EDWARD MOLTON TO JOHN OMAR
It was no apparition, my dear Omar. The woman,
that you saw, was really Juliet; not Juliet R. Gracie, to be
sure—but Juliet R. Grenville. She is now the wife of
Grenville. May she be happy!—O, my friend, never
did a prayer ascend from my heart with such fervour and
sincerity as that—May she be happy!
In tears, you say. I hope not. Much may be allowed
for her timidity, and the suddenness of the affair; but she
is a woman of too high a soul, to permit the simple terrours
of the girl, to continue so long. She is now a bride
—a wife; and there must be no common sorrow at her
heart, if it be visibly heavy at such a moment. I know
little of her husband—very little. My inquiries have
been satisfactory to a certain extent; that is, I have
heard no serious matter against him; but then I have arrived
at little to convince me that he is the man, against
whose heart, that woman ought to lean, forever and ever.
He should have a great soul; a mind of unadulterate
grandeur, to be the pillow of such a spirit. You speak
of an interview with him—and of some mystery. I do
not like that word—it is a bad symptom. Where there
is mystery, there is always guilt or shame. Let me hear
the particulars. Tell me what you said to him, and how
he behaved. I am somewhat impatient; for, the marriage
was very sudden; and a friend of the family informs
me, that it was more like a funeral than a wedding. I
do not profess to understand it; I had no idea that matters
had gone so far:—if I had, perhaps I might have
interposed; and yet, that would have been childish; for
Juliet is old enough, and wise enough, to choose for herself.
Still—after all, there is a tormenting anxiety
upon my spirits. I want to know
why they married,
so hastily—nay—
why they married at all. To me, it
is a deep mystery. Let them beware, who have spread
the toils for her—if there be aught in the affair, that they
would not avow in the face of heaven. She is a creature
that has been dear to me—and I would not undertake
the retribution slowly, or reluctantly, if she have
been wronged,—wronged, I care not how.
You speak of the depression of your spirits. All that
is natural. You are about entering the world for yourself.
You are cut adrift; and, in the hurry of your first
feeling, you know not whether you be afloat or foundering.
Mark me. Your confidence will soon return. I
have felt the same timidity, the same darkness, the same
irresolution. Yet, it wore off. My dependence was cut
off. I was alone. No matter how weak the prop, upon
which we have leaned—withdraw it suddenly, and we
are apt to fall;—no matter how frail may have been the
tenure, by which we were upheld, though it were the untwisted
flax in the blaze—or the tangled gossamer—if
abruptly parted, we are in peril. Let a man, while he
is standing upon a precipice, and holding upon a single
thread, or a cobweb, find it yielding; and, it is ten to
one, that he falls;—but snap it, and he will fall! Such is
human nature. Half of our stay and support is imaginary.
I remember my own feeling, when I was first let
adrift, dependent alone upon myself. For a time, I was
like one, shipwrecked on a barren rock, sick and alone,
faint and desolate. But, after a little time, my spirit began
to get up and look about her. I learned to depend
upon myself. I grew surprised at my own strength.—
Every movement encreased my admiration and confidence.
I looked at my arms; they were strong;—at my
frame—it was of iron. I measured my faculties—my acquisitions.
Was I not in health?—unburthened and
alone? Great God!—young, and in health! with nobody to
care for, but myself—it was impious to doubt! What!—
were the fools and blockheads about me; the weak and
the wicked; the sickly and feeble of spirit, were they to
succeed; and I to lay me down and die, in the first ditch!
—No—.
Omar, I pray you to reflect. I pray you to recal my
parting admonition. It is irreligious to doubt. God
never meant that such men should doubt. No—like Bonaparte,
he that is full of blood and pulse, when he surveys
his object, should “precipitate himself upon it,”—
at once, like a tyger upon his prey. Omar, remember
my prediction. You will succeed. Depend upon it; you
will succeed. But then—then it is, that I shall tremble
for you. At first, you will astonish. Why? Because
you are a stranger, and nothing is expected from you.—
But you have many competitors; persevering some; unprincipled
and adroit men, some, who have taken the
field before you. Yet the campaign is not over. March
on—adopt the plan of Moreau. Do not stop to reduce
every post as you advance. Do not fear to leave an enemy
in your rear---that is the precaution of a coward.
That fashion has gone by. You must not provide for a
retreat. There is no retreat for you. “Set fire to your
shipping.” You must conquer, or perish. If you prevail—
if! —why do I use the word?—you shall prevail
—your enemies will join you, of course. If you fail-,it
matters not that a few fortified posts are in your rear.
They can, at best, only accelerate your destruction.—
They cannot make it more sure. Remember your reward---what
were you doing here?—Nothing. Every
hour, you became weaker and more wavering. You did
right in going. Any enterprize were better than idleness.
It will raise you in the estimation of her, that is dear
to you.
Had you rested here a little longer, you would have
been overlooked; nay, you would have deserved it? Shall
you succeed? Yes—but do not be impatient of your reward.
Remember that there is a long life of discipline,
toil, experience, and trial, for you. What would you do
with a wife now? Are you not more helpless than a woman?
Where is your profession? Your security? I speak not
of your talents;—for I cannot speak of them, without appearing
to flatter you. But, with all the talent in the
world, there must be an established business habit, before
you ought to think, for a moment, of hazarding the
happiness of that woman. No—your sentiments are
right. Your promise was noble—manly. You ought
never to return here, but with reputation and money.—
Then you will come clothed with beauty and strength.
Then, I will embrace you, with all my heart and soul—
Let me never see you
here, on any other condition.
But---as I have before said, I do not tremble for you,
now. Your time of peril is to come;---your season of
trial, and doubt and dismay. At first you will astonish;
you will carry all before you. But the enthusiasm of
the hour will die away. Reaction will follow. You
will be dealt with unkindly and coldly. Your real
merit, for a time, will be overrated. Too much will
be expected of you; too much said. In the nature of
things, you never can astonish the world a second time.
You will be less warmly cheered:—more coldly criticised—and
your heart will reel in its perplexity and darkness.
Then, will be your time of peril. For that period,
I tremble. To it, I look with alarm and apprehension.
I know your temper. I know to what aliment it
is accustomed. To one so enthusiastick, the dry business
manner of the Philadelphians, would be cold and
uncomfortable nourishment But prepare yourself. Expect
to fail. You do expect it—you will arise—Nay, while I
am writing this, you have arisen; and, feeling that you had
every thing to gain, and nothing to lose, you have acquitted
yourself like a man. Do you remember the despondency
of Wolfe? He wrote to Chatham, that he was
sure of nothing but failure, and death. Therefore did he
succeed; and, therefore, will you succeed. When a man
has brought his mind, steadily, to the contemplation of
disaster, humiliation and death, what else can disturb
him—Farewell, dear Omar.—Let me know, immediately,
he result.—Yours,
