University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

I will ramble no longer. I am weary of it. Hence-forward,
my path shall be direct. A few more trials—
a few more proofs of an untried spirit—the brief valour
of a coward; and I go to a theme of deeper intention—
that of Love!—thence, to my history, as it hath truly been,
with all the shadow, storm and brightness of it.—Yes!
—I will stand shivering upon the brink, no longer.

Reader, whoever, and whatever thou art, have patience
with me, for a little time; and thou shalt find
that I have not detained thee too long upon the matters of
my boyhood. With all my suffering and humiliation,
that has been the only pleasant season of my life; the
summer time, though the rain did, here and there, beat
upon me, and the hot sun scorch me; yet, I cannot bear
to think of it; for then, I was innocent.

Not long after the last transaction, in which my
breath and blood mingled with the hot breath and blood
of another, while our limbs were locked and rivetted
together, in a brief, but mortal tumult of wrath, I learnt,
by accident, something of the broad-sword exercise. I
was not very expert; but I was fearless, strong of arm,
and quick of eye; and soon found, that I was more than
a match, for some of the scientifick. This made me
vain and boastful. It happened, one day, that I was
passing a door, about which I saw some boys assembled.
I stopped, and inquired the cause. It was a fencing
school, they told me; and the instructor was then giving
lessons. I had never been in one; never seen any other
fencing, than the ridiculous stuff, upon the stage; and
I entered the room, without the slightest disposition to
be known. I saw some pretty good playing; and, in

the centre of the floor, I observed a pair of swords, steel
broad-swords, lying across. I would have asked the
reason, but I was unwilling to expose my own ignorance;
and I stood, several minutes, waiting, like some
awkward fellow at a dinner table, watching the conduct
of all about him, afraid to touch a single dish, till
he had profited by the management of a more experienced
hand, in approaching it; cudgelling my brains, to discover
the purpose of these two blades, lying athwart,
in this way; and looking about, upon the scholars and
spectators, who were about thirty, I suppose, in number,
to see what they would do next. While I was listening,
a bustle was heard at the door, and a man
broke through, calling me by name. It was a friend
of mine, who had heard, heaven knows how, that I had
come to fight the broad-sword teacher. Some minutes
passed, before I could make him understand me; and I
did not succeed, till I saw several of the scholars gathered
round the master, and looking and pointing at
me, while they talked to him, with an eager and vehement
gesture. His countenance grew inflamed—and,
just then, as the devil would have it, I happened to look
down, and see the crossed blades, at my feet. I should
have stood on them, at the next step; or, perhaps, displaced
them, with my feet. I stooped, and took up one
—as I hope for mercy, with the most pacifick disposition
in the world; in utter ignorance that it was accepting
the challenge—for point and blade too, which had
been offered, in foolish ostentation, by the teacher, rather
as a matter of show, than of a real defiance, to all
who collected, when the scholars were there. Hardly
was the hilt in my hand; hardly had I rested the point
upon the floor; felt the edge, and bent the blade; when
I heard somebody breathing hard at my side. I turned.
The instructer himself stood there; his countenance
white with anger—holding the other sword upon guard
—as if prepared to cut me into ounce pieces. I do
confess that I was frightened. I knew not what I had
done; but something, not entirely right, I was sure.—
It was a minute or two, before he could speak; and,
when he did, I discovered that our number was reduced
to about a dozen—the door locked, and benches piled up
against it, and a ring formed round us. The scoundrel
began to menace me, by flourishing the sword
about, in the air; (it whistled, vilely, I confess) and
then to abuse me. He charged me with coming there
to insult him—to bully him—but swore, most bitterly,
that he was not afraid of any man that ever
lived; nay, that he could beat any man on the face of
the globe, with a broad-sword. I would have offered
an apology—but there was no opportunity—no time
for it. I was afraid of him. What could I do? He
had been told that I was a great swordsman. He had
seen me take up his challenge; as if it were mere play
with me, to fight with steel blades. I had not the courage,
to acknowledge my ignorance of the ceremonies
and regulations of a fencing academy. I was ashamed
to say that I had taken up the sword, merely to look
at it, ignorant that it was a challenge. That would
have appeared like cowardice; because, nobody would
believe that I, who played so well, could be so ignorant,
of the commonest thing in a school of arms; and, more
than all, I was afraid of myself—too little master of myself,
to explain the matter like a gentleman. I looked at
him—into his eyes—into his very heart; and, as I did so, I
took courage; I saw that he was getting afraid of me,
in his turn; and that my cold, silent manner, (which
really proceeded from ignorance and fear,) was awful
to him. “May I not carry it through?” said I, to myself.
I looked at him with a pleasant countenance, I am told,
although it was rather pale.

I threw myself upon guard, in my own way. He
looked astonished—hesitated.

“Let us go through the six divisions, first;” said he—
rather sullenly, “before we begin.”

“No—” said I, unwilling to expose myself; “I have
no time to waste. You have had the folly and rashness
to challenge a whole community, and to insult me, till I
can put up with it, no longer; and I shall do my best,
to punish your presumption. Come on.”

The ring contracted. “A little more room—” said
I, with a flourish of my sword, that whistled like a rattan,

in the wind. He was afraid. His countenance
fell. I could perceive that he was willing to compromise
the affair; but my own accursed folly and cowardice,
prevented me from doing then, what I could have
done, with a single word. I might have appeased him;
and come out of the affair, with flying colours;—but, I
was willing to carry a high hand over him. In short,
I continued to provoke him, until he struck at my head.
That was enough. I forgot, instantly, that we were
playing with steel—and gave in my blows, though the
sparkles and ringing were terrible, for a minute or two;
just as if they were the wooden cudgels, with which I
had been accustomed, from my boyhood, to exercise
myself. I received a cut; or rather, a bruize; for, it
was with the flat of the sword, in my forehead--a rather
severe one too, for it staggered me, and set my ears
ringing—at the same moment that I severed, with an
awkward blow, and altogether by accident, in attempting
to cut four, the tendons of wrist. His fingers
relaxed, and the sword fell from his hand. I was blinded
and giddy—my face was covered with blood, and I
had half a mind to give him another thrust, when I saw
him stagger; but, I forebore, amid the general shouting
of acclamation and applause.

So ended this affair. A perilous one, indeed, to me;
for, my blood will run cold now, while I recall the savage
and exasperated expression of that scoundrel's
features. I am sure that he would have slain me, if he
could; and once—once—I am willing to confess it, I did
try to kill him. But, we were so hot and furious, that
neither of us gave edge and point properly.

He spoke, afterward, of me, I heard —and always
maintained, what was true—that I did not understand
the broad-sword. But, the world thought differently.
They could see that my way was not his; but,
as I had conquered him, and held my peace---just as if
it had been a certain thing with me—and, altogether, a
matter of indifference, they naturally concluded that
mine was the best. Fools! If the man had not been
frightened; or, if I had not given him an accidental blow,
that disabled him, I should have been limbed and
hewed down by him, in three minutes.

Since then, I have had some amusing adventures, of a
similar nature; which, if I remember in their proper
places, I shall hereafter relate.—But, to those of my
youth, now; for the purpose of showing that there was
a natural readiness in me, for good, as well as evil.

One bright, moonlight evening, and near midnight,
in the dead of winter, I heard once, when I was quite a
youth, as I was passing quietly along, to my solitary
room, a cry of murder; so near me, as I thought; and
so frightfully distinct, that my blood thrilled, and I
leaped upright, from the ground where I stood—expecting
to see the deed doing, at my very elbow. A
window was thrown up, violently, at a little distance;
a woman put her head out, and shrieked, in a desperate
voice, “murder! murder!”—I had no arms—nothing
but a light stick. I left my cloak in the street, and
ran to the house; and was just ready to stave the door
in, which I could have done, I am sure, with a single
effort—when I heard the cry, from another quarter; and
saw the same woman again, wringing her hands, running
about the room, which was light enough for me to
see every thing in it—and shrieking for “the watch!—
the watch!”—By heaven, it would seem, in that city,
that the watch were leagued with every villain that
chose to depredate upon the people. They are always,
I believe, the most reverend, pacifick, sober, quiet,
and orderly old men, to be found in the whole place—
the best of examples—going to bed, betimes, and sleeping
soundly. I set off, in the direction to which she
pointed. The snow was deep; and a heavy thaw had
rendered it almost impossible to run through it; at every
step, I slumped in, up to my waist; but the cries continued,
till I thought that all the people in the world,
were either dead or deaf. I know not how long—but
it appeared to me, that an incredible time lapsed, before
I saw another living creature in motion. At last,
I came in sight of a large sleigh, with two horses,
standing in the road, near to the vacant lot, through
which I had passed; and, just then, two persons rushed
out of a narrow alley, near me—as I then supposed,
on the same errand that I was. They appeared
terrified—stopped—.

“Go that way;” said I—“and I will go this—we shall
be sure of the villain, then.”

“Aye!—aye! sir?”—they both cried; and sprang off,
up the blind alley, like two wild cats.

They appeared mighty zealous, I thought, at the
time, to obey me—but that, I attributed to a certain
air of authority about me, of which I have before spoken.

A few moments brought me to the spot. There lay
one poor boy, bleeding upon the snow, with his head
cut open, and the reins of two powerful horses, wound
round and round his body; and another, near him,
standing up, and shrieking at every breath, as if he had
a knife in him. I enquired into the affair; and soon
had the best reason in the world, to believe, that the
two men, whom I had just met, were the rascals that
had done the deed; and that their object was, undoubtedly,
to get possession of the horses and sleigh, as they
saw it pass them, with these two little boys in it, who,
it appeared, had been employed, one as a driver, and
the other as a servant, in a large sleighing party, that
night.

Had I known this, when I met the men, I should,
certainly, have collared them both, in my fright, upon
the spot; and I never should have let go my hold, I am
sure, until my arms had been cut from my body. Dead,
or alive, I should have clung to them. But who, that
was strong, and desperate with terrour and passion,
would not have done the same thing? The ruffians
were never taken.

Many and many have been the occasions, where I
have found this promptitude, this wild energy, of more
use to me, than the strength of Goliah. I was in the
theatre, once, I remember—nay, I have been there a
dozen times; when it was my only safety;—but, on this
occasion, a fellow insulted a woman near me. She was
unprotected—a prostitute, I believe—a stranger to me,
thank heaven—and likely to remain so, all her life; for
I had no relish for dishonour and shame; but, she was
a woman—and that was enough. I interfered; but the
fellow grew scurrilous—and “dared me out.” The

eyes of the people below, were already upon me; and
no man could be more sensible than I, of such a reputation,
as I should probably acquire, by a scuffle in
the gallery of a theatre—that of a bully to a strumpet,
perhaps.—Yet, I followed him; and before he had set
his foot fairly upon the floor, outside, I gave him a blow
that laid him sprawling. He arose, and was making
at me, like an old bruiser—when I gave him my hand
—saying “damn it, Jack, fair play!—would ye come
athwart a shipmate, in the wake of a fine woman—hey?”

He stopped—stared at me. “Tip us your daddle;
boy—blast my eyes!” said he—“what'll you drink?”

I was obliged to take something; so I look a glass of
wine, in lieu of a flogging.

I was passing a street too, one day—talking, very
busily to a companion; and, in leaning toward him,
with my opposite arm a-kimbo, I struck a large man, so
forcibly, in the—abdomen—that he whirled about, two
or three times, grunting, all the time, with a loud
noise; rounded to, with a tremendous belch; and was
just on the point of levelling me.

“Sir—” said I, touching my hat, most respectfully—
“I beg your pardon—sir.”

What could he do? I am sure, from the man's looks,
that he would have given half of his worldly property,
that I had not begged it. And I am sure that I had
better have given all mine, than not have begged it.

On another day—no, on another evening—one night
—the devil! I shall never tell the story, in this way—I
was in a ball room. Some ladies begged me to lead
the way, through a door that was crowded. I went
before; and, in my sweetest manner, as I thought, made
way, among the puppies and fools that stood about it. I
had hardly returned, when a stout, brutal, vulgar, blackguard
looking fellow, in a military undress, whom I had
before seen, and thought, (nay, perhaps said—for nothing
was more natural to me then, than to say, whatever
I thought of anybody, and to anybody)—had no business
there—came up to me, and asked me “what I had turned
him round for.”

My first notion was, that, some half pay scoundrel
had, probably, been cashiered in the army; and
willing to re-establish his character, by a squabble with
a peaceable citizen; was about to pick a quarrel
with me; as nobody ever had more of that careless frivolity
of manner, which appears to promise impunity,
than I, on some occasions; and, as there was somewhat
of an air of fashion about me—that, he had chosen me
for the purpose.

“Turned you round! sir;” said I, in astonishment;
and yet, with a look of scornful, settled contempt. A
lady, who knew me well, said that she never saw my
forehead, or eyes, half so steadfast.

He coloured—began to talk loud—among the ladies
too! “My name is Codman,” said he.

“And what the devil do you suppose I care,” said I, “if
your name be Codman. My name is Bill Adams.”

My manner tortured him like a mad bull. He nodded,
threateningly; and gave me a loud hint, to go down
stairs with him.

Now, I confess, that I expected nothing less than a
brutal scuffle; and a severe beating, into the bargain;
from the thick headed, broad shouldered ruffian; and I
confess, too, that I was mortally afraid; and that my
mouth grew, instantly, as dry as ashes. Yet, I answered,
immediately, “with all my heart, sir;” and led
the way. We arrived at the place, where a man, who sold
the tickets, was placed, at a table. My antagonist, here,
instead of knocking me down, for which I was thoroughly
prepared, began to renew the dispute, in words.
I looked at him, from head to foot. “Sir,” said I, “I have
already told you, that I did not turn you round, or put
my hands upon you. It is not my way; or, if it were,
I should never deny it. Somebody else must have
done it.” (He had said that I put my hands upon his
shoulder, and whirled him, one complete revolution, before
he could see my face!) What I said, seemed to
satisfy him; and he returned up stairs, growling, bravely,
as he went, like some animal that had ran his head
against a post; and muttering, just loud enough to be
heard—“If any man turn me round again, I'll pull his
nose!”

I smiled— entered the room;—and, before five minutes
had elapsed, heard a man behind me, speaking
of some one, that had begged pardon of—” I did not
wait to hear the rest; but, kindling at the thought, (for
it never entered my head, that he could mean anybody
but me)—I went up to him, touched him, and gave him
a nod to follow me. He obeyed. And I was just on the
point of kicking him, for he was much smaller than I,
when I happened to think of speaking to him, first. The
result was laughable—and, a severe lesson to my natural
vehemence and jealousy. His conversation had
nothing to do with me and Colonel Codman.

“What!” said I, “not colonel Codman--of the twenty-third.”

“The same.”

“Is it possible!”—I cried. “Why he has the reputation
of being a gentleman, and a brave fellow. Are
you sure?”

I made some inquiry, and soon found that the man
whom I had taken for a quarrelsome, overbearing,
vulgar, broken lieutenant, was in reality a man, whose
courage and courtesy, I had never heard questioned,
at that time

This changed the whole face of transaction. I wondered
now, at his forbearance. I went to him. I
called him out. I made an apology to him for the
manner, in which I treated him, after he spoke to me--telling
him what had been my opinion.

He took my hands—his voice quaked, a strong emotion
shook his whole frame. “By God! said he (these
soldiers will swear—when in uniform) I would die for
you!” He was quite as glad as I, I am sure, at the reconciliation.

Reader—Can you see nothing of my nature in that
transaction? nothing of your own? precipation; cowardice;
folly; impudence; rashness; and magnanimity?

Again—I was walking the streets of New York, one
evening, locked arm in arm, with a determined, wild
fellow. We had just left the dinner table, and, I may
as well own it—were ripe for anything. We agreed
to turn out for nobody—to go into the middle of the

side walk, and take up as much room, with arm braced,
and elbows out, as we conveniently could. There is a
strange point of honour among boys, fools, and madmen,
on such occasions. Neither would have flinched, I am
sure, from a drawn sword. We were in Pearl street.

The first person, that we met, was a venerable man.
He came on my side. My heart smote me; but he had
to turn out. The next was a beautiful woman; a mother,
I dare say, or about to be one—still on my side! I
expostulated more reverently with her, bowing as I
stood still—she had to turn out. The third, the devil
was in the luck!--was a tremendous fellow—that I own-coming
on my side too. I did not like to encounter him;
and so managed, that, I threw my companion, who was
a little near sighted, and did not see him so soon, in his
way—the man looked at us; and, as if he suspected our
design, sheered into the gutter, as one would to avoid a
wild beast. By heaven, it was too bad! I insisted on
changing sides; but hardly was it done, than I saw a
fiery looking blade, setting himself, to all appearance
for the same spirit. I was desperate: we quickened
our pace; he did the same—and, such was the amazing
impetus, that we acquired, by moving together, that,
when my elbow struck him, he belched out a sound, as
if his bowels were crushed—and was actually lifted
from the pavement.—He tumbled up the steps near him;
and broke through the front door of a large, handsome
house, with the weight and violence of the fall!—fact.

There was no time to parley, now. We turned the
next corner, at double quick time; and then ran home,
by different ways, as if the devil were after us.

And once, too, how unwilling we are to suffer—what
we are most willing to inflict!—I was walking one
Sunday with a gentleman—(fact! though it was in a
large city crowded with people)—a rascal ran against
me, with his companion. I called out to him, it was
of a Sunday, and the streets were full—that he was a
blackguard scoundrel.

“What's that?” said he, stopping, and facing me—it
was probable that he meant to intimidate me. “Say that
again, if you dare.”

I left my friend, a lame fellow, behind—walked
leisurely toward him; and then pronounced, in my very
best manner (for I can be very gracious) the same
words again.

The fellow turned on his heel, saying that he'd be
d—d, if I didn't run against him first! But so it
was—I escaped a severe and disgraceful affair, solely
by my fear of myself—by my presence of mind, and
resolute eyes.

About this time, I am inclined to think that I had a
very bad heart. Many things occurred, that go far, now,
while I reflect upon them calmly, to make me believe
it. For example; a man whom I had once known, a
talkative, bragging, good natured, lying fellow, came
to see me. I was with a friend, standing at a merchant's
desk. The poor wretch, of whom I spoke, had
a large warehouse to cross, before we could meet; and
he was confoundedly put to it, I remember, to keep his
countenance, while he approached.

I had determined to cut his acquaintance; for, I had
good reason to believe that he was a villain. I stood
still, eying him as he approached; he came up, smiling,
and talking all the way; and offered me his hand, laying
it upon the desk, before my face.

“Take that away,” said I, without moving a muscle.

The poor fellow obeyed; aye, obeyed!—By Jehovah!
if it had been me, I would have trodden the heart out, of
any man that had treated me so. I remember that he
went out; and, when he had gone, my friend, a dear
and true friend at that time—who loved me, stood
looking at me with amazement:—the water was in his
dark eyes—he had known me long—he had never, never
seen me so deliberately stab into the very heart of
any human creature before. I never shall forget the
look of his eyes, when he said—“well, well! I would not
have believed it possible!” They were full of alarm
and sorrow.

I have never forgotten his words; and, many a time
since, when I have been ready to strike down the proffered
hand of some fool or scoundrel, I have hesitated;
striven with myself, and taken it, meekly, at last, as I
would touch a cold, dead serpent.

So ready was I at this period to quarrel with everybody,
who manifested a disposition to quarrel; being
continually goaded on by a belief that people thought
me a coward; and yet so ready to risk my life and
limbs, in preventing other people from it, as many and
many a time, to fight my way, literally, into a mob,
for the purpose of separating them, or rescuing some
wretch. Yes! often have I done this; and the remembrance
of it gives me a consolation, that I want now;
now, while my very hands are red with—no—no—not
yet—let me stay where we are a while longer—I dread
to tell that yet. I would keep from it, as long as possible.

There was a diseased sensibility about me, for nearly
three years, the vestiges of which, I fear, are yet in my
constitution; an unhealthy, jealous, irritable soreness of
heart. Let me give an example. A ferocious ruffian
had cheated me in some wood. I saw him a few days
after, attempting to cheat another. He had forgotten
me. We stood upon a high flight of steps. I cautioned
the person against him, adding my reasons.

“Now, you may know,” said the rascal, addressing
the other, “that he is telling you a lie.”

I raised my arm. I was on the point of knocking
him off the steps, into a place, where he would infallibly
have been killed; but I hesitated. The fellow seemed
unconscious of what he had said, and of his danger.
I went nearer to him. Our faces almost touched. “Repeat
that, once more,” said I, “and I will knock you
down.”

“Ah!” said he, “are you up to that, my fine fellow!
jest come down here, that's all: jest come down here, a
bit.” Saying this, he ran down the steps, and stood upon
the side walk.

I followed down the steps, and went up to him, fully
resolved, to destroy him, if I could, though I should
burst every blood vessel in my body, if he repeated the
words. True—I was, or had been, a liar—but what of
that? I was the more scrupulous of my reputation.—
What terrified him? He was a large, thick set, muscular
fellow. Nothing but my manner. He dared not repeat

it; he did not, and I was glad enough, you may
be sure, that he did not, though, I do think, if he had,
that I should have left him dead upon the spot,—or myself.
The fact was, that the time had passed for me
to think of being beaten, in that way, and live.

I look back now, with wonder, at that period of my
life; and ask myself, if I really was in my senses? What
could I gain, by a victory over such creatures? And what
a perpetual disgrace, even if I did, to a man like me! Is
it not probable, that I was a little, a very little deranged?
The people that I met, I remember, wherever I
went, looked doubtfully at me, and always became more
serious, and compassionate in their eyes—while they
talked with me. Well, I was sore all over—raw,
inside and out! The world had used me unkindly; and,
I was sure, would crush me, if it could. Beside, I
knew; and the knowledge fretted me night and day, like
young adders in my blood, that I was a coward at heart;
and it appeared to me that everybody else knew it, and
presumed upon it, at this time. Therefore, did I quarrel
with everybody.

Soon after this, while I was yet quivering and burning
all over, at the slightest approach of indignity, I
happened to be coming up a street, in a thoughtful
mood; a melancholy one perhaps, for there was little left
in the world for me, then—when I found the side walk encumbered
with a disorderly assembly of citizens in uniform.
I took my way through them; and, soon after,
encountered two others, of the same troop; one of whom
as I passed him, uttered a sound, with a scornful movement
of his lip, like pshaw!

I stopped. Could it have been meant for me? Was I
mad? Where was my old nature, so lofty, so unsupicious?
How had it changed! and yet, though it was a mark of
baseness to suspect insult, it was a proof of cowardice
not to resent it, when obvious. My next thought was
to go up to the man, and knock him down, upon the spot.
But that would not do. I could'nt get my breath. My
hands involuntarily contracted-I looked at them. They
were bloodless, cold, and spotted with faint purple, like
those of a drowned man. My heart was all on fire. I

would'nt be rash, I thought; so, I went to my room. I
sat down; it would'nt do—the pages were yellow and
crimson. My penknife was bloody. All the objects
about me were dancing, with a fiery quick light. I arose;
I, almost-nay I could not have supported it another moment.
I rushed into the street; and went in pursuit of
the company, with a full determination of plucking the
fellow out of the ranks, by the collar; and breaking
him down to the earth, before them all—yea! though I
had twenty swords in my side, before it should be done.
I could'nt find them. I went, again, in pursuit of them,
the next day; and left word for them both to call on me.
But, while I was returning, incapable of attending to
any thought but this, I saw them conversing together,
at the corner of a street. I joined them, immediately,
(not that I would not have gladly passed them, if I had
been sure that they had not seen me,) and requested, in
a cold, peremptory manner, that they would accompany
me. They did so; and the guilty one, I soon observed,
took especial care, to secure a retreat, by letting on, as
they say there, that he had only a moment to spare, at
that time; and by stopping everybody that he knew, and
being very, very cordial, in his manner. I understood
it well. It was just what I should have done, when I was
much younger, had I been afraid; but now, afraid as I
was, I played a deeper game.

I led the way into my room—I locked the door upon
them; and demanded a categorical answer to my questions.
They were very brief; and the replies perfectly
satisfactory—perfectly! They were just, exactly, what
I could have most wished; for the two would have been
more than a match for me, unless I had taken out my pistols
to them, at once. But had they not been so satisfactory,
I should have given a good account of one of them, at
least, I am sure, before he could have said—Jack Robinson!

I do not pretend to relate these affairs, in order, as
they happened, but only as they occur to my recollection.

The following has just come to me. I was preparing
to throw by the record; and, though it have little to do

with the rest; inasmuch as no scuffle ensued, yet it is
important, as it led to the development of a new faculty
in me—that of persuasion.

I was in the little town of Lancaster, Pennsylvania,
incog. I was young, fiery, adventurous and desperate,
about to hazard an undertaking, upon which, all my
future prospect in life might depend. Worn out, and
exhausted with incessant study and meditation, I was
persuaded, one Sunday evening to go to a church, where
a Methodist gentleman held forth; a strong minded, sensible,
but zealous and imprudent man. I sat upon the first
bench, with a young fellow who accompanied me. In
looking about. I recognised two or three pretty women,
whom I had seen some days before. They had
promised to go with me, to church, this evening; and
had run away from me. We exchanged looks of intelligence.
Soon after, some persons kept going in, and
out—the minister stopped, and requested anybody to
put an end to the disturbance. I was somewhat
wearied, not with the sermon; not with the place, for,
light as my heart is at times, there is that, in the sanctuary
of the Lord, call it what you please, a Conventicle,
Church, Synagogue, Temple, Meeting-house, Chapel,
Mosque, a Cathedral—and I have been in all—which
will make it heavy with awe when I am there:—and I
feel much more reverence for sacred things, than I ever
affect, or profess—a fault, I admit, but a less fault, than
to feel less, than one pretends. I yawned—and, perhaps,
I stretched—yet no man listened to the sermon
with more attention than I; and though I neither
groaned; rolled up my hateful eyes; nor smote my
breast; yet, when I came away, I could have repeated
more of the discourse (without remembering the text,
too) than all the rest of the assembly. But my manner
was not devout. In a little time, something occurred
to disturb me confoundedly—one of the candles,
under the pulpit, had been badly dipped; the week was
all on one side; and, after a few minutes, it fell down,
with a bright blaze, and a thick smoke; and a smell
like beef steak broiling; six inches, at least, below the
candle stick. A great bony fellow eyed it, till he was
obliged to move, lest the pulpit should take fire. I

saw him get up; and he was so long about it, and so
long in his person, that I thought he would never finish
getting up. It was like a clock work-I had seen masts
and pumps, frequently, set in the same way. He went
forward a few steps; but his great cowhide shoes made
such a heavy clattering, that he kicked them off, on the
way; and went barefooted to the candle; snuffed the
burning wick with his fingers; and, when it fell, forgetting
that he was barefooted; he set his foot upon it,
Heaven! how he jumped and bounced!-The hot tallow,
half a gill of which had fallen, and the wick all of a
bright blaze, stuck to his naked soles, like a serpent of
fire.

It was quite too much for me. I never had a heart
so base and wicked, as to delight in the suffering of any
creature; but, when I saw the wick drop, and his foot
lifted, I foresaw all the ridiculous consequences, so
vividly and instantaneously, that I snorted aloud; the
poor fellow kept jumping about; and half the congregation
jumped with him.

That over; and the disturbance still continuing—
people still coming in and going out; the clergyman forgot
himself entirely. He lifted his voice; made a dead
stop; surveyed the whole congregation with an angry
and reproachful look; spoke of the disturbance again; its
effect; and of his previous request, that somebody would
go to the door and prevent it—and added, scornfully—
“What! are you all afraid?” My blood was up, in an
instant. I did not know what it was to be spoken so
to, by mortal man. That I had been afraid, many
and many a time, till my very veins shrank; was certainly
a fact; but then, nobody but myself had possibly
known it; and, still less, had anybody ever dared to tell
me of it. I arose from my seat, the instant that he
had concluded; and touched my companion; (forgetful
that this movement might be mistaken for a defiance, as
if I meant to go out, in the very teeth of the minister)
but he dared not follow me; and I sat down again.
My only object was to go to the door, to show that I was
not afraid—and, to the first man who should attempt to
go out, I meant to say, go back! And if he did not, I meant

to knock him down, on the spot—as one of the door
keepers of the church; that was all. It would have
been a good lesson to the rash man, who had dared to
touch our passionate infirmites, with an imputation
of earthly fear and cowardice, in the place of worship.

Prayers soon after followed; and, I was not a little
amused, at the manner, in which the most devout among
the Sisters, kept their eyes constantly upon me; for I
was a stranger; and there was a spiteful eagerness in
their look that kept me on the alert. Nay—when
they sat down—they had a pleasant manner of putting
up their feet, on the next bench before them, with their
knees up to their chins—much as women sometimes
will, when they are all alone; or nobody whom they
care for, is before them, upon a fender; or upon the and-irons—or
in the ashes.

These things did unsettle my devotional feelings, I
confess; and I know not whose would not have been
unsetted, by the same. If there be such a man, I pity
him. He must be insensible; and in him, the vital influence
of religion itself would be wasted. Can the
insensible be religious? No.

The next day, I heard that the minister had been repeatedly
to my lodgings, to see me: the good lady of the
house was inconceivably alarmed, by his deportment;
and, I am willing to confess, that I was not entirely
tranquil. I walked out, toward evening awhile; and,
when I returned, it was quite dark; but I could perceive
that some stranger was in the room—a clergyman,
probably, by the formal wintry feeling of the
air. A dead silence followed. The people were afraid
to stir. My companion, (he, who had been with me the
night before.)—I could hardly hear him breathe. I
had no such terrour of Divines—I had known many,
some august creatures, and some—the damnedest scoundrels.
(I don't often swear,) to speak plainly, and after
the manner of men, that I ever did see. In a word,
I knew that, to be a clergyman, was to be much better,
or immeasurably worse than other men; for, is it not
more appalling, to minister with unclean hands, in the
very presence chamber of God, than away, and remote

from him? if one can be away, and remote from him.—
This gentleman seemed inclined to preserve his tremendous
bearing awhile longer. His questions were
general; but led, in time, to the matter in hand.

“You were at church, I perceived, last night,” said
he, to my companion.

“Ye—ye—yes, sir; I be—be believe I was, sir,” he
faltered out.

“And who was the person with you?”

Another dead silence.

I was willing to prevent further embarrassment; and
replied, in my meekest, mildest manner.—“It was I,
sir.”

“And what may be your name, sir?” said the minister,
with the imperious tone of a schoolmaster, questioning
a terrified schoolboy. My heart kept still—I
was never much afraid of old men, quakers, children,
women, or clergymen.

I smiled to myself. I foresaw what it would lead to—
his arrogance, and my temper—but—

“What is your reason for asking it?” said I, calmly.

“I shall not tell you, sir,” was the reply.

“Sir!” said I—but I checked myself immediately—
willing to retard the explosion, as long as I could.

He repeated the inquiry for my name.

“I shall not tell you,” said I, “until I know your business.”

“Are you ashamed of it?” said he, in a voice trembling
with anger.

I arose—I advanced—and he arose, at the same moment,
as if to rebuke me at once, and for ever. I measured
his height—he was a large man. I looked at
the window—it would do, I thought; there was room
enough. He continued addressing himself to Mr. Murray,
(my companion)—“what is his name?”—said he.
“You must tell me.”

“He does not know it,” said I. “I have many
names.”

He hesitated; and then began to talk, in a loud, threatening
tone, breathing all the while like a chafed bull.

“Will you tell me your business?” said I, again.

“No!” said he, snappishly.

“Are you ashamed of it?” said I—imitating his own
manner, and using his own words.

He was approaching me. “Stop! sir,” said I, in a
voice, that arrested him like a thunder clap. “Stop!
You do not know me. Go with me to my room. Here
is no place to settle this affair”—(The window was
higher there.) But Mrs. Murray interfered, half
frightened out of her senses; she knew my temper.

“Very well,” said I, “bring a light then, I would
have the gentleman see my face. I am not the boy that
he believes.” Nay, I knew, that, if he had seen it, he
would not have dared to speak a loud word in my presence.
I have told you before, reader, that it was very
ugly—but, in wrath, it was damnable; and even in my
childhood, it is said to be a fact, that my life was saved,
when a little sickly cousin of mine, that lay further
from the animal, was actually eaten alive, by a hog—
it is a fact, I asure you—and my life was saved, because
the light of the candle, left near the cradle, happened to
shine upon my face. The creature had no stomach for
such a repast. My body, she might have digested—
but my face—by heaven! she had better been stuffed
with broken junk bottles, three corned brick bats, and
shattered cast iron.

“Sir,” said I, (I saw the light approaching) “look at
me, now.”

The light flashed upon my face, while I spoke—and
the man turned pale; he did, indeed.

“Sir,” said I, “you have dared to treat me, to night,
as a boy. Taking advantage of your size, and profession,
you have said that to me, for which, if you did not
wear a black coat, I would have horsewhipped you.—
You are surprised at this plainness. It is my nature.
You have voluntarily thrown off the protection of your
sacred office; its conciliatory manner; dignity, and calmness;
and come unto personal collision with a man, having
all the infirmities of man.”

I continued, until he shook in every joint. “Will you
go with me?” said he, “to the next magistrate? “No,”
said I.

“Will you wait here, till I can send for you?”

“I will.”

He left us; and I soon followed him to the magisstrate's
office. When I entered, I found him, behind a
sort of counter, uncovered; and walking about, in great
agitation: two or three persons there; and the magistrate,
a fat, good natured, sensible looking Dutchman,
and one of his own congregation too!—for my judge.

I could hardly speak. I was inconceivably alarmed;
yet nobody observed it. I saw that his story had been
told; and that he had full possession of the magistrate's
mind. I was angry, indignant, but—a thought struck me.
Might I not obtain a greater triumph, by turning the
tables upon the man here, than anywhere else? If I
could change the opinion of that man, the magistrate, it
would be—a victory indeed!

I began, therefore (like the Vicar of Wakefield, when
he had sinned, and was afraid of reproof,) to accuse. I
took a firm, confident tone; charged “that man, there,”
as a minister of heaven, with a most unbecoming and
outrageous violation of duty: demanded his evidence;
and repeated, (for on the way, I had been dared to repeat
it, and I knew that there was no danger in it,) that,
had he not been a clergyman, I should have horse-whipped
him, for his insolence to me.

“Horeswhipped him!” exclaimed the fat magistrate,
with a look of unutterable horrour. “Horsewhip the
Lord's anointel!” That is not a christian spirit.

“No!” said I, “I am no christian.”

“No christian!” echoed he—looking at me, as if he expected
to see the blue flame issue from my mouth.

I had gone far enough, now. It had always been a
favourite theory with me, that, if you would make a man
laugh heartily, you should begin with making him weep;
and that, if you would make a woman weep, you must begin
with making her laugh. Violent transitions are
natural—I would sooner undertake to convert the confirmed
enemy of religion, than its lukewarm friend—
into a devotee. I would sooner undertake to win that
woman, heart and soul, who hated me; trembled at my
voice; and wept with shame, and terrour, and anger at
my name, than any other. Here was a fair opportunity.

The magistrate, the minister, and the whole assembly
were solemn as death. I determined to set
them laughing. They were mortally prejudiced against
me. Could I not change their horrour and hatred to
admiration? They shook at my irreligion; could I not
make their hearts heave with sympathy? They believed
me a trespasser upon the holy place; a profaner
of God's temple; liable to exemplary punishment;
could I not change their whole expectation; and make
them tremble for the consequence of their suspicion to
themselves? They expected concession from me.—
Could I not obtain concession from them? I could. I
did. Reader, it is a fact, I did all this.

To make them think better of my piety. I added
in the same tone, with my last remark. “No—I am
no christian! I know but few that are christians. I
hold it a high and responsible title—one that few men
can deserve. To be a christian, to my view, is to be,
not merely a creature born in a christian land; but to
be a meek and lowly one; acquainted with sorrow. No,
I am not a christian; I never may be; but, I could bow my
forehead to the dust before any that is.”

The transition was amazing! A glance or two was
interchanged, at first, between the clergyman and the
magistrate:—but, before I had concluded, for I said
much more, in a deep, tranquil, earnest tone, that I
knew would tell, they had forgotten to look at each
other. Their eyes were rivetted upon me—with an expression
of wonder; and something, abundantly more
favourable to me.

I then gave the minister a severe lecture on his own
forgetfulness of duty: called for his witnesses; repeated
a long part of his sermon; rebuked him for his imprudence,
at church; and, at my room; and explained my
conduct. He was astonished, thunder struck, agitated.
I told him why I had risen; and showed him what
might have been the consequence, had I pursued my intention
at the door. He became more mild; hinted that
he would be content with an apology; and a promise
never to disturb any church again!

“What!” said I, “after I have told you, that my disposition
was very serious; that I arose, not to insult you,
but to fulfil your commands; that I yawned, not because
I was weary of your worship; but because, I had been
up late; that I laughed at such and such things,” (describing
the candle, and the women, &c. so vividly, that,
in a few moments, both of them were convulsed with
laughter—and all the company joined,) “do you look
for such a foolish contradiction of myself?”

“Nothing of all this had been seen. You saw nothing
improper, you say.—Who did?—The women—
are they pious? They say that, in prayer-time, I was
ogling the girls. Where were their eyes, to discover
this? Sir—I wish that you would carry me to see some of
these pious ladies. I will give them a hint or two, about
their mode of airing themselves, that will tend greatly
to a more orderly mode of worship among you.” (I, then,
described their mode of sitting; he coloured, and looked
ashamed)—“No, sir—I cannot contradict myself. I
have no apology to offer. I have told you what I did,
and why. Where was your charity? “Charity hopeth
all things.” You have condemned me, unheard. You
saw nothing amiss, except, what you now confess that
you had misconceived. Yet, you take the report of a
woman, who ought to have had no eyes, no ears, no
feeling, when at prayer, for aught but the service; you
charge me with a most shameful and uninterrupted out-rage
upon your forms—and they are your witnesses.—
Sir, it is false. Confront me with them.” I, then, proceeded—till
I was, really, so vehement and lordly, that
I astonished myself. I did not believe that it was in
me. I had never heard my own voice, before. It appeared
to me, that I was inspired. Never had I used
such language, such argument, or such gesture. My
thoughts were burning and transparent; and there
seemed a self-arranging power in my words, that I
wondered at, when the tumult had subsided; and I
thought over the whole, in the solitude and darkness of
my own chamber. Two of my points were now gained!

“No”—said I—“I cannot promise, never to do these
things again, for they are involuntary; but this, I will

promise: never to hear you again, if I can help it.”—
And then, I continued, with a severe, close, and rapid
criticism, upon his whole discourse; threw in some allusions
to Whitfield, Jeremy Taylor, Blair, Wesley and
others;told some anecdotes, till I could see the eyes of both
glowing; and the lips of all, parting with a new spirit.
I went further; I told no falsehood; but I knew—yes,
I knew that, without uttering one word of cant, I made
them all reverence my religious feeling;—and yet, I
did not humour them!

“And now,” said I, “look to yourselves! What have
you done? Arrested a stranger, and brought him a
prisoner, before you—for what? What is the crime?—
This.—(I repeated the charges.) Remember—it is not
your opinion, by which I am to be tried—you are not to
say, whether my laughing and yawning were intentional
or involuntary. That is for others to say—a jury.—
And who are your witnesses? Your own congregation!
Are you not ashamed of your own blindness? They
are disqualified—incompetent—they are your parishioners,
and a party in the affair.”

They were both confounded, I could perceive—for,
neither remembered that it was a misdemeanor, of which
I stood charged; and, of course, that these people were
witnesses; or that, at least, some could be found, who
had no interest. No!—but they were terrified and
awed by my manner. Who was I?—Nobody knew. My
coming was mysterious; and, as we are prone to the
marvellous, they began to think that I was, really, something
extraordinary, in disguise.

I proceeded.—“Are you aware of the consequences?
—You have detained me. You are subject to an action
of false imprisonment. Keep me but a single hour,
and I will never leave you—never, till I obtain a judgment,
that shall be an example, for ever, to such off-hand
gentry.—Gentlemen, please to take notice.—I
shall hold these men answerable, for all losses, that may
arise out of this matter; and I warn them to release me,
immediately.

I could perceive the effect. They took a lower tone;
and, finally, would you believe it! upon my honour it is

true—instead of making any concession, or being imprisoned,
as I deserved to be—the most satisfactory
apologies were made to me. I was promised, that I
should see my accusers, face to face, the very next day;
and they shook hands with me, respectfully, with tears
in their eyes, all round;—and sent me home, in peace!

What a revolution! Yet, this was not all. When I
called, the next day, on the good man, the preacher, to
accompany him, on a visit to the ladies, who had accused
me; for that, I had insisted on, lest they should
be led to suppose, that the apology had come from
me, I found him so humble; so contrite; so civil, that I
abandoned the scheme; and, at his own particular request,
walked through the city with him, side by side,
to show the people, as he expressed it, that we were on
truly amicable terms!

Yes, reader, that is every word true; and, out of it,
has grown many an important lesson to me. I learnt
that punishment, prejudice, disgrace, may be always
avoided, by a little presence of mind, firmness, and
steadiness! even, though our heart fail us—or even
where, as in my case, I had no heart at all, and my
blood was like water.