University of Virginia Library

JOHN TO SARAH.

Mr. Grenville has just sailed; and, not an hour has
past, since I parted with his wife, who had accompanied
him to the vessel. Her spirits are very low; and, with
reason, I think; for, if I may judge from the countenance
of a man, the shadow of death is upon his. Juliet will
never see him again.

But, prepare yourself for something that will make the
blood curdle about your heart. Sarah, I can scarce believe
myself. Molton has been confined for some time;
I have seen him occasionally; but, it is only within a few
days that he has been out; and with whom, think you, he
was first seen? With Grenville! the husband of Juliet!---
The whole town are talking of it; and when I saw him,
this morning, shake Molton's hand, with all his heart
and soul; and then take the hands of his own wife, before
me, and place them in Molton's---and say, as he did,
with a deep, broken, agitated voice—“my friend!---my
friend!---do thou support her and comfort her.—To her God
and to thee, do I commit her!” when I saw that, Sarah,
what, think you, were my feelings? Juliet was unable
to support it---the tears filled her eyes---and she would

have fallen, had not Molton caught her; but, she
shuddered at his touch, and immediately turned to me---
heaven bless her! with her eyes still shut.

Molton smiled, haughtily; and, the next moment, we
were on our way home. Not a word was spoken---and
we left Juliet at the door. He turned, coldly, but expressively,
and bade her farewell. There was something in
his tone, or manner, that affected her; for I felt her hand
tremble, and she pressed mine, convulsively. She looked
at him---her lips moved---she inclined her head---but,
she was unable to utter a word. His countenance fell;
and he promised to call on her, tomorrow, with me. This
was said, with a deliberate emphasis, as if to assure her,
that he should not visit her alone.

He then took a packet out of his bosom, directed to
her, in the hand writing of her husband---with a note to
this effect: “This is only to be opened, on the occurrence
of one event---Mr. Molton will apprise my dear Juliet,
what that event is.”

Poor Juliet trembled, from head to foot; and Molton
and I walked home to his house, where I was instantly
struck, with the altered and strange appearance of Helen.
I had not seen her, for a long time;---and now, there was
a wildness and brightness in her eyes; a heated brilliancy
in her cheeks, that alarmed me. I spoke to her, earnestly;
and her voice—it seemed to come from her very heart
—thrilled through and through me. I took her hand; it
was wasted and hot; and, when I mentioned the name of
Juliet, she opened her large dark eyes, and then shut them
again, with such an expression of melancholy, that mine
filled on the spot. She did not appear to observe it—and
her hand trembled in mine, for a moment, before she withdrew
it.

Molton and I had then a long conversation together,
on a variety of matters; such as religion, character, &c.
&c.—and I discovered a new trait in his, which I never
saw before—great vehemence in argument—and surpassing
subtilty.

The conversation was long; and would have been uninteresting
to any one, who did not participate in it; but,

nevertheless, as I have not written to you, for many a
day, and as I am upon my favourite theme, Edward Molton,
I will try to repeat some of his whimsical opinions,
as nearly in his own manner and words, as possible.

We spoke of pronunciation. He, it appears, is amazingly
scrupulous on the subject—saying—“It matters
not how a word is pronounced, so that all agree to pronounce
it alike. We have no perfect standard of legitimate
words or pronunciation; but, we have a pretty good
one; and, to that, I am determined to conform. But all
their lexicographers are wrong—Sheridan, Walker, and
all. They give the sound of tchu, to the vowel u, in the
words furniture, virtue, premature, &c. They say that
a child cannot give the pure sound to the u. But, I ask,
why?—the reason is very simple; a child is taught
to divide the words, thus: f-o-r, for;—t-u-n-e, tchune;
v-i-r, vir, t-u-e, tchue;—and then, it is impossible, I admit,
for his delicate organs to pronounce the u, properly.
But divide the words, thus: virt-ue;—fortu-ne;
pre-mat-ure;—and there is no difficulty then.”

We next spoke of logick. I charged him with sophistry.
He smiled. “No”—said he—“I am no longer
a sophist. I have been one;—but, I am ashamed of
the character.”

“Pray,” said I, “will you give some notion of the
changes that you have experienced in these matters? You
often speak of what you have been;—by that, am I to understand
that you are so, no longer.”

“Always,” he replied. “I never so speak, unless I am
altered. I do not say reformed, because it is a doubt with
me, whether I am reformed. I but lay down one folly,
to take up another.”

“But where, and when, did you receive the first impulse
to your strange and contradictory character?—In
reasoning, for example.”

“I can tell you where, distinctly, on that very
point. When I was about I nineteen,happened to open
a volume of Rees's Cyclopedia. And I came upon this
proposition. I know not who was the author of it—but
it was a great man; and my brain took fire in the contact

—and a tremendous creature was generated in the
smoke!—I heard the flames roar like the Atlantick—the
noise, and shaking thereof, were like an earthquake.—
You smile—but—I do not know what I am saying, dear
Omar—my poor brain—pardon me.”

(He had been quite delirious, poor fellow, for nearly a
month)—“Well, the pain is over now. The proposition
was this:—Men complain of God's severity:—they
lay their hands upon his threatening and denunciation,
and complain that he is unmerciful. Mistaken creatures!
This very threatening is a proof of God's merciful and
compassionate disposition. That startled me. But follow
him. He reasons like a giant. “God does not
threaten,” says he, “that man may sin, and so, be punished:
But—that he may not sin, and so escape. Therefore,
the higher the threatening runs, the greater is the
mercy of God.”

“I was angry. I understood nothing of logick,” continued
Molton. “But, I did not know where to lay my
hand, in my anger. I revolved, again and again, the
proposition. I felt that it was unanswerable. And yet,
I felt that it was a fallacy. I threw by my book,—I
neglected my business. I thought of nothing else—
dreamt of nothing else; and, at last, the light broke upon
me. I tried the syllogism in my own way. It crumbled
at my touch.”

But how? said I—how was it?

“By showing that it proved too much. For it might be
applied to a human lawgiver; and the laws of Draco
himself, could be defended by it. Nay—what penalty,
though it were blood—blood!—for every transgression
alike—what torture—what mode of death, might not
thus be proved to be merciful; nay, to be merciful, exactly
in proportion to its severity and terrour?”

“God threatens. If we err, he will inflict the penalty.
But we cannot live for a moment, without erring, in
thought or word or deed. And, therefore, the mercy of
God would be most conspicuous, should he threaten us
with everlasting perdition for the slightest of our errours:
If the proposition be true, it would be infinite mercy in

Jehovah—should he punish us, forever and ever, for not
living, as we cannot live—without errour.”

“No—Omar. The doctrine is a fallacy—nay, worse,
it is blasphemy. The mercy of God is shown by his
proportioning the penalty to the offence—the denunciation,
as exactly as possible, to the errour;—so that the
temptation may be just outweighed, and no more, by the
terrour of his displeasure, and the fear of offending one
that loves us.”

“Yes—Omar. And when the proposition is examined,
coming as it does, from one of the greatest theologians
of the age, it sinks to a level with this, which you have
heard, I dare say, many a time. A cat has three tails.
Nay—I do not wonder at your smile; yet it is as honest
and as fair, to the full, as the proposition that I have just
overthrown.”

“Pray—how is it proved?” said I—“for I have never
heard it.” “Thus—No cat has two tails. A cat has one
tail more than no cat has. Ergo. A cat has three tails!”

I laughed heartily—and who, that had never heard it
before, would not have laughed; but not a muscle of his
face stirred—not a limb shook.

“That gave the first impulse to my character,” said
he. I lay and wondered, in the deep midnight, at the
strange power of reasoning. I saw, and began to revere
it, for the first time, in contemplating that proposition.
I devoted myself to the study; not as a science, for I
never looked into a book; and, to this hour, I know nothing
of the logick of the schools; not in disputation, for
I never lifted my club, I never extended my shield, till
I had made myself master of both, in my own way.—
I came abroad then; and gave battle to all that I knew.
I threw down my gauntlet, in the face of heaven and earth
—and spoiled many a strong man of his harness, before
I was weary of strife. I delighted in parodox. I wrapped
myself up in sophistry;—and, if I went among men,
it was with an encompassing darkness about me, that
chilled and awed them, while it kept my faculties in everlasting
shadow. I could not go beyond it. I began to
doubt of every thing,—of every thing, but a God. But—

it was not to be so, forever. I awoke—I rent the cloud
that hung over me—are you superstitious?”

“No!”—said I—somewhat startled—“no!”—

“At my birth, sir, and for a week afterward, there
was a cloud, scarcely larger than the wings of a great
bird, which descended from the mountain, and hung over
my father's dwelling, and rained upon it, night and day
—so near to it, that you could have fired through it, with
a rifle bullet—and there it staid. All the rest of heaven
was bright. That same cloud hath hung over my
mind, at times; and rained its reluctant, cold dews, upon
my heart, from that hour to this.”

His manner was very solemn and composed. I was
troubled at it; but, whatever he had been, I am sure that,
then he was in his senses. I next led the conversation
to the Bible, of which I had heard that he had spoken irreverently.
I was willing to know the truth. I asked
him the question at once.

“Yes—said I,—I have so spoken of the Bible. I am
sorry for it. I wish that I had been better assured of
its value. I had reasoned thus of it, and its doctrines.
Either the Bible is necessary, or it is not. If it be not
necessary, let us not disquiet ourselves about it. If it
be—then is God unjust, for millions of millions have
perished, are perishing, and will perish, without ever
hearing of it. But God cannot be unjust, and therefore
the Bible is not necessary. Nay, Omar, I went further.
In the darkness and blindness of my nature, I dared to
ask where lay the proofs of christianity. I had read
Paley's Evidences. I had read and pitied Soame Jennyngs.
Is not our Maker infinitely powerful? Infinitely
wise? said I. Will not infinite wisdom and power always
act by the simplest means?—And is it the simplest
operation, for the Diety to put innumerable engines
at work, and suffer that work to depend upon ten
thousand contingencies—to effect the spreading of the
gospel among all the nations of the earth?—when, by a
single word, all—all!—from the creation of the world
to the end thereof, would have become illuminated and
converted.”

“These were the thoughts of my proud and presumptuous
nature, Omar; and this hour I should be down,
quaking and shivering in agony, and remorse, for having
had such thoughts, did I not feel that I was more to
be pitied than blamed. I was mistaken, but honest.—
And God, himself, will have compassion on the honest
and mistaken.”

“Soon after this, I met with Butler's Analogy. There
was a man, whom I could listen to, with pride. He reasoned—he
took nothing for granted—he went, with a
severe and majestick simplicity, into the labaratory of
the universe; into the very presence chamber of Jehovah;
and there sat and expounded the tremendous mystery,
which had darkened my understanding.”

“Is God partial?” said he, “when he grants to one,
what he denies to another? Yet where do you see two
people, two nations—nay, two individuals, enjoying precisely
the same advantages? One lives in a kinder climate—a
more fruitful soil—is better fashioned—more
highly gifted, intellectually and physically, than another.
It cannot be denied that this is so. Then, is it consistent
with his administration, to give the Bible to one, and
deny it to another? Is it not of a piece with all his Providence?”

“Again---God, by a word, could have peopled the world
at once; covered it with a forest. But he chose a simpler
process. He created one pair—he taught them to
increase and multiply; he bade the forest to come gradually
out of the earth.—Nay, is not all that he does, in the
same harmonious measure, like one that pours out time,
from the inexhaustible fountain of Eternity; and teaches
his phenomena to appear and disappear, day after day,
year after year, and century after century, with the
same indifference.”

“A God,” said I, interrupting him.

He fixed his eyes sternly upon me, as I repeated these
lines. “Pshaw!—I am ashamed to hear you quote that—”
said he. “Is it true?—No!—Did you ever reflect on it?
Systems and atoms—bubbles and worlds, of the same
value to God?—No!—It is little better than blasphemy,
hardly to be forgiven in a poet. What!—are we no
higher in the scale of being, than the beasts that perish?
and is it a matter of equal indifference to our Maker, that
one immortal soul is extinguished, an accountable spirit
set free, in the whirl-wind of war—for it is there, that
“heroes” fall—and that a sparrow hath perished. It
were an argument for an Atheist. Never repeat it
again, dear Omar, I intreat you.” Here, ended our conversation,
for that time. Good night—dear Sarah.