemed to be quite a
dead set at the common doctrines of gestation; but it was
at last, very satisfactorily accounted for, by the night
air, long walks; and some other indulgencies, of a similar
nature, persevered in, for rather too long a time, before
marriage.
Sarah is altogether better; and really, so beautiful, with
the transparency of her complexion, and clearness of her
quick hazle eyes, and the glossiness of her full hair, as
to excite universal attention, even among the women here,
who are, decidedly, the handsomest that I have seen,
for a long while. In Boston, they were frightful; they
turned my stomach inside out, in riding through; though
she says that there are, somewhere, to be seen in the place,
two or three downright lovely creatures;—there may be;
all that I say is, that they ought to build temples to them.
This town has been cruelly afflicted by fires; year after
year, destroying hundreds of houses at a time. The consequence
is that, though an old town, it has the appearance
of a new one. There is little business done, now—
being cut up by smaller places, and so situated, that
Newburyport, another beautiful town, of 8, or 10,000
inhabitants, through which we passed, yesterday; and
Salem, (where Sarah was sick—an opulent old fashioned
matter of 12, or 14,000 inhabitants,) and Portland,
which we have not yet seen, take off all its trade. Yet,
the others, with the exception of Portland, are as little
thriving, it would seem, as Portsmouth. Newburyport
was visited by a tremendous fire too, a few years ago;
and it is no wonder that they are so frequent and fatal,
as most of the houses here, forty years old, are built of
pine boards, and caught like tinder, after a little hot
weather. Yet, they have a light, cheerful appearance; and,
for country houses, I like them better than stone or brick,
which are always damp and cold. Portsmouth is the capital
of the state; and was the seat of government, till
lately; but, for all such matters, I refer you, at once, to
Morse's Gazetteer. My remarks shall be confined to
manners,—when I meet with any. In Newburyport,
there are none at all;—they look sad; and I should think
the whole population was made up of creditors that could
not get their pay, and debtors that could not pay.
Adieu—
| Randolph | |