Grenville is dead! Helen is dead! O God, all the world
is going to wreck and ruin! Juliet is now, now, even at
this moment, breathing her last, it may be; and her babe,
the loveliest creature, by heaven, that ever was born of
woman, is shutting its dear little eyes. O, Sarah, how
can I relate it!—it cannot live—it cannot; and there is
Molton, there!—weeping upon Juliet's hand!—I can see
him at this moment. And Helen, righteous heaven!—
there is her poor face, discoloured and frightful in its

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beauty, just turning deadly pale. I could almost lay
this hand upon her lips, I can see her so distinctly.

A letter—no, it was'nt a letter. I know not how the
intelligence came; but Juliet was breakfasting; and had
taken up a newspaper, from many that lay upon the
table, with the letters of the day; when Molton broke
suddenly into the room, pale, frightfully pale—it was
too late—the very paper was already in her hand! He
had just time to prevent her falling; when she was borne
off to her room, the whole family in horrour and consternation.
Molton was distracted. He burnt the paper
before the eyes of the servant; and sent immediately for
me. I arrived, and found him walking the floor; the
sweat trickling down his cheeks; and his eyes red, as
with a scorching fire. His hands were clenched, and
black with the convulsion of the pressure. He attempted
to speak—he could not—the blood stood upon his lips---
he offered me his hand---it was the hand of a dead man---
cramped with cold, like iron. “What has happened,”
cried I—“tell me, what has happened?” He could not
articulate a word; and we were interrupted by the arrival
of several strangers. I am disturbed. I shall
write again, in a moment; but this must go off as it is.