 | CHAPTER I. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
Character...Pedigree... My Father...Fidele...My Uncle...My
Mother...Her death...Discipline...Incidents...Death of Fidele
...Reflections...Death of my little brother...Adventure.
If there ever was a coward upon earth, I am one.
If God ever made a thing so contemptible, I was born
one. From my earliest recollection of myself, the
very name of death was frightful to me: and, when I
came to understand what it meant; and to see how it
fastened upon whatever I happened to love, so invisibly,
yet so fatally; how it altered whatever it touched, till
every body fled from it, even the mother from her babe;
how it affected the voices of men, when they spoke of it
—I began to feel—I hardly know how, toward it—it
was not as other children felt; not, as if death were a shadow,
or a power, the common enemy of our race—but,
I hated it with a bitterness and earnestness—and feared
it, with a fear, that kept my blood in a continual agitation—as
if it were a real, living creature; and my own
particular, deadly enemy. Nay, even now, with all
my experience, and discipline; notwithstanding all that
I have encountered, and suffered, in the hope of overcoming
this weakness of my nature; it is a fact, that the very
thought of death, when I am alone, is enough to
drive me distracted.
And yet—my whole life has been one scene of uninterrupted
adventure; often very desperate and wild; and
always voluntary. How is that contradiction to be reconciled?
Many a time, have I done that, from which other
boys would have started back with terrour; and then,
in my own bed; I have covered up my head in the clothes,
and lain there, with my teeth chattering; or my hair wet
with perspiration, for hours together.
How are these things to be accounted for? Who can
tell me?—I am afraid of death; so piteously afraid of it,
that, even now, while I am writing about it, I can feel
a convulsion in my throat; and a coldness about my
mouth, which, in my boyhood, was the sure forerunner
of a frightful paroxysm: and yet!—how will ye account
for it!—Ye men, that pretend to explore the infinite recesses
of the living human heart, as ye would search into
a lump of morbid anatomy; and to trace the thought
thereof; and the motive; through all their invisible ramifications,
with as much certainty, at least, as ye would,
the source of life, through all the labyrinth of nerves
and blood-vessels, with electricity or galvanism—tell
me! how will ye explain these everlasting phenomena
in my nature!
Will ye tell me, that, when danger and darkness have
been upon me; and silence round about me, I have continually
shut up my senses, with the desperation of fear;
and plunged, headlong, upon every confronting peril—
like the cowardly creatures of the desert, and the wilderness;
who, when they are beset on all sides—are sure
to turn upon their enemies, with tenfold greater effect,
than they, that are naturally brave, and go quietly abroad
over the mountains--openly--in the full light of heaven?
Will ye tell me that the same law prevails with the
bird and the beast, throughout all creation? Will ye
point me to the female and her young?
Men—ye are darkening counsel, by words without
wisdom. I tell you—that I have done this, when I
had no young to guard—nothing on earth to care for;
and with my senses all a wake; and excited to inconceivable
activity; when it was neither dark, nor silent
about me—when I was neither blind nor deaf—
—nor desperate with passion—nor in any danger—nor,
in any degree, insensible to the true character of the
peril, which I had to encounter;—nay, that, when I have
done these things, it has generally been, with a calmer
eye, and a steadier hand—and when the danger was
cowardice.
Can ye read me the riddle now! No. Then, follow me,
while I become so intensely engaged, in the plain narrative
of my life, that I shall forget the aspect of Death;
and grow insensible to the influence of my dastardly
nature; and ye will then behold—a picture it may be—
of many a human heart, that ye have mistaken for a
brave one—a true picture, it may be, of your own.
I was born in New England, at a little village near
Boston. I was christened; or, rather called Ichabod
Adams; but I did'nt like the name, and would not answer
to it, although it underwent a variety of spiteful or gentle
transmutations, among my mischievous play fellows,
and the good natured people about. But, all would'nt
do; I detested Ika—and Ikaby—and Iky—
just as heartily as I did Ichabod. At last, an uncle,
on the side of my mother, with whom I had been a favourite;
deceased, as they say in New England; and
left me, among a number of fine things, which I didn't
get, (the watch being given to one of my brothers;
and some books to my sister,) two, that I did get—to
wit—his christian name, and a silver mounted riding
whip; which, having taken a great fancy to, I had stolen
so often; and so adroitly, that my uncle, in despair,
gave up the hope of keeping it, I dare say.
From that time, I was called William Adams—Will
Adams—Billy Adams—or Willy, or Bill, just as the
person who called me, happened to have more or less
authority over me; until, at last, there was a particular
name; which, like a particular look, gesture, or tone of
voice, before which, you may see a child, or a beast,
crouch, even though he have never seen, or heard it before;
which always prepared me for a whipping; and
which I never heard, if I could help it. It was remarked
too; but I do not vouch for the truth of it, that there were
certain seasons of the year, when, all names were alike
to me; when I was deaf, as an adder; and, some how or
other, if I may trust to tradition, among the families that
yet remain in that neighbourhood, this deafness was
more particularly evident, in the day time, about school-hours;
ought to get up, in the country; or, in the evening, when
the family, as they used to, in old times, had assembled
together for prayer; or to read a chapter in the Bible.
And so too, they have it, that, about the time when the
wild strawberries were ripe; or the raspberries; or black-berries;
or the sweet apples began to lie about, baking under
the trees, and ripening in the hot sunshine; or the cucumbers
were of that dark green colour—prickly and
crisp—when the country boys are found, under the stone
walls—each with his hand full of salt—and something
in his other hand, that he never takes a bite of, without
first looking all about him;—or the water-melon patches;
the young turnip field; and musk-melon plantings
were in their glory—or the green corn in the milk—
that my deafness would become unspeakably obstinate;
so much so, indeed, that, often and often, the people,
who had been sent for me, through interminable fields
of tall corn; bawling after me, at every step; and cracking
a horse-whip, it may be, like a pistol, all the way,
—have actually, on more than one occasion, stumbled
over me, as I lay, sleeping in the grass, before they
have been able to make me hear. And then, would'nt I
get it!—Zounds, I can hear that cursed old riding
whip, cracking away, now—and see it, too!—whenever
I stop writing, and lift up my head from the paper—
although it is a long while ago—and I am nearly blind,
as well as deaf.
But, even this name, Bill Adams, did'nt last me
long. Before I was fourteen; far and near, wherever
a salmon was to be caught, a shad, or a mackerel; or
whenever a raising, or a quilting, a husking, or a sleighing
was in the wind, I was known by the name of
Neck or Nothing.
That name, however, sticks to me yet. I am still,
Neck or Nothing; and, not long ago, when I first returned
to my native village, after a long life, spent
among strangers and in foreign lands; and found our
old house in ruins—thistles and burdock, literally
growing out of the fissures, in the great hearth-stone;
over which, I had assisted so often, in rolling a single
back-log; which, in these times, would be fuel enough
stood, and looked at the old chimney, with the blue clay,
falling out of every crevice, at every blast of the wind,
till my heart was in my throat; and I could have knelt
down, even where I stood, and cried like a child;
even then, and there—when my whole name and family
were extinct; and I was like an outcast among men—
aye, more like a brute beast, cowering for shelter
among obscene rubbish, than a prodigal son, as I was,
returned to the house of my father, that he might have
compassion on me—even there, did my stunned heart
leap in my bosom; when some one, an old man, who
had been looking at me for some time, let his crutch
fall, and cried out, in a broken, tremulous voice, “Neck
or Nothin!—as I'm a livin' critter!”
Ah, my friend—whoever you are, that are now
reading this manuscript, I cannot tell you what
followed; or, how foolish I was, while standing within
the four walls of my father's house; overgrown, as I
have already told you, that it was, by the frightful
greenness of desolation; and blackened with the vestiges
of fire, (for I learnt from the old man, that it was burnt
by lighting) when I heard that well remembered name
of my boyhood. Upon my word, whatever you may
think of it, I felt no disposition to smile; I could rather
have cried heartily. The name went through my
heart, as if my father had spoken to me, out of the
ground.
So—Let us leave this part of my narrative. It is but of
the other day—and I do not so distinctly remember the
circumstances, as I do those of my childhood. But, before
I forget it; I would mention that the old man told me all
about the destruction of the family; although, I have
nearly forgotten it; for, I remember nothing, but the place
under the great apple tree, where, he told me that my father—my
father; yes, I believe it was my father; was buried.
I am strangely bewildered. Things of yesterday,
some how or other, appear to me, as if they had never
been; and yet, all that happened to me in my childhood,
I can remember, as if they were but the other day—as
about, under the currant bushes; or, in the dark wood,
half buried in great white flowers, and purple blossoms:
“O'er unfledged minstrels, that beneath are laid.
And yet, I am not old—not very old; other men, at
my age, are hardly in their prime. Why is it, then,
that I am so troubled with faintness and giddiness of
heart? And why is it, that my memory can no longer
be depended upon?
But—to the narrative. Let me tell you who my father
was. I remember him well. He was a little, fat,
positive old man; of uncommon personal strength; and
more obstinacy of temper, than any other mortal—except
myself, perhaps—that ever lived. At one time—
but the very time, I disremember, (as they say in Maryland)—he
was a follower of George Fox, the quaker.
But, happening to see a woman that he liked, he visited
her; and, because the quakers, at Lynn, took it into their
heads that he was courting her, (not a thought of which
had ever entered into his head, at that time, I verily believe)—and
undertook to interfere, and advise, and deal
with him, as they call it; and prevent him, if they
could—he married her. He was always the first to
take the bull by the horns. After the committee, that
they sent to him, had set awhile, in silence; groaning a
little, now and then; he asked them what was the matter?
and what they wanted?—They told him, in rather
a round-about way; and there the matter ended.
They left him, I am told, when the sun was about
two hours high. That very day, before candle light,
my father was a married man. Three weeks from that
time, he was turned out of meeting;—and, before the
honey moon was over, he was a tavern-keeper; a justice
of the peace; a Selectman; a Deacon in another church;
a store keeper; and a militia captain; and had killed an
Indian, with his own hand, in the orchard, back of the
house—on a sabbath day, too—while all the people
were at church; the rest, with their loaded guns lying
day, he became the most active and formidable enemy,
that the followers of George Fox ever had.
My father, among other matters, prided himself on
never having abandoned an argument; on never having
learned a trade; on never having been mistaken, in
all his life; and on being able “to turn his hand to anything”.
Still, there were some points in his character, that
I could never fully understand. He became a rigid,
inflexible Presbyterian; for, he was never the man to
go half way, in anything that he undertook; and yet,
there seemed to be a secret yearning, for a long time,
in his disposition, toward the early habits of quaker
discipline; which betrayed itself continually; and, sometimes,
rather laughably, I remember, when he was in
a passion, or taken by surprise. Thus, he would thee
and thou the soldiers, under his command; and damn
their cowardly souls to hell, in the same breath; and
then, suddenly draw up—begin to pray aloud, at the
head of his company—and forget to take his hat off.
I, myself, have seen him guilty of such things as these
—and one of them, I distinctly remember. General
Horton came to see him, one day.—My father
first took his heavy saddlebags over his arm; then, made
him a low bow; and then, called him by his christian
name—a few minutes after that, in the capacity of a
tavern-keeper, he began to curry the general's horse;
and then, recollecting who he was, he drew up, pompously,
before the general, with all the air of a justice
of the peace—cut a solemn flourish, which he meant to
be a military salute, with a yard-stick, that he had in
his hand—(while one customer was bawling to him,
from the shop door, for some “truck for trowsers,” and
another, from the tavern window, for some new laid
eggs, for breakfast) and concluded, Jim Butler says,
though I did not see that, with rolling up his eyes, and
a deep groan, like a church warden.—Allowing a
little for exaggeration, I assure you, that the various
occupations, of my father, were continually subjecting
him to trials, which were quite as amusing in their consequences,
Yet—let me not be unjust to the good old man. He
had some conscience; and not only used to permit the
children, and his wife too, when she pleased, which
was, whenever she had anything new to wear—or,
whenever she had heard of anything new, that another
had, to go to quaker meeting at Lynn, or Marblehead;
but would frequently amuse himself and us, for a whole
evening together, talking quaker, as he called it; until
the plain language became like our mother tongue to us.
He spoke it, remarkably well; better, by far, than any
of our neighbours; and, for that reason; and because
he was better educated than they, his downfall and exclusion
from society, had been predicted for many a year.
The truth is, I believe, (I say that I believe, because my
father would never permit us to ask any questions
about his family;) the truth is, I am afraid, that he was
a wicked fellow, among the women—at least, when he
was a young man. He was an Englishman too; and
well educated, for the times, although there was a good
deal of mystery about his early life.
My father had a large family, as long ago, as I can
remember; and, being, at one time, orthodox to a proverb;
and related to one, who in the early religious broils
of Massachusetts Bay, I have heard him say, had suffered
much persecution; he held it to be his religious
duty to perpetuate the feud, by all legitimate means;
and to keep alive the recollection of what had been
done and said, by his ancestry, for the last hundred
years; by any means whatever, whether legitimate or
not. For this reason, it was, that our family, males and
females continued, generation, after generation, to appropriate
to themselves certain outlandish names; which
whenever they had to mingle with the world, became
a source of continual mortification and embarrassment;
long and long after a more rational practice had been
established in our very neighbourhood.
I was originally called Ichabod, as I have already
mentioned; but soon came to be known, altogether, even
at home, by my nick names of Bill; Will; and Neck or
Nothing.
My elder brother was christened Jonathan; my second
Moses—my third Sampson Achilles, which by
corruption, became Samy Kelly;—my youngest, Benjamin—my
eldest sister, Thankful; my next, Comfort;
my third, Charity, till the death of my mother;
and then, Catharine Elizabeth, partly out of spite too,
I believe in my heart, to the quakers. And, as my father
was mightily addicted to the scriptures; there is no
knowing how many other names, he might have added to
each individual, had not my mother hinted to him, in
her simplicity; that, if he were not frugal, the family
vocabulary might be exhausted. My father, I am told,
was considerably frightened; for such a thing as a new
name, in his family, was about as rare an innovation
as a new creed; and my mother bred like a rabbit.
Let my father have his own way, and he was one of
the best tempered men in the world; but obstinate as
the devil; and exceedingly perverse, as I have felt it my
duty to acknowledge to him, many and many a time,
when he could'nt have it. And though he would growl
a little, now and then, about the sinfulness of neighbour
Obadiah Stephens, and Deacon Sammy Shipwell; his
spiritual associates in the church government; and
drink hard cider, till he could'nt see out of his eyes;—
and get what he could, out of the Egyptians and the Philistines,
as he called all the rest of the world, for his
tin ware and sugar-boxes; justifying himself by the example
of the Israelites;—yet no man reprobated scandal,
and back-biting; cheating and intemperance, more
heartily, or devoutly, than he. He knew every one, by
name, that was guilty of either, in any degree, within
a circle of ten miles round; and, at a proper place, and
time; such as prayer-meetings, lectures, raisings, and
love feasts, no man made better use of his knowledge
—or was less niggardly of his admonition to the offender.
In family and church government, he was alike orthodox
and absolute; as all our backs can testify.
But, among his peculiarities, there were some touches
of character, which, under different circumstances,
might have made him conspicuous for other things; for,
well that, if he got his head once wrong, even about
church matters, all creation could'nt set it right. Thus
he would never permit a child of his, to be christened
till it was one year old. This, to the truly orthodox,
was truly awful. They remonstrated—he was mute:
—they charged him with the infant's soul—he nodded—
they asked him what the—goodness—he meant?
To which, I have been told, that he replied, something
after this fashion. “Neighbours, you be dammed!—
don't be worrying yeselves, about me. I want none o'
your meddlin. That for the boy's soul! (snapping his
fingers,) I shan't go the expense of christenin, till I
see some probability of his livin: and I think it much
more fatherly to keep a fresh born babe, well wrapped
up; warm and snug, at home; by a roarin fire, though
he should happen to go to heaven without a name; than
to carry the little toad, half a dozen miles, to a cold
church; and show his little parboiled face, pimpled and
mottled all over, like the rump of a picked chicken,
for four or five hours together, to a congregation, who
can't, with all their zeal, keep their jaws from chattering
together, like the cogs of a water mill:—beside
all that, I don't choose to give my child a name, till I
know something of his character. He may be a David;
or a Solomon; or a Judas; and I would'nt make him
ridiculous, while it was decent to avoid it.”
The conference ended; and the committee returned
in silence; walking, leisurely, through the principal
street, one after the other, that the publick might he
moved to enquire where they had been; and what had
been the nature of their dealing with Deacon Adams;
and, peradventure, that they might be led into an interpretation
of their long faces, each man, according to
the wishes of his own heart.
Howbeit, from that day Deacon Adams began to be
regarded, as a worldly minded man; not to be moved by
the brethren having authority; and as one profanely
snapping his fingers at a future state.
Some of my earlier years had gone by, almost without
my knowing my own age, when something happened
to make an altered boy of me. My poor mother
died. I loved my mother—I loved her, a thousand
times more, I believe; because, for a long time, I had
nothing else to love. Yet, the only distinct recollection
that I have of her, is, that she was a sickly looking
woman, who grew surprisingly fat, once a year, at
least—in a manner, that was perfectly unaccountable
to me—at that time;—with a mild, pleasant face; and
large hazle eyes, I believe; for I have seen large eyes
of that colour since, which looked at me, as my mother's
did, when she loved me. When my father chose
to whip me; my mother, I remember, was very sure to
interfere, right or wrong: and, if she could not beg me
off; nor hide me; nor get me a qualified flogging; I was
pretty sure to get a double allowance of Indian pudding—pumpkin
pies; or pudding and molasses—or apple-dowdy—with
a plenty of sweetning at the very next
meal. She used to sit and cry over me, too, for hours
together, when I was very little; thereby teaching me
to love her, and hate my father, for his cruelty to both
of us;—to me, for whipping me, when I deserved it; and
to her, for not letting me off, whenever she chose to beg
it of him: and nourishing, thereby, in me, a brave and
rebellious disposition, that, in time, made war upon all
authority, and—but no matter now. She died.—
Aye—and when I stole into the chamber at night, and
crept into her bosom, and felt how cold it was; and tried
to pull her little hands apart; for they were locked firmly
together, upon her breast; and cramped, as I thought,
with the cold—for I had no true notion of death—she
was so frightfully still and white, that I began to shriek;
and I never left her, till I rolled off the bed, in convulsions;
for which, by the way, I was nicely whipped, as
they say in New-England, on the spot. Then—then,
knew I well what death was!—but not till then; for there
she lay; and my cruel father, gracious heaven! that
men should have no feeling for their own flesh and
blood—he whipped me, at the bed side of my poor
dead mother, until I foamed at the mouth; and she,—
moan. Then knew I, that she was dead. And then,
began that horrour of death in me, which no reasoning;
no experience; no discipline; no determination; will
ever overcome! Lord have compassion upon me! It will
make me desperate, yet. It is the secret of all my suffering,
and all my transgression.
Well, they buried her at last; and I ran away, and
lost myself in the great wood; for there was nobody
else in all the world, I thought, to love me. But they
found me, and whipped me again. I would'nt eat;
and they whipped me. I cried in my sleep; and they
whipped me. If I went to school, I was whipped; and
if I staid away, I was whipped. Whipping was the
sovereign specifick. Happen what would—a broken
head, or a flogging—no appetite—or a torn jacket—a
belly ache—or a sore heart—it was all the same—I
was infallibly whipped.
Very well.—My mother died, just when I began to
find life tolerable. And so it has been through all
my days. Whatever has been kind to me, something
has always happened to, till nobody, at last, had the
courage to be kind to me. And whatever I have made
dear to me, even that has become a mark for sorrow
and buffetting, all my life long; until I have learnt to
tremble and avert my face, if any beautiful apparition
came very near to me; or looked out, with a pleasant
countenance, from the dreamy darkness and dreariness
that have altogether encompassed me, from that day to
this. Both have been, but the harbingers of suffering
and sorrow. And while I have waxed older and stronger,
among the population of the earth, I have learnt to
feel more cheerfully, when a frowning and bad face
hath gone by me; or a malignant lip curled and writhed
at me, though it touched mine, at the very moment,
much more cheerfully, than when blessed eyes have
been upturned to me; and sweet, distant voices have been
singing faintly in the uninhabited caverns of my heart.
Alas—it is too true. I have seen and heard both.—
The dark and terrifying have aroused me to do battle
with them. The beautiful have only soothed me into
brief delirium:—out of which, I have started, as from
of all the world. There were beautiful eyes,
even in my boyhood, that were shut up, and darkened
forever, because of their love for me: and now, all my
life long, go whither I will, I can hear the continual
melancholy chiding of a broken-hearted girl, that I
loved, in my manhood—like the murmur of the green
wood; or the summer ocean; or the swift, far sky, when
you lie half asleep, in the moonlight, watching the blue
heaven, while it rolls away from you;—coming up on
one side of the earth; and going down on the other,
till, over your head, and under your feet—and on every
side of you, there is a continual motion and glitter;
within and without you, too, as if you were breathing
an atmosphere of starlight.
My mother lived just long enough, after I began to love
her, to give birth to Jeremiah, the flower of the whole
family, he thinks, and perhaps truly; for he is a very tall
man, with large, sparkling eyes; white hands—the
prettiest teeth in the world—a great favourite of the
ladies—and a most accomplished penman—upon my
word he is. After she was buried, I began to look
about me for something else to love, though it were
only a cat or a dog: I cared not; except that, be it what
it might, it were death to it, to be a favorite of mine.
I was a melancholy, stupid boy, I am told; for never a
tear, nor a cry escaped me, under all their laceration;—
not a groan, though they mocked at me, and scourged
me to the bones—except on one occasion (which I remember
well)—when my poor little puppy Fidele, that
I had saved once from drowning, at the hazard of my
life, was nearly crushed to death by a wagon wheel,
which he attacked, for having hurt me, while I was
playing in the street. Accursed be the wretch that
finally murdered him!—I care not who it was, though
it were my own father, or Sammy Kelly, himself,---that
malicious little imp. It almost broke my heart. There
lay poor Fidele—there the poor fellow lay, half buried
in the sea weed, which was all wrapped, round
and round his two fore paws; just as if he had been
of the rope, from the bottom. He was the strongest
little creature!—but, there he lay!—washed up on the
beach, among the drift wood; and shells; and white
ridges of sand, with a great stone about his neck, and
a rope almost gnawed off, in two or three places—so
that he must have been a long while a dying. He was
dragged up there, by the villain that murdered him—
I dare say—by Sammy Kelly himself, if it was he—that
I might see it. Who did it, I never knew; and it was
well that I did not know; for, when I found the poor
dog, with his head cut open; and the white silky hair,
so beautiful and soft, as it used to be, all dragged in the
blood and dirt—had I known who it was; and had I been
strong enough, I would have gone after him, to the ends
of the earth; and dragged him to the first water; and
strangled him, in it—or driven him into it, with the
same stone about his neck—and when he rose, and
gasped—and struggled—and his bright hair was floating
on the water—(for Sammy Kelly's hair was beautiful—it
was of a bright gold colour, and there was
half a bushel of it—at least—and people used to come
and feel of it; and talk about it, ugly and hateful as the
little imp was—hump-backed and mis-shapen all over)
I would have hurled stones at his head, till the salt water
reddened with his blood—and be damned to him—
Poor Fidele.
Here was another dead creature that I loved. What
was I to think? What had I done, that death would
not let me alone? My heart turned cold within me—I
had a strangling sensation in my throat—a temporary
blindness fell upon me—the roaring of the sea sounded
fainter and fainter in my ears—and I felt as if some
great invisible creature were trying to stifle me, while
I lay—half buried in the sand—with poor Fidele in my
bosom—his long soft ears against my bare neck—but
I did'nt care, though he did stifle me; and there I lay,
in spite of him, till I had cried myself asleep. I know
not how long I lay there; but, another tide; a few more
waves, would have washed us both away, together—
Would God that they had!
But my father found me; and, weary of watching a
creature, that he regarded as a downright idiot, who
had'nt the sense to bawl out, when he was flogged—and
yet, would cry himself blind, over a dead dog—he passed
all his right and title to lacerate my flesh; and trample
on my spirit, over to a great raw-boned uncle of
mine—a butcher; with leave, (for my uncle was a melancholy
man; and a little change of this nature, might
go far to keep up his spirits)—with leave to try his
cowhide upon me; for the riding-whip was worn out,
whenever he was inclined to the blues. He was an
amiable man—that butchering uncle of mine; and his
wife, too—you can have no idea of her gentleness; at
least, I have not; and I lived in her family for seven
long years—and served out an apprenticeship there, to
whipping, shame, and torture. Let me relate some of
my experiences. I was a sad boy. There is no denying
that; and I had been belaboured, from pillar to post,
from the time that I was taken out of petticoats, in
spite of myself, until I was almost big enough to go into
them again, in spite of other people—through all
the schools of the district; and not a creature could be
found to undertake my education.
My dear, dear aunt, had a pleasant way, however,
when I did get into any school, of determining, at once,
whether I had played truant, or not.
“Willy!—come here, Willy!” she would say—“Come
to me, directly.”
I would go, and stand before her, with my fists
doubled.
“Let me look at your hands.” It was all that she
would take the trouble to say. She never asked if I
had been to school; or what I had learnt; or who was
there; because that might tempt me to tell a lie; and
the devil, himself, was no match for me, at that. So,
I would open my hands.
If they were not blistered, or red and swollen; she
knew that I had played truant; and I was turned over
to her husband, for a cowhiding. She was generally
right.
In this way, I learnt to regard a smart feruling, at
school, as quite a comfortable thing; and, lest I should
get skinned all over, at home, by my uncle, I took especial
care to provoke the master, by some of my
pranks, to skin my hands, before I left him. To be
sure, I was flogged, sometimes, when I did not deserve
it—but I escaped oftener when I did deserve it.
This would happen about once a week; for I soon
learned to hold their tyranny in such abhorrence, that
I compounded with my scruples, at one whipping a
week; and then, staining my hands with sumach berries,
when I could get them; or red ink, before I went
home.
My uncle did this flogging in a very workmanlike
manner; owing, it may be, to the fact, that he had a
large family, of ten or a dozen devils, without including
my aunt—for whom, I continue to feel no common respect—and
upon whom—but no, I cannot permit myself
to tattle of family matters, or slander so affectionate
a couple.
He had some whimsical notions, too, I remember,
about the manner of scourging. Like Doctor Sangrado,
bleeding was a sovereign remedy with him; but
then, Doctor Sangrado operated with a lancet—and
was foolish enough to use warm water also. But the
process of my uncle, was much less timid, and abundantly
more simple. He bled with a cowhide, at arm's
length—and cared little about veins and arteries; and
measured the blood—not by bason's-full, or ounces—
but by shoe's-full. Verily, that uncle of mine, had a
facetious way with him; and his nephew, long and long
afterward, profited by his pleasantries, to such an extent
that—but, no matter;—the tale of vengeance and
retaliation is not for to-night.
Since then, I have been to Spain; and Italy; and
among the wild Arabs:—and I have had the good fortune
to see some clumsy work of the same kind, got up
in the Portuguese inquisition; but the contrivances of
my uncle were altogether superiour. There, when half a
dozen muscular fellows were tugging away, at the heart
strings of a poor devil, upon the rack; there was always
they might lie by, awhile—“for what is the use of worrying
yourselves with a dead body?” he would say. “It
is insensible, now—rest yourselves a little—wipe off
your sweat, gentlemen; and take some refreshment—
there is no need of wasting your labour, you know.—
Time enough to harness yourselves to the pullies and
levers again, when the pulses are stronger.” Now, my
uncle never gave himself any such trouble. He whipped
me, first, to keep up his spirits; next, for exercise;
next, for the terrour and edification of his children, (as
the Spartans made their slaves drunk)—and, lastly, as
he often assured me, with tears in his eyes, for my everlasting
happiness. And, therefore, he, generally, left
off whipping me, only when he was out of breath—whether
I were dead or alive; or I, pretty near my chance
for everlasting happiness.
To this compassionate nature of his; together with
some experience in the trade of a butcher—such as
sticking a hog, now and then, for pastime; or knocking
down an ox; or flaying a young calf alive; or slitting
the throat of a lamb;—I am willing to attribute such
forbearance; though I have known him, once or twice,
to continue the discipline, after he was out of breath;
and till he was all in a lather. It was really a pity, I
used to think, that he took up the profession of a butcher.
I should have fared much better, I have no doubt,
if he had continued to resort to it, only now and then,
as an amateur, for amusement; for the pleasantest thing,
we know, will become irksome to us, if it be always
under our nose, as I have heard married men say—of
their wives. Nay, it is a melancholy truth, I believe,
that, just in proportion to our delight in anything for
amusement, is our aversion to it, as a business. We
can live upon chips, or Johnny-cake—saw-dust, and
homminy; (at least, the Virginians can;) but we should
soon die upon sweetmeats. We can trudge all day
long, with a pack upon our shoulders—day after day—
week after week—but we are soon worn out with dancing.
We can live, comfortably enough, for whole years,
but our hearts would whirl themselves to death, in a
long honey moon.
So it was with my uncle. Flaying dead animals
with a knife, grew to be quite a hum-drum sort of a
thing with him, at last;—and one day, for variety, he
had just nailed a live fox, that had been playing the
devil in the farm-yard for a long time, to a board; and
was skinning him, alive.—By heaven, you might have
heard the poor animal shriek for three miles. But, I
had the courage—God gave it to me—to drive a knife
through the creature's heart, and release him—for
which piece of simplicity, my uncle seemed mightily
disposed to make me take his place on the board—and
play little Saint Bartholomew;—but he relented—told
me, in his kindest manner, (while the blood rushed into
his eye-balls, and through his swarthy temples, like a
sudden explosion within him,) “to run up to the house,
and put on my biggest shoes;”—for I had two pair—neither
of which was I permitted to clap my feet into, except
to go to church, or take a flogging in—(thereby
promoting several other pleasant associations in my
mind.)
I obeyed—husbanding my wrath for the day of retribution;-and,
that time, he emptied my large shoes twice
—and then left me hanging, in the slaughter-house, till
they bubbled over a third time; and my trowsers were
drenched in my own blood. I was nearly dead, I remember;
but I prayed God just to live a little longer—
a very little—whatever might become of me, afterward
—till I could mete out a small measure of my thankfulness
to the father, in his own way; or, if that might
not be, till I could strangle one or two of his nasty
children, who were amusing themselves, while I hung
there, with snapping their little whips and handkerchiefs,
at me.
Once he stopped—he came to me. I was black in
the face—I had determined, afraid as I was of death,
to hold my breath till I died. He was frightened—and
I had not the power to hold it longer. I had just life
enough left, to give him one look—one, which he never
after; when it broke over him, as the blood gushed out
of his own ears;—and somebody—he knew not that it
was the idiot boy—knelt upon his breast—and only
forbore from crushing his heart out, because it was in
the unpeopled place; and he felt that the great God was
looking down upon him.
From that hour, he was afraid of me. I saw it—I
knew it. And, from the moment that he drenched me
with scalding pickle, and cut me down, until he held
his life at my mercy, he never ceased to persecute,
thwart, and wrong me.
Yet, he continued to whip me; and, when he was
done, out of compassion to my bruised and torn flesh,
he would scatter fine salt over it, “to prevent me from
taking cold;”—and then, (for he was a very, very pious
man; and used to read all day long, of a Sunday, through
his nose,) he would go down upon his knees, and pray,
devoutly, for the idiot, Neck or Nothing. I was
called by that name, pretty generally, then.
The next thing, that I remember, is the death of my
little brother Benjamin; who had his head, luckily for
him, poor fellow, crushed by a great tree, that was
blown down, smack through the roof of our house.—
Poor Benny!—he loved me, too—he did, indeed, though
he was deaf-and-dumb; and, even now, when I think
of him, I can hear the wind roar—the house shake in
the hurricane—as it did then; and see his little bright
eyes, with the lustre crushed out of them; and the brains
bubbling down upon the floor. Well, here was another
death—nothing but death, death, death; till, at last, I
would tremble and turn pale, if anything wanted to love
me—and began to expect, as a thing of course, some
frightful event to happen to every body, that looked
kindly upon me—even to the cattle in the farm-yard—
or the poor ducklings that I fed, secretly, with dough,
in a time of great scarcity; for which I was whipped, I
verily believe, more than twenty times—although the
dough was my own; and made out of my own allowance
of bread, by soaking it in water. Benny loved me, too,
poor innocent!—and, therefore, he died. Somebody that
makes poetry, has just said the same thing—
But 'twas the first to fade away:
I never nursed a dear gazelle,
To glad me with her large black eye;
But, when it came to know me well,
And love me—it was sure to die.”
I am not fond of poetry. I do not understand it. But
somebody—no matter who—she began to love me; and
when I fled from her—for, it appeared to me, that she
turned pale, while she smiled upon me—she pursued
me, and made me tell why I ran away from her; and
when I did tell her why, in my simplicity, she repeated
some poetry that I never shall forget—her voice—her
breath—her lips—they made the name of poetry dear to
me; dearer, I am sure, than anything else, under heaven,
could have done. It should have been written upon
my forehead, at my birth—it is written upon my
heart—and it shall be written upon my tomb.
Soon after, little Benny, my deaf-and-dumb brother,
died, my father ordered me to be solemnly christened
over again, with the name of my uncle, William. I
bore it patiently; for I loved the only person of that
name, that I had ever heard of, then; and little Benny
loved him, too—and while he nestled in my lap, and
lay by me; and grew to my very heart, in his helplessness,
how could I help loving what he loved? For two
months in the year—more or less—I was a bad boy;
I cannot deny that;—but, during the other ten, I was
quite an exemplary one—as to plundering gardens and
orchards, I mean. This I can recollect, distinctly; and
it is a matter of great consolation to me, now, that I
had so much forbearance
At last, all these names had to give place to that of
Neck or Nothing, as I have told you; in consequence,
I verily believe, of a joke, perpetrated by the parson of
our parish, upon my wilfulness. That I might the better
remember this, my uncle suggested the expediency
of a gentle cowhiding—my common allowance, instead
of pocket money, on holidays, like Christmas; Election,
Thanksgiving; and fourth of July—till my back became
myself. The hint was taken, from an old conveyancer,
who lived in a litigious neighbourhood; and had a large
family of boys, whom he let out, to be whipped at the
boundaries of land:—hence, he used to say, the red dotted
lines, that are common in what are called plats—
where such land is in dispute—they represent the
trickling of blood, from one boundary to another.
So—I was whipped—and whipped—and whipped—
whatever happened; whether it was I, or they; or any
body that wanted to remember any event—I was the
stick upon which they notched the day. But, peradventure
they forgot, that I might learn to remember
them also. Yet, thanks be to God! I have lived to remind
them of it.
It was a matter, I soon found, of great concern,
with all my relations, that I should escape, as lightly
as possible, hereafter. Several methods were suggested,
I have been told; but, none of them were of a nature,
not to be counteracted by my unhappy and inherent
propensity to evil. Therefore, as I charitably
hope, was I tortured, and torn, and bruised as I was,
by every living creature that came near me, till I was
big enough to stand at bay. Next to saving me, whether
I would or not; the most certain plan was, that of
counteracting the effects of damnation, by deadening,
neutralizing my sensibility. To do this, it was only necessary
to destroy my nerves, physical and intellectual;
and to do that, was the simplest thing in the world;
it was only to shame me, soul and body, till I was all
over, within, and without, one callous. Thus, I was
whipped; parboiled; skinned; starved; frozen and roasted,
on earth. And, what more could they have done
to me in hell?
Man!—man!—I had a heart like a well—into it,
every living creature might have dipped—for my blood,
to make it happier. All that I would have prayed for,
in return, was, a little love—a little gentleness—a very
little.—I could not bear much—it would have killed
me. Yea, such was the heat of Bill Adams, when he
was born; nay, for many a year after he was born—
near it. But, never mind—let me relate the cause of
the last flogging, that I ever received—the last blow
with a whip—and the last that I ever will receive, from
anything less than my Maker, without returning it,
though my arteries explode upon the spot—and I am
consumed to ashes, for it. One day, I had been forbidden
to go near the wharves, about the south end of Boston; or,
under any pretence whatever, to go near the salt water.
I was a wretched swimmer, but passionately fond of
swimming; and I hated to swim in fresh water—and
then, our river was neither fresh nor salt—but dirty
and troubled, without being buoyant; in consequence of
the tide, that flowed up, for miles above our swimming
place. I felt that the prohibition, of my uncle, was
mere wantonness; and I determined to evade it, whenever
I had an opportunity.
I took my pudding-and milk, with the rest of the family,
that night; and, went off, rather earlier than usual,
as my aunt supposed, to my bed; but, hardly was I well
into it, when I began to wish that I had run down to
the river and washed, first; for, it was in vain to think of
swimming there, at a season of the year, when the fresh
waters, all about, were full of saw-dust, slabs, mud
turtles, and floating timber; to say nothing of water
snakes, which were far more terrible to me than “shirks.”
The more that I thought of it, the more impatient I became;
the weather was close and sultry; the day had been
very hot, till just about sunset; when a “smart” shower
had fallen, which had only made every living creature
more insupportably languid, testy, and fretful. The
musquitoes bit, like devils; and, in short, I could bear
it no longer. So, I bounced out of bed—huddled on a
part my clothes, and ran down to the river, dressing as
I went. I looked at it, and shuddered—it was too dark
and muddy—and I could see millions and millions of
water snakes, as plainly as I can see this paper, crawling
about on the bottom. So, I kept on, at a light,
pleasant trot, with part of my clothes in my hand, by
the river path, looking for a better place; when, all at
once, my blood began to leap in my veins. I heard the
swimming, by the cry.—A moment more, and I knew
that they were in the salt water—for, as I came out
from under the great willow trees, the noise went by
me, for a moment, as the wind shifted. I could'nt stand
that! It was more than a mile, yet, to the nearest place,
where I might expect to find them; but, some how or
other, I was there—in the midst of them—before I had
well made up my mind about the distance, or the propriety
of my going there.
Ah, how my blood rippled and thrilled, when I first
felt the water about my naked feet. I was bare footed,
when I arrived. That, I could account for—I remember
that. But, after a little time, I found myself, to
my astonishment, perfectly naked; though, to this day,
I have no recollection of undressing; or, even of looking
at my clothes. I only know, that, I determined,
over and over again, not to undress; and, not to run the
risk of drowning; although, I confess, that, while I did
this, I was paddling, in the water, with my feet; and, now
and then, ducking my head, a little; or, dropping one
leg, over the raft of pine boards, upon which, the boys
were assembled, into the cool, delightful water. I
wanted to plunge—I stood up—and sat down—I don't
know how many times—went back, on the raft, twenty
times, at least; shut my eyes, and determined to plunge,
headlong; but, still, when I came to the point, and
felt the single board yielding under my weight, and
the water rising, my courage would fail—and, I would
stop short—reason with myself awhile; and then, try
again; but, still, I was afraid. Never did my heart so
pant, and thrill, between terrour, shame, and temptation,
in all my life. The deep, blue tide, rose, every
moment, higher and higher; and, rippled, and sparkled,
more and more temptingly, about my feet; the end
of the raft, upon which we were, kept sinking, lower
and lower; and, I was getting deeper and deeper, into
the water; for, I stood out, upon a thin, slender board,
far from the rest; and yet, I was afraid to plunge—and
had'nt the power to go away from the place. The
boys took no notice of me, for some time; but, by and
and going away, one after another, from the raft to the
wharf—there was a little whispering, which grew
louder and louder, till they mocked at me, and shamed
me, for my cowardice. They even proposed to push
me overboard, by main force; and others threatened to
pelt me, with blue mud, that I might be obliged to go
in; and, others again, proposed to take away my clothes,
and keep them, until I went in, voluntarily. But, all
would'nt do. I stood, like one in a trance. I was
mortally afraid of all that they threatened; yet, afraid
to do either the one thing, or the other. My clothes
fell, piece by piece, from my hand, where I stood; and,
I am fully persuaded, that I should have made no resistance,
whatever they had attempted upon me, whether
of insult or cruelty; although I was a very powerful
boy of my age—and could not, were it to save
my life, swim five times my whole length.
At last, they left me; probably intimidated, by my
strange silence, and regardlessness of their threats.
I looked about me. I felt the silence—the awful silence
of the place, weighing me down. I could see nobody—hear
nobody. I thought myself altogether alone;
if not in the whole world, at least in that part of the
world. I felt persuaded, that I was going to be drowned;
that nothing could save me—nay, that, after a few
minutes, I should be obliged to go down, gradually, and
slowly into the water—down to the very bottom. And,
yet, strange as it may seem, I was not frightened—
there was only a pleasant, drowsy, and cool thrilling,
through all my blood. I looked down into the water,
continually. It was clear and dark—shadowy, I
mean; not turbid—but, I could see the flounders, and
plaice; and eels; and sculpions; (the ugliest fish in the
world, except the lamprey) swimming all about the bottom;
or mooring, with a fat, lazy, undulating, continual
motion, just over the bottom;—and multitudes of little
starry looking fish, active and bright, as the smelt;
or, the dull brown and yellow of the tommy-cod; or the
purple of the young pollock; sporting, hither and
thither, in all directions, like birds, through the air;
their golden bellies, now and then, like creatures that
have the power of becoming visible or invisible, at will;
for no eye could trace them, except by an occasional
rich effusion, of colour and faint brightness, in the water;
like that of the fire-fly in the air;---or, that of the
lightning-bug, in the grass. Look where I would, these
brilliant creatures were incessantly in play, among the
stars, which were reflected in the depth below me, as if
heaven had been showering them down, like blossoms,
into the habitation of the waters.
Ah, I cannot describe the stillness that was about
me. It was awful. It was like that of death. The
sky was bluer than I had ever seen it—and much further
off, it appeared to me; and the sweet, solemn stars
were multiplied, in the water, till my head ached with
the temptation of their influence; and I was on the
point, child that I was, of plunging after them. Do
not smile, whoever you may be. Many drowned women,
and children, have felt the same fascination, I
have no doubt; drawing them, as it were, by a song and
a spell, into the bosom of the great deep; and I have felt
it more than once, neither as a woman, nor as a child;—
but, on this night, it was more like an attraction—an
irresistible, secret allurement—a delightful influence;
winning and persuading me into a voluntary self destruction.
It was more like some unknown affinity
operating upon my blood—upon the spiritual part of
me—my thought—like a charm; than like what I have
felt, as a strong hand pressing me into the water, by
main force. At one time—the time that I allude to—
we were upon the high seas—a few starved and desperate
men—our lips cracked and bloody with our last
hateful meal:—and we were drifting, with our helm
lashed down, and topsail flying in the wind, far and
wide—like—O, unlike anything ever seen upon the
waters!—more like a floating hospital of lunaticks and
murderers; than a gallant ship, well manned, and obedient
to the helm—and out upon the ocean—instinct
with spirit—as if it had a soul and a will of its own;—
wind—and altogether alone, in the very middle of the
unclouded, unfathomable, immeasurable deep. I was
lying, I remember, in the hot sunshine, upon the half
burnt deck, with my head over the side of the ship,
gasping—giddy, and sick, and deadly faint—looking
blindly down into the sea; and ready to give up the
ghost, with every sick, impatient sob;—when, all at
once, there was a terrifick explosion below me—a strong
light flashed into my brain—my veins tingled—my
blood was all in confusion—and the great deep heaved,
and roared, and broke up, and vanished!—vanished,
like a dream, from below me. And where it had been,
there came up a dizzy wilderness of beauty, and flower,
and greenness. The winds blew; and the trees
rustled all over, and waved their rich branches; and
the birds flew about; and the flowers fell; and every
where, through the short thick grass; and out of the
old rocks, which were spotted with shining moss, the
greenest in the world—the waters gushed and bounced
—and sparkled, and rattled—and then wandered away,
singing the self same tune that the birds were all singing—in
a labyrinth of brightness—with a reality so
unspeakably tempting, that I had well nigh leaped
down into the bosom of the apparition—among the
sharks and water-snakes—before I caught my breath.
I did attempt it! I attempted to stand upon my feet,
they said—and threw up my arms, with a cry of transport—just
as the vessel heeled—and I should have
been overboard, but for the Dwarf—the Accursed, I
had always called him—who plucked me back, and
held me, like a giant. I smote him that he fell; but he
never relinquished his hold—though his white teeth
were set with pain—and the blood gushed out of his
broad, swarthy temples;-never, never, until I had come
fully to myself.—Well, well—that was the third and
the last time, that I had felt a temptation, like a pressure,
upon me. And now, let me return to the raft,
and the boys.
There was a kind of stupefaction upon me, I believe;
the stupefaction of fear. I know not how long it lasted;
afar of—followed by a loud shouting from a vessel in
the stream, and from the boys at the wharf. I had no
idea where the cry came from—nor where the creature
was, that uttered it; whether in the air, or under the
water; but my heart stopped with affright. I continued
looking, however, in the direction, to which I had
first turned my face, on hearing it—until I saw two or
three boys running down the side of the wharf, not far
from me, crying out, that a boy was drowning; and
something else, that I did not understand. But I saw
them looking, at the same time, to a very black place
in the water—where it was either very deep, or shadowed
by something; and I, too looked for a moment. A
few little bubbles rose, from the centre of that black
place; one after the other, to the top of the water, each
one nearer and nearer to me. I ran to the extreme end
of a board—I gasped for breath—I must have breathed
loud, for I did'nt speak—yet, they heard me to the
wharf, and shouted to me—while I was pressing both
hands upon my heart; for I was afraid that it would
burst—and listening to a sound, that appeared to come
up out of the water. The next moment, I saw something
white—rolling over and over, twenty feet below me—
like the shape of a human creature, struggling, and
trying to swim upward;—then, it began to rise—it
floated—and then sank again. I could bear it no longer.
I plunged after it, in the midst of a general shriek,
from the wharves and vessels. A shark!—A shark!—
they all shouted together. It was too late. I heard
the cry, to be sure; but I was already in the grasp of
something, that I struck against, with a force that
stunned me; from which, there seemed to be no escape;
before I had time to think of what I was about.
All that followed, was but the struggle of a moment.
I had been distinguished, by great bodily strength, from
the time of my early childhood. More than once, has
it saved my life; but never, in a manner more wonderful,
or so instantaneously, as on this occasion. Something,
as I have mentioned, grappled at my body; but,
it was half a minute, before I felt myself fairly in its
left, however, I instantly disengaged myself; and, forgetful
of all danger, for I felt a head of human hair
floating about my face; I caught at it, with my left hand;
and instantly rose to the top of the water. God be
praised for it!—the raft was covered with people—and
we were both saved;—myself, with a broken arm,
which I had, probably, struck against the sunken timber,
at the bottom of the raft—the ends of which ran
out, irregularly, from the main body;—and the poor
drowned boy, all wrapped about with eel grass—which,
but for me, would have kept him at the bottom, till life
were entirely extinct.
While I was in my revery, at one end of the raft,
he, poor fellow, with more courage than I, although he
could'nt swim, had let himself down into the water, it
appeared, holding on by his hands; instead of jumping
boldly into it; and had been instantly sucked under it;
and would, infallibly, have been drowned, but for the
boys, who saw him, as he came up, and gave one cry,
after having struck his head against the bottom of the
raft; and before he went down to the very bottom, and became
entangled in the eel grass, with which he was
contending, probably, when I first saw the bubbles of
air, which I mentioned; and the white appearance in
the water, which carried me overboard. Had I been
a brave boy, I could have withstood that; and had I
been like other boys, I should have gone into the water,
at first, from downright shame.
Well, I saved the life of a human creature. And what
was my reward? I was whipped nearly to death for it;
but I swore then, by the blood of my own heart, that it
should be for the last time. It was for the last time.
That boy has now become a man—a great man—a good
one;—while my uncle—rest his soul—and my father,
are—no matter where. I have seen one of them upon
his death-bed, and helped to quicken them, both, I am
afraid, upon their journey.
| CHAPTER I. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |