 | CHAPTER XIV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
Goes abroad...Indigence...Desperation...Series of adventures...
Mad house...Prison...Dream...Family of Friends...Caroline
...Reality.
During my absence abroad, no matter where, I
learnt to look about me with a steady eye, and an assured
aspect; to forget all that I had suffered at home;
the ten thousand petty and contemptible mortifications,
that had drained the fountain of my better feeling, dry,
drop by drop; the many substantial wrongs, and smarting
insults, that had left me sore and sensitive, all over
—literally fulfilling the destiny of him, to whom God
hath said—“Go!—go out, from among my people—a
wanderer among the nations. Be thy hand lifted
against every man; and every man's hand against
thee.” Still, there were times, when I would cover my
face, and weep, at the recollection of my dear mother
and Elizabeth; and almost forgive my father, my uncle,
and my brother, the dwarf.
My handsome brother—Jeremiah!—is it possible?
I have utterly omitted him, in my narrative. Well,
well, it is not too late, to say, that he was neither friend
nor enemy, of mine. I owe nothing to him, as a brother—nothing.
He was a fat-headed, handsome, lubberly
boy; with just about brains enough for a retail
shop. We were never much together; and, while we
were, I do not remember a single incident that ever disturbed
me, or him; except, perhaps, when I tumbled
his clothes, or soiled his shoes, in my carelessness; for
he thought of little, in this world, but eating and drinking—sleeping
and dressing.
I went abroad—why, I do not feel that any mortal
has a right to demand. Enough for me to say, that I
stood by the death-bed of a woman—a grown woman—
that I had loved—(she was ten years older than I;)—
that I saw the black convulsion; the writhing and shivcring
of her whole body and limbs—till I grew dizzy
to the sky. At that moment, there was a total eclipse
of the moon—all righteous God!—and the earth shook,
just as she had foretold! What wonder that I am afraid
of death, when she—the beautiful—the bright—destroyed
herself for her love of me; when I saw the foam upon
her mouth—the sweat upon her transparent, cold bosom—her
white teeth glittering—her parted lips twitching
with convulsion—and her eyes all blood-shot!—
yet, still she knew me, and loved me; and her eyes were
brimful of light and water—and she pointed to the
moon—even as I had dreamed, many months before—
and the earth actually did shake. I felt it—saw it—
and all the people in the house felt it shake, and spoke
of it. And there was I—Great God!---Maker of men!—
have compassion on me!--was there any delusion, there?
O, tell me. How happened it, that both of us had
dreamed a dream, so frightfully alike?—both written to
each other, when the wide water was between us, at
the same time?—and both lived long enough to forget
it; and never to remember it again, until we saw its
final accomplishment?—a total darkness!—a death-bed!
—and an earthquake!—all at the same time?
* * * * * * * I had always
said—never attempt to prevent her from destroying
herself. If she be in earnest, and resolved, you cannot
prevent her; and the sooner it is over, the better.
On the contrary, if she be not resolved; and only threaten
to do it, to frighten me; the surest way to make her
do it, is to watch her, and attempt to thwart her;—the
surest way to prevent her from doing it, is, to show no
concern at all about it. No woman would ever kill herself,
if she thought that nobody would be troubled about
it. Generally, the threat is only a trick to alarm us;
and to get a power over us by that alarm:—but, beware!
If you interfere—you put yourself into her power.
She repeats the threat, till, at last, she is obliged
to attempt the execution of it, to avoid your continual
ridicule. And she does make it, finally, in the hope of
being prevented at the very last moment—as cowards,
of being bound over to keep the peace, when they have
got there. So reasoned I;—alas, alas!—I did not
dream that she was then the desperate, terrible creature
that I found her. She died—died almost in my
arms; and I left the country.
While I was away—it was in a foreign and far land
—I was reduced to the most distressing indigence; and,
at one time, so fierce and unbending was my nature,
that, I stood, late in the evening, upon the border of
a river, near where the boatmen used to take in their
passengers; and I hesitated whether I should repeat
the experiment, that I had once before attempted; and
go to—I won't say where—by water; or wait till I was
starved into a transparency; or provoke some scoundrel,
for numbers were continually prowling about me,
to quiet me with his stiletto; or, to take mine, and levy
a contribution in my turn. I resolved on the latter—
with an unaccountable repugnance, I confess—but, such
is the fact; perhaps it may be explained by the difference
of countries; and, perhaps, by the difference between
stealing from a desk, or an orchard, at home, money
and apples—or robbing, abroad, a pocket, or a man.
Be that as it may, I was determined not to starve; and,
though I shuddered, and the sheath rattled strangely in
my hand, when I grappled the dagger in my bosom—
the last toy that I had on earth—yet, I deliberately determined.
I do not deny it, or palliate it;—it is too
late, now, for me to care for consequences. I deliberately
resolved, to raise my bread, that night, though it were
at the price of blood. It was very dark. The atmosphere
was cold and drizzling. The flag-stones slippery.
And I was just in the act of leaping upon a man
that passed me, when my foot slipped, and I fell;—the
sheath flew off, and my hat—and there I lay, stunned
by the fall, and grasping the dagger, till I heard a cry
of murder!—and the watchman sprang his rattle, at the
next square. I had still sense enough left, to know,
that, if I were caught in this predicament, it would,
probably, go hard with me. I had no stomach for the
gallows, just then; anything else in the world, would
cast iron, and broken glass; or even that of a
poet. So, off I set, while, rattle after rattle, was instantly
sprung, till the whole city was in an uproar;
and, once, I had well nigh consummated the adventure,
and prevented—what mortified me, excessively, to
think of—the catastrophe of being hanged, when I had
not deserved it. A venerable old man—for few others
were employed in that city—blind and deaf, for aught
that I know—was kind enough to put out his setting
pole, and attempt to hook me, as I went by. His lantern
saved him; for, as he turned it upon my face, he
caught the gleam of the dagger, which I still grasped---
and stood, as if it were already in his heart---luckily for
him; for, heaven only knows what I might have done,
had he put his hand upon me. This I know, and this
only---that I would not have been taken alive, though
twenty old men had been the price of my liberty. I set
out for food only. It was a mercy, that I did not end
with murder. Thus it is, with every man, in the career
of vice. It is in vain to stop; your descent quickens,
every moment, until you are breathless, and powerless,
and bloody. What a beautiful moral!
I ran, till I was exhausted; till I could not run another
step. I staggered against a wall; and stood in the
shadow; and tore open my bosom; while the sweat
gushed out of me, as from a sick man, in a steam bath.
My hat was gone! Could I have left it behind me?---
and where I fell? The sheath, too!---my name was upon
that. The thought was terrible. Ten thousand
fearful apparitions came out of the fog and darkness
about me, with big heads, and eyes; and stood and
nodded at me, till I cried, like a child; leaned against
the wall, and cried, and sobbed, with faintness and remorse.
I know not what else happened to me. A dreary
interval had gone by; and, when I awoke, it was exceedingly
dark and cold, about me—a glimmering only
could I perceive; and that seemed to me, to come
through a grated window, far above me. I arose; I felt
round the apartment. It was bare of furniture; and the
walls, I could perceive, were of massy stone. My foot
iron bolt. Where was I? What had happened to me?
How long had I been there?—for weeks?—or months?
—perhaps, for years? Oh, I could have knelt down,
and buried my face in the earth, to hear the sound of
any voice, but my own---any sound, but that of my
own convulsive sobbing? It was but a little time—
so it appeared to me, for a moment—since I had
meditated a robbery;—meditated!—gracious heaven!—
might it not be? Was not this the fulfilment of my prophesy?
Was I not, really, a robber?—a murderer? Who
could tell me? Might I not have done the deed? I had
been—O, how often!—on the very threshold of it—and
might I not? As my thought wandered through all the
encompassing thick darkness, my imagination took a
vivid and intense delight in torturing me. Who
could tell me? Was I not a murderer?—confined?—
condemned?—doomed, for ever and ever, to this cell of
blackness and desolation? Or—O, I threw myself
down upon my knees; and yelled, as if some giant were
dislocating my bones. Thick flames arose; and far
thunder. Strange shapes rushed in upon me. I was
pinioned, hand and foot; rivetted and locked down, to
the iron floor. I ground my teeth to dust; and tore my
flesh, in my convulsion. Where was I? “Would nobody
tell me?—nobody?” I cried.
“Nobody!” echoed the wall.
I shut my eyes. I lay without breath or motion. Yes,
yes. The truth had come at last. It was plain. I was
a dead man. I was in the charnel house. Or, had I
been buried alive? These were not chains;—they were
bands of linen! I heaved and wrestled with them. Yes,
it was cloth---cloth, not iron, that bound me. God! how
thankful I was!---a noise!--musick!--incense!--warmth!
Ha! the sorcerers!---the unhallowed magicians, that do
their mysterious working, within the hollow earth;—
they had broken upon me! I heard their sweet, terrible
incantation. It was like the voice of children.---
Yet. I lay there, breathless and motionless, awaiting
the issue. It began to work. Soft hands went, touching,
over my forehead, and lips, and eye-lids. The
The green mould of the cemetery, I could feel growing
within me. But the charm wrought more potently.---
I could feel the earth stirring under me, and about me;
the crumbled population of the sepulchre, assembling
their ashes—vitally obedient to the still, delicate summoning;
I could hear their gasping and panting—the
noise of their knitting joints; but I—O, merciful heaven!—they
were turning me into stone. I could feel it!
My bones thawing and yielding; my flesh hardening;
congealing; petrifying. I could feel it all; at every sob,
the thick blood and smoke, oozing from my heart; and
fire issuing from my nostrils; my very eye-balls sweating,
and discharging their light. Yes, yes!—the frightful
curse was accomplished, at last! I had been buried
alive---that death, of all others; the fear of which, had
haunted me to distraction, during all my life. O, it
was insupportable. I grew faint. The lights went
out—the vapour. Stars waned, and went by me, shooting.
I was all alone; the sky passing away, over my
head; my heart filtering yet, like molten iron, through
every pore of my flesh, and encrusting my body, as
with red-hot armour. I shut my eyes the harder. I felt
the work going on. I called upon no mountains to cover
me. I determined to endure the process---however terrible
it might be, however long---without a murmur.
The scorching heat came nearer. I compressed my
eye-lids together, till they bled; and there was a hissing
then in my brain, as of fire suddenly quenched in
blood---or of many serpents, coiling and knotting in
flames. I clenched my lips---and lo! the whole place
glittered, with incessant and brightly coloured irradiations.
I then knew how it was---all, all; and I grew
calm, like the great ocean; but, like that, my chest
heaved, and heaved, mightily yet, though the tempest
had gone by. “Yes, yes,” I cried, after a while, “I am
mad.” Well! this had been foretold. But, how long
had I been so?---for days, or months, or years? I shivered;
and braced myself, with all my thought, as the
thought rolled, like a dark river, through my brain;
covered with wreck and devastation. I put my hand to
had sunk. My flesh was cold and sepulchral. The
hair was not my hair—it was harsh and wiry; and my
heard was thick, coarse, and frightfully rigid. Yes, it
was plain, that I had been mad, for many a long year.
But, who was I? When did it first happen to me? I
was now an old man. At what time, did I cease to be
rational? Who was I?—and what?—and where?—
There was a time, when I had a home—a sister;—my
heart thrilled;—a time when I loved;—my heart grew
gentle; and, all at once, it stirred, as in travail. An
image of my beloved was born of it—O, how like her!
It was hardly bigger than a humming-bird; but every
lineament was perfect. I lay yet, with mine eyes shut;
and worrying myself, with vain and reiterated attempts,
to establish my own identity. What was real,
appeared to me a dream;—what might be unreal, wore
the countenance of solid marble. But, who was I?—
Again, and again, I repeated the question. At last, a
little light broke in upon me. I remembered having
staggered against a wall; and that, soon after, I saw
a gate open; and a man, whom I had long known—a
rich man—unmarried, and alone—enter it; that I grasped
my dagger, and followed him; that I found myself in
his chamber, when it was very dark. Yes, yes!—I remembered
all, now. I heard his voice again—saw his
eyes roll, even in the dark, with unutterable terrour
and brightness. I heard my own voice again, like an
echo. It said to the old man—“You are rich—very
rich. You have gold with you. I am a desperate man.
A little, out of your abundance, will make me happy.
Give me. I have no time to lose. Go to your coffers.
Give me, till I cry enough. My name is Adams—William
Adams. I would not slay you. I give you my
name; and, to-morrow, I shall go about my usual occupation.
It is one of adventure and peril. If I succeed,
I will repay you—with tears of blood; and die at your
feet. I shall take no pains to avoid you. You may set
the hell hounds of the law upon my track, before the
echo of my step has died away in your passages. You
may!—but mark me—that game is one of death!—the
do not, though you had twenty thousand lives—fathers,
and brothers, and children—I would never sleep, nor
slumber, until I had wrung out the last drop of black
blood, from every heart that bore relationship to you.
Give me!—you have heard my terms. Preserve me,
and be silent. You are old and worthless—sordid and
childless; you will die the easier for being disburthened.
What say you? Can you be secret as the grave? Nay,
nay—I do not ask your promise. It would be idle to
both of us. Your oath! Pshaw! I would not utterly
damn you. No;—but I will bind you to me, by a far
stronger tie—fear. But utter my name—but breathe
it aloud, even in your sleep—and I will, from that moment,
wage a war with you, that shall never know a
truce, till you are rotting in your grave—or I, upon a
gibbet.”
He complied; and I had born off the gold. I remembered
it all. But, where was the sequel? How came
I here? Had he broken the seal? Was I in his power?
Or had I—my blood thrilled—it might be, I thought,
that I had left the blade of my dagger, at last, in the
heart of a living creature.
Again, all my arteries were on fire. I felt ten thousand
adders coiling about me; crawling over my eye-lids
and lips—trailing their slime; the accursed things!
And there I was; I—helpless, naked, and left to be
crawled over with impunity. Nay, I could feel something—were
they worms?—dropping, continually, from
the wet ceiling, upon my body. I struggled, and shrieked;
but nobody came—nobody; and then I began to remember,
more distinctly, who I was. Yes, I was William
Adams—indeed I was; and all the dreams of my
mother; the maledictions of my kindred; the apprehensions
of my sister; all were verified, at last. I was a
murderer, in a far country. Many years had happened
since—many. I had a distinct recollection of several
burning seasons; and several cold, wintry ones, that
had gone by, since I was confined. Yes, many a year
must have passed. But, whom had I murdered?—and
why was I not executed? Ah! the reason was plain—I
was mad!—mad!—but where?
I now remembered, how I had been made so. I had
been decoyed to a lunatick hospital;—I remembered it
well; and the people had been persuaded that I was deranged.
I remonstrated. They “humoured me,” and
left me. I repeated my remonstrances; assured them,
with dignity, that I was not mad; bid them “try me in
any way that they pleased.” They shook their heads.
“Ask them that know me—my relations.” They looked
sadder. I grew reserved. It was a confirmation of
their belief. I laughed and talked. “Poor fellow!”
they would cry out, with the tears in their eyes—“What
a pity!” I would argue with them. They would listen,
patiently and piteously, to me; and suffer themselves—curses,
ten thousand curses, on their stupidity
and compassion!—to be defeated. I would detail my
history; my wrongs; aver my own sanity; ask questions,
which they would answer kindly to, and go
away, and forget; and when I would repeat the tale,
till their own eyes ran over, and I had become an object
of universal curiosity, they would pity me, and
tell how strangely such things ran in my head. Devils!
The women, heaven for ever bless them, for it!--they
believed me. Their sweet lips would tremble; and
their dear eyes would change their colour; and their
bosoms would heave, while they listened to me. But
they were only women!—what was their judgment? the
judgment of nature—nay of God himself, in comparison
with my keeper? Yet—I was a lunatick; and, do
what I would, it was only a confirmation, in their eyes,
of my malady. It was insupportable, I saw how it would
end—I became violent—that they called a “breaking
out”—and I was put into a straight jacket. I grew
melancholy, and passive. This they called subduing
me. I reasoned—wrestled in intellect with them—
solved problems in geometry; confounded the greatest
metaphysicians of the day; dealt with powerful men,
that visited me—heaven knows for what purpose—
answered all questions, and told for ever the same story,
of myself. But all this, instead of proving that I was in
my senses, was only a proof of my consummate address
and miraculous natural talent. It was impossible that
day-irritated, and “pitied,” and “indulged,” till I could
bear it no longer. Then I became mad, indeed—outrageously
mad, as many a stout heart had been before
me:—made so, not by God—but by man. Then saw
they the difference. I rose in my wrath! I wrenched
bars, and bolts, from my prison house—I shook it to
its foundation—they assembled about me, with fetters
and torture—I leaped upon them, rended and trampled
them down--till--I was covered and drenched with
their blood. And then! then!—when I had lain down,
to sleep—they had fallen upon me, and bound me—yes,
yes! I remembered it, well. This was their vengeance.
I was now suffering under it.
Ha!—where was I. My chains were gone. The darkness
and smoke gone—flashes of thin brilliant light
broke in upon me—my couch was a gentle one. The
serpents and dews, and damp walls—O heaven, and
earth!—could it be that I had only been dreaming a
dream of unutterable horrour! I had opened my eyes for
a moment—but I had shut them again, smarting and
blinded with the light.—It grew darker, what! was this
only a dream, then? or might I believe—oh, might I,
that what I had seen—the white arm—was drawing
the curtains? a whisper—ah—I held my breath—
again—again!—my touched heart gave out odour and
flame, in its gratitude—the thin blood rippled through
it again!—God laid his finger upon it, and light issued
therefrom.
I set up in the bed—I tore open the curtains.—
There sat a venerable woman by me—a stranger—with
a silver porringer in her hand;—a table by her, covered
with labels, and phials; pictures upon the walls, from
the Bible; a sweet child, standing on tiptoe, with the
door half open.
The old lady looked round, with a smile full of benignity,—yet
with a dash of terrour. I know not how
I appeared. But my thankfulness that it was a dream,
gushed, all at once, out of my heart and eyes; and I locked
my hands, and fell, with my face upon the pillow.—
Something in my manner struck the good lady, I suppose;
for she afterward assured me, that she came to me
be idle to go through all the circumstantial details of
my illness and recovery, until I was entirely restored.
That good woman watched over me, like a mother. But
my dream—O, to this hour, it hath lain here and loaded
my heart like destiny—like prophecy. The hair of
my flesh rises, when I think of it. I have never dreamed
it since—I could not—I am sure that I could not. I
should die, in the trial—but, who knows? I am no believer
in dreams?—who knows what that may lead to?
Men have become mad, with the terrour of madness—
and—no, no, have done with this—have done, I say!
I soon learnt the truth. I was in the house, at the
gate of which I had stopped. The porter had found
me: and, by the order of his master, a wealthy and
kind hearted man, I had been born to his own house;
and nursed by his own wife. For two weeks, I had shown
no symptoms of recovery; my life was one uninterrupted
delirum; a settled, deep melancholy silence, and
stiffened sinews, like one ressisting inward torture; and
a fierce, turbulent outbreaking, as of a chained madman,
had been the alternations of my disorder.
At last, I was well enough, to go abroad. A few
days after that, the master of the house, a plain substantial
old quaker, came and sat down by me, and addressed
me in the following words.
“Young man. I am willing to think well of thee.—
But there is thy hat (giving it to me)—and there is the
sheath of an implement of death, (giving me that, too)
which I am sorry to say, was found upon thy person.—
Thee assailed a man;—hear me out, if thee please; and
lost thy hat, and the other contrivance at the same time.
Thee was advertised; and a reward offered for thy apprehension.
I went to see the hat and other things, and
found by them, what thee was. Thee had come to my
house for a refuge. I could not give thee up—Art thee
guilty?”
I was about to interrupt him--by correcting his phraseology!—yes,
reader, at such a moment as that, it so
shattered my nerves to hear a man pull and haul (hale)
the English language about so shamefully, that I had
well nigh given him a lesson in grammar, on the spot!
him to go on.
“If thee be guilty—I do not ask thee to own it—
there is some money, (putting some into my hand)—
go! and peace be with thee; when that is gone, return to
me—thee shall have more;—but do not repeat the
deed of death. If innocent, and would earn an honest
livelihood—tell me who thee art, and what; and I will
take thee into my counting house, till something better
can be done for thee.”
I was thunderstruck----mute, with gratitude, and
delight. The benevolent creature! How could it be,
that I had never known the true and genuine nature
of these plain men.
“No,” said I, emphatically---“I assure thee that I
am not guilty....thou art somewhat pre—.”
He stopped....looked at me, with some little severity;
like one, doubting his own senses....“Why, what art
thee?” said he---
No wonder that the good man was astonished. I had
astonished myself. But so it was,---and so it will be
for ever, with all men, when the impressions of childhood
are revived in them, unexpectedly. I was born
a quaker; partly bred a quaker; lived a quaker, till
they had disowned my father, after a series of stubborn
wickedness, backsliding and folly, consummated by
his marriage; and, to this hour, I never can speak to a
friend, but in the natural language of a friend, that of
thee and thou; and what wonder? It was my mother
tongue.
“No,” said I. “I perceive thy astonishment. I
have been one of the society. I have been disowned,
for transactions, of which, when thou art willing to hear
me relate them, I will give thee a plain and true account.
I am no murderer; nor, have I a bloody heart.
I was nigh starving, however, on the night that this
event happened; of which thou hast spoken; and I carried
a dagger. I deny nothing. I shall tell the whole,
just as it happened. I had no desire to slay any man;
I only desired to terrify some one into giving me some
pence--no, not pence—I would have dashed him and them
sell my soul for a few paltry farthings—No!—That
was all. I threw myself toward him; not upon him; for,
my foot slipped; and I fell, leaving my hat and the dagger
sheath. What might have happened—by possibility,
if he had resisted me, it is horrible to think of—I
was very desperate. But my design was not to murder.
I ran off, in a paroxysm of terrour; and stopped
not, till, overcome with giddiness, delirium, and remorse,
I was found at thy threshold. Thou offerest
me, generous man, a place in thy counting house. Look
at me. Thy confidence will not be misplaced. I am
an injured man. I will not wrong thee. I have no
testimonial—none to offer thee, of my character, or capability—I
can only say—try me. Put me to the
proof. Treat me boldly. Put confidence enough in me
to ruin thee, if I am false; or thou wilt never truly know
of what I am capable.
When I had finished, I was amazed to find myself
standing up; the good man holding both of my hands,
and looking me in the eyes; just as a father would look
into the eyes of a prodigal son. His wife sat by him,
rocking, too and fro, in a great arm chair, with her
handkerchief to her face; and, her gray silk gown rustling,
like the autumnal forest, in a still breeze; and
little Caroline was there too, clinging to her father's
side, and gazing upon me, with such innocent, unaffected
delight, that I could have fallen upon her neck, and
kissed her breath away.
I have already mentioned a strange dream that I had,
when I was quite a boy. The very first night that I
slept in the house provided for me by Mr. Austen, (the
quaker, whom I have just mentioned) after our conversation,
I had the same dream again. But, before I relate
what I am about to, let me mention, what, I dare say all
have experienced, in some degree, at some time, in relation
to dreams—that, many things, of which I know not the
use, or the name; and, more particularly, articles of
costly furniture, that I had seen in my dream, I had afterward
met with, one by one; and learnt the name,
and use of; and that, I have been often startled, and
great pictures—and the frightful disorder of
the whole house; as if the family had all been broken
up, at midnight—which I met with, sometimes, in my
travelling, for a single moment, in my after life. I
ought not to forget, too, that, when I first read about
Pompeii and Herculaneum, and the appearance of
the houses there, that I was very forcibly struck with
the coincidence between it, and what I had seen in my
dream; so much so, indeed, that I could not be satisfied,
till I had got hold of a particular description of Pompeii,
and of the excavations there; and seen drawings of the
houses. But then I was easy. The great house that
I had seen, was not at all like their houses. Nor, was
it like the picture of any palaces, or publick buildings,
that I had often seen. It was different from all, and any
that I had ever read of, or formed any notion of; and
yet, there was nothing remarkable in it. It was only a
large, noble looking mansion, such as a gentleman of
good fortune, would be likely to build for himself—and
it had, withal, a little of a foreign air, which struck
me, instantly.
Well—at last, I dreamed of it again—why, I knew
not; for, I am certain, that I had not thought of it, or of
my dream, for ten or a dozen years. But now, it was a
little varied. I was in the same house. I knew it, immediately.
But somebody had been there, since I was.
The rich old furniture was entirely gone, from some
of the apartments; and other of a homelier fashion, had
been substituted, in two or three of them. The great
pictures were gone. The candlesticks, lamps, and
wine glasses were all gone. But, there was the stain
upon the great marble slab, at the head of the first flight
of stairs, where the lamp had fallen.—Reader—believe
me—whoever you are—believe me—I am telling you
the simple, plain truth, whatever you may think of it.
It is a truth, too amazing to be told, to the world, in
any other way—and yet. I never shall be easy, till I
have told it. I do not want the courage to tell it, and
to swear to it—for, there are people, or were, a little
time ago, who had heard me tell my dream, many
to speak—but, who would believe me, if I did? Nobody.
I put it in this shape, therefore, that people may do as they
please, about believing me. Yet, nevertheless, as I hope
to see my Maker, face to face, that is true. To return,
then. The dust had been carefully brushed away from
the walls—the great crimson curtains aired—it was
evident that somebody had been there. Yet, why were
the windows all closed—and left too, without being
bolted, or barred? Why was the door only shut, without
being fastened? And why was it yet uninhabited?
not a dog—nor a cat—no living creature—not even a
fly nor a spider could I see. I stamped—the noise came
back to me, in a hollow, dead echo. I shouted—several
times—with a loud voice; but, no answer could I
hear—nothing, that sounded, as if I were not alone. At
last, I was weary of it, and came away; but, in returning,
I passed the door of a handsome room, which I
had forgotten to explore, at this, my second visit. I
remembered that, when I was there before, I had descended
into it, by three small steps. I pushed it open;
and, finding the whole singularly light and cheerful.
I bounded into it, with an explanation of astonishment,
holding my hat in my hand—my hair wet with perspiration,
from having been so long in the sultry, confined
air, of the other apartments. I was standing, I remember,
a little edgewise, toward a side of the room,
where there was a very large, handsome cabinet—and
trying to recollect, what kind of furniture had been
there before; but, while I was doing so, something moved
at the other end of the room. It was broad day-light,
and my heart was in my throat, instantly; and,
before I turned my head, a flash of light followed; as if
something, in a brilliant white drapery, had passed by
a large mirror, that I was looking into. I turned;
and beheld a fine looking girl, with fair hair, and agreeable
eyes, watching me, with an air of perfect indifference.
She sat leaning back in a large chair, at the further
end of the room. I attempted an apology; but,
the words all stuck in my throat. I could neither speak
nor breathe, nor swallow; and, I remember, distinctly,
blushing and stammering out a sort of excuse, that I
had been there before, and believed the house to be uninhabited.
She wore a thin, blue-striped muslin dress;
a sort of morning gown—open before, and high in the
neck; but so very thin, as to show her fine bosom; and,
particularly, her right breast, which was surprisingly
beautiful, and natural—unsustained by any corset or
stays, almost as if it had been naked. I hardly
know what followed in my dream, until I awoke; except
that she accounted for the lonely, and exposed situation,
and appearance of the house, by mentioning that
a woman, her mother, I believe, was mad—and confined
in a remote apartment; but, when I did awake, I
found myself lying on the floor of my room—excessively
sore, all over—even to the roots of my hair---as if I
had taken a violent cold. I went to bed again; but, I
got no more sleep that night. The old dream was revived;
and, I began to be troubled about it---and determined
to do something---what, I knew not. The next
day I told it---carelessly, to Hezekiah---but, he only
laughed at me; and, I soon forgot it. Still, however,
I would have you bear it in mind.
From that hour, I was like one of the family. A
whole year passed away, like a dream to me; the most
tranquil dreaming too, of all my life. I stood high,
beyond all rivalry, in the estimation of the whole household.
I had even began to think somewhat seriously
about returning to the faith. Why? Let Caroline answer
that question. She was a child—a sweet, simple,
caressing, innocent child; yet, such was the influence of
her affectionate young heart, over my stubborn and
proud spirit, that I—I wish that I had not begun this
tale;—but, it must be told, now. It is too late to repent.
At last, one evening, as we sat together, about the
fire; the mother working a rug; and Caroline reading
aloud—her short, loose hair, hanging all about her eyes
—(she read charmingly)---the good old Hezekiah, in
his quiet way, reminded me of my promise, to tell him
my history; adding, that, if it were painful to me, I was
discharged from it; if there were aught, that I would
me, William,” he continued, significantly, “only what
would be proper, for my wife and child to hear.”
I began the story. I told all that had happened to
me, substantially, as I have related it here; all, except
the particulars of my squabbling, and my love; the first,
on my own account---the latter, on Caroline's; for twice,
when I touched upon the name of Lydia, and another,
inadvertently, and faltered; I saw her red lips tremble,
and her eyes turn, with a quick, uneasy expression, upon
the book. Then, she would throw it down; and take
up her work. Then, she sewed wrong---ripped it out---
and sewed it worse; clipped her finger, with the scissors,
and ran a needle into it, up to the very joint. Her mother
saw it, as I continued; and, finally, bade her put
by her work, and read a chapter in the Bible. Her
voice was a gentle, clear harmony; and, when she read
aloud, from that book, it was like the sweet wisdom of
a cherub; dropping, seriously, from the lips of children.
It made my heart better to hear her read. The sweet,
plaintive, affectionate, expostulating tone; the simple,
clear undulation of sound; the perfect pronunciation;
and the ever changing cadence---from command, to entreaty---from
supplication, to complaint---kept all my
senses alive, while Caroline was reading the Bible.
“Farewell!” said the father, after a short, but plain
and fervent prayer---“farewell, my children!”---and
then we all broke up; and, after shaking hands, went
to our apartments. I remember, that Caroline's hand,
when I took it, was passive and timid, that night, for
the first time. “Have I offended her?” said I, to myself.
The mere thought of such a thing, humbled and
pained me. I determined to know the cause; but she
would give me no opportunity. I never saw her so assiduous,
in my life. I tried to catch her eyes; but I
could not. Young as she was, I dared not speak to her;
nor lay my hand upon her, as if by accident, from that
time forth. We met again; and I renewed the tale, as
it is related in the following chapter, without having
had an opportunity to look once, for a whole week, into
her young eyes.
| CHAPTER XIV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |