University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

I have chosen my course. It has ended, where, if
I had foreseen that it would end, ten years ago, I should
have gone mad upon the spot; and rushed into the presence
of Jehovah, with a cry of desolation.

“Why hast thou created me! Lo, I am returned to
thee!—unbidden!” I should have said;—“for I cannot
abide thy appointment!”

Yes, I have chosen my course—tied up my own
hands—thrown myself down, like some detestable thing,
upon the dust and ruin of all that I have loved. Shall
the tale be told? It shall.

But how to tell it! Shall I begin with a recapitulation
of all the fiery and sore plagues, that have
been visited upon me; the devils, that have beset my
path; the apparitions, that have baited me, day and
night, from my very boyhood? Shall I do this; and
then, retread my steps to the causes—cause after cause,
that have led to it? Could you follow me? No.—
Your heart would fail you. You would never believe;
you could not, that such wreck and devastation, could
have been the consequence of such trivial and distant
events. Let me begin then, before you are alarmed;
and lead you forward, step by step, from the first delicate
link, to the massy iron of the last—the last!—how
know I, that the last link is yet wrought?—how know
I, that the next will not weigh me down to the earth?
Nay, deeper than the earth? Yea, that shall be my
course. I will not begin, by terrifying you. I will begin
at the smaller end. Whoever you are, reader, I defy
you to throw down the book, till you have trodden

to the conclusion. Yea, though it be with me, over
plough-shares hissing with blood—serpents—and live
embers.

There are two ways. I have chosen the simplest—
the most effectual. Our object may be the same; and
the routes, apparently, the same; when, by one, we
never can arrive to it:—and, by the other, we shall arrive,
at once. My memory frightens me—yet, I cannot
tell why. The scenes of my early life, are all vivid
before me—yet, I cannot describe them. How incomprehensible!
you exclaim.

Do you understand any other language than your
own? Latin, for example?—or French? You are able
to read it, we will suppose, readily, and at a glance.—
A page of French is given to you. You translate it, at
once. But the page of English, the same that you have
just written, is offered to you again, to return into
French. Can you do it? No. Can you give a reason?
No. You only know, that you cannot do it.

It appears very strange to the inexperienced. What;
say they;—you cannot translate English into French!
and can, French into English! How is this? You
could not do the last, unless you knew and remembered
the words. But, if you know and remember the
words, what prevents you from doing the first?

Thus will people reason, on what they do not understand.
They have never learnt that each sense has its
memory; each faculty, its retentiveness—its reminiscence;
a mode of receiving and communicating impressions
peculiar to itself. The mind slumbers.—
The memory of abstract thought dies away. But the
senses are startled into exquisite life, years and years,
after the mind has lost its hold upon things, by some
sweet perfume; some cadence; some vapour; some touch;
or some taste; some colour, or expression.

Apply this. The eyes remember the words, when
the mind has forgotten them. There is a self-arranging
power in all language; a spirit that seeks affinity, ease,
and harmony, too, which the ear remembers. But the
eyes must see, and the ears hear these things, before
they will recollect them.

As well might one be called upon to remember, and
describe an odour, or a heavenly pair of eyes, so that
another should smell the one, and see the other, as he
did, long after they had gone away from him; with no
fragrance, and no eyes near, to compare them to;—as
that he should speak in a foreign language, as readily
as he can read it.

But there are some, I hope, who are acquainted with
no language but their own; but then, I hope too, that
they are well acquainted with that. I will try to make
them comprehend the mystery, that we may remember,
what one cannot repeat.

You hear a song. Do you not remember it? You do.
Can you repeat a word of it. No. Nay, more:—you
have set out, play after play, at the theatre. You are
unable to repeat a line—you forget even the name of
the author, and the characters. Yet, how quickly do
you detect an interpolation. You do not know what
is in the play; but you know what is not in it. Which
requires the greatest memory? You cannot remember
Milton. Yet, nobody could pass off another's poetry,
upon you, for his. Nay, you are able to read and relish
the beauties of Shakspeare. Can you write like
him? No.

You think this absurd. But recollect yourself. You
wonder that a person, who can read and relish a French
author, should be unable to write French. Where is
the difference?

Does not this prove to you, that you may remember a
thing, without knowing it; nay, without being able to
recollect, or describe it. How do you know your acquaintances,
when you meet them, after a long absence?
It is the habit of your senses; not the recognition of
your mind. It is not the memory of your mind; for, if
it were, you would find ideas and words for it. Can
you describe—can you give to another—any notion of
the process, by which you arrive at the recognition of
them? You cannot. Am I still incomprehensible? Do
you not see, that, although I may remember every
thing that has happened during all my life, yet I cannot
repeat it.

You may have the same object. There may be two
routes, plain, and common, and direct to your view.—
Yet, one only may lead you to it. Take another case.
You meet with a strange word, in some foreign language.
Let us suppose it, in the Italian. You are desirous
of finding out what it means. Two routes are
before you; two, alike certain and direct, to the inexperienced.
You have two dictionaries. One is of Italian
words, with English definitions; the other, of English
words, with Italian definitions. To which will
you refer? If you take up the latter, you may spend a
twelvemonth in the search; and not find the word at
last. If the former, you get it directly. Yet, in both
cases, you are ignorant of Italian. Yet, what multitudes
in life, are in the habit of looking into the Italian
dictionary! When I see a young girl, newly married—about
to—

Here I intended to introduce an original essay, that
I had by me, after the manner of Franklin's whistle;
but, I have thought better of it. And, beside—I—I intended
to enter into a deep speculation upon the present
fashions of teaching—throw in some strictures
upon Locke, &c. &c.;—but all that may come in, better,
and more naturally, by and by. I look back on what
I have written. I ask myself, what on earth, this long
essay on the senses, has to do with the subject? And
then, I comfort myself with the reflection, that it is ingenious;
and so altogether after the present fashion of
writing, that I can't, for my soul, make up my mind to
leave it out. Awkwardly introduced, it is, I confess;
but, open a page, a single page, of any writer, ancient
or modern, and I will show you some matter, as foreign
—though more adroitly dovetailed, perhaps, into the
main subject. Have you never had a lady quote
half a dozen languages at you, in one letter? You
have. Go to your dictionaries. Tumble them over,
and you will find, that she has copied the phrases, there
given as examples. Did they grow[1] out of her subject?
No—the subject grew out of them. However, reader,
I promise to play no more such tricks with you.

But, what can be done, now? This, and this only.—
The essay does'nt fit the tale; let us make the tale fit
the essay. My object was to hitch in some illustrations,
that were by me; and I should be ashamed of
having left out, what they were meant to illustrate,
were it not the commonest practice in the world, with
all the best writers of the age. One would think, that
they kept a common place book—and then counted it
off, into chapters, cantos, or essays.

But let me see. The matter may not be so desperate,
after all. I have only to discover, or imagine
some connexion, between my thought, and this episode
upon the senses; memory; dictionaries, and languages.
Stay—I have it. Two ways were left to me—to tell
my sorrow; and then, to lead you back, barefooted,
over the ground that I had tracked with my blood, in
my weary, weary pilgrimage, to the cause:—or, I might
begin with the cause, and lead you onward, year after
year, with me, to all their tremendous consequences.—
In either case, by retreading the same path, the memory
of each sense would be active. A thousand associations
would be awakened upon the spot, that would
have slumbered, for ever, had I remained in my room.
Beside, there would be a natural and mechanical recollection,
as there is, in beginning at the top of the alphabet,
and reciting it in the order that is learnt—to
facilitate my progress—when, no matter how well I
was acquainted with it, it would be exceedingly difficult
and irksome, to say it backward. Thus hath it been
with me, in determining which of the two methods I
should adopt, on this occasion.

To the unthinking, one were as easy as the other.—
To me, there was a mighty difference. I was willing
to show it—not by telling the truth; for that, I am forbidden
to speak—but by looking for analogy into other
matters. I have found it. I have shown that there
may be an inconceivable difference in two routes,
which appear alike. And now, if you please, I'll go to
bed.—Q. E. D.

I was always remarkable for trick and expedient.
Darn one hole, and I broke out at another. Smoke me
out of this hiding place, and I haunted the next. It was
impossible to imprison or suffocate me. The example
above, is in point. Let me go back awhile; and show
you the consequence of suspicion and artifice. They
lead to artifice. Villany begets villany.

My mother used, sometimes, to send me to the store
room, where the mince-pies, dough-nuts, short-cake,
smoked herrings, apples, and sweetmeats, were kept—
for something or other; but, always with, a vehement injunction
that I should meddle with neither. I should
have obeyed her, I am sure, had she trusted to her own
interdict. But she did not. She began a game of artifice.
It was plot and counterplot, with me; and I
always prevailed at that game, with this difference—
that, if she had let me alone, I should have stolen only
a few sweetmeats; or a few apples; or a pocket full of
nuts; or a piece of pie; or, perhaps, neither;—whereas,
by hedging me in with so many stratagems, she made
it indispensable for me to steal whole jars, and whole
pies. How was it? She would bid me whistle all the
time that I was gone, so that she might hear me; and,
when I returned, she would look at my lips, and question
me, and smell of my breath, notwithstanding.—
What could I do? I whistled away, like a brave fellow,
up stairs and down—taking care to put a whole
jar of preserves; or a whole pie, outside of the door,
while I was whistling; so that I might lay my hand on
it again, when I wanted to, without the embarrassing
preliminary, of lock and key, &c. It had been better
for her, if she had left me to steal a mouthful or two,
by way of toll, as you see.

Would that all were as honest as I! How their confessions
would startle the world! For my own part, I
cannot help repeating, that a parent is never so mistaken,
as when he invites a child to competition in cunning.
In the first place, he is sure to be outwitted, in
the long run; for the faculties of the child are constantly
improving; and he is never so artless, or so easily
deceived, as the parent supposes. How often will you

see a little fellow, who can hardly speak a word, leave
his playthings; and sit stock still, in the middle of the
floor, to listen to the gossipping of his mother?—and
that, too, when she is endeavouring to impose upon
him. He knows that he is the subject of conversation;
and that, he is not to know it. What is the train of
thought in his little mind?—this:—that language may
have more meanings than one;—that it is lawful to speak
so that different hearers may understand you differently.
What a lesson for the pure and unpractised mind!

No—this will never do. In cunning, we are no match
for our children. Would you make yours ingenious?
Be so, yourself. Brave?—calm?—steady?—set them
the example. Passionate?—mean?—shuffling? Your
example is sufficient.

It was by such foolish and wicked lessons, that I was
taught. There is nothing evil in me, prodigal as my
evil qualities are, and productive as they have been;
which may not be traced, distinctly and certainly, to
some wickedness or folly of them, that had charge of
my education. What there is good in me, I owe to God
alone; and, next to Him, to my sister Elizabeth. The
one gave me a heart, and the other kept it from perishing.

One or two other little incidents, and I shall abandon
this part of my detail. There was a large and
beautiful garden, just in the rear of our house. It was
full of fruit trees, currant, and gooseberry bushes. I
had explored it often; but all my affections, at last,
began to concentrate upon a fine old English gooseberry
bush. At one of my periodical visits—I have always
been noted for method except in conversation and
mathematicks—I heard a gate open at the further end
of the garden. I peeped out from my hiding place; but
it was altogether too late to escape. The proprietor—
one of your old-fashioned gentry, kind-hearted, and
full of humour—hove in sight, with a magistrate hanging
upon his arm—a magistrate! I shivered with
affright. What was I to do? The fence was close by.
I could run up, like a squirrel, over a pile of bean poles
that lay upon it—and escape, before they could lay a

finger upon me. But then, I should be seen; and a
stop would be put to my intimacy with the gooseberry
bush—a thing, that I could not bear to think of—till apples
were ripe. I put my hand to my pockets—they
were full; to my hat—that was full; to my waistband—
that was full;—I could'nt have swallowed another dozen,
I verily believe, had it been to save my life; and I
was ready to bawl with vexation, because I could not.
They were now at hand; and I cuddled up, under the
bush, like a hare, squatting in her form. They affected
not to see me, till they were close upon me. Why? It
was a trick, and I knew it. I saw it, by their affected
countenances, and broken conversation. They wanted
to catch me, alive. At last, the owner fetched a great
start—and I crawled out—to my unspeakable mortification.
Reader, have you ever backed out of anything?[2]
—no matter what—do you remember how like a fool
you looked?—or felt? Here was a fair game between
us. He had lied, once, by pretending not to see me;
and he lied again, by pretending to mistake me for some
wild animal. So, I flew to my penknife story;—my
best one, for such an occasion;—told him that I had just
lent it to a boy—that he would'nt give it back—that I
had had a scuffle with him, for it—that he threw it over
the fence—that I jumped over, after it—that I heard the
gate open; and saw him coming—that I was afraid that
he might suspect me of being a thief; a thing, that I could
not bear to think of—and that, therefore, I hid myself
under the gooseberry bush. So saying, I produced the
knife, in confirmation; and he bade me depart in peace;
winking, as he did, at the other. Why did he wink?
I felt that it was a compliment to my ingenuity. Instead
of being ashamed, therefore, of the lie that I had
told, I was proud of it. Heaven forgive that man! He
did much toward confirming me in the basest of all
vices—that of lying. God! what a coward I was!—
why had'nt I the courage to own the truth?

Little mortifications, too, are sometimes cruelly felt
by children. Things, that men laugh at, will make the
little heart—aye, and the small temples too, of a generous
child—ache with mortification. I remember a

case. It was my fate, to go the rounds among all the
schoolmasters of the country. Among others, there
was a prodigiously tall, stout fellow of the neighbourhood,
who, at first, took a mighty fancy to me; but,
in time, partly I do believe, to revenge himself for it,
as if I had been a voluntary accomplice in the deception;
he turned right about; and distinguished me, by a
double portion of austerity and unkindness. I bore both
without quailing. I had that in me then, that told me
what was wrong in another, sometimes, it may be, before
it told me, what was wrong in myself. My soul
rose against oppression—for he did oppress me. But
nothing ever affected me so sensibly—no, nothing!—
and I was with him for a long time—as the following
little incident. It was hot weather. I was a restless,
incessantly moving creature—as if all my veins ran
with quicksilver. A boy put a quantity of shoemaker's
wax upon my seat, while I was away. I sat down upon
it, without perceiving it. It melted; and, when I
arose, I lifted up the seat with me. A tremendous ripping
and cracking followed. The girls all laughed;
and the boys hourraed. My face was all in a blaze.—
The master desired to know what the matter was. His
eyes flashed fire. I already heard the cries of the culprit,
in anticipation.

“Well, sir,” said he, “what is all this about?”

“Jo—Jo—Joe Lee, sir,” said I, “has been putting
sh—shoemaker's wax upon the seat; and—I—I—I
can't get up!”

Here was a case of peril! I would'nt have been in
Joe Lee's skin, just then, for a trifle. But, alas! alas!
a joke popped into the master's head; and, as no two
things could be there at the same moment—though it
was no fool of a head—for size, I mean—though I
would'nt say that it was no head of a fool—and his
wrath popped out, like—like—whatever you please,
reader.

“Well,” said he, “I am really glad that anything can
keep you to your seat, Bill Adams.”

As he said this, he gave the signal, by laughing himself,
like a good fellow. In all cases of doubt, you

know, it is the master's prerogative to laugh first; and
then, the whole school roared again, according to custom.

By heaven, the hot, fine tears, spirted out of my eyes,
like oil from a squeezed lemon peal. I cried for vexation;—even
I! that would'nt have cried, if I had been
stripped naked, and lashed with vipers, till my bones
were bare.

What was the consequence of this unthinking merriment?
I was laughed at, on all sides—hooted at—and
obliged to fight. I was afraid as death of Joe Lee; but
a quarrel grew out of my fear of him, which lasted till
poor Joe was in his grave—for I was afraid to forgive
him. Nay, more—I began to nourish such a mortal
antipathy against the master, that I had some serious
designs of blowing up his desk with gunpowder; and
did, actually, begin to hate another boy, a quaker,
who sat on the same seat with me, merely because he
was a favourite of the master; wrote a better hand than
I; was permitted to study French, when I was not;
and wore shoes, while I was obliged to go barefooted.
That feeling was carried so far, that, though he was
one of the most truly inoffensive creatures that ever
lived—a little older and larger than myself—that I
waylaid him, one day; and fell upon him; and tried
hard, but in vain, to beat him soundly. He defended
himself with two stones, which he held in his hands—
and dealt about him, awkwardly enough, to be sure;
but with such effect, that I was fain to abandon my
purpose.

There is another lesson to people in authority. Why,
for the gratification of a little childish vanity, was a
boy permitted to escape, when he deserved a severe
flogging? Why was another mortified, with a joke, at
the natural expense of so much malignity and bitterness?
Yet, that is often done. Children are mortified
by people, as books are sometimes damned, by reviewers;
because they are tempted by a pun, or a joke; or
happen to have a “bloody severe thing,” unappropriated,
in their noddles.

It was my misfortune, for two winters, to be the inmate
of another place of punishment—a sort of quaker
boarding-school—established at a little rascally country
place, called Windham, a dozen miles, or so, from
my home. Here, the chief employment of the scholars,
to the best of my recollection, was snow-balling; whittling
pine blocks into boxes; hunting up fir-balsam, for
the mistress, who was affected with some complaint;
sliding; eating water-gruel;—bread that corresponded,
exactly, with the leprosy, which is described in Leviticus;
being full of red and black plague spots; and cold
beans. That we read, and wrote, occasionally; and
learnt definitions out of the dictionary—not in it—cannot
be denied. But, gracious heaven!—the misery and
weariness of spirit; the poverty and famine of the very
heart, that I endured there—make me, even at this moment,
in my warm study, with a bright fire at my side,
feel as if I had been shipwrecked, when I was a child,
upon some desolate island. Would it be believed, that,
so scantily were we nourished, at that school; and that,
so sordid and base were the superintendents; that I
have seen three large boys, squabbling like famished
wolves, over a salt fish skin, that had been shrivelled
upon the coals? Yet, upon my word, it is true. And I,
myself, stood by, with my mouth watering to participate.
I did, by heaven and earth!

What should be expected of human beings, who have
been so abused, under the name of education? Is it
wonderful, that they recur to the period of it, as to one,
of torture and death; a season of detestable, and unappeasable
longing? How many unnatural appetites
grew up, think you, among a school of boys, whose
aliment was so atrocious? I know not. But this I
know,—that, since, while I have wandered through the
apartments of the building; and paused upon the places
of my several transgressions, there—and looked about
me—I have wondered to see it, standing yet! I have
asked myself, why some of the young banditti, that
were trained in it, have not made it their lurking place,
till it was—a refuge only for the rattle-snake, and the
wild beast—blackened—smoked—riven—and blasted!

How diminished the house appeared to me, when I last
saw it! Once, it was boundless. I had seen little that
was larger among the habitations of men. But I returned
to it. Could it be? I asked myself. I felt as
if I could stand in the middle, and touch the four walls.
It was not that the building had grown smaller; but,
that I had grown larger.

Parents! would you make villains, or blockheads of
your children? There is one infallible method. Send
them to a country boarding school; where, it is alike
the interest of the master and the mistress, to starve and
depress them; where, what profit they have, is filched
out of the very food of your babes.

There was one more, and only one more mortification
of my boyhood, which I think it worth my while
to recount. I was sent to an academy. The preceptor
was an able man; and I was soon, of course, under
his especial malediction. Some boys were set to speaking
pieces; and one fellow, I remember, named Cobb,
blacker than ten thousand devils, harangued the corporation,
about “Horora now, fair darter of the dorn.”
I never shall forget it. I was on fire with ambition.—
I was sure that I could do it as well. It was only managing
my arms like a pump handle; turning out my
toes; and keeping time with the sentences. But, alas!
I was barefooted. It would never do, to send me up,
before the worshipful trustees of an academy, barefooted.
Ah! the pang that I felt, when I saw myself alone,
“all, all alone,” with naked feet, among so many shoes
and stockings! My very toes, poor fellows, were
cramped, I remember, with trying to hide themselves
under my feet.

Was that judicious in my parents? No. It was sitting
me up, a proud boy, to all my school-fellows, for
a butt to their ribaldry and slurring. No little bitterness
did my young heart secrete, on that occasion; and
no little blood did it discharge, before I was fairly at
rest. Nay, so unrelenting was the persecution that I
experienced, that the preceptor himself flogged me,
against the established discipline of the school, because
I went barefooted; not, it is true, that he knew that to

be the reason—but it was the only one; for it caused a
conspiracy against me, which resulted in a flogging;—
and, if I had worn shoes and stockings, like the rest,
he would have been afraid to flog me. On him, I have
since been avenged, gloriously—most gloriously! I
have met him, face to face; and he is a minister of the
gospel now; and humbled him, to the very earth—with
his own weapons, too!—upon his own ground! I was
about to say, dunghill—but I hate indecorum toward
the clergy.

About this time, I had a remarkable dream. At the
time, I thought little of it, after the first two or three
days; and should have forgotten it entirely, but for certain
events, which, after a long time, brought it fresh
to my recollection, with a frightful vivacity. I am no
believer in dreams. I have no regard for such as do
believe in them. I have never been troubled, or alarmed,
by any other, in the whole course of my life; although
I have twice met with strange, startling, and
unexpected confirmations of them—one of which, struck
me like a flash of lightning—when I saw Emma, with
my boy at her breast, once, at a window;—and I have
always reasoned in this way, concerning them. Are
they sent to us of God?—then are they meant for our
good. But how are they ever for our good, where they
are so mysterious, that they never serve as a warning;
nor teach us what to avoid; nor rebuke us for what we
have done; but merely trouble our senses for a little
time—are forgotten—and never remembered again,
till some event, to which they seem, when it has occurred,
to have had some reference, has brought them
anew to our recollection—with a thousand imaginary,
or aggravated particulars, to alarm us; when the evil,
whatever it may be, has been done. So have I reasoned.
But let me tell this dream—first remarking, that
it could not have been made up, and compounded of
any previous ideas, or experience, in my mind; for I
had no idea—had never read of—thought of—seen—
nor heard of—anything thing like what I dreamed of.

I dreamed that I was walking out, from a large city,
on a solitary pleasant walk, by myself; that, after a

time, I came in sight of a noble looking house—almost
princely in its materials—standing alone, in a bleak
place—that had been enclosed by a wall—and looking,
even to the old, stately trees about, as if it were abandoned
of all the world; that a strange curiosity beset
me, to approach it;— that I yielded, and went up to
it; that I took hold of the great door, and shook it, till
the dust rattled down within it, and the noise echoed
through all the deserted chambers; and that I thrust
open the door, and entered, without any feeling of
shame or apprehension; and that I never left the house,
until I had ransacked every apartment of it. It looked
as if it had been suddenly left; and, probably, at night;
for, in every room, I found furniture in disorder; candlesticks,
or lamps, upon the table or mantle-piece, entirely
burnt out. In some cases, the snuff was very
long; and, in two, the wax had melted, (I had
never seen a wax candle, at that time,) and run down
upon the carpet. In one room, was a table with cards
lying on it—all covered with dust—and glasses, with
a red sediment in them. At the landing of one of the
stairs, too, I found a lamp upset; and a dark stain upon
the marble, where the oil had run out; and, in the
hall, a candle, that had either been thrown down, or
dropped, in great haste or terrour; for it was broken,
and had burnt a small hole into the straw carpet. I
examined all these things, I remember, with painful
anxiety;—called—and shouted;—but no sound came
back to me, except the echo of my own voice; and the
flapping of large crimson curtains, rotting at the windows;
and the loose canvass, that was falling out of the
frames, of two or three fine old pictures, in the great
hall—which were discoloured and mouldy, with the
mildew of the place. At last, I thought, that I came
away, chilled to the heart—very sorrowful; and wondering
why the people had left the house—when, and
why, it had been left so long, with all its rich furniture,
to the spoiler, and the midnight robber.

The dream made a strange impression upon me, at
the time; not that it frightened, or disturbed me—but
it had been so astonishingly like reality; and so little

like a dream; for, in all my other dreams, even the
most vivid and frightful, there has been a resemblance
to something I had seen, or talked of, or thought of,
before—and great incoherency; but here, there was nothing
at all of it. It was all, for a week after, like the
recollection of something that had really happened to
me; and, I verily believe, that, if I had ever lived near
a large city, at the time, I should not have been satisfied,
till I had explored all the couhtry about; nay, as
it was, I would start, sometimes, and feel troubled for
a moment, in trying to separate parts of that dream,
from parts of my actual experience. However, it passed
over, and was forgotten; and never would have been
remembered, I dare say, but for what happened many
a day afterward.