University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

There is one event—it must not be forgotten—
which has just obtruded itself, like a spectre, upon my
memory. I am sorry for it. It will wear, when I tell
it, as it is—and all the dark, terrible consequences
are seen...but an unlovely countenance. It will make
you hate me, reader. Very well; I cannot help it. I
have set out, to tell the truth; and I will tell it—in expiation,
if it may be; and then, lay me down and die.—
Many things, very many, have I done, in the heat and
hurry of my blood; many, in the cool, dispassionate
movement of an evil spirit; but, I know of none, that lies
more heavily upon my heart, than this. It is not that I
did what was an unpardonable sin. No—it is not that;
but it is, that I meditated, what, had I not been stayed,
by some hand, stronger than a mortal hand, would
have sent me, headlong, broken, shattered and mangled,
a murderer—before my Judge—with my victim in my
arms—a self murderer, too—dying, in the very moment
of consummation. My God!—My God!—Why hast
thou not forsaken me!—I stop—I look at myself—at
my hands—and shudder, all over. Can it be! I
ask myself—that one, so feeble, so very feeble of heart
and limb, as I am now, can ever have meditated so
much--or achieved so much, of desperate wickedness, as
I have. Surely, it is—no, no—would heaven it were!
a dream. Let me tell it.

I was about eighteen. I was a clerk in a store. Near
me, there lived, the only young man, with whom I was
at all intimate. His master had a mortal aversion to
me, then—(but that time had soon passed) and his head
clerk, a tall, thin man, hated me, yet more fervently.
It was winter. I was upon the roof of the store, (that,

of my master, was in the same row) shovelling off the
snow. The young man, of whom I spoke, was employed,
in the same way, over the store of his master. I
stood, after some little frolicking, by the front wooden
railing, and looked down, where I saw the head clerk,
whose name was Weaver. He was occupied in cutting
a way, through a high snow drift, in front of the door.
This was a matter of pastime, with us all, at that day,
like snow-balling. A shovel-full of snow rested upon
the railing; and I snapped some of it off, with my finger,
once or twice; so that it fell upon Weaver—very innocently.
I assure you.

Directly after, I heard a good deal of bustle and out-cry,
in the street; and saw several people running over,
to the opposite side, as if to see what was doing upon
the roof where I was. While I was endeavouring to
conjecture the cause, I heard Weaver's voice, calling,
insolently enough, to be sure, to my companion, to
“come down!” He obeyed—very quietly; and, the next
moment, I saw a hand, with a horse-whip, followed by
an inflamed visage, emerging from the scuttle. I
could hardly believe my senses. I did not believe it
possible that any man, and least of all, that man, would
attempt to horse-whip me. But, I was not long permitted
to doubt; for, the moment that he was fairly upon
his feet, he began to draw the lash through his hand;
saying—“now my fine fellow,—I have come to give it
to you. I have born your insolence, long enough!”

I took the liberty to interrupt him. The whip was
raised. There was little time to be lost. Without the
whip—such was the difference in our age; and such the
effect, of a constitutional reverence in me, for all that
were men, when I was a boy, that I am sure he could
have flogged me; perhaps with little trouble; but, I felt
equally sure, that, if he touched me once—but once,
though it were accidentally, with that whip—that he
would, probably, never leave the roof of the building,
alive.

“Stop!” said I. I could hardly utter a sound. I was
mortally afraid, and trembled violently. I was choking.

I only put up my hand—less, by heaven, in supplication
for myself, than for him. “Do not—Weaver,
do not touch me with the whip!” said I.

He mistook me. He mistook my raised arm, for supplication.
He flourished the whip. I saw it in the air;
but, ere it fell—ere he could draw his breath—or utter
a cry—it was wrenched from his hand—broken—hurled
into the street—and he was under me, in the snow.
Another moment!—and I held him in my arms, and
was pressing against the wooden balustrades, with a
full determination—heaven have mercy on me!—to precipitate
him, and myself, headlong, upon the pavement
below. I pressed, and pressed, till he turned black in
the face with horrour; and the railing creaked—yielded!
Another moment! and I had prevailed!—another
moment! and we had both gone to hell together! But
something—somebody—was it a mortal hand?—plucked
me back; and I fell, overcome with exertion—breathless,
and blinded, into the snow. He was upon me; but
so terrified, so incapable of taking any advantage of
me, though I lay, like a dead body, for a time, under
him—that, at last, I upheaved him, and—I know not
how—but he disappeared down the scuttle, with the
speed of a wild beast—discomfited at the mouth of her
own den.

Where was I? I knew not. My brain whirled.—
The dry snow melted from my hair, and in my bosom,
till I was drenched with it. I ran down the ladder—
nearly delirious with passion; went to the store where
he was; and, had he not retreated within it—stood in
the door; and defended himself with an iron shovel, till
I had come to my senses, I should have strangled him.

Reader, look at this page—this! Are the letters red?
Do they look as if traced in flame? Hear me—if that
man—he is now in heaven, poor fellow!—but he knows
that it is true;—had he but touched me with the lash of
that whip, I would never have forgiven him—never!
never!—till his eyes were crushed from their sockets;
and—Enough—it is too horrible. I shall go mad, if
I think of it. Thank heaven!—O, thank heaven, that
it did not touch me!

And yet—would it be believed?—though I would rather
be shot through the heart, than be struck with a
horsewhip, I have been, once—nay, twice—on the point
of horsewhipping a man, for a mere trifle; and that too,
once, in the presence of his own wife. A fool, a knave,
and a consummate liar, whose impertinence I had born
for the sake of his handsome, vulgar wife, till I could
bear it no longer, once told me something—I know not
what, and another might not have taken notice of it—
at a large dinner table. I looked at him; and, for a
moment, it was a question with me, whether I should
spring over the table, collar him, and kick him out of
the room; or wait till he was in bed with his wife, and
horsewhip him there, in her chamber. But, he was so
contemptible, that I merely looked at him, and said—
O, how silent they all were!—“Look you, sir—it is nothing
but the presence of your wife—nothing else—that
saves you. But for her, I would take you by the nose,
this moment; lead you to the door; and horsewhip you
the whole length of the street.” What more could I
say? The creature bore it; and he was so abject, that—
what could I do to him, after that? Nothing. But, a
relation of his seemed inclined to take up the matter—
a stout, formidable, determined fellow; and, one day,
he called me to him, as he stood at the corner of a
street, with a cowskin, or rattan, in his hand. I expected—I
know not what; but the affair was soon settled.
I was prepared for him; and his brains would
have spattered the pavement, in the twinkling of an
eye, if he had raised the whip. I led him to a little,
snug room, where—he utterly forgot his object; and
we parted, mutually disposed to cut each other's throats,
on the first decent pretence—at the first convenient opportunity.
It has never arrived; but it may, when we
least expect it; for my part, I care not how soon—feeble
as I am—old as I am—coward as I am—I have that
left within me, which would give a bloody account of
any human creature, who had once dared even to think
of horsewhipping me.

You would imagine, perhaps, that I am quarrelsome.
I am not; that is, I am not the first to quarrel. I never

insult another, first. I am willing to give the first
blow; or the first word; or the first look; but never the
first provocation; and, where I feel assured of my power.
I can forbear a long time. Let me give two or three
instances; few men have shown more patience than I,
under injury—where I was pretty sure of the event. I
will begin with the first that I can recollect.

I was living in a large town; and, late one winter
night, I was going home, with two other young men,
when we heard some scuffle ahead; and, on coming up,
found a number of young men, chock full o' fight, as
they say in New-England. I interfered directly; and
a pestilent little fellow took it exceedingly in dudgeon;
threw off his jacket, and began to flourish his fists
about. At first, I thought of quieting him—a single
blow would have done it, for a fortnight; but a little
more reflection, showed me the folly of such a procedure.
There were a dozen, to be sure, of their party,
and only three of ours; but, I am sure, that neither of
us—at least, one of us, I am sure, could have thrashed
the whole number. But, the more conciliatory I was,
the more obstreperous were they; and, it was with some
difficulty, I assure you, that I was able to get away, at
all, without striking some one of them.

We had gone about a dozen rods, when, elated at our
meekness, the young rascals hurraed, and set up a
shout. I stopped; listened; heard what it was; threw
off my cloak, in the street; and, with the others at my
heels, dashed into them. The affair was over in a moment:
not more than a dozen blows were struck; and
one of them, by a companion of mine, had floored the
largest of the gang. So ended that affair.

I was a merchant; but I had learned to resist indignity,
though I was a merchant. It had often been my
duty to kick somebody out of my store; or, to give some
man a card, requesting him never to set his foot in it
again: and, one day, a stout fellow, a Kentuckian, had
bought some trifle of me; and one of my young men
was packing it up, when he thought of making a new
bargain for it. I smiled—and, as he appeared rather
dissatisfied, told him to leave it. My manner was kind,

I am sure. The article was unpacked, and returned
He still lingered; and, at last, I was persuaded to have
it packed up again, for him. But a second time—may
I be hanged, if he did'nt!—the rascal had the impudence
to say, that he would'nt take it.

“Won't you?” said I. “We shall see.”

He was twice my size. I had only one clerk in the
store; and he was too much afraid of me, to be of any
service, in such an affair.

I went to the door; locked it; and approached my
man; fully determined to beat his thick skull in—if I
could! He planted himself—but it would'nt do. There
was something in my manner, that frightened him. He
pulled out his old leathern pocket book; counted the
money, with a trembling hand; muttered that “it was
no better than robbery;” and then, went into a neighbour's
store, (I heard of it, at dinner) and there swore
most terribly, that he would go back, and murder that
“damned, infernal, impudent Irishman, that kept
above!” It was with no little difficulty, that he was
pacified; but, when he found that I was a yankee—only
a yankee—he foamed at the mouth;—and never came
near me again.

Was I not patient there? Who would have been
more so?

Again.—A man had taken great and continued liberties
with me, for a long time; we had boarded together,
and both of us were overgrown boys. One day, I had
returned from sporting. The room was dark, when I
entered; the family were all about the table; and I was
so blinded by the change, that I could not see. Both
of my hands were full of shot. I was about sitting
down, when he pushed away the chair, with his foot;
and I fell—unable to help myself, of course; because
the hands always contract upon whatever they hold, in
falling—with the back of my head upon a broad iron
stove. It was a wonder that my skull was not fractured
upon the spot—or the stove. What did I do? What!
I neither drove a knife into his ribs; nor blew out his
brains, with the fowling piece at my side; nor broke a
chair over his head. No—I was too patient, by far,

for that; and there were ladies at the table. So, I contented
myself with cursing him, till I was hoarse, and
black in the face, for all the scoundrels, poltrons, and
cowards, that ever lived. Was I not patient? But, if
I was, what think you of his patience? He bore it all,
like a lamb.

Again.—At a tea-table—of which a word by and bye,
for the ladies—or, what I reverence a thousand times
more, the women—I was once obliged, in my own defence,
to throw a gallon of boiling hot water into the
face of a sea captain; who, while he was abusing me,
held a sharp pointed knife at my bosom, and dared me
to raise my arm. Fool! The women had been his protection
till then—not my patience, or my cowardice;
but, when they saw my eyes, they fled; and we were
alone. It was about that time, that I began to discover
in the face of every body that came near me, an expression
of concern, anxiety, and compassion. I know not
why it was. I was not mad; nor in a consumption; nor
so strangely fashioned; that men's faces should alter,
and their voices change, the moment, that they spoke
to me. Yet, so it was. And the women—heaven give
me patience!—no matter how full of festivity were
their young hearts—troubled me in the same way.—
They might say that I frightened them; but they frightened
me a great deal more, I assure you. What had I
done, that they should never speak to me, but in a
whining, melancholy, piteous tone, as if I were half
way into my grave? Why did their eyes alter; and why
were their countenances fallen? But, let me return.—
I stood, with the boiling hot water at my side, in a tin
tea-kettle. I told him what I would do. He laughed
at me; defied me; and swore, by his Maker, that, if I
threw a drop upon him, or even moved my arm, he
would stab me to the heart; nay, he called me a coward.
That was enough. I caught up the kettle—burning
hot as it was—between both hands—and hurled it at
him; just so that his descending arm and knife, encountered
it;—it glanced, and wounded me in the temple.
It probably saved his life, and my own. He did not

die, to be sure—but he might as well have died; for his
face was scarred all over—and mine soon healed.

Now, for the tea-table. Woman, let your first question
be, if you want to know the character of a man—
Does he love tea?—for, if he love tea, he must be in good
health—a temperate man—a domestick man—a regular
man—fond of the company of women; and, consequently,
not fond of grog—tobacco—nor any strong liquor—nor
addicted to the society of men—which is a
very bad symptom. He had better be a solitary.

Nay, I have been patient on other occasions, more
trying. I have bowed to a man, that, I knew, ought to
feel it an honour, to be permitted to bow to me; and I
have seen him turn round, without returning it, and
smile in the face of another. And yet, he is alive at
this moment. Was I not patient? Am I not? What
did I? I merely went up to him, while he shook, as if
he were about to be summoned to his death; and the
man that stood by him, a large man, quaked in his
shoes, too. I can see them now. I merely went up to
him, and told him, that—merely that---nothing more,
I assure you---my manner was very kind---that he
owed his safety to his insignificance; that, it was condescension
in me to bow to him; that he knew it; that,
in short, (I was afraid I should die, before I could finish
the expostulation.) I would put him to death, where he
stood, but for my pity and contempt for him; that I
would now only put him upon his guard; else he might,
some day or other, offend some gentleman, without
knowing it, who might condescend to kick him, till the
breath had left his body. Was'nt I patient?

And once more---only once more---I am weary of
these things---the very memory of them is hateful to
me---painful and hot, like recent anger. A scoundrel,
who had defrauded me out of a handsome sum of money,
came to me; and proposed referring to me, for his character;
promising to pay me, out of the proceeds of such
goods as he should so purchase. His name was Peter
Raymond. It is a pity that he should not be known.
What did I? Did I strike him to the earth; leap upon
him; and crush him to death? No;---I merely told him

that, if he ever dared to come within reach of my
arm, for the next ten thousand years, I would beat the
breath out of his body, or soul, as the case might be!—
with a few other things, that, to him, for he was much
of a gentleman, it seemed, were inconceivably unpleasant.
And now, reader, I have done with thee, for
awhile.