REV. MR. ASHTON TO EDWARD MOLTON.
I have disturbed your proud spirit, and deeply wronged
you. I have acted in a manner unworthy of my age,
and of my situation, as a minister of peace; and I hasten
to atone for it, I hope, in season to allay your impatience,
and disarm your resentment. I received a letter
from you, about a month since. I knew the hand-writing;
and (I do not pretend to justify myself,) in a moment
of indignation, I returned it to you, immediately, unopened.
I am sorry for it. I beg your pardon. Can
you forgive me?—will you? Perhaps, you have not received
it. Indeed, I fervently wish that you may not;—
at least, not until you have read this. But, if it be otherwise,
let me beg of you to return it, to me.
Not a week after I had forwarded that letter, my heart
and my conscience arose and strove with me, but in vain,
to bring me to repentance. I am not vindictive in my
temper, Mr. Molton; but I am old; and old men, though
they have little reason for it, being so much nearer than
others to the refutation of their errours, are apt to be obstinate.
I was. I resisted the admonition of my heart. I
strove mightily against it; but all would not do. I remembered
your deportment; your temper; and what right
had I to judge you, unheard? It is true, my young friend,
that, to all appearances, you have been guilty of a tremendous
crime. As it now
appears, you have torn away
a bride from the arms of her husband—fled with her; and,
when pursued, left him weltering in his blood, upon the
beach. I can imagine no excuse, no palliation for this;
particularly, as I learn that you had an intrigue with the
same woman, before her marriage; and yet, such is my
compunction for my own unworthy, intemperate, and
unchristian deportment toward you, that I have suspended
my judgment, difficult as it was, to do so, until I can
hear from you. If you be guilty—say so, and let me
pronounce the sentence of the law, upon you. I may weep,
young man; I may tremble; for you so resemble the son
whom I have lost, that I should feel as if sitting in judgment
upon my own child—yet, I would not avoid the
appointment. I should lift up my voice, and denounce
you. Yet—O would that you were innocent;—would that
you could come to me; and kneel down with me, before
our Father which is in heaven; and put your hands into
mine—and say—I am innocent of this.—Of the blood of
this man; of the honour of this woman, I am innocent.
I wait to hear from you.
Farewell.
CHARLES ASHTON.
