 | Randolph |  |
MOLTON TO ASHTON.
Rev. 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
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 unfrequent
opportunities that we had, of becoming acquainted.
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 me, 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;—I 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 will 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 mortal
account, when a stranger gave me his hand, it was received
with a swelling of the heart; a choking, that
none but men who have my feeling, and have been as
cruelly misunderstood, can have an idea of. He, I 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 you 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 extreme.
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 me for, as others do—or you would not have
written to me, prevented me from fulfilling my appointment.
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 the spot, when you uttered your
testimony in behalf of my country, had I not been restrained
by respect for you. I was an American;—
nameless then—but I should not be long so—I was sure
to believe, would, in their mystery and blackness, soon
blast my reputation. Would I involve you in my fate?
No. And therefore, it was that I refused your invitations
and avoided you, so frequently as I did. I had no
other way. I am naturally ingenuous; but, had I avowed
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 concerns
myself.
Helen—whose family you must know something of,
and I, 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 suffering
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, 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
by a noise at the door. “I am pursued,” said she—“it
is he! It is he! I took down my sword. I planted myself
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 consummation
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 little
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 instance
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 disciplined
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 guardian,
or his son; for I have reason to believe that they
had embezzled the chief part of her estate; and were willing
to avoid their accountability in that way. But
enough. She consented, at last, to return. But only
on this conditions; 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 condition
was that they should forbear; and leave her entirely
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 publiclky insulted. I bore it—
why?—because appearances were against me. I was
called a seducer,—by whom?—by Clinton Howard,
the brother of Helen.—He would never have left my presence,
had I not discovered that fact. I had already
prepared myself. Another word—and—but no. I 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 entered.
She was alone, splehdidly, 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.—I was indifferent about pursuit;
but she, poor Helen, she was distracted, and overcome,
by her distress and fear. With a feeling of respect
for her desolation, I went immediately, took a license,
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.—I was her husband.
Yet, I cannot deny that there are times when we are
both of us troubled in a manner, that I should deem unaccountable,
were it not for the nature of our marriage.
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 justification,
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—assuredly
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, in publick. She is very averse
to it, now—but 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 the hilt,
in his side. I left him, weltering in his blood. And
now, we are in America.
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