 | 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 women,
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—I 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.”
“I am,” 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 wondered
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 enemy.—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
feeling. No feeling! Heaven!—how we may be mistaken!
Never have I seen a mortal man so convulsed
and shattered by humiliation;—but it is over now, all
over. He is a man again;—yet, how altered! His very
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 unchangeable,
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—I must
awaken him. * * * * *
| Randolph | |