University of Virginia Library

REV. MR. CARTER, TO MR. JOHN OMAR.

Dear Sir,---A melancholy and distressing duty devolves
upon me. A stranger, of a genteel appearance,
and youthful, who, I have reason to believe, is a relation;
and perhaps, a brother of yours, arrived in this
city, a few days ago. His deportment was dignified;
but there was a strangeness in his vivacity, which, we
were apprehensive, at the first sight, was either artificial;
or, in consequence of a temporary alienation of
mind. On Saturday evening, last, I met with him at a

literary society in this town; and felt an uncommon interest
in him, before we separated, on account of a certain
nobleness, and manliness in his air; but, before long
on another, and a more solemn account. He was unhappy.
I perceived that there was some mysterious
agony, at his heart. He was absent; for his manner,
and his eyes were mute and immoveable, at the very
time, while he appeared to be participating, with all his
soul, in the boisterous merriment of the evening. I observed,
too, that he was agitated frequently, as with an
ague—and that the sweat came out upon the back of
his hand,---as it rested upon my chair. He affected to
enter into the conversation, with great spirit and zest;
but, I could perceive, that it was painful to him; and his
friend that introduced him, seemed to understand little
of his situation; and I have since found that he has no
other acquaintance with the unfortunate man, than such
as a little business, between them, has given rise to.—
I observed, too, that, into whatever position his arms,
or hands fell; in that, they remained, until by great, and
even painful exertion, like that which a man may use,
to remove a limb that is asleep, or dead---they were
thrown into a new one. My duties, have led me among
the unfortunate of every class; but I have never witnessed
a case of more affecting melancholy, than this.—
Whether it was one of derangement, or not, I cannot
pretend to say; for that is a visitation which may befall
the wisest, at times,---and this unhappy gentleman,
when deeply engaged, manifested a great collectedness
of thought, and a strong, but undisciplined mind. The
most alarming symptom, that I saw, was the perpetual
flashes of levity, which he threw in, upon whatever subject
we entered upon. We spoke of death---he was calm,
and grand, for a while---and I felt no common respect
for him---he amazed me, by the awful steadiness of his
manner—it was somewhat preternatural, in one so
young, and, I thought, so given to frivolity. It was rather
the manner of one, who has made himself familiar with
death; as a philosopher, at least, if not as a christian.

We parted; and, the next day, I took the liberty to
call on him, with the intention of inviting him to spend

the day with my family. I found him somewhat altered,
like one that was approaching, every moment, a
place of trial.---I was unaccountably affected. It might
be imagination in me; but it did appear that the ravages
had been carried on, even in the night time;---his lips
were cracking and bloody, with fever; his eyes were intensely
bright, and full of tears, whenever I permitted
him to be thoughtful for a moment. I feared to intrude
—and, it was with a feeling of real distress, that I mentioned
the object of my visit. Whether he saw my compassion,
or not, it would be impossible to say; but, his
manner altered, immediately; and there was a cold, and
haughty positiveness in it, that froze me. “He was
writing,” he said, “and could not, possibly, accept my
invitation.”—Yesterday morning, about nine, I was
sent for, by the family, and informed, that he had been
found, lying upon the floor, and insensible, with an
open letter in his hand, about an hour before. How
long he had been there, they knew not, with any degree
of certainty; but the servant supposed that, about fifteen
minutes had passed, since he gave him a large letter from
the post office. He was bled; and, after two or three
hours, sat up in his bed, and began writing; but, unable
to continue it, fainted; and lay in a torpor or trance, until
last evening. I had been with him for a moment; but
he would communicate nothing to me. He appeared
grateful for my attention; but signified, peremptorily,
that he must be left alone. Had I thought him so very
ill, as he was, I should have watched with him to the
last hour. But I left him; and, last night, I was called
out of my bed, to visit the family, who were exceedingly
terrified. There had been no sound in the room for
several hours---and no light. The bell had not rung;
and, though expressly forbidden, the servant, apprehensive
of some accident, like that of the morning, had, at
last, entered the room with candles. The gentleman
appeared to be asleep—he was lying on his side, with
his hands covering his face. But the truth was soon evident.
He was dead. The pillow was bloody, and his
hands, too, where they covered his mouth; and, at first,
we were apprehensive of some violence to himself; but a
little examination satisfied us, that it was, probably,
a bleeding of the breast, or the rupture of some blood vessel.
He had, evidently, died very quietly; for his face
was calm—and there was a Bible under his head, with
the leaves folded down, showing that he was prepared for
what happened to him; or, in a measure, prepared for
it. It is much consolation, my dear sir, under these bereavements,
to know that death did not come unexpectedly.
I entreat you to regard this visit of mine, as no officious
interference. He was a stranger; and it was my
duty to minister to him.

His trunks are in the possession of a gentleman here,
to whom I am indebted for his name. The letter alluded
to, and found in his room, is signed John; and the servant
says, that he put two or three, lately, into the office,
directed to Mr. John Omar, New York. I have taken
the liberty to address this to the same person; assuring
him, that his friend, or relation, whose name I find, by
his trunks, and this letter, to be F. Omar, has wanted
for nothing; and that the interment will be delayed, for
three or four days longer, that any of his friends, at
Philadelphia, or New-York, may have an opportunity
to be present.

Enclosed is a note, without an address, which I took
the liberty to read, that I might the better understand
where to direct it; together with that which is signed
John. Nobody but myself has read either.

We know not what has been the cause of this melancholy
affair; but, it is conjectured by the family, that a
very lovely young woman, who was seen here, sobbing and
holding up her hands, two or three nights ago, as she
parted with him, is, in some way or other, connected
with it. We have made some inquiry; but we cannot
hear who, or whence, or what she is.

My duties are now at an end. But I have too much
reverence for sorrow, to obtrude upon a brother, as I am
persuaded that you are, my consolation, at such a moment.
I can only say—Go to the Bible—the bruised in

heart, and broken in spirit—let them go there—when
there is no earthly consolation for them.