University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Back to my boyhood, again!—to the sweet lips and
eyes of my beloved Elizabeth—the summer time of my
young heart, when it was perpetually in flower, and
the blood rippled through it, making melody all the
day long, like the inward worshipping of a devout, and
innocent spirit. Aye, back to my boyhood, love! Wilt
thou follow me? The season of perfume, and purity,
when every hope sprang, pinioned, like a butterfly, from
my thought; and I was happy—O, so happy, in spite of
all my suffering, that—that my eyes run over, at this
moment, while I am thinking of it.

“Though absent, I remember thee!” It was the first
motto, the very first, that was ever imprinted upon my
heart! I was made to love. I have loved—loved!—O
how passionately!—how deliriously! Yet, that line,
written, when my lips first learned to thrill at the touch
of woman's, that line may be read there, yet. I would—
but I cannot—I am too much agitated—these crowding,
interminable, immeasurable thoughts, are painful to
me. I feel a sense of soreness, all over me, as of over-wrought
enjoyment, intense, electrical, and very faint,
here—just here, about the region of the heart, that is
intolerable. I will go to bed. To-morrow night, if it
please heaven, I will take up the tale again, and tell a
kinder story; show my mocked and chafed spirit, with
a lovelier countenance.

Morning.—

I have slept since, not like a babe, upon the bosom of
a mother; but, like some timid bird, blown off, and
afar, from the green island that it loved; and slumbering
upon the uneasy billow—perpetually, though her

eyes be closed—lifting her ruffled pinion, with an agitated,
tremulous movement, as if she were falling.—
Such hath been my sleep. My senses have been shut;
but, wherever I trod, in my sleep; wherever I lay, I went
like the land-bird, dreaming upon the water; there was
foraye an unquiet motion about me, that worried me,
like—no. I will not attempt to compare it—there is
nothing in life; that I have learnt, sorrowfully—nothing
in death; that I verily believe; and I shall soon be on the
way of knowing with equal certainty—so desolate and
frightful, as that agitated, cold dreaming. It is just as
if—gracious God! is it not?—as if you were a dead body,
driven by the wind and wave—and conscious of it
—a sleeping man, tangled in the green, slippery sea-weed;
drifting away, all night long, over the dark and
glittering population of the deep water—as if all your
limbs were knotted and woven about, by thin, slender
snakes. But, why do I dwell upon it? Would I delay
the sweet consummation of all my suffering?—put off
the evil day, as it hath been called, when I shall lie
down quietly, and dream not—mingling blood, and
heart, and being, with Emma—my own dear Emma—
O! I cannot—reader—I cannot go on;—forgive me,
awhile—I—

I—I am resolved. I have re-seated myself, determined
to look steadily upon the past, the beautiful past,
with all its painted deceptions; and recount all that,
which hath reduced me, step by step, to what I am. I
have delayed it long. I have paused, and paused, and
procrastinated, and postponed, and fainted over the
work, until, if I mean to do it at all, I must go about
it, heart and soul; and toil, diligently; yea, very diligently,
night and day—till it be completed. Is it not
strange? I began it with reluctance; but, my heart
hath grown to it, at last; until I feel, that, when I have
done with it, I shall have nothing else to do, but to lay
me down, and die.

You would believe, from the continual and impious
levity, with which I have spoken of sacred things, since
our acquaintance; (for, are we not acquainted?) and

from the frightful vividness of my narration, where
blood has been my theme; and, from the apparent fondness
that I had to scenes of outrage and violence; that
I have no heart. You are mistaken. You would be sure
that I have no tenderness; no feeling of reverence for
that Almighty Being, whose very name ought not to
be pronounced, or written, but with locked hands, and
downcast eyes, and bended knees; but, you would do
me wrong. I do reverence that Being. I do delight
to contemplate Him, as the Only One, to whom I am
accountable, even for what I am now saying—now!—
while darkness is upon the earth; and the silence of the
grave about me. Why then have I permitted myself to
write the awful name so frequently, and so idly, upon
these pages? My answer is simply this. Every page
is a transcript of my thought. Whenever I have used
it, it has been, however it may appear, not from an idle
habit, but from a settled design. I would do that naturally
here, which all do naturally in the world. I
would write, as I talk. I may be wrong. I am so—I
feel that I am, in profaning his name; yet, as I cannot
be a hypocrite—and, as I have set out with a great design,
of putting all the evil, and all the good, of my
nature, before you, I have not flinched from this; but I
shall be more scrupulous, hereafter. Hitherto, I have
rambled more, than I shall henceforth.

“No tenderness in my heart!” Can you believe it?
Do you? follow me yet a little while; and hear me tell,
as I shall try to, simply and naturally, what things
have happened to me, in my boyhood; and then, judge
ye all of me. I pretend to nothing of sentiment I cannot
readily weep; I never whine, never complain, never! but,
if a heart that—no matter; follow me.

You would not readily believe, I suppose, that a
child of ten or twelve years of age, could feel the
passion of love. You would smile, I have no doubt;
and throw aside the book that told of such a love, as an
idle and preposterous fabrication. Yet, ridiculous as
it is, I did love, and love truly, before I was twelve
years of age. You laugh. But hear me out. I am in
no mood for trifling. I call not that love, which all children

feel from their cradles to their graves, of the same
nature, for baby-houses, hoops, dolls, carriages, husbands,
wives and babies. No, but I call that love,
which thins a poor creature like the consumption;
bleaches the lips; lights up the eyes with a sad, mournful,
rich, and melancholy lustre; sets one a trembling
at the sound of another's voice; and keeps the untold
name, like the musick of a sorcerer, buried in the heart,
to be used only at midnight—that which wets the pillow
with bitter, yet pleasant tears—takes away the
appetite—sets people about all the occupation of the
day, like automata—that which, when it is felt, will
not let you sleep; leads you to solitary places; and seals
up your mouth like death, so that you dare not, cannot
tell the secret.

Is not that love? If it be, and later days have made
to me a sorrowful certainty that it is-then did I feel love,
true, and devout, and awful love, before I was twelve.
And if that be love, which the world calls so; that sweet
uneasiness to be nearer, nearer, and yet more near,
to some sweet one:—that which never weeps, never!—
and, dares to betray itself, before all the world, by its
attention; that which courts not the shadowy and silent
place, where it may lie alone, and muse, and tremble
with its own inexpresible thought; but goeth abroad, with
an offering in its hand; telling its love to all the world
—even to the beloved one!—if that, be love, I felt it—for
I felt that—before I was nine years of age.

Pardon me, if I dwell upon it for a moment. So
hateful was my home to me, after the death of my dear
mother, and my poor little brother—and Fidele—that I
could not abide it for an hour. Even Elizabeth, she
whom I so love yet,—she could not support me against
the incessant malignity of Sammy Kelly—my life was
a burden to me. Near this time, I happened to meet
with a little creature, about my own age; and, soon after,
was happy enough to get into the same school with
her. I began to love her;—but I made a secret of it.
I wrote little childish notes; crowded them into chesnut
shells; threw them over the school upon her bench; and,
although she did not give me any answer, I succeeded

in getting three or four distinct and emphatick floggings—in
reply—from the master, for my trouble;—but
what cared I for such things? Martyrdom, I knew,
was all moonshine to your “true lovyers.” Beside, mine
was one of the most orthodox passions in the world. I
loved one, who did not care a fig for me: and she, I believe,
loved another boy, who did'nt care a fig for her.
Even then, I had read of Petrarch and Laura; and learnt
what jealousy was; for, I hated that handsome boy, to
his dying day, almost for her preference of him. At
last—now for an unequivocal proof, indeed—I set about
making some poetry at her;—my first notion was like
that of all beginners—to make an acrostick. You
will laugh at my simplicity. I was never made for a poet;
but, I persevered, and, with the labour of a whole evening,
when my uncle thought that I had the mumps; and the
loss of one night's sleep—I, at last, perpetrated one line;
what it was, I do not remember now—a great pity, I
confess, where one is writing his own biography—but
the next was insurmountable. Her name was Lucy.—
The L, I had managed; but, for my right hand, I could
not imagine another word that began with U, except
uncle; and that!—ah I could not think of immortalizing
my uncle in my poetry. He was too hateful to me. So,
I gave up the acrostick; and! loved on, like the sunflower,
through shadow and shine, till—as it hath always
happened to them, that I have loved,—she got miserably
married—poor girl!

But—bear with me, now, reader. I do feel what I
am now saying. The sweet, innocent creature, of
whom I am about to speak, now, I did love, truly;—
and even now, I could throw by my pen; cover my face
with my hands, and weep plentifully, at the memory of
her pale countenance, and holy, dark-lashed eyes.—
They were very beautiful; and she, so timid, that I never
heard her speak aloud, when I was nigh. If every passion
was pure and intense, mine, for that child, was. I was
the younger of the two; and she, I believe, rather taller
than I; but very graceful. I never spoke to her; I
never uttered her name; I never thought of her, but
with a strange feeling of shame and alarm; as if I were

profaning somewhat, that I would die to shield from
profanation. I was very awkward, and rude;—such,
at least, was my character;—yet she never thought me
so, I am sure—Not that she was blind, or that I ceased
to be awkward when with her. No! for my embarrassment
then was so oppressive to us both, that neither
was sensible, I am sure, of aught but the other's presence.
I believe that she loved me—I love to believe so,
yet. It is a comfort to me, even now, with my scarred
and bruised heart to believe, that so pure and holy a creature
did once really love me. It gave me a better opinion
of myself—and more confidence in hereafter. You
know that women are always in advance of us; always,
at least, in sensation, growth and character; that a girl
of ten will have more of maturity, in her manner, than a
boy of fourteen; and that just at the age of twelve, when
a stout boy is exactly the awkwardest of human creatures,
except perhaps, a girl of ten,—a sensitive delicate
girl, has many of the truest feelings of passion
and love for such a boy—I know this—I have felt it.—
In comparison with me, Lydia—her name was Lydia—
was a woman; and her endearing manner; her beautiful,
innocent, self-posession; her kind, benignant way—
there was something in it, that would have awed me, had
I been a man. Nay, I began to have the feeling of a man.
I rose above the boys that were above me. I began to
love Elizabeth, (I do not like to call her Catharine,
though my father used never call her by any other name)
more like a brother, because Lydia, loved her;—and I
soon learnt to bear, whatever that little imp of Satan,
my brother Sammy Kelly, chose to inflict upon me.—
Nay, I went further. My heart began to heave with
ambition; my arteries, to beat with unknown thought.
And yet—as I am a living man—the only notion that
I had of my own ailment, or of the remedy for it, was,
that—if I could only steal to her side when she was
sleeping—in the shadow of some great tree—put my
lips to her cheek—and feel her soft hair, like auburn
gossamer—blowing upon my forehead—I would lie
down there, and remain for ever and ever, afterward,
without stirring or breathing.

That one should love at so early an age—and love as
few men, and fewer women, ever have, or ever will
love,—with deep terrour and tenderness,—is certainly
a marvel; but—what think you of jealousy, at twelve,
downright, burning, deadly jealousy;—that, which
turns the heart green, and the eyes blood shot, in a
single night—even that did I learn to feel at that age.—

The first pang—O, I shall never forget it—it was just
as if a frozen serpent had suddenly coiled itself about
my heart, and struck into it—with one blow—even to
the core. I had not seen her for many days—not for
many days;—and it had begun to bear upon me, when,
one evening, I happened to go by the door, and saw a
man; a full grown man standing upon the steps, and
talking; nay, romping with her. I stopped—a strange
dizzines and darkness fell upon me. I put my hand to
my eyes. I knew not where I was for a moment:—a
mortal coldness stole down the ends of my fingers; and
I had a strange, melancholy notion that I was going to
die. I went by, however; I walked on, heedless of my
way—hour after hour—and I found myself, at last,
near the water. It was quite dark; and the family, I
knew, would expect me. I thought of it; but, the family,
all at once; and even Elizabeth, were like strangers to
me. How came I by the water? I know not—it had
been a place of bathing for me, many a summer before;
but I had forgotten it, so long was it that I had not
been there. Had some evil spirit led me thither? I sat
down upon the wharf; and looked about me, utterly
forgetful of the lateness of the hour—the deep, deep
silence about me; and the alarm that my absence might
occasion at home. It was somewhat chilly—and the
water was beautifully dark and tranquil:—Not a ripple
would be seen or heard; not one!—yet, I sat there,
while the tide was rising, until I was nearly encompassed
by the water, as if I had been gradually sinking
into it. It had arisen about me; the tide was coming
in, with a continual, silent, shining swell—and my feet
were wet—the rock upon which I sat, was unsteadied
—the town was afar off—and hushed into an awful repose—and
now and then, a dim light could be seen upon

the hill behind me, or on the opposite shore. I
thought of Lydia;—and soon found that I had been
weeping; for, when I lifted my hands, from my knees
where they had been holding on. I know not how long,
they felt strangely cold, and, as I put them to my face, I
found it was wet—and that my mouth was covered with
tears. I knew it not—it was sweet to weep as I had
wept, without knowing it. Still my thought ran upon
Lydia. I might die, I said to myself; perhaps she
would think of me, then; perhaps, weep for me, then, as I
now wept for her, and wish perhaps, that she had never
permitted another---to—Ah heaven!

That thought nearly strangled me. I stood upright
all at once, the rock turned, and I was up to my middle
in water. I was just ready to plunge—and for ever!
when I recollected that the keys of the warehouse, which
were entrusted to me, were in my pocket. I took them
out; and was wading to the shore, with the same feeling
of unutterable loneliness, when it occurred to me,
weary as I was of life, that it would be cruel to afflict my
dear sister; and her, who was so immeasurably dear to
me, by permitting them to know that I had drowned
myself, intentionally; and, therefore, I determined to
strip; leave my clothes upon the wharf, a little higher
up, where a ship was building; and then, perpetrate the
deed. This I did, in the hope that they would suppose
then, that I had been drowned in bathing; for, I was
accustomed to bathe alone, at night. I did strip. I
threw myself in. I strove, terrified, giddy with fear,
as I was, to find the bottom; and to keep there; but, I
could not. My horrour of death buoyed me up. I
could not drown myself. I tried hard—desperately—
but, it was impossible. My muscles refused to obey my
mind. They would wrestle and leap, in spite of me; nay,
they saved me, in spite of myself; but, only to repeat
the attempt. I remember going to the bottom, the
second time, with my hands clasped, and locked upon
my bosom, and my mouth wide open—for, I was weary
of holding my breath—and that is the last that I do remember;
for, when I came to myself, I was naked, and
lying upon the loose and decayed timber of the wharf;

where the tide had left me. I attempted to arise—but,
I was very sore, all over; and, on putting my hands to
my face, it felt stiff, and torn—as if it were encrusted
with blood. Where was I? What had happened? I
soon remembered it all—and turned, ashamed and terrified,
to look for my clothes. They were gone. My
first feeling was that of rage; and I certainly should
have leaped into the water, a third time, and never
have left it again, had it been deep enough for my purpose;
but, it was not; for, the tide had left me. I could
see the black slimy bottom; and I turned away from a
death like that, with loathing and hate. But, what was
to be done? I could not return through the town, naked,
cold, and shivering. While I was meditating on
this, with strange, agitated, bewildered eyes, like one
that cannot believe himself awake, I saw, what I took
to be some person, sitting, or lying, by a corner of the
cooper's shop, which stood upon the wharf. I spoke—
a good deal alarmed; for, I knew that it was very
late, as the lights in town were done moving about; and
that, in the light-house down the bay, could be distinctly
seen. I spoke—and a creature, that I soon found
to be a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, came
to me. Next to my own clothes, nothing could have
been so welcome to me, as the shaggy coat of this animal.
He fawned upon me; and I observed that he was
drenched with wet. It was he—he that had saved me. No.
I was mistaken—for, another creature soon appeared,
as if emerging from the darkness, carrying my clothes
in its arms. I trembled with terrour, as it approached.
It resembled my own brother; but, I had never
seen my brother employed in anything that looked like
kindness. I took them; but, could not help wondering
at the hideousness of the creature. It was not so large
as I, yet, the head was twice as big as mine; and the
voice was like a man's. I dressed; and, it was not, until
my blood began to feel warm again, that I discovered,
by the strange rolling of his eyes, what it was. It
was Hammond the Dwarf. My flesh crept. He was
the horrour of the whole town. I instantly felt my
pockets, to see if they were rifled. I remembered his
preternatural strength; and how, when I had mocked
at him once, and spit upon him—and laughed at his big
head, he had merely said, boy that he was—and the
tears gushed out of his eyes, when he said it.—True!
true!—big head—big head—but big heart too.

Had he a big heart?—If he had, why did he let me
beat him, and spurn him, and curse him, as he did?—
Why had he pursued me, lame as he was; and hunted
me, within a few months, till Elizabeth, who knew
how hateful he was to me, had cautioned him not to
come near me? And why had he abandoned me, as he
did, uttering a threat, that chilled my very blood? Was
that his ferocious dog? Had he come now, for vengeance?
Why did he not speak? Why did he stand
there, just before me, with his great unwieldy head, as
if he saw me not?—Such silence was intolerable. He
walked on, up the hill—and he stopped;—I could hear
him breathing hard. Might he not watch his opportunity,
and provoke the dog, that fierce creature, upon me?
I expected it. But he did not.

We went on—he never opened his lips, nor I, mine,
until I was in sight of my home—nay—nor even then,
but he called off the dog, and went his way—limping,
piteously. I turned round, and looked after him—there
were his long arms, and great feet, and waddling head—
by heaven! it was like some monster, made by different
workmen—a piece at a time—at different jobs—as if
one part had got cold, before the other was put to it—
yet, my heart smote me, for my ingratitude; and, I
yearned to go after him, and say—“would God, Hammond,
that you were not so hideously ugly! I would love
you, if I could!” My foot was upon the door—and,
I saw him, as he turned the corner, under the lamp, put
his long hands together, in the air; and stop; and hold
down his head, for a moment, as if he were cruelly affected—nay,
if my sight did not deceive me, there was
a motion of his hands, (we were not far apart—and he
stood in the light of the lamp—but, he could not see me)
—as if he dashed away the water from his eyes.

I went to bed, and dreamed;—ah! such dreams, of
frightfulness, fire and death! and, I awoke in the morning,

with a high fever. Still, still I thought of Hammond;
more, perhaps, than of Lydia; for, there was, I know
not what, something of an ugly soreness about here, that
troubled me. What right had I to laugh at him? Who
was he? what had he ever done to me, that was cruel,
base, or unkind? Nothing. Was it weakness that
made him so patient of insult? Oh, no—he had no
match for strength. Was he a coward?—he!—Hammond
a coward!—he, who struck the master himself, once, in
the full school?—No. What, then, had kept his hands
from me? I knew not—unless he knew that I was a
coward, and was ashamed to beat me. Yet, I hated
him; and was willing to believe that, either he or his dog
had saved me. I could not bear to be under any obligation
to him, or to think of it; and, the affair wore gradually
off my mind; for, he soon went away, somewhere
to school, and we had heard nothing of him, for many
months—And Lydia—Ah, that blossom had been
breathed upon. The purple of death was already staining
it at the heart. I would not believe it. I had seen
her;—and, for the first time, had dared to put my hand
into hers, and look her in the face. It was our last
meeting! Never shall I forget her countenance. It
was deadly pale, for a moment; and then, her hand
trembled; and I saw a pale shadow, rush over her temples,
and neck and lips—and then, through her half shut
eyes; there fell a moist, rich light—and there were
tears under the lids, too—I remember that, well—well!
they went directly into my heart. We never met again.
But, that light, and those tears—Oh, I never shall
forget them—and, when we meet again, for meet we
shall, if heaven be merciful to me—I shall know her,
by them. I shall see her, just as we parted last. Years
have rolled away---centuries may follow---before we
meet; but, if she be unaltered, I shall remember her,
though we meet where it is dark---by the touch of her
soft little hand, and the kiss---the hasty, doubtful kiss,
that she left upon my eyelids, when I pulled her down
to me, in the convulsion and tenderness of my heart.

Yes, reader, she died—died.—I have brought
myself to write the word, as I did, many years ago, to

speak it, when it was nearly death to me. She died
—and, when it was all over, and the loose earth had
lain, for many a day, unvisited, unwet, upon her dear
body--I went to it, and knelt down by it, and wept upon
it; not because I had heard of such things, or read of
them; but, simply, because it was very sweet to be near
her, as I most wished to be---now, that she was gone,
—in tears. Heaven! of what materials are we made---
weeping at night, upon the ground---that has hardly
done echoing to the green sod, thrown upon a beloved
one---and wrestling, the day through, in mortal strife
with others. Her grave --it was aromatick....I knelt
upon it—it is not long since...and the buried tenderness
of her young heart came up, out of the earth, like a volatile
exhalation, to my senses—I—I had, well nigh,
never left it again---I—.