University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Man is, naturally, so like a beast of prey, in his appetite
and disposition, that nothing is wanted to develop
all the worst faculties of cowardice and cruelty,
but a little too much severity in training him—a little
more uninterrupted negligence—or a little more cruelty.

I was born a coward. All men are born so. By this
I mean, that I would shun danger, if I could; and submit
to insult privately—nay, publickly, till it became
insupportable, on account of its publicity. Then, like
other men, I made battle; or, rather, like other boys;
for I was the merest child, when the unrebuked, unrebukable
spirit first arose, like a giant, within me; and
struck down all the base and pusillanimous feeling of
my heart, for a time. Go with me. It will do you good.

I was born a coward; but I did not like to have it
known. Therefore, I affected to be quarrelsome; taking
care, however, not to quarrel with them that I was
afraid of. Nor would I always choose the weaker or
the smaller; for there was that in the eyes of many a
smaller boy, which prevented me from striking him,
while I could read impunity and invitation, in the eyes
of many a larger one, than myself. With the latter,
therefore, I quarrelled. Them, I bullied; but never did
I meddle with the former, but twice—and once, I got
soundly flogged for it; and the second time, I narrowly
escaped. But I was never beaten—never, in all my
life—by a larger boy, or a larger man. I know not
why; but, to this day, I had rather quarrel with a larger,
than a smaller man. Perhaps, it is, because it would
be no credit to me, to prevail over the latter; and no

disgrace, to be conquered by the former. But, be that
as it may, I took care, early, not to pick a quarrel with
one, that I did not know would bear it. What is more
common? A man is no sooner known for a coward,
than every poltron in society, is treading upon his
heels. Horsewhip a fellow; or, let it be once known,
that he will take it patiently; or, has refused to fight;
and he is sure to be challenged, or spurned at, on all
sides. What a catastrophe may sometimes happen, if
the challenge, against all probability, should be accepted!
Nothing but management, or a miracle, can save
them both, then; unless some such understanding could
be had, as I have known. A duel was got up, once, in
this way. Two young men gave each other the lie,
before ladies! They met. They would meet. No
apology—none!—would be given, or taken. A copper
was turned. One had the first fire. The handkerchief
was dropped. His pistol went off—(perhaps under an
agreement not to hit—an agreement, by the way, which
is generally superfluous among green horns, where the
disposition is ever so good)—the other was discharged
in the air, as a matter of course. The seconds interfered.
The thing was made up. The parties rode
home in the same carriage, together. People talked;
but what o' that? It is no such wonderful thing, that
one ball should miss; and how was it possible to fire a
second, when your adversary let off his pistol in the
air?

The plan threatened to become fashionable. The only
difficulty was, that the joke was sometimes carried
too far. More than one couple have fired at each other,
since, for a whole afternoon, without hitting. That is
quite too bad.

A few anecdotes will suffice, to show the growth of
a braver spirit; by braver, I mean a more long-sighted
and calculating one—not a more fearless one. For,
when I have stood, and measured rapiers with my antagonist—nay,
when on one occasion, I drove a rough
sword through and through him—till the hilt struck
his breast—I was literally delirious with terrour;
but, then, he had struck me—and I should have

gone mad, for ever, if I had not slain him. Yes, it was
fear—a base and dastardly fear—that—no matter. I
pray God to forgive me. But, I feel no assurance of
his forgiveness—terrible as was the provocation—sudden
as was the retribution. I am not at rest, here.—
No—nor ever shall be, if these convulsive shudderings
are to be relied on, as the true indicia of guilt. But, to
my story.

There was a small boy, the terrour of the whole
school, who had gone on with his imposition and tyranny
over me, till I could bear it no longer. I struck
him. I was pale as death, the boys told me, when I
did it—and I shook all over, I remember well. We
fought in a hot day, nearly all the afternoon. I was
covered with blood—from head to foot; but it was all
his blood—not my own; and when I had gone to bed,
I wondered to find myself alive. I was not even hurt.
I began to feel my own strength from that moment; to
remember my forbearance and collectedness. Thrice
had I desisted from the battle, in pity and compassion;
yet, thrice had the desperate boy renewed it, till it was
too much for human patience; and I left him, covered
with sweat, and dust, and gore; and lying in the publick
highway. Yet, I was never rightly satisfied with
myself. He was too much smaller than I—two or three
years older, to be sure—but that was no comfort to
me.

The next day, his brother met me—and he beat me
cruelly, as he thought, till I bawled out. He was much
larger than I—twice my size, and half as old again.
Yet, I was not satisfied. I had suffered myself to cry;
and I was ashamed of it. My head throbbed out loud
for an opportunity of revenge—for another trial. It
came—years and years afterward. We met, by chance.
He was a man grown. We were at a bowling alley;
we played together; drank together; and were about
coming away together. He had forgotten the old affair;
but I had not. I knew little of arms, then; and,
had I known more, I should have scorned to use them.
It would not have satisfied the craving of my spirit. I
had bellowed, lustily, when I had been beaten; and I

knew that I could not sleep quietly in my grave, unless
I retaliated—unless I heard him bellowing; or, sobbing
at least,—man as he was.

I took him on one side; far. very far, from all human
help. I turned upon him. “Prepare yourself,” said I,
through my set teeth—“the boat is waiting; and only
one of us will go in it.” I threw off my coat and cravat,
as I said this; and he saw, by my looks, I imagine,
that it was no time for parleying. To it, we went, on
the dry, hard beach, under the great vaulted rocks—in
a solitude so profound, that our breathing and panting
could be heard a rod.

He fought me handsomely; but I left him upon the
ground. I was satisfied. I had heard him gasp for
breath; and cry out, with his mouth bloody—in a
strangling cry—for mercy, and for assistance. It was
nearly a twelvemonth, before that man recovered: nay,
it may be—for he is since dead—that—but no; I will
not trouble myself, any more, with so foolish a thought.
There is weight enough upon me now—men will spit
blood.

Not long after this—I speak of the time when I was
a boy—I was struck by a paltry little fellow, whom I
had been lording it over, with impunity, for months.
A man was looking on; and I did not even return the
blow. To this hour, I have not forgiven myself; or
accounted to myself, satisfactorily, for it. If we meet
—and meet, we shall—though our situations in life are
entirely different—I shall return that blow. I care not
for the consequences. There is an unquiet thought,
just here, that eats, and eats—and will never lie down,
till I am quit with that man. I dare not forgive him.
I have not confidence enough in my own courage, to
do it. If I did forgive him, I know that it would be—
not magnanimity—no!—but cowardice.

How strangely compounded are we. I could have
crushed that boy. Yet, so thunderstruck was I, at the
suddenness, and unexpectedness of his rebellion, that I
had'nt the power to lift my arm. Yet, had a man
struck me, at the same time, in the same place, I should
have returned it, or died.

Nor was that the only time. On three other occasions
of my life, have I received a blow, without returning
it. By heaven! it were better for them that
gave it, each time, that I had let out their blood upon
the spot! This it is, that makes me quake with a mortal
coldness, at the mention of such an indignity; this
it is, that hath made my sleep a trial to me, for years;
covered my stately forehead with sweat, even in the
arms of my wife—this!—and many years have happened,
very many—and I was a mere boy, when it happened—yet
I shall never sleep soundly, until I have
returned blow for blow, upon the whole three, or upon
their posterity. They were given me by cowards, like
myself, it is true; but no matter for that. They ought
to have been returned; if not with the hand, at least,
with a knife. How could I look my boy in the face,
else? How often have I told him, when I was a practical
father—how often?—never to take a blow?—never!—and
that, if he did, though it were from a giant,
without returning it, I would renounce him—cut him off
---abandon him---for ever and ever! And so I would.

I have endeavoured to make him feel that abhorrence
of a coward, which children feel, instinctly, for loathsome
reptiles---obscene and detestable creatures! How then,
can I bear to---God!---do I ask this now?---now, when
my child is in his grave? No, no. How could I bear
it, I mean?

He was a brave little fellow. I could have made
anything of him. I once put him upon a high place;
and went away off, to a great distance, and bade him
jump into my arms. He was afraid. He trembled.---
He even began to cry---braced himself against the wall,
with all his might; and squalled, like a little devil. I
tried him again. There was no amendment. You are
a coward, said I, in putting him down. He had never
heard the word before. He knew not what the word
meant. As a word, it gave him no trouble. He affected
to disregard it. He tried, by ten thousand playful,
innocent, endearing tricks, to make me forget my seriousness;
but all in vain; for I knew what it was to be
a coward---to have your heart full of cowardly blood.

I knew that it would lead to cruelty, deceit, and death.
Yea, it was all in vain. That was my first lesson; and
I meant that it should be effectual. Ah! how anxious I
felt. I cannot describe it. It is impossible. None
but a parent can understand me. Before I was a father,
I thought that I had a full conception of a father's
feeling. I thought of mine own, toward my parents.
Gracious heaven! how little we can judge by such a
method! No child ever loved a parent, as the parent
loved him. It cannot be. We attach ourselves more
tenderly to them, that are helpless and dependant upon
us, than they do to us. Our children forget us; wander
away from us; contract new alliances; and leave us,
even in our desolation, alone, and away from all help,
in our piteous old age; with no companion but our infirmities,
and our recollection of their unkindness.---
Nay, a man that has gone through fire and water to
save another, will love him, more than he will be loved
in return. Why is this? Is it to encourage man to
acts of benevolence, heroism, and benignity? It is.---
There is something very delightful in conferring a favour;
and it should be more delightful than receiving
one; or, else, we should always be looking, not to give,
but to receive. Yea, it is wisely and beneficently ordained.
And so too, with parents and children. Where
should it stop, the current of affection? How would it
ever reach the children, plenteously, if it ran upward
to the fountain; if it were not sparingly let out; or, altogether
detained, in the reservoir of the child's heart,
until he became a parent?

We can only love with all our heart and soul. At
first, we so love our parents; then, our companion for
life, appears to divide that love; next, our only child
comes in for a part; and so, our love continues to apportion
itself to the demand, like wealth. It is the real
opulence of the heart, indeed; and the portion of each
that we love, must be diminished, as the number increases.
Is it not wise, then, that the heart of a child
should cease to yearn so tenderly toward a parent, when
it hath children of its own? It is; for the helpless,
troublesome, sweet creatures, have need of all a parent's

heart; a continual ecstacy of tenderness, to be
kept alive, for a single year. Another essay! by heaven!
Forgive me, reader---I did'nt intend it.

Let me return to my child. I had called him a coward,
and he had gone to his play, with an air, that made
my wife laugh at me and my theory, in spite of her veneration
for both. After a while, he came to me—put
his little arms about my neck—but, I refused to return
his caress—and put him down, coldly, repeating the
words “you are a coward.”

He went the more vehemently to his play—but I observed,
thank God for it!—while I sat reading, that he
would, now and then, stop short, in the mischief
that employed him; drop whatever he had in his hand,
at the time—and sit motionless, for a while, as if something
troubled him.

O, I could have knelt down upon the spot; and thanked
my Maker, in an agony of gratitude—that all my
dreaming, and all my theories, were about to be realized.

He came to me again. He was more serious. I persisted,
however, in spite of his mother's beautiful eyes;
and put him from me; but, he went no more to his play.
No.—I sat and watched him, without letting him see
me. I observed every movement of his face; forgive
me, if I dwell a little, on the character of that boy—are
you a parent?—you cannot complain. Are you not?
—wait till you are; and you will then say, with the
tears in your eyes, that you could listen for ever, to a parent,
when his own child was the theme.

I had business the next morning, that took me away,
into the country, for a whole week.

The moment that I alighted at the gate—Leister (for
that was the name of my boy,) ran to me, and put both of
his hands eagerly into mine. I saw that he wanted to
say something—and I waited for him to speak.—“I'll
jump, father”—said he, firmly. The tears were in his
eyes. I could have hugged the little rascal to my heart;
—but, I dared not—indeed, I dared not, till the whole
trial should be over. It might be hazarding little—
but it was my duty to hazard nothing. I led him to the

same place. I went further off, than before. I saw his
knees tremble. I saw his little face change colour.—
To him, it was terrible; to me, nothing; for I knew that
I could catch him. He prepared himself—he held
his breath—he shut his eyes—and leaped! I caught him
—and kissed him—I sobbed aloud—for my heart ran
over. “Now, father,” said he, as soon as he could get
his breath, “now, father, be I a toward?”—He could
not even pronounce the word; but, he never forgot it;—
and, on his death bed, it would have given him convulsions;
it would have strangled him, to have called him
coward.

Let me return.—Three times had I been struck, before
I resolved never to be struck again, without returning
it; once, by a fellow, who came up, deliberately,
in front of me, (I was a little chap, and alone; and he
was backed by a score of boys, beside being much
larger than I)—and gave me the blow in my face and
eyes. I had nearly met him, once afterward—and on
a desolate island. He had a narrow escape. May it
happen again! Though we should both be shipwrecked
upon it—the island would never be desolate again,
if a dead man, or a spirit, could prevent it.

The next was a similar case. I was in the country,
dressed a little better than my companions; and about
as haughty and insolent a little jackanapes, I dare say,
as ever lived. A great bully was put up to quarrelling
with me. He succeeded—struck me—and I left him in
peace. Yes—I cannot deny it. Ah, heaven! what
would I have given then, for the brave, desperate heart,
of some boys that I have known.

There was another case—another, that I had forgotten—but
yet, he is dead. He was a man grown, too—
and I a child. I have never forgiven him, yet; but I
think it probable that I shall, when next we meet—if I
am permitted first to get a blow at him. We were in
different sleighs—and he ran me down, at the rate of
about sixteen knots.

Stay—I remember another;—it was a base, cowardly
affair. It was dark; and I was pursued by a mob of
boys—some one of whom, gave me a blow upon my back

—as I had turned at last, to go away, thinking it all
over. On him, if he be the right one, I have been avenged.
We have stood upon the deck of a vessel together
—and I have branded him there, leisurely, in a loud
voice, for a coward, before them that knew him and me.
He submitted, patiently; and well, I am sure, was it for
him, that he did; for, if we had once crossed our hangers, I
would have fed the sharks with him, from where I stood,
for, afraid of myself—I have learnt every system of defence—and
can wield any weapon, like a master.

These things lie, like hot lead upon my heart. I
cannot forget them. I would not; and, although, on
more occasions than one, I have behaved like a man,
since; where the peril was ten thousand times greater;
yet, I am not, and never shall be, reconciled to the unutterable
dishonour, that an unreturned blow—given
before I was ten years of age too, has left upon my
memory.

Incidents, such as these, trivial as they may appear,
are sufficient to establish the character of any man.
I feel them within me, like the symptoms of insurrection,—within
a beleagued province. I would be
able to look my children in the face, hereafter, when
I am inculcating my greatest lesson; and hear them
say, without flinching, “father, did you never receive a
blow—never! without returning it?” Sir---I would
give my right hand---this! with which I now hold my
pen, to be able to answer NO.—NEVER!

Since these early days of my humiliation, I have
learnt every species of defence; with the sword and
without it---and may venture to say, I think, without
hazard, that there are few men capable of standing
before me, with, or without a weapon, for ten minutes.
And what is the consequence? Am I more quarrelsome?
No, indeed. I can endure many things, now; and forgive
many things, now, that I would have died to
avenge, a few years ago. And why is this? It is because
I feel a confidence in myself. I know, now, that
it is not fear which influences me, when I avoid a quarrel;
and, what is better, other people know it too.—
There was a time, when I could not forgive; when I

could not be magnanimous; for, although I was very
strong and stately, to appearance; yet, I had no confidence
at all, in my own courage. The strong and
brave are always less petulant and waspish, than the
weak and cowardly; and the skilful, are emphatically
the strong. It is difficult for any man to avoid a quarrel,
when he knows that the world will attribute it to
fear---nor, is there any virtue in such forbearance. Yet
—how much more difficult it is to avoid one, where he,
himself, is doubtful of his own motive; or, where he
knows that it is fear. Have you never endured some
insult, which made your blood tingle, and your ears
ring afterward, when you thought of it? You have.—
And what did you determine on? Was it not, to---
never endure another?

I have now come to a part of my life, that gives me
pleasure. I rise. I walk the room. I strive to subdue
the brave, high tumult of my arteries. I cannot.
What inexplicable sympathy is this? Why does my
forehead redden? Why are the big veins upon my
hand swollen? My teeth set? My breathing, short
and violent? A thought; a single thought, hath done
it. Years have rolled over me. I am at peace with
all the world, unhappy and alone; willing to forgive,
and be forgiven; yet, at the mere thought, of two or
three events, that have happened to me, many a year
ago,--all the channels of life are distended; and the
blood is racing and ringing through them, just as it did,
when I struck the first blow, that I ever gave, coolly
and deliberately; and, by the God that made me! I felt
like the young leopard, after his first battle. It is
strange! wouderful! but so vivid, so burning and distinct
are all these tingling emotions now, that, I can
hardly persuade myself, that they are not the substantial
evidences of recent insult and wrath---deadly and
triumphant wrath.

I had been wronged by a school-fellow; deliberately,
cruelly wronged. He was very formidable to me; and
the terrour of the whole school. I was in bed; and I
lay and thought of the consequences; and at last, I came
to the conclusion, that it was better to be whipped once,

handsomely, by him, than to submit to such continual
goading. At least, I could give him some trouble, I
was sure; and that might make him more heedful, for
the future. But, when should it be? It was no very
pleasant subject of reflection; for, I was pretty sure,
whatever should be the result, of being flogged by my
master, at school; and by my uncle, at home;—but, my
resolution was taken. I met him; struck him; and we
were torn asunder, with the greatest difficulty. I was
amazed at myself. I was unhurt, again. I had not
felt a blow. It is a remarkable fact, however, that in
all my battles, I was never injured, in any degree, but
once.

From that time, I was avoided by all the boys of an
overbearing temper; and loved by the quiet and feeble.
I was proud of it. A sense of justice sprang up in
my heart. I stood out as their champion; and, from
that hour to this, coward as I am!—have I never pulled
down my colours!

I even became magnanimous. I felt my strength—
had more confidence in myself; a high reputation; and
I was unwilling to hazard it. In time, I should have
become a good natured boy; but, it was my fate to be
sent away, where a new reputation was to be gained
by new trials and new conflicts. But, I had already,
had many a scuffle; and three or four tough encountery
that I have not mentioned.

But, all would'nt do.—I had got above my old school
fellows; and they were willing to humble me. For this
purpose, they associated together, with two or three
bullies, and hunted me, if I ventured out, of an evening
—from pillar to post; but, will it be believed, strong as
they were, and exasperated to madness, as they really
were—they never could find one of their number, with
sufficient hardihood to front me. Nay, from that time
to this, I have never seen that living creature, who
dared to strike me, or who could strike me—if he had
time to see my face. Stout men have trembled before
it—men, that have held at the time, a levelled pistol at
my heart. I learnt the use of one look, among these
boys—one, which I never used, but in mortal extremity;

and never used in vain! No one could believe in
its power—for, it has been a matter of life and death
to me. Once, have I seen the instrument of death, drop
from the hand of my deadliest foe, when he met it. It
is the simple truth, I assure you, that I tell. I am telling
no story, for the amusement of women and children
—it is only a straight forward tale, of what has actually
happened, to a living man—to myself; and, I have
no motive in telling it, but the hope of being useful; not
only to men, but to women and children—out of whom,
men are made; and of whom, we take less care, than
of our young colts, and brood mares, to prevent any
dilution of the blood.

I learnt, early in these encounters, that, whatever
is unusual, is intimidating. I saw that others, when
they were afraid, were sneaking and patient; or noisy
and loud. I took another course. I stood naturally before
them—calm—haughty—scornful—but, silent as
death. They knew not what to expect. Perhaps they
were afraid of a weapon—for, I believe that it would
disturb me—and awe me, or any other man, down to
the earth—to see a creature standing unmoved as I
have been—with fire and death at his very heart. I
should tremble to look on. I should be inclined to think
that he had some resource, in steel or ball—some defence
—and that his assailant was in greater peril than he.

That manner has been common to me since; and will
be, until I stand where they that know me, can see my
heart dissolving with fear, while my countenance will
remain immovable.

At another time—I was yet a boy—I happened to be
on a visit in the country, to a grand-father. In the
neighbourhood, was a rude, quarrelsome fellow; fearless,
overbearing, and cruel. He encountered me, one
day, when I was with a cousin of mine; affronted me;
and dared me up the hill, where he was. I accepted
the challenge, instantly, notwithstanding all the remonstrances
of my cousin; for, I felt that a severe whipping
would be more tolerable to me, than my own
feeling, if I should go to bed that night, without having
upheld myself in my own opinion. The boy was

alarmingly insolent; and much larger than I. But, as
I approached, he retreated, and went on higher ground;
repeating his challenge, all the way. It was now my
turn. I saw that he was now afraid of me. My
readiness had disconcerted him. I was a stranger; and,
being so much smaller than he, what could give me
such confidence? Something, he was sure, that I
knew, and had experienced the efficacy of; some strange
superiority, that was a secret to him. It was then my
turn to crow; but, I had more discretion than boys in
general, I neither hallooed, nor bawled; I merely told
him, with a firm voice, and a steady countenance, what
to me, was the bitterest word in all our language—
that he was a coward; and left him.

This event raised me, abundantly, in the estimation
of my cousin. It was a good lesson to him; and no unprofitable
one to me. Our worst pain is that of
of terrour. the reality is never so cruel, as are our
anticipations. Lo! how I reason—and yet, here I am;
afraid of death—even now, as no woman was ever
afraid of it—in spite of all that I can say, or do!—Well
—my confidence in myself, grew greater and greater,
every day. I wrestled; and ran; and leaped; and found
no competitors. Why, then, should I be quarrelsome?
Why had I been so? Merely, because, in my heart, I
felt that I was a coward; merely, because I was afraid
to be meek and forgiving; for, many and many a time,
had I sought a quarrel, solely because I was in doubt,
whether, if I refrained, it would be from gentleness, magnanimity,
or cowardice. That it should be from the
latter, was often so terrible to me, that I have provoked,
wantonly and deliberately, a feud with some other
boy, merely because he was generally formidable.

How often will this happen, in society! Some ruffian,
of established reputation, for the murders that he
hath committed, with sword or pistol, puts upon you,
either from carelessness or accident, an equivocal affront;
what can you do? You, who are unknown, untried?—You
must fight him. There is nothing else
left to you. You can never take an apology; and still
less, offer one, to such a man. The world would say

that you were afraid, if you did; no matter, whether
you were right or wrong—and the world would undoubtedly
be right.

Coward!—go to your own room—kneel down by
your bed side!—place your locked hands upon the Bible;
and pray to God, for a little steadiness. Do that
—and you are panoplied in steel. No blade can touch
you. No ball can reach you. You bear a charmed
life. Let your deportment be that of a man—serene—
unchangeable; and the time will soon come, coward, that
you are, when a man would sooner thrust his right arm,
up to the shoulder in molten iron, than raise it against
you.

If you be assailed, defend yourself. Leave the agressor,
if it must be so, dead at your feet—as a warning
to others; and a rebuke to the law—which, I must say,
is no protection, under dishonour; but do not fight him,
because you have no reputation in blood. Do not
fight him, because you are a coward; or, because he is
not a coward—or because you dare not refuse to fight
him.

Not long after this, I was put to a yet more severe
trial. The same deportment carried me through it,
unharmed. I had been threatened by a boy, who was
the terrour of the town. I was told of it, by another,
just when the former was in sight. I went, immediately,
over the street, to the place where he stood, and
bought some apples. His heart failed him. He never
opened his mouth. But, had I shown any symptom of
fear, I had been broken down upon the spot. These
were but experiments; but they were constantly recurring;
and went a great way, toward making me familiar
with men. I carried them too far sometimes; and,
on one occasion, I baited a brutal fellow, of more than
twice my size, till he maddened in thinking of it, and
waylaid me, with a troop of boys, when I was coming
out of the water, cold and averse---more so, than I ever
recollect in my life, before, to a squabble. He had given
out that he meant to make an example of me; that
he would compel me to kneel down, and ask his pardon.
I but spoke a few words---nay, I believe that I
did say, that I begged his pardon; but I did it with a

laugh, and standing; and he was glad enough to take it
in any way, to find an excuse for backing out. I could
see that; and so the matter ended.

But I had now become a boy of some notoriety. I was
no longer quarrelsome—that is. I never sought a quarrel;
but it was pretty well understood that I was quick
as lightning in my temper; and never avoided a quarrel,
when it came in my way.

In all towns, there are apt to be local jealousies, conspiracies,
and associations. There were some in mine.
They were distinguished by the name of upper-enders,
lower-enders, and middle-enders. Leaders were chosen,
and some bloody affairs took place. I was rather on
neutral ground—and, as neutrals generally are, spoiled
and buffetted by both parties--by both belligerants, I
could say. I could bear it no longer. I collected a
number of boys, one evening, to scour the streets---and
give battle to anybody and everybody, who should not
answer to our satisfaction, when the countersign was
called for. I was a sort of chief, as if by common assent—with
a little usurpation. We had not gone far,
when, lo! the Philistines were upon us! I had some
laughable notions of chivalry; and, full of stories, that I
had recently read, I agreed to meet the Goliah of
the opposite host, in single combat. We met; and it
was there, that I was very severely hurt, for the only
time in my life, on such an occasion; but I beat my antagonist,
till he bawled out for “a pole! a pole!” swearing
that he would only fight me across a pole. While
we were arranging matters; and I was beginning to
recoverfrom a confounded knock under my right ear,
that he had given me, we were separated.

We met, afterward; and I felt no little secret satisfaction,
when I found out who he was—and what; and
that he had no disposition to renew the battle. He
carried twice my weight of metal; but he was, literally,
beaten black and blue, before he had time to get his
breath.

Every day, I could perceive that the boys treated
me with more respect: and, although I was bitterly
scolded at home and abroad, by my father, and my

master; and even—by Elizabeth herself—and by Hammond,
the dwarf—of whom, more by and by—nothing
could avail to make me leave off the practice of defending
myself—as it is known to be lawful, to do, in an
enemy's country, by offending others.

Still there were two or threee persons, of whom I
had a constitutional dread; among them was a smart,
spirited fellow, with whom I had fought, when quite a
child, at least one hundred times; and, always, without
gaining an inch. There were few, that dared to touch him.
For years, he had not quarrelled with anybody. His
reputation was a shield to him. He grew arrogant—
insupportably so. Everybody observed it; but nobody
dared to undertake his chastisement. We were on
the best terms—very intimate; and perpetually together.
Our masters had both failed in business, about
the same time; and we were thrown out of employment.
Every afternoon, we were together, pitching coppers;
drawing lots; or cutting cards; or playing nine pins
for porter or cider;—we were about sixteen or seventeen,
I should suppose—he, about a year the older. I had
put up with a good deal from him, before that day—for
it had never entered my head to dispute, seriously, with
him, for dominion; but the time had now come.

I happened to have a new coat—how, heaven knows!
whether by theft, charity, contribution, or how. It was
very beautiful, although second handed—and the whole
town knew of it; the first too, that I had ever worn,
with bright buttons. I was not a little proud of it;
and he was not a little envious. I am sure.

We had some scuffling together, and I knocked off
his hat. He attempted, again and again, to retaliate;
and, at last, tore the lappet of my coat. I grew serious
immediately; and told him not to persevere; but he did
not heed me. He had often seen me as serious, before,
but never so determined.

“If you make the attempt again, Jim,” said I, “I
shall strike you.” I said it—but I did not mean it.
I was not brave enough for that.

“Will you,” said he; and, immediately after, he made
the attempt; and received a blow from me, that sent him,
staggering, against the wall. It was some minutes before

he fully recovered; I was perfectly astonished at myself;
and he seemed like one doubtful of his own senses—
what!—to be struck by me:—it was incredible. He
approached me, soon after—just as if nothing had happened—and,
before I was aware of it, struck me, two or
three light, swift blows, in quick succession. They
did not hurt me—they only jarred my blood a little; but
they were spitefully given. At the same time, he added—“Go
down with me, behind that building, (pointing
to a large warehouse, on the wharf, below,) and
I will flog you.”

“With all my heart!” said I—and rose to follow him.
“A fight! a fight!” shouted the boys.

I followed him; but, when we had arrived there, he
seemed to think it too publick a place; and, as it was
then quite too late for trifting, we agreed to walk on
together, toward the Backfields, until the boys were
weary of following us; or, to turn upon them, together,
and beat them back; but our countenances were sufficient,
when we faced them. They looked at us; and had
not the hardihood to track us, a single step further.

We soon found a spot fitted for the battle. It was
nearly a mile from the place, where our wrath had been
kindled. We had walked along, side by side, in silence,
the memory of our ancient friendship, tugging at our
hearts—as yet, unwilling to be dislodged. It was a
memorable spot to me. Near it, I had been nearly
skinned alive once, by one of my dear uncles;—the
church was nigh at hand—and a burying ground too,
for ought that I knew. It was a hot day; and, lest
people might see us, we descended into a clay pit—and
stripped. I gave the first blow; it was a timid one—
and we fought till both were entirely exhausted. We
renewed the battle. I pressed upon him, till he fell;
and then saw I, that he was afraid of me—yes, afraid!
for he lay upon his back, and kicked at me, with his feet,
as if it had been possible for me to strike him, while he
was down. I waited till he was up. He next gave me
a bloody nose; and he waited, in his turn for me—till I
had gone down to the water, and washed my face, and
returned to the field. Soon after that, I gave him a

black eye; or rather, a blow, which, he thought, would
produce one; but it did not, and I waited till he could
see, before I struck him again. Thus we fought—
till we could scarcely draw breath. We stood and
panted, before each other, with our mouths open, and
bloody; and without the power to strike a blow, like
two wild beasts, that have wrestled their hearts away.

My object was achieved. I had conquered—not
that I had whipped him; for that I did not pretend to
do—that was not what I had gone down for—but
I had conquered my own fear of him; and given him an
opportunity to whip me, as he had threatened; and he had
been unable to do it. Therefore, had I conquered; for I
had defeated him in his design.

We returned together; and, the last words, that he
said to me, when we parted, were, a threat to strike me
again, the first time that we should meet.

“If you please,” said I, coldly, “I shall give you an
opportunity, to night.”

I did, as I promised—I gave him the opportunity;
but he never availed himself of it. He dared not. We
became fast friends; and are so, to this hour; and I would
not cower with him at my side, against any two men
that might happen to meet us, in this world—although
now, I could beat the breath out of his body in ten
minutes—and whip half a dozen more, just like him,
one after the other—in consequence of my skill and
science.

Not long after this, I was in a strange place, alone,
but very confident of my power. I was grossly insulted.
I was too far from the man to knock him down;
and I was afraid that my wrath would get cool, if I
did not punish him upon the spot. He was then surrounded
by three others, two of whom were his brothers.
More than an hour had passed, ere I had the
opportunity that I wished. He slept in the next room
to me—at a tavern. I heard him go in—I knew his
voice; and my bed shook under his tread. I waited
till all was still as death in the house. I trembled.
My heart collapsed. I had pistols, and a dirk—I took
them out of my trunk, loaded them—but God stayed

my hand. And yet, I could not forgive the insult. I
went to bed; and there lay, the sweat distilling out of
my very bones and heart, it did appear to me. A deep
sleep fell upon me, a troubled dream. I could endure
it no longer. I arose. There was a cold moonlight
abroad—the streets were terribly still; and the long
yard; and distant garden, back of the house, full of old
trees—were silent, like a subterranean wood, tenanted
only by apparitions. Perhaps, my own thought frightened
me; but, I do declare that, never, never before, nor
since, have I felt such a supernatural awe upon my
spirit, as I did that night, while I was endeavoring to
recal my dream, and the circumstances of the evening.
It appeared to me that I was the only living creature,
perhaps, upon the whole earth. How could I know that
my insulter was alive? I trembled; but, when I would
have put my hands into my bosom, I found that I had
pistols in them—my fingers seemed to have grown to
them. I could not, for some time, so rigid were the
muscles, disengage them; but I succeeded at last, and
the tears—hot, scalding tears, fell into the pan as I
opened it, and saw all the preparation of death so complete.
When had it been made? By whom? By myself,
or my evil spirit—the old Tempter, while I was
sleeping, or delirious—aye—and I had been in bed
with them, loaded—slept with them—upon them! My
blood thrilled. My dream came to me—a new horrour
shook me. I dreamt that I had stabbed a man.
Might it not be, if I had done so much, unconsciously,
that I might have done more. Who could say that I
had not consummated the crime that my heart had meditated,
and my hands had begun. I tried the barrels
with a shaking arm. They were loaded. But the
dirk. I hurried to the table where I had left it when
I went to bed. It was gone. I searched for it—and
found it—gracious God!—my dream flashed upon me all
at once—I now remembered that I had dreamed of using
it. I grew sick and faint. I staggered to it—It was
driven, up to the cross, through the back of a chair at
my side. I plucked it out, in a moment of desperation—and,
it was several minutes, before I could bring
myself to believe that the point was not bloody—so
horribly vivid and distinct had been my dream—and
such unutterable terrour had I felt. I sat down—I
clasped my head in my hands; and thought it all over.
What had saved me? what good angel had turned the
dagger against the chair, instead of a human heart—
my own heart perhaps?—These were alarming thughts
—but they kept me from doing vengeance; and I knelt
down, and thanked the Almighty, from the bottom of
my heart, that he had suffered me to be angry and sin
not. I even forgave my enemy, and prayed for him.
How refreshing, how ennobling are such prayers. I
went to bed—I slept—I, who had not slept for years--
like an infant, upon the bosom of its own mother.—
When I awoke, the whole of the past night came to me
again, like a long, troubled, and distracted dream. I
looked for the dagger and pistols; and it was not till
then, that I was fully sensible of my escape. I discharged
them from the window. We met at breakfast.
the scoundrel was rude and insolent again to me. I
sat near him. I would have given all that I was worth,
to have been away. I bore it, till I could bear it no
longer. I pushed away my cup. I leaned forward. The
people saw me; and their faces changed--and they
were all silent. “Sir,” said I, looking him steadily
in his face, “you are a bully; a scoundrel; a liar; and a
coward. That you are a bully, no man would doubt.
That you are a coward, is evident, from your conduct
toward two or three smaller men than yourself. That
you are a liar, is perfectly self evident. That you
are a scoundrel, is written in every lineament of your
face.”

The wretch was absolutely breathless; he was like a
man thunderstruck, for a minute. All eyes were turned
upon us. There was a silence, like death. He
stood up; and I pushed back my chair, and stood up,
and confronted him—like a man. I say, like a man—
because I felt then, that it was like a man. The people
looked at the table, as if they saw blood there—and
just as they were when I spoke first, there staid they,
as if turned to stone.

I saw him preparing to raise a horse-whip over me.
“Stop,” said I.—I was willing to tell him, in season,
that, if he touched me with that, I would never quit my
hold of his throat, at which I was preparing to leap,
until his soul had left his body—but there was no time
for it. He raised the whip. I sprang upon the table
—it fell, with a tremendous crash—and the next moment,
we were upon the floor, rolling and blaspheming
together, and all covered with blood and broken glass.
The next thing that I recollect, was, a blackened and
swollen face, almost touching mine; a frightful sobbing;
and the report of a pistol, close to my head.

It must have been discharged near to me; for I was
blinded, and stunned, and choked with it.

The lesson was a terrible one to him—and it was
three months, before I recovered from it. It appears
that he drew a pistol, and fired it at me, while we were
together;—and, that I had nearly strangled him, before
I was torn off from him. I was not wounded, but
stunned; and lay, for some time, in the blood, like a
dead body.

Not a year after this, I heard a cry of murder in a
lonely house, when I was passing it, very late at night.
I was alone, and unarmed; my blood thrilled, with
terrour—my heart stopped—I called myself a coward;
burst open the door—ran up stairs—found a room
crowded—several women and children shrieking—two
or three ruffians standing about, as if recruiting for a
second battle; and a stout, damnably visaged fellow, in
the middle of the room, with his knee upon the breast
of an old man, whom he had overthrown—and a chair
raised, as if to knock out his brains. I am very strong
—very—when greatly exasperated; and a certain air
of authority, on such occasions, which I have learnt to
assume at discretion, may have had its effect—yet,
still—there is something incredible left to be accounted
for.--Before you could have numbered ten, I had wrenched
the chair away—tumbled the ruffian, heels over
head, down the steps; and cleared the room of every
living creature, except the old man, the women and
the children. I know not how it was done—they
were scattered as if the lightning had been among them.

Such things will give one confidence in himself; and
where one has the sense of right; and hears the cry of a
woman, or a child—or that of murder; it appears to me,
that, if he were a dwarf, he could face a giant.

Believe me, I mention these evidences of my early
strength, that some things, which are sacredly true
that happened at my maturity, and soon to be related,
may not be considered fabulous. In desperation,
men will do that, which no human force could
achieve at other times. A culprit that I knew, has
lately leaped over a high wall, in his chains; and beaten
through a thick oaken door;—literally beaten
it to pieces, with the irons upon his arms, before he
could be pinioned. People will lift, and carry burthens,
at a fire, which they cannot stir, after it is over. Many
men cannot hold down a mad-man; who is weak, when
in his senses. So was it, with me. Passion is madness
with me. It is a whirlwind. My very blood-vessels
are distended to rupture. No human strength
can withstand me. I have pulled a tall man down to
the earth with my left hand—held him there—immovably—rifled
his pockets; and then dragged him to the
door; and tumbled him out into the street. The next
minute, I could not have done the same, to a child of
twelve.

I was once nearly pressed to death, by the wheel of
a gig, which had run me up against a stone wall; another
turn of the wheel would have torn out my bowels,
with the hub. I braced myself against the wall, and
sent, by one desperate exertion, horse, gig, and a lady
that was in it, down from a high bank, into the road.

Evening.—Half past nine.

Is there any thing in this world so delightful as to
escape from company—tiresome and civil beyond expression—people
that you have been owing a visit to for
months and months, and putting off the evil day of payment,
till it could be put off no longer—to see whom,
you have gone, at last, just in season to get an invitation
for their next party—is there any thing in this
world so delightful, as to escape from them, at last—

though you really love them—and dodge into your cold
study, where, on looking at your watch, you find just
three hours left to you, of a winter night for meditation—
alone—altogether alone.—You rake open the red ashes;
pile on the green wood; and, ere your lamp is lighted,
find the beautiful blaze breaking upward, through all
the tangled interstices, of the small wood, before you
could believe it possible; and then you turn, and listen
to the pealing and crackling of the bark; and see the
coloured flame, working its way, hither and thither,
among the wickerwork, like some strangely bright animal,
imprisoned in a natural bower. O, how cheering
is the blaze of such a fire—as this!—as this!—when you
are all living alone! Who would ever get married?
---I was going to say, but that were too profane—in a
widower; who would ever hang himself,—or his head,
if he might sit alone, when the rest of the world were
all asleep; and feel such gentle companionship as I do,
in that fire. Ah—a spark—another! by heaven, this
hickory wood is bad stuff, for a fellow that finds his own
carpet—and such a carpet! No, no—it is better to be
married, if it be only to have something to take care of
the fire. I never could endure a close stove—one of
these cursed cast-iron comforts of life—mere substitutes
for comfort; so cold, unsocial, and dark.—I would as
soon sit by a cast iron countenance, all the winter
through—or go to bed to a—. There! Being thoroughly
warm, now, I will leave this chapter, and begin
another.