MOLTON IN REPLY.
Be not surprised, my dear Omar, if you do not hear
from me for a week to come; nay, even if I meet you,
in Philadelphia. I have a scheme in view, that will
tear away, or detect the mystery of which we complain.
It is even said here, that Juliet ran away. I am astonished
at the report; and, though I find that nobody believes
it, yet all repeat it. How can they reconcile such
things to their consciences?—What! repeat, and give currency
to what they do not believe themselves!—nay, to
what they know to be a lie. Alas, poor human nature!
This reminds me of our dispute—Suppose the story
true—for, it is even said that Jane turned Juliet out of
doors—or shut them against her, which is the same
thing—suppose the story true. Yet some that have told
it, believed it to be a lie. Is it not true then, that one
may tell the truth, and yet, at the same moment, be guilty of
lying? Certainly. The heart may lie. So, one may tell
a falsehood—and yet speak the truth. It is enough for
him, if he believe what he say. It matters not, whether
it be true or not. If he believe it, he speaks truth; if he
do not, he lies, whether what he says, be true, or not.
That woman, Jane, is at the bottom of this—if she be—
Omar—you never heard me threaten—that is not my
way—I may bite, but I never bark. But if Jane be the
doer of this iniquity, it were better for her that she had
never been born. I have her completely in my power;—
to a certain extent, she, herself, is sensible of this—but
O, she knows not the tremendous truth. You will soon
hear from me, or see me.
Direct to New York,—for, it is possible that I may
pass through Philadelphia, in such a hurry, as not to be
able to see you. I have some things to do, yet—but they
won't detain me long.
About the child. Beware of that secret. It may be
a matter of life and death to you. He, who could bury
his babe, where he must have known that its little frame
would be searched, through every filament, and fibre,
vessel and nerve, with the dissecting knife— a married
man, too—a father!—he must be a murderer in his heart!
Beware of him. The ends of justice may not require
you to move; if they do—call on me. I will stand by
you, whatever may happen. But remember—if he be
in fact, a murderer—he will never rest, till he hath strangled
the secret in your heart. It were a less crime to
stifle and suffocate you, than his own child. On the contrary—if
he be powerful, married, and the head of a
family, the portentous secret must be buried. So—unless
you go, at once, unto the hall of justice, and impeach
the wretch for murder,—you had better be silent. Nay—
my advice is, that you be silent. The hand of God will
be upon him, night and day;—the beautiful babe—blackned
and defaced by his blasphemous hands, will lie forever
upon his pillow,—with its little purple lips touching
his—and sweet eyes—weltering in their first tears—
and the blood settled about its pretty throat. O God,
Omar—for ten thousand worlds, would I not see a creature
of my loins sitting upon my pillow with that look!—
Ten thousand murders,---the sacrifice of many men---
were less terrible, less frightful than that!---The innocent,
the helpless,---our own dear hearts in miniature---
our thought, and pulse and passion clothed with flesh.—
O, it were putting our hand profanely, upon an image,
fresh from the moulding of our God;—Who could lacerate---who
could deface it!.--A father!---no---no devil
could do that--no leopard, in his wrath, would tear his own
young. No---it is impossible. But if he have---why
let him
live. Let him live!---that were more terrible
than many deaths. Let him live, and hear nothing but
the continual sob of a strangling infant;---see nothing,
but its pretty hands quivering in agony,---its little eyes
dim and blood shot—and be eternally haunted with
beautiful dead children.
Farewell---but, before we part, remember that there is
to be no slumber to your eye-lids now. If you faint---
lift your eyes upward---outstretch your hands to the sky.
The earth is not your mother; nor will you find your
strength renewed by contact with her. Remember---the
strong man slept, and had well nigh perished. He, that
could pluck down temples upon his own head, had well
nigh perished, as a child, in his imbecility. He was shorn
of his strength, sleeping. And he, that cables could not
have fettered, in the lordliness of his unimpaired strength,
was well nigh imprisoned with loose flax. Swift has the
same moral. Lilliputians are able to bind a giant with
cobwebs. Thus is it with the minute and swarming foes,
that inhabit the heart of man. They spin their manacles
of something finer than cobweb; but they are doubled,
and doubled, till they have assumed the tenacity of established
and confirmed habit; and lo! we are their prisoners!
Would that you could have heard a sermon that
was pronounced before me, not an hour since. It went
to my heart. The preacher stood up, as one having authority.
His deep voice; the thrilling solemnity, the unaffected
and awful steadiness of his eye, while he uttered his
denunciations; the impassioned fervour of his look, when,
with clasped hands, he called aloud upon his Father in
heaven—Omar, you could not have heard it, without
coming away a better man. I, even I, upon whom the
language of the pulpit, hath fallen for years, like a continuity
of unmeaning sound, upon the senses of a sleeping
man—even I was aroused and agitated—alarmed!—
The sermon seemed as if meant for me. I know not why;
but I thought that no one, who had not known
me, and
my
life and history, could have rained such blows upon my
heart, as he did. The loathsome and fiery plague spots,
upon it, reddened to their centre, as he breathed upon them
—but the effect has been healthful, and salutary. A giant,
said he, may sleep. A giant may awake---and, beholding
destruction uncovered before him, may be more a giant
than ever. He who hath faltered, or turned aside from
his course,
may outstrip his competitors;
may run faster
and further, than if he had never wandered or loitered.
But who shall say, to what unattainable point, his course
had been limited, had he always run for his life; battled,
night and day, with his passions. It may be, that he will
die a better and a greater man, for having sinned early,
and desperately. But wo to him, that adventures on such
a sea. The shipwreck of mind and body, is in peril;—
nay, the shipwreck of the soul, with all its freight of immortality.
And, after all, the forgiven and repentant
sinner, even in heaven, will lift up his hands and say,
that it were something better never to have sinned at all,
than to have sinned, and been forgiven.—
He was
right.
Omar, such are the doctrines that man should preach.
We are not to wrangle our lives away about mysterious
and questionable points. They are not meant for discussion.
But there is a religion, a vital and inherent religion,
in the heart of man, that will appear, when invoked
gently, and in simplicity. Say to the four corners of
the earth—Do as ye would be done by—it is the essence
of all religion; and the four corners of the earth
will ring with hallelujahs. God never meant that aught,
which is capable of being misunderstood, should be essential.
All that is clearly taught in the scripture, is clearly
important. All that is not so, to my view, is just as clearly
unimportant. Do you remember Dr. Mason? You have
heard him. You know his overbearing, arrogant, Johnsonian
way. A mighty man, a Philistine, he may be, in
theological warfare—but this, this that I heard from his
own lips, wicked as I was, and am, made me look up to
the roof, while the words were yet sounding in my ears—
almost in the expectation that it would fall in upon us,
in thunder, and dust, and smoke. Said he—“there are
a kind of people in this world, who have a sort of qualified
reliance upon themselves; and others, who have the
same qualified dependance upon their Saviour. Both
unite in the belief that, hereafter, all their own deficiencies
in holiness, may be made up out of the Saviour's
stock. Let me make it familiar to you. Such christians
are a sort of merchants—“
they draw drafts upon God Almighty;
and, fearful of their being protested, they get Jesus
Christ to endorse them.” Do you not shudder? I do, Omar
—I do;—yet I heard Dr. Mason use that very illustration,
and almost those very words, in his own pulpit.—
Yet,
he is a great man;
he is of the orthodox. Heaven!
what is the true meaning of impiety?---blasphemy?---and
what is toleration in the religious?---a mere name,
synonimous with weakness.
[1]
The religious, no matter of what belief, Mahometan or
Christian, Pagan or Jew, are always tolerant or intolerant,
exactly in proportion to their weakness. The feeble
are always clamorous for toleration. The strong allege,
that toleration and indifference are convertible
terms. But enough---that is a theme, upon which I do
not often lay my unconsecrated hands---but when I do, I
am carried away with it. The truly religious, I venerate.
Right or wrong, the honest man is always the
religious man, to me;---and, right or wrong, I hold myself
bound to respect the scruples of a tender conscience.
Do you remember R—'s definition of orthodoxy and
heresy? “Orthodoxy is my opinion---heterodoxy yours.”
How simple, yet how bitter, is the truth! It reminds you
of the lunatick that we saw. “What!---are you confined
here?---and for what?” said you. “Because I am mad,”
said he. “Mad!---you!” “O yes,” he replied---“it was
a question for the majority. I maintained that all the
world were mad; and all the world maintained that I was
mad. They were the majority, and they put me in here.
Had I the power, I should have done the same with
them.”
Yes---the lady, of whom you write, is she, of whom I
have so frequently spoken to you. Cultivate her acquaintance.
She is an honour to her sex. Nay, Omar, let me
urge it upon you. You are young. Accustom yourself
to the society of virtuous women;---the first symptom of
degeneracy, in man, is a dislike to the company of such
women. Give to them their true weight in society. Let
nothing induce you to detract from it. Support them
with all your power; have compassion on their infirmities;
and remember that, in proportion as you diminish
the influence of woman in society, you diminish the influence
of virtue—nay, of all that is beautiful or endearing
in life.
I have thought of a scheme for you. Have you much
iron in your character?---and constitution? Can you toil,
year after year, for a distant, and not absolutely certain
object? You are young---ardent---“not averse to strife.”
What say you? All South America---all India, is open
to you. Were I a few years younger---or were it not,
even as it is, for one thing, which hinders me from undertaking
any enterprise, which may not speedily be accomplished,
I care not at what peril---I would embark this
hour for India. I have thought a great deal of the matter---a
great deal. I know the jealousy of the British
powers; but I know also the hatred and dissension that
are among them---the resources and population of the
country---every province of which is an empire;---and I
would undertake, with the labour of a few years, to
overturn the British empire there. You smile---come to
me, and you will smile no longer. You will no longer
regard the thing as ridiculous. Come to me, and I will
put charts, tables, manuscripts into your hand, that will
convince you. Omar---nothing is impossible to a man of
resolution and perseverance. The scheme may now sound
like the speculation of a madman. Yet, I am not mad.
I reason as coldly and as closely as ever. Give me a
problem to solve, and I will go about it as steadily.—
What then?—this. I have learnt to have confidence in
myself. I can look back five, six, seven, and eight
years of my life; and I find myself now, where, if I had
then been heard to say that I should be, at this time, I
should have been thought a madman. Omar, it would
be a less rise for me, for the next ten years, to be the
king of some Indian province, than it has been, for the
last six years, to cease to be what I was, and to become
what I am.
