 | Randolph |  |
JANE TO CLARA P—.
I shall be with you to-morrow, “matronised,” as we of
the ton say now, by Miss Matilda, my sweet maiden
aunt. Prepare yourself for the wonder—here has been
the devil to pay. I have just come to the truth of the
whole story. All the town is ringing with it—but you
may depend upon it, my way. Molton's girl is only his
wife. She is also another man's wife; another man—I
shall make it very intelligible, I see plainly!—has come
after her—just as I have expected, always, you know; it
being just the wickedest way of accounting for appearances;
and I knew enough of Ned Molton to feel pretty sure
that that was the true way. So it proves. Well—the
husband shot Molton—and Miss Helen, “the wife of two
husbands,” has gone into fits, I take it, according to form;
and the husband has runaway with Mr. John Omar's
beautiful horse! If that won't be a consolation to him—
unless he's caught—for the loss of any wife, he must be
quite a remarkable creature among the race of modern
husbands. But there is something more. Her father is
come. They have been here too, skulking about Philadelphia,
to the knowledge of the Mayor, for a whole age.
Beside, it is said that they mean to mob Molton.—
They'd better not—sick or dead, he will give them a hot
reception. His house is full, from garret to cellar, with
black Patagonians, creatures that he has caught somewhere
in South America; they can't speak a word of English,
and have no other notion of duty, than to do just what
he bids them. That they would cut any body's throat
at his bidding, there is no doubt; and how can you punish
him, in such a case? They cannot tell tales—no
more than so many brutes. Is'nt he a precious fellow—
that Molton? What a pretty chap for a novel, if he only
lived in Italy, or any where but in America, “the land
of the free and the home of the brave”—ahem!—I should
like to see a little more of both, and hear less of it. Who
would believe that such things were perpetrated, directly
under our noses, in the nineteenth century, (I believe 'tis
the nineteenth) in this, our peaceable county. Is'nt it
my bed shakes under me, sometimes, when I think
of what we are coming to. We are getting as bad as the
English. Murders are things of every day occurrence,
here, since the war. Our ears were made familiar, it
would seem, with it then—and that, and the wars of Europe,
have deluged us with all the banditti and ruffians
of the world. Another thing—there was the father, the
husband, Frank Omar, and John Omar; all agreed to
“have a crack at him,” as they express it here—so he
could not escape you know. But the privilege of being
first shot at, was yielded (without much dispute I dare
say) to the husband. Lord!—what cattle they are. So,
if Ned should get well now, he must fall in the long run,
or begin a long run, directly, and never come back again.
O—Juliet is to be married. Circulate the report; but
don't say from whom you get it, till it is necessary, to
make it go down. By that time, they will forget of whom
they had it—and all will be well. I want her ears to get
accustomed to that;—and then you may give his name.
It is Grenville. I'll tell you all about him, to-morrow;
and give you a specimen of his conversation, literally.—
It is one continual episode. Thus, he began the other
evening to speak of machinery. He began with Arkwrights;
he went on with ear-rings; watches; card machines;
printing presses; but let me follow him, in his own
way, from Harper's Ferry to the planet Jupiter, which was
quite a natural digression for him. They compare him
(in derision, I suppose,) to John Randolph. But one difference
is plain enough to me, already. Randolph has
been known to get back, sometimes, to the point whence he
started;—nay, always, I may say, in argument. But
Grenville never, in any case, whatever;—every step is a
point—and every point—a centre to which he never returns.
One might trace his course on a map, by a Congreve
rocket, that should have the faculty of exploding,
whenever it struck the ground—or the subject—and then
darting off again, in a tangent. He seems to have great
constitutional vivacity, although his faculties, and his
senses too, are fettered by this new influence, till he looks,
“coming out of the grass,” with odour and beauty—all
about him—ha!—what think you of that?
Some one happened to name the name of General Harper—we
were speaking of his fine talent and heart;—and
then, of the strange fact, that he was permitted to review
the British troops, in the face and eyes of Lord Wellington.
“O, speaking of General Harper,” said Mr. Grenville,
“that reminds me of Harper's Ferry—ever there?--I was
—always mention it—travelling for pleasure—went to
the armoury—some notion of being comfortable—thought
it was about time to begin to think about getting married—after
a wife—know of any? Manage to make the
pot boil, may be. Jefferson's rock's mighty dangerous
—names carved to the brink—most curious thing—like
to a'been washed away in a—hem—mill race. “Durst
thou Cassius,” said I, leap with me, &c.—and in I went
—Lord!—it took my breath away—scarified me—whizzed
and whirled me about, like soap-suds in a gutter.
I would'nt recommend to you to bathe in a mill race
(you will recollect that women only were present)—
bad place to learn to swim in—ahem—the most curious
thing that I saw, was a turning lathe—just invented—
turns gun-stocks whole—“lock, stock and barrel”—
'Twas'nt exactly the wisest thing that ever was done, I
confess;—I might have been drowned—but I never lose
my presence of mind, at such moments, I mean—nay, women
themselves do not—there was an iron mould made
in the shape of a gun-stock—upon this, a number of instruments
were graduated; corresponding exactly with
others, above—ahem—those at the top had edges—those
below had none—the wheel revolved, the chips flew, and
out came a gun-stock!—ahem—wonderful contrivance—
very curious indeed—revolutions are naturally in a circle
—you would think it difficult to turn an oval—a hectagon—a
square—but this machine does more—all at once;
many ovals—capable of universal application—very simple,
the principle! What a people we are! for invention,
and improvement!—emphatically our national character.
There's Arkwright now, and Wedgewood—you've heard
and Rittenhouse; and—oh, it is amusing—when the
patentee of the machine to make cards—did you ever see
it? One twist o' the wheel---wire crooked---cut---holes
punched---teeth placed---just like the human fingers---
more exact---when a committee of the national institute
were invited to see it, in Paris, they laughed at the
specification—they said it was impossible—they saw
it. And they say that there is nothing like it, under
heaven. General Harper, they say, is the best parads
officer in the world. Nay, those who know him best,
say that his military talent is his predominant talent,---
a profound statesman---a great orator---poh!---a first rate
lawyer---but a greater general---ahem---strange how we
follow their nobility. Did you ever know Miss —,
Miss, that was---or Miss —. I've heard that she said
she would prefer being the Mistress of a prince, to the
wife of an American citizen!---shame on her!---reproach
to the country---no true American citizen, after that
speech, would marry her, if she could pave his house with
gold---ahem---never mind---she may live to be the mistress,
yet, of Lord Wellington, or some other spoilt Irishman.
Thank you for another song, Miss July—ahem—an
Irishman's a prince—till he be spoilt by a peerage—Curran—Sheridan—Swift,
&c. &c. &c.---hey? Strange
things are whispered of some American ladies---they had
better stay where they are---we are not made for train
bearers; our ladies, I mean---let us dance as we will, and
prattle ever so innocently, and ask ever so many, sweet,
pretty, simple questions---`Grand-pa---is I got a gizzard.'
His family plate is pawned---jewels---a constellation.---
Oh---a new planet is discovered---and we are to have war
with Spain---a broad belt encompasses it;---and they say
there are two or three moons. I wonder if there are
many lunaticks, or lovers---synonimous, you know---
there---in proportion to the number of moons—I—
I—I”—.
There, dear, that is a fair specimen of his trumpery,
I leave you to judge of the man. But circulate the report.
Leave the rest to me.
| Randolph | |