University of Virginia Library

JOHN TO FRANK.

I tremble at thy levity, brother. It is unnatural. I
am not much used to weeping; but the pleasantry of thy
long letter, frightens me. I could bear to see thee sorrowful,
stern—though I know well, that thy heart was
never made for sorrow or sternness; but this exuberant
festivity is frightful. I know not what to write. That
letter is before me, with the blood upon her name, yet—
hers!—O, would that I knew the truth! Does he know
it yet?—Father of mercies! does he know it? O, if not,
I would pray thee, to seal up his senses for awhile, until
his brother be near to comfort and sustain him!

To-morrow, I shall certainly set off; nay, I would, to-day,
but I know not how I can—for I have an engagement
of the utmost moment, to the happiness of Sarah.
Let me tell thee what it is. It will enable my brother
to judge of the distraction, under which I labour. Two
human beings; two, that are infinitely dear to me, are
tugging at my heart, at the same moment, upon opposite
sides. Would that I could divide it between them!
Sarah is imprudent. I cannot stop, to detail the particulars;
but she is infatuated with an adventurer, who
has been pursuing her for years, in one shape and another.
His name is Randolph. I am to meet him this
evening. Every thing depends upon it. I have some
suspicion that he is the blackest of villains; and, I very
much fear, that Sarah is distractedly fond of him. Molton,
I think, knows something of him; and, if it be true,
I would not be in Randolph's shoes for the whole world.
It is about fortnight, since I saw Molton. He is arrived
here, with the intention of going to Liverpool, in the
next packet. He means to see Sarah, before he goes, in
spite of all her prejudices; which, he says, are unnatural
and wicked. Nay, he probably meditates a lesson for
her; and I know no man so likely to give it effect. I have
made him promise to meet me, this evening, at Sarah's.
I want to confront him with Randolph. He does not
know that Randolph is to be there; and I shall take care
to apprise Sarah, only in season for some little preparation
of mind.

There is now only one thing, in Molton's character,
that troubles me. He is still haunted, night and day, by
some childish apprehension. It will destroy him, at
last—I am sure it will. I reason with him—but he is
so tremendously calm. I ask him if he can believe in apparitions.
He only smiles. I repeat the question—and
ask if he be afraid of them. His eyes flash fire. No! he
says—no!—though all the buried population, of the earth,
came crowding around me, at midnight, I would not
avoid them, if I could. But do you believe in them? I
say again. I do, is always the reply. I believe him;—
and I wonder at it. Yet, why should I wonder? Have
I, myself, not heard inexplicable sounds; and will not
my blood thrill, even now, at the recollection of that
room? Why is this? I feel assured, that it was a delusion;
yet—no, brother, I cannot go on. To see such a
man; at whose touch, systems crumble into dust, and
pass away, like smoke in a high wind; before whose arm,
and stride, the tenantry of the tombs should fall prostrate;
to see him quaking all over with shadows;—a man,
before whom go a reasoning army, that lay waste and
scatter the best settled doctrines of men;—to see him
yielding to the doubtful and dismaying ones; him, at whose
touch, flowers will spring up, and blow upon the charnel
house—and the awful features of death, take an expression
of benignity; from whose tears, as if the colour
of his very eyes went with them, and impregnated the
earth—the young violets gush up, about the grave and
turf—making both of them dear to the heart, and welcome
to the thought;—that he should cower and quail
before the shadow of death—he, who fears not the substance;—that
he should lie down and die, with terrour,
before an unreal summoner, who would stand erect, to
the blast of a visible Archangel, summoning the world
to judgment. O, to see this, to hear it continually; is it
not enough to unsettle the understandings of men—and
take away their very longing after immortality.

Farewell!—farewell! Bear up bravely, my brother,
against the trial. The season of trial is the time for the

stout-hearted. There is a child left—a child of Juliet.
Let that move thee, brother. Be thou a father to it!