University of Virginia Library

JOHN OMAR TO EDWARD MOLTON.

I wrote you a single line yesterday, to inform you of
my success. Nothing ever astonished me so much.—
Whence was that preternatural confidence? was it desperation?
It was. I am interrupted.

You astonish me—but I have not another word to say,
now that she is really married.

What a singular adventure! I must communicate
it to you. You know that I once paid some
attention to anatomy; and there is no science, which may
not be made subordinate to this, in which I am now engaged.
I have found it so, already; and, willing to refresh
my memory, a little, I put myself in the way of the
following mysterious affair. At the house where I am
boarding, is an eminent surgeon, with whom I lately had
a consultation, respecting an extraordinary rupture of
the vessels, about the brain, from a slight blow. What
I said, seemed to have made some impression upon him;
for, he repeatedly renewed the subject; and, yesterday
morning, invited me to accompany him on an expedition,
which, were you less of a philosopher than you are, I
should be unwilling to communicate to you. The mind
shrinks with loathing and abhorrence, from the rifler of
the grave; no matter, under what pretence; and, he who
has ever been in a dissecting room, and witnessed the
brutal ribaldry; the incredible indifference, with which
the bodies of men, women and children, the beautiful and
the strong, are cut up and disfigured, will never think
of it afterward, but with a palsy of the heart. Yet—
such things are necessary; and, perhaps, an affected levity
may sometimes prove the best antidote to squeamishness,
or reluctance, in the youthful. Ridicule, we know,
will overcome the shamefacedness of most people; and
why should it not, the heart-sickness? Sentiment, or
delicacy, I confess, are out of the question. The hand
of the operator should not relent, while he is severing the
most delicate entanglements of the heart; no—to do his
duty, he must rend and tear the loveliness before him,
like a beast of prey. But, whither am I wandering?—

The interest of science, however, will not satisfy a brother,
a father, or a husband;—it is no consideration to
them, after one, that they have loved and worshipped,
has been exposed to the offensive levity of boys; that, after
death—the body of woman, is like any other earth—a
moulding of clay, only, from which, to be sure, the black
blood flows, when the knife hath penetrated it deeply.
Well, this gentleman is a stranger here, an adventurer,
like myself; and, from what I can learn, a very extraordinary
man—one of “God Almighty's scholars,” as
Ferguson, the astronomer, called himself; a being, self-taught,
self sustained. Heaven protect and prosper such
men! I say. It is on them, that we are to depend. Their
riches and power are inward, and inexhaustible, and
indestructable, except by that hand which gave them tincture,
impulse, and spirit. On such men, the common calamities
of life have no influence. Poverty, shame, and
dishonour; reproach and humiliation, are but so many
medicines, to quicken and invigorate their faculties.—
But, to the story—or, I shall ramble forever.

The professor invited me to the Potter's field, or publick
burial ground of this city. The faculty go here, as
to a market; and the sexton's shambles are openly accessible,
at all times. The day was cold; and we rode on
horseback, that we might return, as speedily as possible.
While we were in the sexton's hovel, a handsome gig
rattled up to the door, containing a lady and a gentleman.
Both were elegantly dressed, and of a genteel appearance.
The sexton appeared surprised; and we caught the sentiment
from his face. The man alighted, and handed
out the lady, with extreme caution. He then produced
a small square box, and paid the fee for its interment.
Said the sexton—“Do you wish to see it buried, sir?—”
The reply was “Yes!—I will accompany you, myself.”
“Will you not come to the fire?” said the sexton, to the
lady.—She bowed, and a few words fell faintly from
her lips; and she drew her black veil over her face; and
came and sat down by the fire. The seat was near the
window, through which she could see the interment. She
sobbed deeply, but strove hard to conceal it. Judge of

my sensation; to see a mother attend, in such a manner,
the funeral of her babe, the day after its birth; conveying
it, secretly, to the charnel of a great city; sitting on a
bench, made of coffin boards; (fact!) and warming herself,
by other shattered remnants of the same kind, blazing
in the fire place. I shuddered, for myself, for human
nature, for woman kind—when thus convinced how
far the brightest and the fairest may be sullied and defaced,
by familiarity with man. Worse than all, were
my sensations afterward. The professor bought the
box, within ten minutes of its interment, and brought it
to town. We opened it, and found the body of a lovely
babe, which had been violently handled—perhaps murdered;
and, in the coffin, was a paper, in which it had
been wrapped; on it, was the name of the father, who
little thought, I dare say, that he would ever be discovered,
on earth. He is a man of property;—a married
man—the head of a family. What should I do?—I
would have had him arrested, within an hour, could I
have established his guilt. No more—at present.

By the way, you know something of my antipathy to
old maids. Many a time have I wondered at your seriousness
in their defence. The thing is no longer a mystery.
I have found one here, that used to be an acquaintance
of yours? Nay—perhaps it is the very woman,—
for I believe that your favourite was a Bostonian—she,
of whom you used to speak so reverently. Is it true?
Is she that noble creature, full of dignity and sweetness,
who, when her heart was young, saw its lord perish;
and deliberately, voluntarily, and without any clamorous
sorrow, devoted herself to his memory---loved his
spirit---resisted all the fascination of life, without becoming
morose, or melancholy, to the view of the world;---
widowed herself, and loved on,—like one that cannot love
but once? Is this the woman? She appears very amiable
and intelligent; so unaffected too, that she speaks with
the most natural and pleasant air in the world, of leading
apes hereafter, in preference to being led by them, here.—
The story of her life is like that of her, on whom I have
heard you dwell with such pride and emphasis. She lost

her beloved one in his youth. She was rich, accomplished,
and full of talent,—sought after, on all sides;—yet
she had the calm, beautiful steadiness of devotion in her
love;—its memory was a religion,—its object, a martyr,
a disciple—an apostle, whom she could not abandon.
She refused many an offer;—and is now alone, cheerful,
and beloved; courted on all sides. How different from
that strange masculine woman, whom you brought so
speedily to her bearing—at madam Hartley's—a woman
whom, were it not for your high opinion of her mind, I
should most cordially hate. But you know her better
than I; and, I am willing to believe, that the darkness and
desolation, which are about her—her loneliness—and
strength—have made her what she is. O, would that
she would keep watch and guard upon her temper. She
would be less terrible—and more welcome even to her
dearest friends. Yet—let me not speak disrespectfully
of her. She is of a family, whose daughters were men
—and whose sons were more than men. Can it be wonderful,
that she should, now and then, exhibit her strength
upon these he-creatures, that thrust themselves in her
way? I remember your first meeting with her. I smiled
then;—for I saw, by the colour of your eyes, that she had
gone, exactly far enough—that there was a settled purpose
in your heart. But I smiled more, when I saw her attempt
to put you aside, as she did other men. I knew
that, if you awoke, she would tremble, in every joint, at
your aspect. Yet you forbore. I loved you for your
forbearance? But—it did not continue.—I am sure that
it did not; else how have acquired you this mastery over
her? Your dominion is settled and established. I am glad of
it,—because, I perceive that you respect her; and I thank
you for teaching me to speak more reverently of her.
But how different from this woman! Enough—since I
have seen her, I have discharged all the colouring of my
heart,—that pity, dislike, and almost hatred, which I felt
once, for old maids. I find that a woman may be single
—and somewhat old; yet dignified, charming, and intelligent.

And now for Grenville. By the way—a letter from
Frank—He has heard of Juliet. The story goes, that it
is an elopement!—I shall write to him, immediately.

Yes—I will, while I remember it, relate my conversation
with Mr. Grenville, that evening. I must be very
brief though, for I am continually interrupted. I was
abrupt and direct, as I usually am, when I am in earnest.
I asked him if he was serious in his addresses. I thought
that there was a smile coming up in his face,—but he repressed
it—and his forehead darkened. “By what authority,
young man, do you make the inquiry? Do you
consider me accountable to you?” “I do,” said I, without
hesitation. He looked surprised; and a silence of half
a minute followed, as if he were afraid to trust his voice;
at last, he said, more calmly than I could have said it, I
am sure—nay, almost as calmly, I do believe, as Edward
Molton would have said it. “I am ready to answer
your questioning, when I know, precisely, your authority.
Are you a relation?” “No.” “Her friend?”—
“Yes.” “Her lover perhaps?” “Sir,” said I—“I do not
shrink from even that question. I am her lover.” He
turned pale—and the fire flew out of his eyes. “Understand
me,” said I, “I am her lover, I have been, ever
since I knew her;—but I am no favoured lover. But—
I have a brother—a stout-hearted brother, who would
die for her—the vessels of his brain shall not be ruptured
causelessly. Tell me what you mean;—come to the
point, at once—I do not wish to hurt your feelings. I
would avoid a quarrel;—but my brother is away; and I
—I, only, am the guardian of a—a—,” my voice trembled.
He seized my hand. “Young man,” said he, “I
respect you.” “I will therefore answer you—I will
even anticipate your questions. Yes—I am serious. I
do love Miss Gracie. I will marry her, if I can. This
is all that I can tell you. Whether I have any reason
to hope or not, I cannot communicate to you;—farewell
---you have disturbed me—you will know, for a certainty,
within a few days, in what relation we stand to each
other—.”

There, my dear Molton,---that is all that passed at the
time that you speak of; but there was an agitation—an
embarrassment in his manner that, to me, heaven pardon
me for the uncharitable thought---to me, looked
suspicious and mysterious.

Farewell.---I have not forgotten what you said. I
shall persevere;---and, I hope, trim my little bark so gallantly
that, whether she sink or swim, whether she scud
over, or under the water, the people that see her shall
cry, well done!. I shall try to write to you to-morrow;--at
present, I am so pestered with attention, that I cannot
look about me. So it is—but, as you say—the wind will
change, and I must be prepared for it.