University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

There are some difficult things, that appear simple
enough, when they are once explained; and we are often
provoked at our own blindness, after we have been told
how some enchantment hath been wrought; when we
might never have imagined the truth, if we had been
left to ourselves. There is a curious propensity in the
mind, to overlook the common, while it gazes after the
improbable events of life. We love the marvellous; and,
while we ridicule our neighbours, for the same folly,
we are loving it, more heartily than they. We hear of
some murder; or, of some old haunted chambers, for
example; and, while we laugh at the story of both, our
blood thrills at the recital; and nothing will satisfy us,
till we get to the bottom of the mystery. In the mean
time, whatever happen, we are always sure to imagine
a more complicated series of reasoning and design, than
is ever the true one. We attribute motives to people,
who never had any motive for their conduct; and judge
of all, not by placing ourselves in their situation, at the
time when a given deed was done, were it evil or good;
but by the circumstances that have since happened.—
This mode of judgment is cruel and preposterous. I do
differently. I think differently. I do not judge of anything,
by the result, when I can help it. I would rather
fight a good battle, and be conquered; than a bad one,
and conquer.

So too, if I am watching the movements of a juggler,
political or religious; the harmless operator upon our
pocket: or, the more dangerous one, upon our credulity;
whose legerdemain is for government here, and hereafter;
I am prone to imagine his contrivance far more

simple and short sighted, than people in general do.—
They overlook whatever is probable; and rush into the
marvellous. And why? I did the same thing when I
was a boy. But I have grown wiser now. I took it
for granted, once, if I had been cheated, that it must
have been by the most consummate address. Nothing
else would console me under the imposition;—nothing
else could reconcile me to myself.

It is painful, is'nt it?—to be deluded very stupidly?
Yet, so it is. Ask any juggler. He will tell you, that
his security lies—not in the depth of his own contrivance—but
in that of the theories, that are imagined to
explain it. How many persons have stood by Rannie—(Do
you remember him?—a fat, red faced, greasy
fellow—whose light-fingered tricks were played off, in
publick)—and seen him cut a piece out of a woman's
gown—blow upon it—and restore it. They saw the
process—the scissors—and beheld the piece. But how
was it possible? A thousand pleasant inventions were
thought of, to explain it. The vulgar supposed that
some charm was used—some powder—which deceived
one, like a fog; a little higher, you will find a people
that knew how the whole was done—the piece was actually
cut out, say they; but some natural cement,
known only to the operator himself, was applied; and
the cloth grew together. A third class would get over
the affair, at once, by calling it the black art; a fourth,
by reference to natural magick—the Egyptians; alchymy;
and the magicians of scripture; a fifth is sure
that there is some trick in the scissors—that they were
not real—or that the garment was not—or, in short,
anything but the simple truth. But I was not to be so
easily satisfied. I looked to find it a conspiracy. I was
mistaken. He came to make the experiment on Elizabeth,
my own sister; she wore a white muslin, I remember;
he gave me the scissors into my own hand; I
cut the dress myself, while he held it. I saw it; and
saw it, again, united. Yet, I did not believe in it. It
disturbed me. I thought of it, continually. I went
again. I kept my eyes upon him. He chose a black
dress. He cut the piece out. I saw it in his hand.—

“Do me the favour,” said I, “to let the dress alone
with your other hand; let it fall; let me see the hole.”
He was disconcerted. I saw the trick, instantly. I
arrived at it, on the spot. So it has been through all
my life, with me. I have found nothing inexplicable;
nothing—except the heart of a woman. Rannie depended
not so much upon our short-sightedness, as upon
our long-sightedness, and our over-sightedness. He
knew that our vanity would prevent us, for ever, from
imagining that we were fooled so egregiously, as we
were. A deeper trick had been discovered. But, by
cutting another piece of cloth, held in the same hand,
in which he had gathered up the dress, he was perfectly
safe. Yet, who would ever have thought of so simple
an explanation?

Would you discover the truth? Do not believe a
thing, merely because you cannot account for it. Do
not believe it, because it is impossible. That were as
wise, as to disbelieve whatever we cannot understand,
in the phenomena of heaven, and earth, and air. And
yet, the reverse is our natural propensity. We love the
marvellous, and the alarming. Nay, we often believe
a story, from its very improbability. Thus, we are told,
that some sweet, timid, affectionate creature, whom we
have known for many a year, hath murdered her own
babe. Terrible as the tale is, we believe it; because it
is impossible that any body would think of inventing
such a story, of such a woman. There must be some
truth in it, we are sure. Improbable as the tale of horrour
is—yet, it is more improbable, that it should be a
mere invention. On the contrary, we are apt to be suspicious
of a very plausible, well connected, probable
tale. How strangely perverse are the operations of
our nature!—how full of contradiction!

Would you discover the truth?—persevere. Truth
is God; and God never will hide himself from the devout
searcher.

Yet, there are facilities upon the way—and—there!
won't that do pretty well, for the beginning of a chapter?

Is'nt it an essay, altogether worthy of our established
novel-writers?—and reviewers?

Among these matters, which are so simple when explained;
and so inexplicable, till then, is the mystery of
writing. Some men find it a weighty affair, to put half
a dozen sentences together; yet, they can spout for an
hour together, in publick; and reason, sensibly enough
at home, with their tongues. Why is this? They dare
not write, as they talk. They will not go abroad, but in
a holy-day dress. I shall do no such thing. I am above
it; and, henceforth, I shall ramble, just as capriciously
as I please, in the tale that I am relating. Method is
out of the question. I never pretended to it; and my
utmost ambition, now, is to write my own history, just
as I would tell it, to people that I loved, about a roaring
fire, in the depth of winter.

Reader!—what say you? Are you so wedded to the
sleepy modulation of Addison, and such people, that a
short sentence, or a sudden stop, will jar you like another
step, at the bottom of the stairs—or no step at all,
where you are ready for one? If you are, stop!—stop
where you are! You are not the reader for me. I hate
the simpering, smooth, sweet, musical cadence of Addison,
just as I do the great, lumbering, heavy, windy,
pompous, lubberly movement of Johnson. I would as
soon live on sugar-candy—and sleep, for ever, upon
new-mown hay, with a water-spout singing in my ears
all day long, and all night, too;—or, try to keep up with
the temple of Juggernaut, upon stilts—as listen to either,
for more than half an hour at a time. So, if you
expect to be lulled asleep, stop where you are. It will
be the better for you. And if you look for a single sentence,
put daintily together, like Addison's—or a single
period, like Johnson's, jointed and cramped with
iron—big words that have been brought together by
main force, as if by a press-gang; and chained fist to
fist, lest they should squabble, or mutiny—you will be
disappointed. But, if you would hear a fellow creature
talk, as men do talk, in our language, every day, in the
street—stand by me awhile. There will be truth and
nature to detain you; and one thing, at least, you may

be sure of—natural language. Easy writing has been
defined to be—what anybody can easily write. The definition
is witty. But natural writing, I would define
to be what anybody, in the same situation, would naturally
say—if he could:—such as you do not often find in a
book—never, in the classicks; but always, in the mouths
of men and women—broken and incoherent, at times—
for such is the language of passion; simple, it may be,
and touching, when you least expect it; for such is the
manner of them that mourn, when they are weeping at
home, and alone:—stormy and impetuous; burning and
acrimonious; when the crushed viper, or the outraged
giant, are let out of the human heart—for such may be
the bearing of common men, when mightily wronged.
Their tongues are of fire—serpent like—and vivid, with
the intensity of their suddenly lighted spirits. Will
this content you? If it will, push on.

It would be no easy affair, at this time of life, for me
to recal even the names of those who, in their compassionate
regard for my future welfare, assisted in destroying
my evil propensities, in childhood, by kicking,
and cuffing, and flagellation; but there remain two or
three, somewhat more conspicuous than the rest, to
whom I am greatly indebted; and I cannot resist the
temptation, that I feel at this moment, to acknowledge
my thankfulness to them. It was so kind in them!—so
considerate!—so affectionate!

Among the first, the very first, was a precious jack-ass,
named Stephen Patten, a school-master, to
whom it was my misfortune to be sent, for two or three
excellent reasons; the chief of which, I take to be, that
he was a conceited, obstinate, sleepy dolt of a fellow,
with no brains at all---and rather less heart than brains.
Another was, to keep me out of mischief, at the least
possible expense; for it was a sort of town school that
he kept, or a charity school; and called so---not so much,
because it was an asylum for indigent children, as for
indigent men, utterly helpless, useless, and incapable
of any other employment:---and the third---I hope that
I am not very uncharitable---was to have me murdered
legally; or, at least, made as cheaply and certainly as

possible, what the benevolent predicted that I should
be, a candidate for the gallows. This man used to whip
me, whenever he was out of humour. But once, in particular---I
shall never forget it; and he has been nearer
than he dreams, of being made to remember it since,
quite as distinctly. It was a custom in the school, to
make the poorer scholars sweep and clean it; and, during
the winter, to bring in fuel, and kindle fires. I happened
to be of that class; and, in the impartiality of this
miserable wretch, a double duty fell upon me---a duty
of mortification and labour. I am naturally meek; but
I have a strong sense of justice; and Moses, himself,
would have lost his character, had he been loaded and
shamed, as I was, under Master Stephen Patten.
The spiteful creature watched me continually; and every
symptom of rebellion was tempered down, or trodden
out, the moment that it was detected; not unfrequently,
too, with what he called a lecture---a few
words of which, on any occasion, would be a treat to a
rhetorician. At such times, when the school was all
hushed as death, he had a favourite saying, that we
were pretty sure to hear, no matter what was the subject,
or who the culprit;---it was about envy. “Envy,”
said master Patten, “is a green-eyed monster, that
flies over cities and towns;”---and this was a picture
of envy, for the understanding of children, from seven to
fourteen years of age!

But, to the whipping.—I will try to recollect it.—
Something had happened, to prevent me from making
a fire at my last turn; (as it was called) which turn, by
the way, put me back, amazingly, in my arithmetick;
for, I could never, rightly, apprehend how, in a school
of one hundred and twenty boys, where there was only
one fire to be kindled in the morning; and only one
morning in the day, it came to me, in rotation, to kindle
it, about once in two weeks. But, so it was. And,
when I failed, on this occasion, I was compassionately
let off, by producing a billet, (which, I dare say, had
been used by me, more than once, before; for, when it
was not dated, I always managed to get it back again,
in some way or other, by hook or by crook—either, by

clambering in at the window; or by picking the lock of
his desk) from some person in authority, showing, that
I had been truly unable.

But, the next week, my turn came again. “Now look
you, Bill,” said the master. “Tomorrow morning,
you are to make a fire in that are stove; and if you don't
do it, mind—I'll skin you, alive. No excuse now; I
don't care what happens.”

That was a threat of little moment to me. I had
been accustomed to it, at home and abroad, from
friends and strangers, from my very cradle; nay, it had
become no uncommon mode of salutation, for the
neighbours, when I was clambering up their spouts, or
robbing their gooseberry bushes—“and such small cattle.”
Still, though I cared little for the threat, I cannot
deny that I had always an ugly antipathy, to
the process of skinning alive, from the time that I saw
it practised upon the poor fox, by my uncle; and, if
the truth must be told, I have not become entirely reconciled
to it yet—though, many a kind creature has
been half persuaded to reconcile me to it, if he could.

So, I determined, as much as in me lay, to build the
fire, in due season, dead or alive. But, unluckily. I
had a good natured uncle, on my father's side, who
had something to do with a ship;---and, was in the habit,
now and then, of giving me a few cents; or a cuff;
or a hiding; as he happened to be in a good or bad humour,
with his coffee---or, as I happened to deserve either.
He saw me, in the evening; and told me to come
down on board the vessel, early in the morning; and I
should have some pieces of junk, rattling, oakum, bits
of spun-yarn; and, perhaps, a spare rope's end. I
did'nt much like the latter item; but, looking him in the
face, I found that I had nothing to fear. So, I went---
stipulating, first, for a billet to Master Patten; by
way of a protection. The business done; the oakum
and junk disposed of; all that had been given to me,
and some that I had stolen; and the money fairly in my
pocket, off I trudged, to the school, with the billet in my
fist.—But, Master Patten was not to be trifled
with. He first flogged me, and then read the billet;---nay,

he had the impudence to declare, after it was all
over, that, whatever had been the excuse, it would have
made no difference.

For this, I never forgave him. I did'nt care that,
(snapping my fingers,) for the flogging. Nay, he
might have read the billet first; and then, flogged me,
till he was weary; and I should only have laughed at
him. But, that the scoundrel should dare to strike me,
when he knew not but I might have been locked up, by
my father; and prevented, by accident, or sickness; or,
by some violence, from performing my duty; nay, how
knew he, but that some of the family were dead.

Yet....he flogged me....and, at the first blow, that he
struck me, there arose in my sweltering heart, something,
I know not what; it felt to me, like a serpent,
whose habitation had been made too hot for him. I looked
into the eyes of the cowardly rascal; and I saw them,
as plainly as I ever saw anything, blood-shot....and
stained. It was a vision; and had well nigh been fulfilled;
for, it is only two years ago, that I passed him, as
he stood in the door of his paltry little book-shop, in
conversation with three or four elderly gentlemen.—
I went by, at the distance of two or three paces. I
hadn't seen him, for years—I felt my blood beginning
to boil—the muscles of my arm to shiver—and I knew
that, if I once laid my hand upon his collar—there
would be no mortal help for him. I knew this. I felt
it. What saved him, God, only, knows. It might be
his age—not his character. I could not strike a man,
so much older than myself; though he had whipped me,
when I was a helpless child, till I was raw all over.
I swallowed the bitterness, that was rising in my throat,
and passed by; nor, did I know how fearful had
been the battle within me; till, as I turned the next
corner, I felt the hot sweat pour from my forehead,
like rain—till I staggered, with exhaustion; and was
fain to throw myself upon my bed, the moment that
I entered my room; and, the next day, when I got up, I
was stiff, and sore, all over—even, to the roots of my
hair; as if I had taken a violent cold.

Beware—ye that give a loose to your passion, when
the feeble are intrusted to you. There is no knowing
what a bruised spirit may achieve; if it be not withheld,
as mine was, by a strange feeling of pity, scorn, and
compassion. Verily, but for that, had I not relented; and,
it was wonderful that I did relent—before a hand could
have been raised in his defence, I had trampled the
breath out of that man's body.

There was another man too, named Cobb; a quaker;
whose admonitions were continual; and, as he thought,
very terrible; but, luckily for him, he never had the
courage to lay his hand upon me, except in meeting;
when, if I made too much noise in whittling the benches,
(for I used to go to—not worship in—a Friends'
meeting house; where, to be orthodox, you must have
pine benches, instead of pens, or pews, to sleep in,) he
would sometimes get up, with the steadiest countenance
in the world;—walk down the broad aisle, to the seat
where a dozen of us would sit, shivering at his approach;
and, single me out, for exhibition, upon the high seat.
I was not very ambitious; but, this event was sure to
happen, whenever there was any publick speaker;—
(travelling preachers—who, having some conscience,
charge nothing for their instruction; and treat their
friends like tavern-keepers—eat of the best that the
land affords; they and their companions, and horses—
for they never go to a tavern; and live, as the wild
beasts will not; on each other) among us—and more
than once, have I been carefully led up, before a house
full of the orthodox and heterodox, to the very highest
seat, in the whole meeting house, (it were impious to
call such a contrivance, a church,) and there left, with
my hands and legs across, as a beacon to my companions.

And once, I remember—and I wonder that I didn't
get a flogging, then. There was a mischievous fellow,
in the seat behind me; I had an awkwardly contrived
thing upon me, called a new coat; the first, I believe,
that I had ever been fitted to—I do not say, the first
that had ever been fitted to me—for, that was not. It
was a common joke, with the boys, on such an occasion,

to cut off a button. Such is the effect upon the idle,
and unocupied, in the house of God; there, as in every
other place, they will be in mischief, rather than remain
idle. The sublime, still worship of the spirit, is
unknown, unheeded by, and unfitted to them. A good
man, in the awful silence of a great solitude, will feel
a more tremendous sense of nearness to the Deity, than
he ever may, in temples, ringing with musick, and
blinding him with magnificence. But, even he, the
great and good man; he, who, when he dies, but steps
once, to become an archangel—even he cannot worship
God, as he would, if there be many about him. How,
then, shall the wicked, and the foolish? How are children
to feel the awful stillness, of Jehovah's audience
chamber, ere they have learnt what stillness, or worship
means?—They cannot. Therefore, it is, that the
children, in a Quaker meeting house, are fuller of sneaking
mischief; than at school, when their master is out,
and they have nothing to do.

So it was, here. Our seats were bored, through and
through; whittled and gashed; scribbled on, and carved
into, while God himself, if the scriptures be true, was
standing in the very midst of us.

On this occasion, I felt the boy; he was much larger
than I; and, I was naturally timid, cowardly, and cruel.
I felt him at work—and heard a suppressed
breathing. There was a dead silence. I turned, and
“let him have it,” as we say, into his face and eyes. The
blow was quicker than lightning—his head struck the
back of the seat—and, the blood spun out of his nose, into
the broad aisle. He had a knife in his hand; and, till the
elder, upon the “fore seat” shook hands; and, thereby,
broke up the meeting, I felt, every moment, as if it
were just ready to be stuck into my ribs. But, he
dared not. I had been afraid of him before. Now, he
was afraid of me. My promptitude had disconcerted
him. While you live, reader, always give the first
blow; never take it. If you have any doubt, strike.
The battle is half over; and he, half whipped, who takes
the first blow.

up about me, till the welts and blood-blisters ran, like
tight drawn purple snakes, from side to side of my
body. I bawled out murder! murder!—not because of
the pain; but because I did'nt like the manner; it was
new to me. I then put on my jacket, and went home,
side by side, with the good man; and, the last thing
that I remember is, that, when I was getting over the
fence, and he was talking to me, about what he intended
to do, toward making a man of me—saying that he
should send me to Salem, to school, and give me a new
suit of clothes, and—

“Snuff-colour?” said I—interruptig him—“snuff-colour,
uncle?” and there the matter ended. I'll warrant
you that I forgot the flogging, sooner than he did;—and
I am sure that I remembered the snuff-coloured suit,
the schooling much longer—for I heard no more of and
either from him.

I mention it, to warn other men from such doings.
It was a base, vulgar expedient—barbarous and foolish.
I had a proud heart, a keen sensibility. Had
this man touched either—as I could that of a child,
—I would sooner have been burnt to ashes, than ever
touch aught of another's property afterward. But
this brutal appeal, to my body, rather than to my soul,---
forced up all my bodily faculties to resist it. He might
have shamed me, till the tears dropped hot from my eye
lids;—till he might have filled my bed with untold money,and,
I would'nt have touched it even in my dreaming.
—But no—He struck at my body. And my body was
that of the young Spartan. Like him, I learnt that, to
steal was adventures and brave—to be found out, disgraceful.—Some
author asks where is the difference
between the education of a Spartan and another? Both
steal; and both are punished, if they are found out.—
What! is there no difference between inculcating theft,
as a part of military stratagem, and punishing a boy
for mal-adroitness; and denouncing theft,as the most base
and cowardly of crimes—a propensity to it, as a nature
to be scourged out of one, with whip and fire?

But—men will reason in this way; and where they
do not, they will act as if they did. In this very case,

the lesson that was taught me, in pain and blood—was
not, that a proud, generous and noble spirit, would disdain
to pilfer;—but that, whoever did pilfer, must have
a tough hide, and a stout back. I had both;—and, had I
been lashed, with steel wire, red from the forge, the effect
would have been precisely the same. I scorned to
be beaten into a reformation. Blows and indignity
only made me dastardly and revengeful. By God—I
had that nature—which, if it had been rightly ministered
to, would have made me a hero, at twelve years
of age.

And where was the mighty evil of my transgression?
I lied—why? because everybody about me lied, and they
that whipped me, could not tell the truth, and did not.
I stole—why? Because I was perpetually exposed to
temptation,—naked and unfortified, by any appeal to
the pride of my nature;—kept without the allowance of
any pocket money;—yet, with gold and silver perpetually
at hand; and no way of obtaining any part of it,
except by stealing. The boy that would not steal in
such a case, must be a fool.

Had I been once made to feel ashamed of it;—once
made to run over at the eyes—I should have forborn
all my life after, whatever had been the temptation. But
they, even they, that tempted me, were more wicked
than I. He that puts silver and gold in the way of the
miserable and destitute; unfortified by religion; uninstructed
in self denial; taught only to think of shame
and suffering, not as the consequence of guilt, but as
the consequence of discovery—he is a greater criminal
than the wretched thief himself. Beside that—did I
not find all the people about me, getting possession of
property—God knows how—if it were not by cheating
or pilfering.

It is told of an absent man, not remarkable for his
discernment (or dizzernment?—which is it?) that he
had some doubt about the honesty of a servant; and that,
willing to put it to the proof, he left some loose gold in
his way; and then went to a friend, full of self complacency,
at his own management—and told him what he
had done.

“You counted it?” said his friend.

Alas—he had not. He had never thought of that.
We laugh at the folly of this man; but how many of us
do the same thing? How many temptations do we perpetually
offer, in our carelessness, to the poor, and unsettled?—to
our servants, and to strangers?

What is the evil?—This. We learn to suspect everybody;
to have no confidence in any human creature.
A judicious circumspection would prevent this. How
often do we only suspect a loss; yet, not being certain
of it, are fretted vilely by our suspicion, and dishonour
all that are near us, by our watchfulness. This may
be thought lightly of. But such is my opinion on the
subject, that, I would not be the friend of a man, so
careless of his property, as not to know when, or where
it was stolen from him. I consider every man, in this
world, as a lodger in a great inn. It is the privilege of
all the guests, that each man should know whom to
charge, and with what, when he is pillaged. Else all
are wronged.

And what was the consequence of this discipline? I
became an inveterate thief. I stole whatever I could
lay my hands on, unless confidence were put in
me, until I was eighteen; and so expert was I, that I
have stolen one end of a thing, while the owner was
holding on by the other. I broke into my mother's desk;
robbed her sweetmeats, pies, shoe-buckles, pantry, money,
and spoons: nay, I have clambered into the window
of an office, where an uncle of mine lived; and robbed
his money box, time and again; and once, of a whole
dollar, while I was yet a child. Yet, why relate these
felonies?—They grew out of a shameful neglect in my
education; great cruelty, and great injustice. Naturally
a coward, I was exceedingly inquisitive and curious
in my disposition; chiefly, that I might find something
to comfort me, when I was afraid—or console me, after
I had been whipped. That I am not yet a thief—or
something worse than a thief, is no fault of theirs;---
it is not because of their scourging, but—entirely owing
to myself. I have learnt to scorn it; or, rather to fear

the peril of it. My natural cowardice has got the upper
hand of my short sighted fear.

The first strong impulse ever communicated to my
honesty, was accidental. I had never been trusted;
never, from my very cradle. I had, therefore, no character;
and no opportunity of acquiring one, for honesty.
But a man, with whom I lived, who had never been
wise enough to allow me any pocket money; and kept
me in such a state of degredation, that I was obliged
to ask for everything that I obtained, even to a pair of
shoes, though I was of incalculable service to him—until
I thought of tearing my clothes, or grinding them
through, at the elbows and knees, till they spoke for
me, whenever I grew tired of them; as the best way to
avoid the intolerable trial that it was for me, to beg,
even of my master, what I knew that I deserved;—this
man had the good sense, one day, to put me in the way
of earning some pocket money, for myself. From that
hour, I was honest to him, and afraid to steal. Why
did he not think of this before?—A little spending money
is as necessary, as food and rest, to every child, who
may be surrounded by temptation. It is awkward for
him to steal; but, having once reconciled his conscience
to the guilt—it is the same thing to him, whether he
steal a large, or a small sum. How different was it
now! How proud and sensitive I felt, the moment that
I had a few paltry and common perquisites allowed to
me, by which I could obtain something honestly;—less,
to be sure, in a month, than I had been in the habit of
stealing in a week—but little, as it was, it was my own;
and I slept quietly.

Let me say it. I have had some experience—I have been
a master, and an apprentice; a tyrant, and a slave; a
father, and a son, by turns; and I have always found it
cheaper to give high wages at first—a handsome allowance—than
to be sordid. They that steal; like them,
who let out money at illegal interest, will be paid for
the risk of detection and punishment, that they run; and
the reputation, that they hazard. A desperate game is
to be played desperately.

O, it is melancholy, to look back upon the days that
are gone; to turn my thought inward, and contemplate
the trampled richness; the dishonoured and abused
quality of my own heart. It is wonderful to me, that I
have any of it left—wonderful that, for the blood and
pulse that I feel here now, stimulating me to acts of
benevolence and charity,—I should not find the ashes
and blackness of a quenched furnace—full of crawling
reptiles.

A kindlier dealing with me; a more noble and delicate
watchfulness, had made me one of the gentlest of
human creatures.—Alas! why was there not some
guardian, of a benignant temper, to search out, and
study—what was really worth studying; and what would
have rewarded him, here and hereafter—the hidden
and secret fountains of my heart—and then—how soon
had all their bitterness passed away.

It was not long after this, that I was put in the way
of another man, in extensive business;—one of the
cursedest liars, and probably, one of the most natural
scoundrels, that ever kept the reputation of a decent man,
since the world was created. I was tall and manly of
my age; and the contract that was made for me, rendered
it necessary that I should go naked; or steal and
cheat; or clothe myself honestly with forty dollars a
year, like a human being. The latter was impossible,
althought he man that swore, that his son Ben,—(a stuttering;
thick-headed fellow, who managed the concern;
and who used to read Curran's speeches, of a cold night
in winter, till his hands cracked open, and bled upon the
page—not because he had any relish for them, or the
capacity to understand them at all; but, merely, that
his mother might communicate the tale to some of her
gossiping acquaintances)—had clothed himself for less
than thirty dollars a year. Nothing could be more
probable!—at least, nothing, that you would ever hear
out of the father's mouth, from one year's end to the
other.

Now, what was I to do? To clothe myself, honestly,
and decently, with forty dollars a year, was out of the
question; though it should be stipulated, that I might
have whatever I should want, out of the store, at cost.—

It was still harder for me to steal: because my hand
had been out for some time; and I felt a prodigious unwillingness
to re-commence, so long as I could get
along, tolerably well, without it.

There was a middle course. Into that, I rushed, like
a skilful navigator—saving my conscience, and covering
my back, at the same time. It was stipulated, as
I have already said, that I should have what I wanted,
at cost. It was only necessary, therefore, that I should
avail myself of the contract, after the manner which I
have since learnt to be the law—that is, altogether in
favour of myself—to be clothed as well as I pleased.—
Take an example. Suppose that I wanted a pair of
shoes. I would go to the shoemaker, and stipulate for
a pair, to be paid for, out of the store. Their price
would be a couple of dollars, if you please. When I
paid him; it was always with some trash, that had been
laid in at auction—for my master's whole stock was of
that character; and I was always governed by the cost
marked upon the outside. Thus, if a lot of different
qualities were purchased, they were all marked at the
same cost; while some articles, perhaps, were worth
five times as much as others. I was always somewhat
scrupulous in this matter. I chose the best—sold it at
a price, as much above what it cost, as I could—cheated
all that I could, in the measure—(though that was
expressly against the injunction of Ben—“ne—nev—
never cheat, in the m—mea—measure,” said Ben; “it—
it—it—it is very unprincipled; if—if you must cheat, che
—che—cheat in the price. You won't be—be—be—be
found out, th—then;”)— and then cheated in the reckoning—(a
hint that I took from the old man; who first
undersold a neighbour, one day; and then, made it up
on the slate, while I was standing by him.) But, perhaps,
all this did not satisfy me. Perhaps I had already
overrun, my monthly allowance of three dollars,
and thirty-three cents and one third.

In such an emergency, though the shoes might have
been made, in the way spoken of, to cost me only half
a dollar, or so—yet, that was quite too much. They
might be managed so as to cost me nothing; nay, so as
to put some money into my pocket! But how? I had

only to make the man take goods, to a greater amount
than the shoes, and pay me the balance. These goods
I charged to myself, at cost; and put the profit into my
own pocket, and the shoes upon my feet, at the same
time. Thus I made forty dollars a year quite a comfortable
salary. Pray heaven that you may do it as
honestly!

How short-sighted are the mean and sordid! If this
man had allowed me, for my clothes, eighty or one
hundred dollars a year, he would have been better
served. I should have been more jealous and true to
his interest, and carried my head more proudly; and
yet, less insolently, than I did. But he drove me to
compound with my conscience; and he had to pay the
price of the composition, of course, out of his own pocket.

By the way, let me give you some notion of the accomplishments,
that a reasonable man may look to obtain
for his child, by putting him apprentice to a retail
dry goods “merchant;” grocer; or confectioner. In the
first place, he is pretty sure to learn how to cheat; next,
to lie; next, to steal; to say nothing of the fact, that the
very trade is disgraceful to a man—exactly so far as
it could be carried on by a woman; for they, when indigent,
respectable, and virtuous, have no resource; none
at all, sobefitting their condition, as that of shop-keeping.
To them, it ought to be left; and men, who presume
to sell ribbands, tape, laces, thread, needles,
stockings, and linen, ought to be labelled for men-milleners;—mantua-making
would be but another branch
of the same trade. However, that is not all that a boy
will learn at a retail shop—he will learn, ninety-nine
times out of one hundred, to pass counterfeit money.—
I did. One maxim with my master, was—if he bought
the devil, to sell him again. And with whom, is it not
a maxim? Another was, never to believe that a counterfeit
note—was a counterfeit. Out of these two maxims,
grew my conduct; and his. If we received a suspicious
looking note, we took care to put it off, immediately,
either upon a stranger; a countryman, from the
back woods; or a woman; their simplicity, ignorance,

forgetfulness; and the probable distance that they would
carry it, before they would attempt to pass it, or discover
their mistake—being a guarantee that it would
not come back to us again. Yet, I have had the same
note come back, ten times in a day. And what was
the consequence? Did I ever lose a customer by it?—
O, no! They always left me, full of gratitude and delight.
I would pretend not to recollect the note; and
would say, “Well, madam—if you say that you took it
of me, I am satisfied. I do not deny that—it—but you
are sure of it, you say.” “O, certainly, sir—certainly;
if it were the last word, that I had to speak, I would
swear to it.” “Very well, madam;—there is good money;—if
this be counterfeit, I must lose it;—it is very
hard—very; and I am heartily sorry for the trouble
that you have had—but—you are sure, you say—and if
you were not, why we can better afford to lose it, than
you,” &c. “O, God bless you, sir—you are very
good,” she would say—the tears probably, standing, in
her eyes. She would leave me; and the very next woman
that left my store, ten to one, would carry away
the same note, again! So much for my apprenticeship.
Boys do this from fear, sometimes, when they suspect
that they have taken a bad note. Others, from principle.
I was of the latter class.

I was, after that, in the service of other men. They
treated me well; and they are the richer for it. Mine
has never been the maxim of the world—to treat them
worst, who treat me best. Do I slander the world? I
do not. By whom do we suffer? By our friends. A
man in debt, or in jail, will pay his mortal enemy, to
get out of his power; and borrow the money of a friend
—whom he never pays—for the purpose: aye, and let
his friend take his place in prison. We dare not take
liberties, or ask favours, of them that hate us. We are
too proud. Nay, do we not oftener suffer, by having
too good, than too bad an opinion, of a man? Whence
all these bankruptcies—failures—suicides—and destruction
of families—by endorsement—lending money—
bail, and securityship? They all come from our friends.
We lose nothing in this way, by our enemies. Nobody

—neither man nor woman—ever suffered from distrusting
anybody. Yet, mine has been a contrary maxim—
open war, or real peace. It matters little which. If I
called a man friend, there was meaning in it. He was
not to be my victim.