 | Randolph |  |
(ANONYMOUS, TO SARAH.)
The life of Edward Molton has been an uninterrupted
tissue of acts like the following. I make no apology for
Miss Gracie. Be it your business to communicate to
her, so much of the whole, as will counteract the poison,
that he has infused. Do not mistrust me. I say nothing
of Molton's talent. I only say that there is but one
way of restoring that heart to soundness, upon which he
has once breathed. Beware of him. He is charged
with many terrible crimes;—with seduction;—adultery;—murder.
For the truth of these charges, I do
not vouch; but there are facts, to the knowledge of which
I have arrived, which I submit to you, in the following
order, without comment. Confront him with them. Will
he deny them? No—but perhaps he will obtain your ear.
If he do—I know him—he will prevail. You ask me, if
“I know Miss Gracie?” Believe me, you were very imprudent,
in permitting yourself to ask me any such
question, particularly in black and white. It is perilous;
and although such confidence is precious to me—yet,
on your account, I intreat you not to write to me again.
What you have written, is sacred. It was rash, I confess,
very rash in you, even to receive my notes. But, I
do not mistake you. I know your motive; and I trust
that my deportment has been such, as to convince you of
my discretion. The only thing that I blame in you, is,
your having acknowledged that you have received and
read my notes. You ought not to let me know this---I am
the last man that should know it. But, it is done now, and
cannot be helped; so, let me reply to your question. Yes---
I did know Juliet Gracie. Nay, more---I loved her. But
that is passed. Still, however, I would preserve her;
watch over her, and restore her,---wasted and weary as
she is, to happiness and health.
Edward Molton, at an early age, manifested the most
depraved inclinations. Before twelve, he was a confirmed
liar; drank to excess; and stole whatever he could
lay his hands on. He lived in solitude. He was the
chief pest of his family, and the bye-word of the town.
Among the transgressions of his youth, I can recollect
several, such as the following. He has deliberately insulted
a lady, at a large dinner table, in two instances,
by supposing him ignorant of the commonest courtesies
of life. Nay, he has presented a book, to one of
the most accomplished and fascinating women, in our
country, after violating the decorum of a family, by
lending it to a youthful and superiour girl, who returned
it, with this cutting remark. “I have read it, on
your recommendation.---But, do not (as he had promised)
do not lend it to your sister. I have no fear that it would
corrupt her, but—.” She could say no more. And
the former lady returned it, almost in tears.
After a rude and shameful outrage too, upon a young
girl, a sort of apprentice where he once lived, in which
the consummation of his design was only prevented by
his inebriety, and the interference of the lady, to whose
government the girl was subject, he was a second time
so forgetful of all that gives dignity to a man, that it was
only by main force, that she escaped from his room, into
which she had been beguiled.
Not long since, in this very neighbourhood, he fell acquainted
with a reputable married woman, a mother,
travelling with her child; and ere he parted from her,
which was at the end of a few hours ride, he made an
assignation with her, to meet her at the house, where
she stayed, and agreed to pass himself off for her brother.
On another occasion, he entered, with a worthy and
respectable man, without any introduction, into a house
where the people of the place, (it was in the country,)
were dancing. He soon singled out a young and interesting
girl. Her lover was with her. She affronted
Molton, and he determined to be revenged. He pursued
her to her father's; and while the man, that was with
him, sat down with a small company at cards, he employed
himself in the work of ruin. Not a quarter of an hour
had passed, before Molton was surprised by the father
himself, in an unoccupied room, with his daughter.
He met with a woman, whom he had once loved, after
her marriage with another, at noonday, by a formal
assignation; and the story is, that they were both inconceivably
distressed. Nay, he once visited the wife of
he had every reason to believe, loved him, at night; and
she was known to arise from her bed, and receive him.
He fell in love, or at least, felt a singular interest in
another girl, who was afterward married; and such
was the infatuation of that woman, that she used to pass
by his dwelling, continually, after her marriage, in the
absence of her husband.
He was criminally intimate with a woman, whom he
introduced, in his audacity, at the peril of his life, not
only into genteel and intelligent society, but into the
house of his own mother;—or, rather, he attempted this,
but heaven interfered, and disappointed him.
Nay, I do know of his having successively pursued several
women, for a long season, in one case, for whole
years, without any serious design. But, there was one
who had the spirit to requite him. She discovered the
blackness of his heart;—and tore her's away from it, forever.
Was it not noble?—heroick? They were to have
been married.
And who is she, with whom he now lives, in open defiance
of public shame and honour? Perhaps her history
may be none of the whitest, in the calendar of darkness.
She is from England.
One other, and I have done. That other is a case of
singular atrocity. An innocent creature put herself in
his way, in tears. Her sister had been betrayed. Molton
counselled her against the falsehood and subtlety of
man; and, when he had won her whole confidence, would,
perhaps, have destroyed her, himself;—but she fled, and
is safe.
There is yet another. It is said, that he ran away, some
time ago, with a sweet girl, from a nunnery, in Canada;
was pursued, and shot, by the brother, on the way to
New-York, where he fled, like a dastard. This tale is
believed.
And, since writing the above, two other cases have
come to my recollection, which may avail something in
your estimate of the man's character. He has been the
cause of much jealousy between several married people;
for some time, with a woman;—an evidence
of infatuation in her, surpassing aught that I have ever
known: for she was a religious woman; the mother of
several children; and she knew his character. Yet, she
trusted herself to him.
The last is a case, where he had insinuated himself into
a house, how, it would be difficult to tell; for his manners
are not conciliating—and suddenly ceased to go to
it. Nay, I have reason to believe, that he was formally
requested not to enter it, again. What could have been
the reason?
You will, probably, never hear from me, again. I have
communicated all. That there are suspicious stories, different,
and quite as shocking, of which the world has no
mode of arriving at the truth, is true. But, I believe,
that these are nearly all of his sins;—nay, I might say,
positively, that they were all, except some of a less serious
nature, the recital of which I shall spare you.
Does he plead passion? No. He derides the plea.
He has sinned, and continues to sin, in his own way,
without consulting aught but his own heart; and what
that monitor is, after such an uninterrupted violation of
order and decorum, as I have exhibited to you, you may
judge for yourself.
And now—one word of advice to you. You are very
imprudent. The evidence that you have given to me, is
conclusive. My last advice is—Beware of Molton;—and
watch over Juliet. Only one thing can save her—uninterrupted
employment. She has an extraordinary
genius;—but she is undisciplined, and unable, except at
intervals, to sustain and cherish it, as it deserves. Let
her know that it is better to toil, regularly, one hour a
day, than to work one whole day, in a week; or one whole
month, in a year. It becomes a habit, at last;—and she
may gradually extend the time, until what would have
intimidated her, at first, will become a matter, scarcely
of observation, in her habitual practice.
| Randolph | |