University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

There was at the school to which I went,
a boy about twelve, the same age with myself.
His name was William Harding—he was the
only child of a widow lady, living a retired
life—of blameless character, and a disposition
the most amiable and shrinking. This disposition
was inherited by her son, in the most
extravagant degree. He had been the child
of affliction. His father had been murdered
in a night affray in a neighbouring city, and
his body had been brought home to the house
and presence of his lady, when she was far
advanced in pregnancy. The sudden and terrible
character of the shock brought on the

pains of labour. Her life was saved with difficulty,
and, seemingly by miraculous interposition,
the life of her infant was also preserved.
But he was the creature of the deepest sensibility.
His nervous organization was peculiarly
susceptible. He was affected by circumstances
the most trifling and casual—trembled
and shrunk from every unwonted breeze
—withered beneath reproach, and pined under
neglect. So marked a character, presenting
too, as it did, a contrast, so strikingly with my
own, attracted my attention, at an early period
of our school association. His dependence,
his weakness, his terrors—all made him an object
of a consideration which no other character
would have provoked. I loved him—strange
to say—and with a feeling of singular power.
I fought his battles—I never permitted him to
be imposed upon:—and he—could he do less?
—he assisted me in my lessons, he worked my
sums, he helped my understanding in its deficiencies,
he reproved my improprieties—and
I—I bore with and submitted patiently on most
occasions to his reproofs. William Harding
was a genius, and one of the first order; but
his nervous susceptibilities left him perfectly
hopeless and helpless. Collision with the
world of man would have destroyed him; and,
as it was, the excess of the imaginative quality
which seemed to keep even pace with his sensibilities,
left him continually struggling—and
as continually to the injury and overthrow of
the latter—with the calm suggestions of his
judgment. He was a creature to be loved and
pitied; and without entertaining, at this period,
a single sentiment savoring of either of these,
for any other existing being, I both loved and
pitied him.

One day, to the surprize of all, William
Harding appeared in his class, perfectly ignorant
of his lesson. The master did not punish
him with stripes, but, as the school was
about to be dismissed, commanding the trembling
boy before him, he hung about his neck
a badge made of card, on which was conspicuously
printed, the word `idler.'—With this
badge he was required to return home, re-appearing
at school with it the ensuing afternoon.

A more bitter disgrace could not, by any
ingenuity, have been put upon the proud and
delicate spirit of this ambitious boy. I never
saw dismay more perfectly depicted upon any
countenance. His spirit did not permit him
to implore. But his eye—it spoke volumes

of appeal—it was full of entreaty. The old
man saw it not. The school was dismissed,
and, in a paroxysm of grief which seemed to
prostrate every faculty, my companion threw
himself upon the long grass in the neighbourhood
of the school-house, and refused to be
comforted. I sought him out, and curious to
know the cause of an omission which in him
was remarkable, and should therefore have
been overlooked by our tutor, I enquired of
him the reason. The cruelty of his punishment
was now more than ever, apparent to
my eyes. His mother had been ill during the
whole previous night, and he had been keeping
watch and attending upon her. I was indignant,
and urged him to throw aside the card
beneath the trees, and resume it upon his return
to the school. But he would not descend
to the meanness of such an act, and resolutely
determined to bear his punishment. I was of
a different temper. Grown bold and confident
by the frequent indulgencies which had so
often sanctioned my own aberrations, I had already
assumed the burdens of my comrades,
escaping myself, while effecting their escape.
Should I now hesitate, when a sense of justice,
and a feeling of friendly sympathy coalesced
towards the same end, both calling upon
me for action. I did not. I seized upon the
accursed tablet. I tore it from his bosom, and
hacking it to pieces of the smallest dimensions,
I hurled them to the winds, declaring, at the
same time, his freedom, with a shout. He
would have resisted, and honestly and earnestly
endeavored to prevent the commission
of the act. But in vain, and with a feeling of
the truest satisfaction, I beheld him return home
to his suffering parent. But my turn was to
come. I had no fears for the consequence,
having been accustomed to violate the rules of
school, with impunity. Harding appearing
without his badge, was questioned, and firmly
refused to answer. I boldly pronounced my
handiwork, no one else venturing to speak,
fearing my vengeance, though several in the
school, had been cognizant of the whole affair.
At the usual hour of dismissal, I was instructed
to remain, and when all had departed, I was
taken by the master, into a small adjoining
apartment, in which he usually studied and
kept his books, and which formed the passage
way from his school-room to his dwelling-house.
Here I was conducted, and wondering
and curious, at these preliminaries, here I
awaited his presence. I had been guilty of
insubordination and insurrection, and was not
altogether sure that he would not proceed to
flog me. But not so. He spoke to me like a
father—as my father had never spoken to me—
his words were those of monitorial kindness
and regard. He described the evil consequences
to his authority if such conduct were
tolerated; and contented himself with requiring
from me a promise of apology before the
assembled school on the ensuing morning. I
laughed in his face. He was indignant, as
well he might be, and, under the momentary
impulse, he gave me a smart blow with his
open hand upon my cheek. I was but a boy—
some thirteen or fourteen years of age,—but,
at that moment, I measured with my eye the
entire man before me, and though swelling
with fury, coolly calculated the chances of
success in a physical struggle. Had there
been a stick or weapon, of any description at
hand, I might not have hesitated. As it was,
however, prudence came to my counsel. I
submitted, though my heart rankled, and my
spirit burned within me for revenge;—and I
had it—years afterwards I had it—a deep, a
dreadful revenge. For the time, however, I
contented myself with one more congenial
with the little spirit of a bad and brutal boy.
In school-boy phrase, he kept me in—he took
from me my freedom, locking me up safely in
the little study, into which I had been conducted.

While in that room shut up, what were my
emotions! The spirit of a demon was working
within me, and the passions acting upon

my spirit nearly exhausted my body. I threw
myself upon the floor, and wept—hot, scalding
and bitter tears. I stamped, I raved, I swore.
On a sudden I heard the voice of Harding
mournfully addressing me through the partition
which separated the school room from my
dungeon. He had come to sympathize, and,
if possible, to assist me. But I would not
know—I would not hear him. The gloomy
frend was uppermost, and I suddenly became
silent. I would not answer his inquiries—I
was dumb to all his friendly appeals. In vain
did the affectionate boy try every mode of
winning me to hear and to reply. I was stubborn,
and, at length, as the dusk came on, I
could hear his departing footsteps, as he had
slowly and sorrowfully given up his object in
despair. He was gone, and I rose from the
floor, upon which I had thrown myself. The
first paroxysms of my anger had gone off, and
their subdued expression gave me an opportunity
more deeply to investigate my injuries,
and meditate my revenge. I strode up and
down the apartment for sometime, when, all
of a sudden, I beheld the two large, new and
beautiful globes, which my teacher had but
a little while before purchased at a large price,
and not without great difficulty, from his little
savings. He was a philosopher, and this
study was one of his greatest delights. My
revenge stood embodied before me. I felt
that I too could now administer pain and punishment.
Though small in proportion to what,
it appeared to me, my wrongs required, I well
knew that to injure his globes, would be almost
the severest injury I could inflict upon
their owner. I did not pause—the demon
was impatient. I seized the jug of ink that
stood upon the shelf below them, and carefully
poured its contents upon the beautifully varnished
and colored outlines of the celestial
regions. They were ruined—irreparably ruined;
and where the ink, in its course, had
failed to obliterate the figures, I took care that
the omission should be amended by employing
a feather, still further to complete their
destruction. This, you may say, is quite too
trifling an incident for record. No such thing.
“The child's the parent of the man.” In one
sense, the life of the child is made up of
trifles; but the exercises of his juvenile years
will at all times indicate what they will be
when he becomes old. The same passions
which prompted the act just narrated, would
move the grown incendiary to the firing of his
neighbor's dwelling. The same passions
prompted me in after years to exaggerated
offences. How could it be otherwise? They
were my fate!

Vainly would I endeavor to describe the
rage, the agony of wrath, which came over the
face of my tutor upon discovering what I had
done. It is fresh in my memory, as if the occurrence
had taken place but yesterday. I
was in the study, where he had left me, upon
his return. Indeed, I could not effect my escape,
or I had certainly done so. The room
was dark, and for some time, walking to and
fro, and exhorting me in the most parental
manner as he walked, he failed to perceive his
globes or the injury they had sustained. In
this way, he went on, speaking to me, in a

way, which, had not my spirit been acted on
by the arch enemy of man, must have had the
effect of compelling me to acknowledge and to
atone, by the only mode in my power, for my
errors and misconduct. I had, indeed, begun
to be touched. I felt a disposition to regret
my act, and almost inclined to submission and
apology. But on a sudden, he paused—the
globes caught his eye—he approached and inspected
them narrowly. Passing his hands
over his eyes, he seemed to doubt the correctness
of his vision; but when he ascertained,
for a truth, the extent of the evil, tears
actually started from the decaying orbs, and
rolled as freely as from the eyes of childhood,
down his lean and wrinkled face. Then was
my triumph. I gloated in his suffering, and,
actually, under the most involuntary impulse,
I approached, and keenly watched his suffering.
He beheld my approach—he saw the
demon look of exultation which I wore; and
human passion triumphed. He turned shortly
upon me, and with a severe blow of his fist,
he smote me to the ground. I was half stunned,
but soon recovered, and with a degree of
unconsciousness, perfectly brutish, I rushed
upon him. But he was too much for me. He
held me firmly with one hand, and, his anger
now more fully provoked by my attack, he inflicted
upon me a very severe flogging—almost
the only one which I had ever received.
It was certainly most richly deserved; but I
thought not so then. I looked upon myself as
the victim of a most unjustifiable—a most
wanton persecution. I did not, for a moment,
consider the vast robbery I had made from
that poor old man's small stock of happiness
and enjoyment. My feelings were all concentrated
in self; and my ideas of justice, where
my own interests or emotions were concerned,
were in no degree abstract. I knew but one
being in the world, whose claims were to be
considered, and that individual, was, of course,
myself.

I was now dismissed, and sore and smarting
in body and mind, I returned to my home. I
showed my bruises; I fabricated a story of
greater wrongs and injuries. I dwelt upon the
unprovoked aggression; taking care to suppress
all particulars which might have modified
the offence of my teacher. The flogging
he had given me, had been a most severe one
—and, the cause not being heard, would seem
to have been most brutal. This was another

part of my revenge, and it had its consequences.
A solemn convocation of the chief men of the
village, of whom my father was the dictator,
incensed at the indignity, as it met their
senses, and relying upon my ex parte representation,
determined, without further hearing,
upon the offence. Michael Andrews lost his
school with every circumstance of ignominy;
and in a most pitiable condition of poverty, in
a few weeks, was compelled to leave the place.
I was yet unsatisfied—my revenge was not
altogether complete—boy as I was—unless I
could actually survey it. I went to see him
depart. I watched him, as in a miserable wagon,
containing all his household gear, he
drove into the adjacent country, attended by a
wife and four young children. I exulted in
the prospect; as, from a little hillock which
overlooked the road they were compelled to
travel, I looked down upon their departure.
They beheld me, and the faces of all were
immediately turned away. There is a dignified
something in decent sorrow, and suffering
borne in silence, which places it above,
while it forbids anything like the spoken taunt
or triumph;—I had otherwise shouted my
cry of victory in their ears. As it was, they
proceeded on their way into the country. I
was, at length, satisfied with my revenge, and
did not care to follow them.