 | Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
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I have adopted this title, not to set people together
by the ears, about the pronunciation; but, because it
appeared to me, particularly appropriate. It is, in reality,
The Life of Bill Adams; commonly called
Neck or Nothing; partly written by himself; and partly,
by Hammond the Dwarf; a man, of whom, I know
little more than what I have found in these memoirs.
Yet, the life of poor Adams, together with all his literary
works; some of which, are yet to be found, might
have been included in one great table of Errata.
He has undertaken, here, I perceive, to tell a story,
as much as possible, after his own manner of talking.
He was remarkable for his colloquial power—which
was full of vivacity and briskness—or force, and solemnity—or
sprightliness and familiarity—just as the
occasion demanded. I have listened to many good talkers;
but to none, that would bear comparison with my
unhappy friend.—They always talked in the
same style, whatever was the subject; or, however much
or little, they were interested in it. But he! I could tell, on
entering the house; not to say the room, where William
Adams was, by the feeling of the atmosphere; and, by the
motion of things about me, whether he were really
awake and alive with the subject. The want of arrangement;
the incoherency; and the perpetual shifting,
from one period of his life to another; with, now and
then, a sort of a fiery confusion, which will be found here,
were altogether as conspicuous in his conversation.
It was a favourite theory of his, that a man should always
talk; and by this, he meant, that he should never
declaim, or speak; and that, his written language should
be altogether colloquial. He execrated what is called
classical writing, as wholly artificial and mistaken; and
he used to say, that, if a man talked badly, it were
better, nevertheless, that he should write, as he talked;
faults he might have, in the first case, he would have,
at least, the redeeming beauty of nature; and, what is
natural, though it may, now and then, offend us,
will, always, be less offensive than affectation.
The want of method, and manifest design, in this
tale, which, so far as I can penetrate into the history of
his early life, appears to be his own biography, would,
deservedly, operate as a fatal objection to it; were it
not, that he wrote it, avowedly, for the purpose of showing
how people really do talk, in this world of ours; and,
with a hope, of putting to shame, in some measure, the
cold, artificial beauty of classical writing; interminable
periods; interwoven sentences; and, what is called a
gradual developement[1]
of thought; as if men, when they
think at all, have the patience to think gradually; and, as
if, what is called a gradual developement of their thought,
were not a mere subterfuge to delay the exposure of
their own ignorance; and avert the punishment, which
they deserve, for attempting to talk at all, without preparation;
or the impulse of a full heart, upon any subject,
whatever. My friend was right—he went a little
too far, perhaps—but, he was right, in the main;
and now, that he is gone, I cannot forbear saying, that,
although I scorned his doctrine, when it was first explained
to me;—yet, I became a convert to it, at last;
and that, now, I am fully convinced, that there is a natural
outcry, for every thought; as well as a voice, for
every passion of the human heart; and that, by tempering
it, or qualifying it, when you have occasion to express
it upon paper, you counteract the whole purpose of
language.
“Tamper not with that power;” he used to say to me,
when I was trying to talk remarkably well. “You
are only dishonouring yourself, and fatiguing me.
The faculty of conversation, is the greatest of all our
faculties. It is a perpetual miracle. Do not talk at
all, until you are master of your subject; and, when
you are, give yourself no trouble about the arrangement.
Be natural—and you must be eloquent. Get
talking well.”
“They, who are thought by the world to talk best;
always begin to talk, before they begin to think; and
proceed so cautiously, qualifying all that they have to
say, with such a continual anxiety, that they infallibly
tire you out. You know not, to be sure, what to complain
of, after you have left them; and, perhaps, if you
knew, have not the courage to mention it; all that you
know is, that they have been quite too classical for your
patience; for, who could endure an essay, in conversation?
Nay—if men were honest, I would ask them,
who could endure an essay any where, if his taste were
not first perverted? My notion is, that all publick
speaking; and all written language, are but the imperfect
imitation of talking; and that, the nearer they approach
to it; the more beautiful and powerful is their
operation, upon the heart of man.”
“Why is it,” he continued, after a short pause, “that
men, of great excellence in conversation, are unable to
write; or to speak, in publick; and that they, who are
equally remarkable for their fluency and promptitude,
while addressing a publick assembly, have often no colloquial
power at all; and are unable, frequently, to write
a tolerable letter; while others, who can write rapidly
and easily, cannot speak?”
“Chiefly,” said I (for I had thought a good deal on
the subject, and was willing to be master of it) chiefly,
I apprehend, for the following reasons. In the first
place, no man will be remarkable for talking; or writing;
or speaking well; unless he give his undivided attention;
together with his whole heart and soul, to
some one, alone, of the three miraculous accomplishments.
In proportion as he is distinguished, therefore,
for the one, or the other, will be his probable inferiority
in the other two. Few men are great, for more than
one thing. And, although they be respectable in others;
yet will they appear deficient in them, by comparison,
not with other men, but, with themselves. A great writer
may have occasion to address a popular assembly;
and he may acquit himself so, that, had any other man
done as well, it would have been an honour to him; and
may disgrace himself forever. Another reason is, that
different faculties are required for speaking, and for writing
well. The speaker, in his hurry and impetuosity, carries
you away with him; his path is illuminated by incessant
irradiations—he—”
“What!” said my friend, interrupting me, with an
austere expression. “I beg your pardon, but, we will
talk this matter over, if you please—”.
I felt a little abashed, I confess, for a moment; but recovered
myself, immediately; and proceeded, somewhat
in the following fashion. “A speaker can always explain
and qualify what he has said, if he see, by the expression
of the faces about him, that he has gone too far; or,
not far enough. By giving way to his passion, he can
suspend your faculties of criticism; and, in a large company,
whose elbows are all thrilling together, he may
work himself, and them, into a phrenzy, beyond all that
any mere writer can conceive. Will such a man,
think you, at the height of his reputation, put it all at
hazard, by entering the place of gladiators; the tilting
ground of literature?—the—”
“Pshaw!—” cried my friend.
“And, if he should,” said I, laughing at his impatience,
“how would he contrive to manage his own
thought? It would all run to waste, while he was contriving
a channel for it—nay, don't be angry, I must
talk in this way, if I talk at all—it is natural to me—
If I feel what I am saying, my illustration and my argument
flow together in two parallel streams.”
A deep sigh was the only notice taken, of what I said;
and I continued.
“A very rapid writer cannot express himself so
gracefully, or so fluently, if he have a bad pen, or
greasy paper. Copy what he has written; and one,
that knows him, will deny its authenticity. And why?
Because, before he can finish a sentence, he had leisure
to turn it over, so often in his mind, that he was tired
of it. He kept continually changing word after word,
as he proceeded; until, at last, there was no unity in
what he had written;—the latter part contradicted; or,
at least, did not tally with the former part of the sentence.
of expression, which are the life and soul of conversation.
He had endeavoured, as a letter-writer, that I
once knew, did, to say what he had to say, in the fewest
possible words; and, in the shortest possible time; as
if letter writing and conversation were not different
things from an epigram, or a syllogism; a problem or
an enigma. To apply this. The speaker, when he
comes to write, is in a situation altogether worse, than
the rapid writer, who has fallen upon bad pens, and
greasy paper. It is more, as if the latter were obliged
to write with his left hand. You smile—what do you
think of my doctrine?”
“Tolerably well. Mine, however, is more simple;
and will supply several deficiencies in it. If men would
condescend to talk—in every situation, they would
soon find it no difficult matter to talk well. But they
will not. The talker will speak, when he stands up;
and, when he sits down to write, he must be—what God
never meant any honest man to be—a classical writer.
If a man would only have the courage, while he
is writing, to finish the sentence—that first occurred
to him, as he first conceived it; it would always
have a natural charm about it, however inelegant;
nor would it be inelegant, if he had any talent for talking.
But enough of this. I have no leisure, at present,
to demonstrate my system. I am right. Let that
satisfy you. I am right; and I know it. I have already
adapted a method of proving it; and (his eye glanced to a
little black trunk, in which, I found a large quantity of
manuscript after his death) if it be permitted to me, to live
a few years longer, it shall go hard with me, but I will
effect a revolution in the publick taste.”
I smiled at his vanity, and he saw it; but it gave him
no trouble. He believed what he said, I am sure.
I have detailed this conversation with scrupulous
fidelity, because I have felt it to be a matter of duty, to
the memory of my unhappy friend. Those that knew
him well, as I did, cannot deny, that, if he had chosen
to be methodical, he was well fitted, by perseverance
and constitution, to be distinguished for method;—and
so precisely after his manner of conversation, which
Mr. Hammond used to characterise very happily, I have
heard, as “a perpetual digression,” is altogether owing
to design; and that, all his late productions had a scope
and purpose in them—a steadiness and unity—far more
serious, than were ever attributed to them, at the time;
nothing less, I believe, now, than to effect a revolution
in the literary taste of the age. Preposterous and wild,
as an ambition like that, may be deemed; yet, if Truth
and Nature were, as he maintained, upon his side, he
must have prevailed, at last.
When the papers were put into my hands, I found, at
the top of them, a sheet carefully folded, with the word
Preface upon it; and, when I had leisure to arrange the
whole for publication, I opened it;—and, after some consideration,
adopted it, as a better view of the whole matter,
by far, than I could attempt to give. It was in the
hand-writing of Adams, himself; or, rather, of him
that I have chosen to call Adams—for it will not be
expected, I hope, that my name should be real;—and
it ran in the following language:—
| Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |