 | CHAPTER XIV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
Pronunciation...Continued...Variety of women...Anecdotes...
False curls...Deafness...Garters.
“I have been thinking,” said the good lady to me, as
soon as we had seated ourselves, “that this propensity
of thine, William, is unamiable and imprudent: this, I
mean, of reproving them, who speak a little wrong.”
“A little wrong, mother!—there can he no such thing.
They are altogether wrong, in the pronunciation of a
word, if they be not altogether right.”
“But it will make thee enemies, William; nay, it has
already.”
“What! and shall I not hazard something for the
benefit of them, that I love? Shall I not, if I see a
sweet creature's frock open at her shoulders; or a
“beauty spot” upon her face, tell her of it, because she
may, as women always do, at the most delicate of such
intimations, blush and tremble a little; and be a little
angry with me, as well as ashamed of herself? No—I
have gone up to a woman in the street, whom I never
saw, before; and told that her garter was trailing after
her. Did she thank me for it? no—not then. But
when she was at home, if she had any heart, she did, I
am sure; and, if she had not, why should I care for her
opinion? A hundred men were looking at her; many
women; some boys; and a little kitten, as she went by
a door; where it was playing, had leaped at the garter,
and set all that saw it, in a roar. Nay, when everybody
else was laughing at, or pitying a sweet girl,
who, all alive with vivacity and frolick, was giving out
her beauty and fire, to a score of young men, and
just on the point of joining a cotillion. I, who was
behind her; and alone,—had no respect for her, and
no feeling, other than that of compassion, and was
not even acquainted with her—I saw that her head
ornaments were awry—her false curls loose; and
just ready to fall. Others saw it too; but they were
or women, who were maliciously holding back from the
dance, and watching her, in expectation of the catastrophe.
What could I do?—there was no time to be lost,
the flirtation that she was carrying on, whether she
danced or not, would speedily bring all her head ornaments
into her lap. I approached her; and, from a
sudden thought, I know not what suggested it—took
out my handkerchief as if I had just picked it up; offering
it to her;—“your handkerchief; miss,” said I
—looking at her head dress, very significantly, at the
same time.
That moment, she uttered an exclamation in French,
“Perhaps,” thought I—“O, perhaps she may understand
French”. I repeated my offer in French—but her
knowledge of it was exhausted.
She stared at me; bowed, and put aside the hander-chief;—I
added a hint relative to her situation; but she
did not understand me. “Do not dance,” said I—“until
you have been into your dressing room”—and, as I
said this, I glanced again at her hair. She coloured—
arose—faltered—and the tears came into her beautiful
eyes. But—I saved her a mortification, that she never
would have got over.
The next day, a gentleman waited on me, with a
challenge from a friend of his. In such matters, I have
a way of my own. “I have nothing to write to your
friend, sir,” said I-“nothing to say, till I have seen him.
Let him call upon me; and I will then give some kind
of satisfaction, I promise you.”
The man was difficult to appease; bullied and threatened,
a good deal, by proxy, until, I was obliged to—
no matter—neither of us was hurt, and I found that
all my benevolence had been mistaken for cruelty, and
wantonness. The girl had not magnanimity enough to
tell her lover (he was a new one) what I had done; and
why I had done it: and all that he was permitted to
know, was what he had seen—that I had spoken to the
fool that he loved,—without any introduction;—that she
was mortally offended;—that she left the room, in tears,
without dancing in the cotillion, for which she was engaged;—and
of what I had said—probably, as he thought, poor
simpleton! out of tenderness to him.”
“And once too, where an amiable girl, who was a little
hard of hearing, had been over-persuaded to sit at a
piano, with which she was unacquainted; the keys of
which were very hard and stiff, while the keys of that,
which she was accustomed to playing upon, were delicate
and soft. She began to sing; and touched the
keys very softly—very—as she would, her own, for an
accompaniment. Poor soul! it emitted no sound—not
any: not a note!—And the people about her were cruel
enough, to let her continue to expose her infirmity, till I
lost all patience; and quietly intimated to her that the
notes were not very distinct. She coloured; and has
not forgiven me, to this day, I verily believe.”
“So is it with you women, in everything. If your
vanity be wounded, with the friendliest hand; with the
most salutary intention, it is a mortal affront, never to
be atoned for, or forgiven. Many an one, have I offended,
by preventing her from making herself ridiculous
for ever; though I did it, not harshly, nor publickly;
but quietly, and kindly, as I would my own sister,
or child, or beloved one.”
“But why give thyself such trouble?” said Eunice.
“It were better, I think, to let every one do as he pleases.
It is an unthankful office, at best; and may not
the utility of thy advice be questioned. For example;
if we pronounce as other people about us do—that is
enough; is it not?—we are intelligible; and to what
other purpose would we have language applied?”
“If that argument be good, mother,” said I—“it will
go to justify all barbarisms—stop all improvement.—
The Yorkshireman pronounce as the people do, that
are about him; and he is understood. But is that
enough? However, we have said enough on this subject
now. Tell me, in one word; shall I abandon the
practice or not?”
“Thee may—nay, I wish thee, to correct Lynee,”
said the father; to which the mother assented; and Lynee
too, or her pretty eyes told a fib, was not very averse
to it.
“Well!—on one condition, I will obey you. It is this,
that you agree to act in this matter, as you do, in all
others, according to that which you believe to be right,
without regarding what your neighbours may do, or
think, or say. If you will agree to this, I do not despair
of making your daughter abandon all her evil
habits of pronunciation, and grammar; numerous as
they are, in the course of a few months; together with
her, “it is me,” “it is him,” “it is her,” and “who have
you seen.” If you do not—henceforth, I will give myself
no trouble about her language, or utterance;—I
am resolved, I cannot endure this perpetual irritation
and soreness. It wears upon me; and, when I hear a
principle avowed, by a judicious parent, which, if followed,
would justify every species of vulgarity in
pronunciation, I am ready to take an oath-yes an oath
—never again to open my lips upon the subject. If it
be enough, to speak as others do, where shall we stop?
with our countrymen? our provinicials? our citzens?
townsmen? companions? or family? Every family has
its own peculiar vulgarities; many, that are distressing
to others. Yet, you would not correct them, because,
the family “understand each other.” And, “what is the
purpose of language, but to make ourselves understood?”
This might be well enough, if you were never
to go out of your own family; your own town; your
own circle of acquaintances; your own province, or
your own country—but—here Hezekiah laughed out-right;
at the sound whereof, his wife stared at him,
some minutes in astonishment; and well she might, for
she had not heard him laugh aloud for years before.
“Thee can't leave the subject; thee can't! I see plainly,”
said the benevolent old man; as soon as he could
speak—“that is so like thee!—taking leave, but never
going—saying farewell to a subject, but never leaving
it.”
I was rather mortified—it is in vain to deny it:—one
does not like to be told of his infirmities, be they what
they may, so bluntly;—but, like other people, I joined
in the laugh, in an odd hysterical way, and began my
story anew. It was a rainy night; and, not a soul
inetrrupted, for my levity, or for something worse; but
the result was nearly what follows.
“Soon after I had arrived where there was a society
of friends, as I have said before, I thought proper to
claim such of their privileges as were accessible to me.
I went, now and then, to their church; and wrote to the
Monthly Meeting, nearest to my native place, for a certificate
of membership; for, having been born a member,
I continued one, till dismissed. One was prepared
for me; but miscarried. Another—it shared the
same fate. I never received a third, till it was nearly
all over with me. In the mean time, certain bailiffs,
who were marvellously incredulous as to my right
of exemption, inasmuch as I used the profane language;
and had been seen by more than one of their
number, in more than one ugly scrape, where my pacifick
temper was not so abundantly conspicuous, were
rather clamorous for certain militia fines. Now it happened
that, “conscientiously scrupulous” as I was—
about bearing arms, I was still more, about paying militia
fines; and, most of all, about going to prison--so, at
last, I compounded with my conscience; the scripture,
and the bailiff; all at the same time, by paying them a
year in advance.
This came to the knowledge of the society, and they
appointed a committee of shoemakers and tailors; plain
substantial men, not having the gift of the gab, to any
degree like myself, to wait upon me. I found the matter
exceedingly pleasant, for a time; for these thick
headed gentlemen permitted me to have all the talk to
myself. I pleaded scripture; for the—I beg your pardon—the
best friend, that I have, can do that, you know,
to servehis turn; I quoted the command to submit to
the powers that be;—that of rendering to Cæsar the
things that are Cæsars; and that, where the Son of man
says, that he came, not to bring peace, but a sword
among the nations. Nay—I contended till my own
head ached—(I say nothing of theirs, for they never
gave me an opportunity of asking them about that—
after we parted; and I was too busy, at their first visit,)
to preach unequivocal submission, else why have you;
ye, that are followers of his submissiveness—laws, bolts,
bars? and why hath our indignation been left to us? or
why, indeed, was it ever given to us.”
“But,” said Eunice—“He said to him that smote off
the ear of another, “put up thy sword. He, that slayeth
by the sword, shall fall by the sword.”
“Hear me, for a moment, mother,” said I—“Be patient
for one moment. If it were truly the main object
of his mission among men, to preach entire and
unresisting submission, to evil and insult;-would it not
have been taught continually and plainly? Would it not
have been the burden of his whole doctrine? Would it
not, at least, have been most familiarly known to his immediate
followers? Would it not have been known by his
disciples? Yet—I pray you—reflect for one moment—
Peter, a rash man---goes into the presence of his master,
with a sword upon his thigh—stands by him, unrebuked,
while they are surrounded—with a sword upon his
thigh; an instrument only of bloodshed; and, finally
draws it, in the presence of his master, and slices off another
man's ear! Would thy servant do this, thinkest thou?
Draw your own conclusions. Mine are these: either
the mission of Christ was not what you believe it—to
inculcate non-resistance;-or, it was not distinctly taught,
even to his disciples;--or—it is the only conclusion left,
one of the three must be true—he, who wore a sword
in his master's presence—misunderstood his doctrine;
or contemned his authority. Now, take your choice
of these three dilemmas. But let me return to the
committee. They went away, just about as wise as
they came; and, reported, I suppose, that it were about
as rational to “hold dealing” with a wild beast, as
with me. Another lot were chosen; good men and
true, with thicker skulls if possible, and less to say,
than their predecessors; all that I can recollect of their
argument was, that they sat still with me, for half an
hour or so; groaning inwardly, now and then, as if they
had the cholick; looking all the time at my fashionable
dress, from head to foot, as if they were my unpaid
and pence.”
“In the mean time, for they were very patient, and I;
how could I be otherwise!--it was a dull season with me,
and I found it quite a genteel affair to have the meeting
come to me—instead of being obliged to go to the
meeting. Mohammed and the mountain.”
“But, in the mean time, I had a rather unlucky affair
of another kind, to trouble the society with. A great
lubberly bull headed fellow; the biggest of about half a
score, that I had quarrelled with, on the same morning,
had been nominated to give me a flogging. Now, if
there be any one thing on this earth, that I have a mortal
aversion to, it is that of being publickly kicked and
cuffed about, in the middle of a street—the broadest
and most frequented street of a large town—at the very
hour too, of all others, when the women are out, like
frogs after a shower—just about twilight, of a long,
beautiful summer day.”
“About this time too, I happened to be in lo—ahem
—rather intimate with a little dark-eyed coquette,
who was playing the devil with me—I beg your pardon.
I had an engagement to see her, one evening; one
of the pleasantest, as I live, that ever I saw, heard or
read of—the sky was all of a floating rose colour; and
the air came by one, balmy and scented, like the breath
of young girls, that have been romping on new mown
hay. It was just about sunset; the street was thronged
with fine women; and, there was an unusual stillness
about. As I turned the corner, with a heavy orange
tree stick in my hand, the gift of my dearest friend
—(at that time;) I saw, the moment that I came in
sight, half a dozen persons that were standing on the
side walk, at a little distance before me, separate; and
run off, different ways, as if a rocket had been thrown
among them—(just as I have seen your tatterdemalian
militia, after a defeat, when trying to rally in
platoons—) and pop into the houses and stores, along
the street; and look out, as if they expected something
wonderful to happen. I stopped and looked, too; but,
saw nothing, and suspected nothing, until I was arrested
me, “if I did'nt think, sure, that I was a pretty fellow?
and be damned to me?”
“It was rather an odd question. I thought; but still, I
had been so in the habit of hearing it, on all hands, from
my youth upward, that I turned deliberately round;
measured the fellow, from head to foot; and said, in
my prettiest manner—“why—yes—” (I like to be modest)—“ye—yes—
rather so.” Some other conversation
followed; during which, I was so intolerably frightened,
that, upon my life, I would have given a hundred
pounds, to be out of the scrape. I saw what it was
coming to. I was, probably, about to be beaten by a
great bull-Irishman, to his own heart's content; and
my own everlasting disgrace. My heart collapsed—
and gave out the blood, like hot wine, at the thought.
A blow then, would have been fatal to me; but, at the
next breath—by heaven! I could have torn him, or any
man that ever breathed, limb from limb, had I been
shut up alone with him, where no mortal aid could come
to him. I stood upright; I felt a commotion within me.
He had waked the lion in my heart.”
“He approached me, brandishing his arms.”
“Stop!” said I—“stop!—if you have any desire to
quarrel, there is a way of doing it, like men.”
“Noh, noh!—none o' your sword and pistols; and
them are sart o' things, for me—nothin but your bull-dogs.”
“I expected a blow, every moment.—that is, I expected
him to attempt one; and, I was prepared to lay him at
my feet, at the first movement of his arm.”
“Let us go to some other place;” said I—“it is too
publick, here.”
“But no—nothing would do for the brute, but a scuffle,
there. Perhaps it was the better for me. It made me
desperate. The thought of being beaten there, was
death to me; it shook me to the dust.”
“Nothing keeps my hands off of you, hinney,” said
he, after a few more flourishes, and seating himself on a
box at the door—“but—but—if I thought you would'nt
take the law o' me, I'd drub ye—I would—directly.”
“That was too bad. “The law!” said I, “No. I will
not take the law of you.”
“Still, he did not strike me; and I turned, leisurely, to
go away; glad enough, I assure you, to get off so well.
But my moderation fired him anew.”
“Ye're a d—d puppy,” said he.
“My first design was, to level my orange tree at his
head. If I had, it would infallibly have shattered his
skull, thick as it was; but, I did not—I changed the direction;
struck at him, with it, and just turned it aside;
he caught at it, and I let it go. The scuffle was soon over.
He fell, two or three times; and finally, grappled with
me. This, I had sought, all along, to avoid; for, I knew
that it would be the death of me—and I was very weak
—if I did not heave him. But, I know not how it was
—I made one effort—one, only—and, for a moment, I
felt as if every blood-vessel in my body had been ruptured—I
lifted him from the earth, and dashed him upon
the pavement.—Never shall I forget the horrible
voice that broke from him, as he fell over the curb-stone,
with a tremendous squelch. We were separated. His
wife appeared at the window, shricking and bawling;
and the street was crowded with people. There was
not a moment to lose. I was not hurt—but, I had
lost my hat; and, such was the prodigious strength of
the fellow, that, when he grappled me, once, with his
right hand, he took a handful of cloth out of my coat;
waistcoat and shirt; buttons and all, from my breast.
My hat was given to me; and, the next moment, I felt
something like a blow, whistling by my head. I dodged
it; and found that I was assailed again, unarmed as
I was, with a bludgeon. I turned round; begged a cane,
and desired that he might be kept from running away.
Now was my time!—with a cane, I felt sure, Irishman
though he were, that I could beat him to a jelly,
in ten minutes! but, he saw fit to sneak off, while
his wife kept up the show of defiance and threat, by
trumpetting away at the window above. Thus ended
that affair.—So little was I hurt; so little discomposed
by it; that, when I had buttoned my frock coat over my
opposite breast, so as to conceal the ruin that had been
that I was asked by several persons, who saw
me coming away from the centre, what was the matter?
Nay—I went to my appointment, and spent the evening
quite sentimentally; and nobody there, suspected aught
of the matter.”
“But, the best of it is to come. The scoundrel took
the law o' me, after all!—told his own story, swore
that he was cruelly beaten; confined for several days;
and I know not what else.”
“But how happened it?” said the judge. “What did
you say to Mr. Adams.”
“Hi said nothin to him, sir, your honour.”
“Nothing!—it is very extraordinary—a small man
to attack one of your size, without any provocation—
what did you do to him? nothing too, I suppose.”
“Nothin, sir, your honour.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure, your honour, sir. Hi only called him a
d—d puppy, sir, that was all, sir!”
“Well—and what did he do, then?” said the judge.”
“He knocked me down, your honour, hi—.”
“And what else could you expect?” said the judge;
—and sent us both away; him with an admonition
to be civiller of speech; and I, to govern my temper
—with a fine, and some cost; just enough to make the
affair ten times more disgraceful to the sufferer, than if
he had put up quietly with the beating. But that is the
common course of justice, every where, I find.”
“But, as I was telling you, the friends took up the
matter; and, to propitiate them, I wrote a beautiful article,
for a publick magazine; in which I proved, incontestably,
that no man had a right to put up his
hand, or wink with his eyes, when a blow was aimed
at him. This done; and an acknowledgment, in which
I acknowledged that they were all wrong; and I, altogether
right, in sundry matters of great moment; and
confessed to some change which I really felt; (and no
human being was ever more grateful for any change,
than I was, about that time)—being made. I was
received into the society again; and protected, annually,
which was apt to be exceedingly turbulent,
when hotly dunned, in a state of uncommon quietude,
for a long time.
But the devil is ever going about seeking whom he
may devour; not that I would impute anything so preposterous
to him, as the thought of going about for such
cattle as I, no—we generally spare him that trouble.—
And in the progress of a season or two, I began to have
some strange notions of my own, about man's accountability.
I could not conceive of more than one, First
Cause. It troubled me too, to comprehend some things
that, to the dullest creatures that I had ever met with;
creatures that had hardly the wit to keep themselves
out of fire and water, were most exceedingly plain.—
And, after much painful, very painful, and I would
say devout meditation, if that were not a word prohibited
to the hetero lox;—and exclusively appropriated,
like the word evangelical, to them that preach the Deity
as not forgiving—dear father; but an implacable and
wrathful God; as One, who, while he teaches man to forgive
his fellow man seven times in a day, if he repent, can
not himself be appeased, till man hath paid the uttermost
farthing of his debt to him, either in agony or substitution;
and not, what he had proclaimed himself to be,
“the Lord! the Lord God! long suffering and merciful!”
when he went by, in the wind and darkness—I came to
the following conclusion, as the sum and substance of all
religion—“To do as I would be done by.”
“I was denounced. I was called upon to acknowledge
things, that I did not, and could not believe; and
to believe, what I could not understand. I smiled. I
was charged with having denied the Divinity of Christ;
and that, too, tremendous presumption! in the presence
of E. W. herself—a woman—with all the childish
pedantry of a woman—who hath gone throughout all
America, dealing out the fag-end of all the sermons that
were ever written; and the lees; and refuse fragments of
all thought and science; dealing it out too, the ineffable
nonsense—as the inspiration of Almighty God—as
if the Almighty God, dealt in bad English; or did not
Nay—forgive me—I mean not to be profane or irreverent.
This woman won her way into notoriety, by her
masculine voice; rather than by her masculine understanding;
and by crowding it home adroitly, that, to be
brought to exhibit herself before the world, among
men—the wise and the powerful; exposed to taunt, ridicule
and upbraiding; a lone woman, she must have
been wrought upon, by no common sense of duty: must
have been impelled and sustained by no earthly hand—
as if women have not an ambition of their own--a vanity
and pride of power, altogether their own.—Why, one
might as well argue that the infatuated creatures, who
used to wander naked through the populous places of
London, could never have been brought to it, a thing
so contrary to their natures! but by an omnipotent
sense of obligation; or unless, upheld in their shame
and humiliation, by ministering angels; O, woman! woman!—it
is thy nature to expose thyself!—it is thy pride
and office; the object of all thy solicitude,—nay of thy creation
to do it. I have never known one—no, not one, that
would not have gone naked, as she was born, if the custom
of society would have permitted her.—Eve, and
the women of the South-sea island; and the women of
high rank, at balls, are the same creatures; they go, as
nearly naked as they can, for a cold climate and the
fashion. I do not know one, at this moment, however
trembling, sensitive, delicate and modest she may be,
but—where it is made to appear her duty; or where she
can find a decent excuse for it—is willing enough to disarray
herself, body and mind; else why does a woman ever
marry? Mother! such are my feelings, when, I hear
the loud voice of a woman, no matter where; in her own
house; or in an assembly of men, that I could go backward,
reverently, and throw my cloak over the nakedness
of her spirit. But let me return.”
“I replied calmly,---reasoned and remonstrated with
a committee of intelligent, worthy, and high minded
men, that were now sent to me. They soon learnt to
treat me with respect: and I love to remember them.
But they did me wrong. “It is your duty,” said I, “to
remain among you. My only creed is one that Jehovah
hath written here, here, upon the tablet of my heart.
But would it not be well to leave points of belief, to be
settled between man and his Maker? You charge me
with denying the divinity of Christ. I do not. I only say
this—that— to my belief; and he knows that it is my
belief, and understanding, Christ is not God—the only
God; the Everlasting. What he is, I do not take
upon myself to say; whether divine or human—or a
compound of both natures. I do not pretend to fix his
rank in creation. It is enough for me, that he came
among us; and taught us the purest and loftiest religion.
He may be more than all the powers, angel and archangels,
princedoms, dominations, thrones; but, to my
heart, and my head, he is not God.”
“Then he must be man,” said one of the committee.
“Really,” said I, “that, I do not see, so clearly.”
“O yes, William—Divine, or human, he must be-God
or man,” said he; and the committee nodded their approbation.
“Pray” said I—“what are the angels?—they are not
men, “are they gods?”
They were staggered for a moment.
“But, perhaps they are divine,” I added. “I admit
that they are; so is Christ; so is man. We all have a
portion, more or less of Divinity. That is my doctrine.”
“But the play, William, the play—what do thee say
to that?” continued the committee.
“I had written a play.”
“Have you ever read it?” said I. “It is called a
play. But how know you that it is not a sermon? It
is—in reality.”
“Read it, before you condemn me; will you agree to
denounce morality, if it take the shape of a dialogue?
There are sacred dramas, you know, by Hannah
Moore. Young has written a play—Addison, Johnson,
Milton—good and great men, have written plays.
Beside—I wrote it for bread. Will you prohibit a brick
maker from selling brick for a theatre?—A carpenter,
Men-I tell you, for I know it; that, base and profligate,
as are our theatres in general; ministering to our worst
appetites in the worst way; teaching women to hear
and see, what they would blush to read about; or to
describe to their own fathers—yet, there is no comfort
or convenience of life but may be abused, to as great a
degree.”
“However, I do not defend myself. I am not ashamed
of that tragedy. I am not sorry that I wrote it; and
I will not say so. I am proud of it. I will not say,
therefore, that I am sorry for it. But—that I am sorry
for certain opinions which I have avowed heretofore;
and repented of since,—I will confess. If that will
satisfy you—well. If not—dismiss me. To deal
plainly with you, I think it is your duty to dismiss
me. The world know, that, in nothing whatever, do I
conform to your discipline; and yet, that I am protected,
as conscientiously scrupulous. That is wrong. Dismiss
me, then—but let your reason be, not, that I deny the
divinity of Christ, for that will admit of dispute;—and
I say positively that I do not:—but that I have violated
your law.”
“The men assented to this; shook hands with me,
cordially, and departed; made their report; were laughed
at for their opinion of me; and another committee
were appointed in their stead. Would you believe it!—
The first had gone away, and reported, that I denied the
Divinity of Christ!—yes! after all that I had said to
them.”
“The second were, at first, inclined to treat with me,
like dictators—much as men treat with fractious and
rebellious children. But I soon brought them to their
senses.”
“They found that they had to deal with one, that was
not to be trifled with; and could not be easily baffled, or
terrified, or awed. Old as they were—wise as they
were—I felt my equality with them; and I made them
feel it, too.”
“Meeting after meeting was had. I cannot complain
of them. They were full of caution, wisdom, benignity,
one of them, when put to the question—and it could be
no longer evaded—acknowledged that they also should
report me to the meeting, as one that denied the divinity
of Christ!”
“I could bear this no longer. I took my stand on
the spot. “Look ye,” said I, “if you want to turn me
out—do it; but do it peaceably. Don't provoke me.—
You have reason enough to justify you; and I am ready
to go out, quietly. But, mark me—if you assign that
reason, I will put you to the proof. If you expel me, I
know my course. It is one, that I will follow. I will
get out a mandamus—(I knew enough of law, to understand
the power of that writ; for it had set the whole
neighbourhood by the ears, once—when issued to restore
a libidinous, profligate scoundrel, to the desk, that
he had dishonoured and polluted, again and again, by
his wickedness)—and compel you to prove this. You
are a corporate body. I am a member, entitled to certain
privileges. Assign that reason, if you dare; and I
will never give you a moment's rest, in this world, nor
the next, till you have proved the whole—every word,
and every letter!”
“They looked at each other, in astonishment. It had
never entered their heads, that I would stand at bay,
so formidably, at the last hour.”
“We are not to be frightened,” said one of them, resolutely.
“I do not desire to frighten you,” was my reply.—
“I would only have you prepared, for what I shall assuredly
do. Think of it—do as you please; but, my resolution
is taken.”
“We separated; and, a short time afterward, two of
the same committee, waited on me, again, with my certificate
of dismissal, fashioned according to my own
dictation; adding, that there lay an appeal—and that
the thing had been taken a good deal to heart, among
them. I knew it. I knew, that one man had shed
tears, when the disavowal was consummated.”
“I thought for a moment. My heart took fire. What!
an appeal? It was the very thing! It would give me
temple to its foundation, with all the Philistines about
me. I inquired into the form. But, they had been so
kind, so respectful, of late, to me; and were so truly interested
in my welfare, before they left me, that I could
not do it. No, no—I could not; and I told them so.”
“No,” said I, “if I should make an appeal, it would
not be from any movement of conscience; any desire of
being reinstated; but only from a desire to show myself.
Out of respect to you, therefore—you, who have, at
last, learnt to know me—I will not.”
“We parted; and the last words that were spoken to
me, were the following. Shall I ever forget them?—
They were spoken by one of the ministry. “Farewell,
William!—farewell! I wish thee well; and I do not entirely
give up the hope of seeing thee among us again,
yet; and, perhaps, a fellow labourer.” That is, a preacher
among the quakers! I!—I!—a quaker preacher!—
Well, well—it may be. The very oddity of the thing,
may, one day or other, bring it about. It works in
my mind yet.”
Eunice wiped her eyes, when I ended; and gave me an
affectionate embrace; Hezekiah shook his head, with
an air of uncommon perplexity; and Caroline, affecting
not to see me, stooped down, so that her smooth brown
hair fell all over her neck and face; but I could see her
sweet eyes dancing through it, like lamping starlight
dimmed, and dashed, by the tears of heaven, and the
blown shadowy tresses of the wind.
We parted.
| CHAPTER XIV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |