 | Randolph |  |
Wednesday, 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
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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 I am. How inscrutable
is the operation of such a mind, when the
whirlwind hath passed over it, and it is literally upturned,
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 solemnity;
and he no longer weeps, but he prays for her.—
I heard him last night, when he thought that I 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's
hand writing. Brother, I believe, has a page or two,
also ready for you; and, if he have strength, he will enclose
them both in his.
JOHN OMAR.
| Randolph | |