University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

One word more of my family. My sister Charity,
afterward called Catherine-Elizabeth; and then, Elizabeth,
grew up into one of the gentlest and most beautiful
of God's creatures. You could'nt bear to call her
Catherine; particularly, if you were acquainted with
the true character of the northern amazon; after whom,
if not for whom, my mother had named her; or her
brutal sensuality; and coarse, masculine, and domineering
spirit;—nor Kate, lest you should think of Shakspeare's
shrew—and she, heaven knows, was far enough
from that character;—nor Elizabeth, if you remembered
king Elizabeth, of England—the man in petticoats;
whose heart was a great magazine of shattered finery,
paints, patches, and regal gewgaws—a crowned and
throned monarch, furbelowed all over with Flanders
lace—a king-milliner—alike in mind and person—supremely
little and great, at the same time—burnishing
shields and spangles—building head dresses and seventy-fours—in
love with dominion, whether of empires or
hearts; vain, alike, of the power which she had, and of the
beauty, which she had not;—a king, on all befitting occasions—a
mere woman on all others—no, you could
not profane my sister with the name of such a woman;
—and Eliza—that would not do—it was too childish.
I never knew a fool, that was'nt called Eliza, of course;
a she-fool, I mean;—although, I do not pretend to say,
that all Eliza's are fools. No—I know better. I have
met, and loved, more than one woman of that name;
and I could'nt love, or meet a second time, an ordinary
woman. This affair troubled me not a little, till I
found her full grown, to far less than a womanly stature,
however; with clear grey eyes; very long, and
very dark eye-lashes; a countenance shy and timid, in

general; but rouse her; put her nature sufficiently to
the proof; and you would swear that she had a devil
within her; but then—it was a beautiful bright-eyed
devil. Her hair was very remarkable. There was a
brilliancy in it, almost metallick—like spun gold; and
yet, it was very soft. But rouse her---alarm her; and
you would look at her in amazement. Her whole form
would undergo an instantaneous illumination;---her
hair would shake, and quiver, and sparkle, with electricity;---her
eyes would dilate;---and her red mouth
would open with such intense, vivid, and scornful vitality,
that—ah! she was really blinding in her beauty,
at such a moment. Allow all that you will, for the
partiality of a brother; and for my proneness to exaggeration;
still, there was a nature in her, as you will
find, by and by, unlike that of other women. Compared
to them, she was all soul.

Many, and many a time, have I seen the little delicate
creature dilate to the stature of a princess, and
shiver all over; and her eyes lighten, like those of a
young wild cat, when she has been set upon, without
notice, by the dogs.[1] She was very diminutive---very;
but perfectly formed; with a constitution so frail, that
the snapped lily were its only emblem, if the rude wind
blew over it.

Yet with that habitation, I have seen her proud spirit
awe men, when it looked out of her eyes;---men,
who had stood untroubled before the majesty and
wrath of many a larger woman—till their very step
was unsteady—and their high foreheads wrought with
alarm. Yea—I have known her move the lame dwarf
himself, till, devil as he was—to my thought—the tears
gushed out of his great ugly eyes—like water from a
trodden spunge.

That sister—I cannot trust myself to speak of her:
—there was a something so etherial; so pure and spiritual

about all that she thought, or said—a flavour in
it—a perfume about it, at least to the heart of her brother—that—no,
it won't do—it won't. I have been so
little used to kindness in this world; and least of all,
among women that were beautiful—that—but—no—
no matter.—

My poor mother loved me, because I was her child;
little Fidele—because there was nobody else, in all the
world, to feed or caress him;—my helpless, deaf-and-dumb
brother, because he was safe with me, from all
that worried or mocked at him—and because—no
matter why—my arteries had run for him, more than
once, till my big cow-hide shoes frothed over. But
my sister—she loved me—for myself alone: it was not
that I was kind to her, or afraid of her—for that, I could
not help--and all the world were kind to her—and afraid
of her—and she knew not what unkindness was. The
very brute beasts, that came near to her, it did appear
to me, were gentler in their movement. It was not
that I was ready to die for her; because, I was ready to
die for anybody that would let me—provided that there
was an express command, of my father, or uncle, to the
contrary. No—but she loved me, for my heart, when
nobody else knew that I had one;—for my understanding,
when all the world thought me a fool; nay, when I
had began to believe it, myself;—for my disposition,
when it was all evil, in the sight of others. Let me speak
of her. It is to her; and to her alone, that I owe everything,
that is good, or great, in my nature;—my love to
man; my reverence for God;—my reputation---my self
confidence. But for her, I should have been what other
people thought me---an idiot—possessed with an evil spirit.—All,
that hath yet supported me!—all, that supports
me now!—all, that will support me, hereafter!—and give
me the courage to face our compassionate Father in
Heaven (I do not speak of my father now—I don't
care much about meeting him—or my uncle)--all, all! do
I owe to the sweet upbraiding, and the proud impulses of
that child:—for she was a child—even with the stature
of a woman—a child in her simplicity; a child in her
innocence; a child in her affectionate nature—but her

spirit was not of the earth. It was eagle-eyed, and eagle
pinioned too; and, when she used to fall upon my bosom,
and sob there;—and murmur, like some sweet, strange
instrument, answering to the low wind;—even then,
while she emptied her young heart into mine—I was
afraid to look her in the face—afraid and ashamed:—
yet I was the older; and, with a finger, could have crushed
her—but her dominion was enchantment—intellect,
love—power and strength—fetters of steel, interwoven
with violets;—a sceptre of iron—by some delicious
sorcery made to flower all over, like a branch of apple
blossoms—a flame to crumble and melt—hidden with
odour and vapour—curse this nonsense—my sister,
pardon me. It were better to say, at once, the plain
truth; that I loved thee, as never man loved woman;—
and that I was beloved by thee;—and leave all this trash
of the imagination, to drift where it will, on the wind
or the water.

But there were more of the family. Sampson Achilles,
the last child of my mother, born after she had
begun to read profane history, was crushed by the
weight of his names. They were put upon him, exactly
at a year old; and he never grew an inch afterward—
in longitude, I mean. For a yearling, he was a wonder;
a great lubberly fellow, with a head like a half
bushel:—but for a man, he was a little monster.

His name, too, has dwindled away into sounds that are
really somewhat amusing to my recollection—Sampson
they have abreviated, in their familiar way, to
Sammy; and Achilles, to Kelly—so that, luckily for
him, the original endowment is forgotten—and Sampson
Achilles, himself, is now only, Sammy Kelly.

He was the darling of my parents; but a base, cowardly,
thieving and malicious creature, as ever God put
the breath of life into:—an evil spirit. if ever there was
one upon this earth; so malignant in its nature, that the
only alternations of pastime with him, from the day that
he was able to impale flies, till this hour, have been between
worrying cats; drowning dogs; fighting cocks—
and making life hateful to everybody; and, more particularly,
to his brothers and sisters. Twice, have my

hands been about his throat—and twice, would I have
strangled the imp, but for the interference of Elizabeth
—once for scorching her beautiful hair, and blinding
her with gunpowder;—and another time, for putting
snakes into her bed. His little eyes were spiteful, red and
fiery; and eternally snapping, till the lashes were either
worn off, or singed off. His mouth was very large and
awry; and his laugh,—my blood curdles, at the thought
of it, now. He was weak too;—and his great, unmanageable
head kept rolling about, with his fat tongue
lolling out of it, as he sat; for he never ran, or walked
or leaped—moping in the sunshine or rain—(for
both were alike to him)—or lay, half buried in the ashes
So hateful was the creature to me, in time, that I could
not think of him without a spasm;—and, for years and
years afterward, I could not bring myself to believe
that a human creature could resemble him, even in the
colour of his eyes;—or have a big head; or unnaturally
quick fingers;—and not resemble him in heart; nay, I
fell into the vulgar notion, as a matter of belief, that, if
a man be a dwarf, he must be a devil; if hump-backed;
that he must have kicked his way into the world, as my
brother did his—and have torn his own mother, like a
beast, with his first breath. Let the sequel tell how
true were my prejudices; and how wise. It was a religion
once, with me, that deformity of person was an
infallible proof, of a deformed and devilish spirit. And
that a monster in body—was, therefore, a monster in
heart. Others have thought so, too---a legion of plays
and novels have been got up, to prove the same thing.
I have known one exception.

Jeremiah was---but I have already told you what he
was; and is---a blockhead---six feet high---and fashioned
like a god. Are you a woman?---What more would
you know?

For myself, I am---the Lord knows—far enough from
being either handsome---six feet high---or a blockhead;
---probably, from a naturally perverse temper;---for I
could not bear to be drawn out as nail rods are, by
beating;---nor to be made a fool of, where it was so easy
to be a knave. Am I handsome?---heaven forbid. I

have seen some ugly men in my time, but never more
than two, so diabolically ugly as myself:---one was my
precious brother, Sammy Kelly, and the other, a man
---of whom, more by and by. I speak of my countenance
only---for my person and limbs are very good;---but
there was a time, when all the world looked at me,
through a glass darkly---I was one of the men---who
walk like trees.

Let me run back for a moment. The first decided
operation of all the severity, that I have mentioned, was
to make me hate my father with all my heart, and all
my soul;---and my dear uncle, ten thousand times more
bitterly. Both had been distilling a cup of death for
themselves, for many a long and weary day:---my tears
and blood had run, year after year, into their alembick,
---but the vapour was condensed, at last; and fell, in
drops of fire, upon their own hearts—God! it would
have eaten through steel. But my sister stood by, when
I would have re-sprinkled my father with it---and she
withheld my hand, and extinguished the red poison
with her tears. There was none to shelter my uncle.
I saw it fall---drop by drop---sink---and heard the
blood hiss---and---yes I did!---and though I have shed
mine own since, in sorrow for it---yet I scorn to deny
it. Yes!---and I sat by him, and mocked at him, in his
convulsions.

The next effect was---to confound all distinctions of
right and wrong in my mind. If I went to school, I
was whipped;---if I played truant. I was whipped. This
made a liar of me. I dared not tell the truth---if I did,
I was whipped;---and if I did not, I was whipped. It
matters little what I did, or did not---the whipping was
a part of my daily allowance;---rations, that were dealt
out to me, sick or well, dead or alive.

I have been beaten for going to church; and beaten
for staying at home. I have been beaten for whipping
a boy, twice my size, who struck me; and beaten, for
being whipped by a man. I have been beaten for whisthing
of a Sunday; and beaten for holding my tongue.
In short, whether I robbed orchards; kicked a Bible
about in the mud; set fire to the minister's wig; saved

a poor boy's life; or attempted to strangle my own
brother, I was always beaten, so long as they could stand
over me.

This, in time, became of use to me. It made me regard
torture and death as a trifle---the pain of death,
I mean;---the fortitude of an Indian, as hardly worth a
thought, for, though I have been scourged, again and
again, till I foamed at the mouth; no human being ever
saw me wince, at such a time---or a tear fall from me---
or ever heard one moan from my lips.

And yet, I could cry---I could---and laugh too, till
the skies would ring again,---at what other people saw
not; or seeing, heeded not. Nay, so sudden and fearful
were these transitions in my nature; that, when I
was fourteen, I frightened all of our family and kindred,
by one of them. A dear, dear cousin of mine died. I loved
her very tenderly. I would have laid down my life for
her. I was standing by the coffin. The room was
full of people---I had turned back the lid reverently,
boy that I was---for what is death, that it should awe
me!---said I, to myself---while my hand shook---and
my head grew giddy.---I had just raised the thin muslin
from her dead, beautiful face---and the tears were blinding
and choking me. I put my hand upon her shut eyes---her
sunken temples---forgetful of all propriety;---and though
they were so frightfully cold, that my blood stopped
running, all at once---as if my heart had been adrift till
then---in the cold ocean---and just struck and shivered
against something;---and I shook all over, with a
strange in ward concussion---yet I would willingly have
lain there, forever---frozen to her, cheek to cheek---
mouth to mouth---and been buried with her:—but somebody---I
knew not who---I never turned to look, plucked
at me, rudely---and would have torn me from her,
as he would, a wild beast from his prey. I bore
it patiently, awhile---but not long. I just lifted my
hand---nobody saw the motion---but the man that
felt it, staggered through the door, as if he had been
struck by the paw of a wild beast.—He fell; and, as
he fell, he carried with him, men, women and children.
The room was emptied---as if the dead body, itself, had

given the blow; and I was left alone with it. This
was all that I wanted.---I grew blind and giddy with
excessive emotion---I cleft a lock of her beautiful hair,
---it was like wet silk---from her transparent temples:
it had been denied to me before---and then, I laughed
---dashed out the lights---laughed, till my heart ached---
and my temples were sore; and when I bounded through
the window; and left them to recover from their consternation---as
they might. I was never forgiven.

Such was the effect of their unnatural severity. They
scourged me, as if I had been a mis-begotten creature of
darkness;---and they continued to scourge me, till there
was nothing of humanity left in my nature---till I cared
no more for what they called death, as they said---
and thought no more of pain, than if I had been made
of cast iron.

The laws that were made for me, were literally
written in blood.---in mine own blood---I might have
had as hearty a reverence for them, it may be, if they
had been chiseled upon brass or stone. They were
truly the laws of Draco---written in blood---and meting
the same punishment for every offence.

Hence, I came to learn, why unnatural restraint leads
to unnatural excess; why, the greatest criminals have
charged their parents, with a too unsparing severity in
their childhood; why that proverb is true, which declares
that “deacons daughters, and parsons sons,” are more
profligate and wicked, than others.

The punishment being always the same, I naturally
concluded that the offence was. To me, therefore, there
was no difference between lying and murdering; whistling
on a Sunday, and blaspheming all religion; sleeping
at church; resenting an insult; or knocking down a
priest, at the communion table.

But, I went abroad. I found that men of talent, and
worth, and influence---great men, and good men, too---
even in the eyes of my own father, would sometimes
tell a lie; whistle of a Sunday; sleep at church; or
horse-whip a fellow, that spit in their faces. This staggered
me, at first. There must be something, I thought,
radically wrong in the doctrines, which had been inculeated

into my flesh, so carefully, so circumstantially,
and so continually. My conscience tingled a little; and
I was a good deal shocked; at my first transgression;
but, in time, I became reconciled to the whole matter;
and, having found that my father and uncle were egregious
fools or knaves, in many things; I took it for
granted, that they were, in all. So that, at the end
of a year, after I went abroad in the world, I was just
as ready to murder, as to lie; and just as ready to lie,
as to snore in church; and just as ready to snore in
church, as in my own bed-chamber.

And, so hath it been, from all time, with all bigotry.
Reason must have way. Her fire will be kindled, by
some gentle hand; or by the wind; or by the lightning;
but wo to them that wait for the latter! Once lanched,
there is no quenching it; blood will not do it; tears; no,
nor the ashes of temple nor crucifix; nor the dust of the
overthrown altar It will have way; rending, and exploding,
and tearing into the very bowels of the earth,
where the people of countless generations, are holding
their dead, silent, and terrible congress.

Just so is it, with the abused child; and the trodden
slave; nay, just so with the Catholick murderer, whose
bloody fingers shake, as he counts out the gold for his
redemption---not with blood---but with terrour of the
priesthood. Touch once his red heart---let it begin to
flow---let him but once open his eyes upon the foot of
the bald spectre, that is set upon it; and, exhausted as
he is---humbled as he is---he will upheave the tyrant
from his dominion, and grind him to the dust. Give to
a man, a plain substantial nutriment; and he never becomes
either a slave or a despot; but feed him upon
terrour, humiliation, and ruin; superstition and hatred;
replenish his veins with such fiery aliment---and you
are nourishing an earthquake---a volcano. One spark,
and it will explode---then where are you? The very
chains that bound a people to you, are melted with the
shock---and fall upon you, in a rain of fire.

Look at France---Italy---Spain---Portugal---where
Superstition once held her tremendous dominion unquestioned,

unapproachable. But, a convulsion happened;---the
veil was rent!---the curtain plucked away,
and set fire to!---her sceptre broken!---and a people of
slaves---priest ridden and trampled slaves---arose like
the dead natives of all the earth, at the sound of the last
trumpet---laid waste the dominions of men---nor stopped
till they were driven back from the battlements of
heaven---by a tempest of smoke and fire. They awoke
from a long trance, like men that have been drugged
with death---amid relicks and miracles; and, finding
that they had been deceived, by a priesthood; they have
broken them down---and scattered them to the four winds
of heaven; and overturned altar and temple, in their
wrath. Were it not better, that the dominion of darkness
had been shorter, or less terrible? So is it with nations;
so, with men; so, with me. I knew not where to stop;
nor what was true.