University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It was after midnight, when Hammond concluded
the conversation, related in the last chapter; but the
following night, he renewed the subject.

“I have already told you, something of a man, named
Galligan.—Do not forget, that he was no friend of
mine, in any shape; he showed me no favour; and at the
time of our failure, was the first to secure himself, with
notes and paper, in preference to goods: Yet, he became
the most malignant, wicked, and unsparing, of all our
persecutors, for having followed his advice. I do not
mention his real name, because he is old and wretched,
now; and has a fine family.”

“We have, as I suppose you know, an insolvent law,
in our state. Of this, I finally availed myself, in a
feeling of desperation; indignant at the baseness, and
shuffling of the men about me. A creditor, under this
law, has, until two years after a discharge granted, to
file, what are called, “allegations,” against the debtor;
and these allegations are usually of fraud, or embezzlement,
which, if substantiated, leave the debtor subject
to perpetual imprisonment.”

“The first thing that irritated old Mr. Galligan,
was the letter, of which I spoke; he always felt, when
it was mentioned, as if that had wheedled him out of
all his money; yet, in truth, he had little to complain
of; for I do believe, that, including all our purchases, and
payments, he could not have lost by us, though he had
given up the balance of his claim; the next thing, was
the utter ruin of several new houses, whose paper, he
had selected, with a sagacity, peculiar to an experienced
trader; for he knows that,though a man be a scoundrel,
he will generally pay his first note.—In securing himself,

Mr. Galligan had selected the first notes, of several
new houses; all of which, we afterward discovered,
were linked together; and all went by the board,
at once! This fretted him to madness. But there
was another event to increase the exasperation. In
the multitude of our concerns, there was a valuable
estate, in New England, upon which some thousands
had been expended, first and last,out of the joint fund.
Both of my partners were interested in it; one, of his
own right; and the other, in right of his wife. But, in
our season of difficulty, we had tried every possible
means, to raise money upon it; and always in vain; for
it was encumbered by an able conveyancer, with a widow's
dower, and the maintenance of a large family.
In plain truth, as we had been unable to raise a dollar
upon it, we did not consider it worth a dollar; and,
when we proposed the assignment, for the benefit of
our creditors, we omitted that estate. Yet, soon after,
when it was necessary to give in our schedule, upon
oath, we were more particular; and, although we did
not believe the estate worth registering, still it was a
claim, or right, and we, therefore, gave it in.”

“But, the indefatigable Mr. Galligan was not to
be appeased in so simple a way. He, therefore, inclosed
an one hundred dollar note, to a lawyer, in the
neighbourhood, and ordered an attachment, or execution,against
our interest in the estate; or so much of it,
as our concern were entitled to. It was sold; and
the nett proceeds, at public auction, were somewhere
about twenty dollars! We laughed heartily; and who
could blame us, when we heard of the matter.”

“But the old man's wrath still burnt on, night and
day; and, as if it were not enough to drive three men, to
beggary and starvation—two of them, out of their only
means of livelihood, he set calmly about driving the
whole to suicide—by blasting their characters. His
first step was to file allegations against me; of what!”

I was startled at the convulsive, agitated, deep tone
of Hammond, as he concluded these words; and looked
him up on the face. Never shall I forget his expression—
never! It was just as if his great heart were

half crushed, all at once, under the thought; as if it were
worse than death, to have been suspected of any thing
wrong, mercenary, or dishonourable.

“What did he allege against you? fraud!” said I.

“Fraud!—fraud!” echoed Hammond, grinding his
teeth, while the sweat stood upon his lips; and his eyes
grew blood-shot, like those of a chafed catamount—
and a bitter smile went over them. “No—he dared
not. No!—I never knew what they contained. Never!—they
were got up in secrecy; and, with the management
of one that dared not—aye, that dared not
confront an honest man;—they stood against me, for
nearly two years, without my knowledge. Time and
again, had I heard the rumour, that allegations were
filed against me;—again and again, had I gone to meet
them, but no, they were not to be found. At last, God
give me patience!—I discovered the trick. It was
done to blast me;dishonour me, secretly, without giving
me an opportunity for defence. Who would care to
know, whether they were ever answered, or the hand
accursed, and withered, that had written them? Who
would ever have known it? Nobody. Yet, all the world
could easily learn, that allegations had been filed—and,
though they never came to trial, that were enough. To
have been arraigned, though never tried;---or, if tried,
acquitted, were enough to kill a proud heart. Yet, I
have a proud heart, and it did not kill me! I compelled
the counsel of the oppressor to do battle, over and over
again, until there was no ground left, for him to stand
upon. Thus ended Mr. Gallagan's last hateful attempt
at vengeance. And what was the effect? To
drive me away, all my life, from among merchants;
to teach me a reliance upon myself alone. I could
tell you more of these things—many more particularly
of a scoundrel in New York, who has twice arrested
one of us; and taken from him his very travelling
trunk. O!—is it not shameful? Had we been dishonest,
we could have kept back a hundred thousand
dollars, from the wreck of our affairs; but no; we turned
ourselves out into the world naked, pennyless, literally
pennyless!”

“But, (his voice faltered a little, and there was
less sternness in it, than before.) “They were not inaccessible
to misfortune. He was not. I told him so.
I went to him, once!--By heaven, the spirit of prophecy
was upon me! I went to him, with my proud heart
swelling, to pray that he would not imprison my elder
partner, who was in such a perilous situation, that it
would be death to him. Yes! I prayed to him; but he
was obdurate.”

“It will be but for a little time, sir,” said I, “in a few
weeks, he will be discharged. It will be death to him,
and all his prospects, if you send him to jail. He will
not give bail---he cannot.”

“Then let him go to jail,” was the reply.

“I felt for a moment, as if I were choking; but I
remembered that I was a petitioner; not for myself;
and I proceeded, so mildly, that he turned upon me,
as if doubting his own ears. “He will die there,”
said I.

“Let him die---then!” was the answer.

“Old man!” said I, unable to keep down my wrath
---he trembled---“Old man!” I locked my hands, I remember;
and I spoke with all my heart and soul.
“There is none of us inaccessible to misfortune! Even
you---you, may be visited next;---and, when you are a
suppliant---nay, I feel it here—I feel it!—I shall live
to see you—and O, how devoutly do I pray it!—shaking
with the same terrour; humbled in the same supplication.”

“To jail with him—to jail, he shall go,” cried he,
inarticulate with passion.

“By God!” said I, “he shall not go to jail!”

“Nor should he, though I had gone out upon the
high way, with a pistol, to redeem him.”

“William Adams, look at me; put your hand upon
my forehead; what feel you there?”

“A hot fire.”

“No beating—no rushing?”

“Aye, it beats mightily; and the rush is that of a
sluice, newly opened.”

“With what feeling, think you?”

“Wrath and hatred.”

“You are mistaken. It is compassion. My wrath
is gone by; my hatred is extinct. That old man has
been visited since—has been wrecked, even in reputation;
[1] and, if living at this moment, is delirious. Who
would not pity him? I must; for I feel as if my own
prayer may have brought down a portion of this
great sorrow and humiliation upon him, and his family.
Then why do I mention it? That you may know
me, truly, and as I am; one that has been goaded onward
by ambition, with poisoned arrows—one, who, if
he paused, had died, of a broken heart; and one—
thanks be to Him,that hath upheld me; who hath outlived
his persecutors, as he told them, that he would; and already
stands, where they would never have believed that
he could stand.”

“But did you not foresee this, certainly, before?”
said I.

“What! our failure? No, and so little did I suspect
the ultimate insolvency of the concern, that, while I
was paying off all the world in goods, I forebore to
pay my own mother; a poor widow woman, a few
hundred dollars, that I had collected for her—thinking
it safer for her to wait the issue, than to take goods.
The obligation was sacred—the money was not mine—
it was her all. A poor widow woman---my own mother!
Do you think that I would not have paid her, if I had
suspected any danger? By heaven, I would, if it had
cost me the sacrifice of fifty thousand dollars! Aye,
and my heart's blood into the bargain.”

“But, you would know, it may be, if there have been
no noble hearts in my journeying, to beat loudly with
encouragement to mine. There were. Let me do
them justice. Some have been my friends, through
thick and thin; through cloud and shine. Them
shall I never forget. Some have come out boldly, and
spoken in my praise, while I was unknown to them.
They shall never be forgotten. Some few have lent
me books, and treated me like a man: and two or three
have been to me like brothers. But, chief among them,
was one who, stout hearted, like yourself, William, had

a hundred times your wisdom; and while he rebuked
me—made me better, even while he rebuked me. He has
been my friend through all vicissitude---yea, even where
I have deserved to lose him.”

“And is yet?” said I, doubtfully.

“Yes.”

“Then why seek another?”

“Because he is older, better than I---married---and,
having duties to fulfil, that are incompatible with such
friendship as I require, at this time.”

“But let me tell you what he is. He has been my
adviser, counseller, and true friend, for years; daring
to tell me of my faults; shrinking not from authority
or peril, when my rebellious nature awoke too stormily
before him---setting his foot upon my vanity; and
deriding my vain glory. And when—pardon my
incoherency---when this man, after a change in his
favour, had barely enough for the subsistance of his wife
and babes—still anxious that I should be, what he always
foretold that I should be, if I toiled patiently, for
it—he would have pressed upon me a portion of that
little, till I was enabled to enter my profession. O, my
friend—it is bitter—very bitter, to be pennyless, at my
age, after having been really independent!—to begin
the business of life anew—at the very alphabet—and
threshold; to throw by a trade, that has employed all
the best years of your being, and begin another, unfriended
and alone! Yet, I dared to attempt this. I
began to study the law. Few people could believe
that I was serious: and fever still, that I would persist
in it. All admitted that I had genius—but none, that
it would ever be productive. What a pity! they would
say, that he cannot work—that these geniuses never
will work. William Adams!—I sat down to my table;
---and for, five years, did I toil, literally, night and day.
I was a poet. And men said that I should live and die
a poet. That was enough for me. I abandoned poetry
for ever. I wanted patience, they said. I sat down to
my profession; and went through a course of legal
study, that was calculated by an eminent and industrious
lawyer, for ten years. Particular parts of the
law, I was told, I should be unable to master. I

never rested, till they were as familiar to me, as my own
name. Languages were difficult. I was told that I
could never learn one, at my age. I learnt six, without
stopping. It was difficult to write well—it required
patience---talent. I wrote books, therefore, of one
kind and another; and supported myself, even in
America, wholly by my pen, for nearly four years of
uninterrupted toil and study---having written and published,
within that time, beside all my other studies,
what would make, at least, twenty-five duodecimo
volumes.”

“Was not this enough? No---come to my study, and
I will show you manuscript; evidence, in black and
white, that, had I done nothing else, for the last five
years, would earn for me, the name of an industrious,
if not that of an unexampled student.”

“But—had I no friends?—none. Let me tell you.
First, I was haughty; I could not brook an obligation
The time would come, I thought, when it might pain
me, to hear any man say--“But for me, he would never
have been what he is. It was I that lifted him.”

“Was that right, Hammond?”—said I.

“Yes---I feel that it was right; but, let me proceed.
I have been put under some obligation, and I cannot
breathe freely, till I have told it. In the first place,
there was a man, who, when I was very forbidding,
cold, and haughty, had the wisdom to look into my
heart, and to see—the truth;—that I was proud, because
I was poor; and would not be mistaken, by any
possibility, for one that sneaks and bows to better or
more powerful men. He was a lawyer; and he treated
me like a man. To most of his profession; to all
indeed, but one other, I was an intruder. And the merchants
regarded me, as one that had got above his
business---the lawyers, as one that could never rise to
their's---heaven help them!---but was doomed to perish,
between hawk and buzzard! But this man had the
courage to throw open a magnificent library to me.
To him, am I chiefly indebted; for he, it was, that dared
to do this, first. And, next to him,--my friend!—my
heart leaps in my bosom, at the recollection of another!

---was a gentleman;---one of the best Advocates of the
United States; a fiery, impetuous, headlong fellow---
with a mind singularly active, brilliant, and keen
sighted---truly eloquent, but exceeding passionate and
electrick. He took me directly into his office; treated
me like a friend; a companion; imposed no drudgery
upon me; left me to make use of his name, in any
way that could be serviceable to me;---and, in short,
suffered me to go abroad, with the reputation of having
studied with him;---and all this, without any reward,
bribe, or compensation. Shall I ever forget
him!—no. And the time will come---yea, it shall
come, if God spare my life, when I will prove my gratitude
to him, by better proof than words; and when
he shall rejoice that he did this. I--it shall be his pride.”

“But---did you receive no pecuniary assistance—
none at all? You had a rich uncle.”

“He offered, repeatedly, to assist me---but his offer
was as constantly rejected; until I was, at last, on the
point of translating a French law work of two volumes,
octavo; which I had offered to do, in sixty days; and
add my own notes, of from fifty, to one hundred pages,
that should be submitted to any lawyer of the county
---for two hundred dollars. He interfered; and prevented
me from wasting any more time in literature,
by lending me, in one way and another, somewhere
about the same sum. More, I might have had---for
his heart was full, when we parted---his generous countenance
flushed with feeling---and his hand trembled.
“Draw on me, William,” said he---“draw on me!”
and looked, as if I might have drawn on him, for his
heart's blood.”

“And was this all!—How did you support yourself?---how
could you---so long?”

“Yes---it was all”---as I have told you, by making
books.”

“But how could you make books, and pursue your
study of law, languages and miscellany?”

“O, there was no difficulty in it. It did not average
an hour a day, the labour that I gave to book-making.”

“What!---in America,---support yourself with working
one hour a day, for the publick!”

“Yes; and at this time, I feel assured that I could
support my self and a family, like a gentleman, by the
same business.”

“What! by authorship, where we are proverbially
penurious, in our reward of native talent; slavish in
our prejudices; and at liberty, to publish the best of
foreign productions, after their reputation is established,
without any expense for the copy right. How is it
possible, for an author here, to enter into competition
with all the authors of Europe?”

“I cannot stop now, to explain the reasons in detail;
the chief one is sufficient. We are beginning to have
respect for ourselves; and to be, for that reason, respected
abroad; and, it is my firm belief, that the time
is fast coming, when it will be a better name for a literary
work, to call it American, than English, or
Scotch. The fashion of reading what our country men
write, is gaining ground, every day. What was Scotch
literature, twenty-five years ago?—the derision of the
English. What is it now? Their terrour and delight.”

“But what put it into your head, to commence authorship?---you
had no education.”

“Patience, for a moment; and I will tell you. Allow
me first to say, in justice to mankind, that there are
better and brighter; aye, and warmer hearts, among
them, than we are sometimes ready to believe, when
darkened by calumny, or roused by disappointment.”

“Three or four, have I already mentioned; but,
there are a few others. One, a poor man, whom I
had occasionally seen; a sick man too, who had gone
to an exteme southern climate, for his health; and
wanted, as you may suppose, every dollar that he
could muster, for himself. He had the generosity to
offer me a sum; not very considerable, to be sure, but
much more than he could well spare, to be repaid,
when I pleased. Another, an iron-hearted man, and
a little mercenary, I had thought, before, came to my
office; and looking me awhile, in the face, sat down,
in considerable perturbation.”

“Pray, what is the matter?” said I; “you look

troubled.” He hemmed and hawed; and adjusted, and
re-adjusted his legs; without speaking.”

“You have head something unpleasant, that concerns
me, I said. Speak out; whatever it be, I can
bear it. Do not distress yourself about it. Out
with it.”

“Want any money?” said he.

“Money!” I cried; startled at his abruptness;---“money!
What do you mean?”

“Do you want any money?---that's all---do you want
any money? If you do, say so;” he repeated.

“What could I say? The tears came into my eyes.
“No;” said I; “no; but I thank you. I thank you, from
the bottom of my heart. It has given me a better opinion
of human nature. I do not want money. I have
undertaken a profession, in the face and eyes of all
discouragement; and I will make that support me—or
starve.”

Here Hammond paused for a while; and I took up
the conversation, and questioned him.

“What!” said I, “did you abandon writing?”

“Yes---altogether, in the way of a support. I scribbled,
occasionally, for a journal, or a newspaper; but,
without fee or reward.”

“Was it prudent? Your profession was precarious.
Your laws are dilatory. Two or three years, I am
told, often pass, before a verdict is had; and, sometimes,
five or six. Clients seldom pay in advance; and rarely,
I suppose, to young practitioners. How were you
to live?”

“I hardly knew; I confess. I thought of all that;
but I knew, that, to be great in anything, one must
confine himself to it. I was willing to be a lawyer;
a great one---and I knew, that I could not be that, and
an author too.”

“But did you love the law?”

“Love it!---yea....more truly, than Cæsar ever loved
war. It was a passion with me: is yet: and will be.
I love it, as the school of eloquence, power, dominion,
—the fountain of legislation, politicks—the trial place,
for senators and statesmen. Love it! Aye, next to

my God—as the only thing capable of purifying, and
exalting my nature—giving scope and elevation to my
faculties. Love it! What! Could I have sacrificed
every other passion, every other pursuit, every other
desire of excellence to it; and that too, with the chance
of starvation, at the threshold, had I not loved it!---worshipped
it.”

“But you continued to write.”

“I did not. I abandoned writing. And, when I returned
to it, it was when other men were revelling---
when all the world were asleep;--and then, not as to a
labour, or a study; but as to a relaxation. It was excitement
and intoxication to me---with the eye of God,
only, waking above me. I felt, under the blue midnight,
more of that heated and beautiful, passionate,
sweet thrilling, all through me, with my own pen in
my hand, and my paper before me, than other men, in
the banqueting hall; at the gambling table—the place
of dancing, dissipation, or festivity—yea, more than
them, that slept quietly, in the arms of beauty!”

“How could this be?”

“I'll tell you. Have you ever been sick—or imprisoned?”

“Aye; both.”

“Well....do you remember the tumult in your blood,
when you first came out upon the hills, and saw every
thing in motion about you....the tree tops....the grass
....the great waters....the birds....and the countenances
of men. Did you not see a thousand beauties, that
you never would have seen, had you not been sick and
in prison.”

“Undoubtedly....I felt like a disenthralled spirit
—I—.”

“Sir—William Adams. The man that goes out,
with a right nature, to worship his Maker, after he
has done all the duties of the day, to his fellow man—
meets with wonders and miracles, at every step. At
the beginning of the day, he hears armies in motion—
the four corners of heaven striking their tents. At
noon, he sees a world encompassed, by embracing
cherubim, whose plumage is what men call sunshine,

rolling over the unfathomable depth of heaven. At
sun-set, he sees the whole ocean, of a wine colour—
and more transparent, than any wine; and looking down
into it, with a miraculous organ—down, to the very
bottom—he sees the golden Serpent, and the green
Water-Dragon, evolving there, continually, among the
scarlet coral, and great rocks of carbuncles.—And at
night—O, God! what does he not see, when all the
stars of Jehovah are abroad, upon their mission! How
could this be? Because I husbanded my enjoyment.
It could well be—for I made these hours dear to
me, by variety. I bought them with pain, and toil,
and travail—the agony and throes of my intellect—
and I husbanded them, like an experienced voluptuary.”

“Did you visit?”

“No.”

“Frolick, in any way?”

“No—except on paper, and alone.”

“Had you no friends to visit you?”

“No—I would not permit it. My time was too precious.
I took a room, in the very outskirts of the town,
where most that knew me, were ashamed to come; and as
for other men, it was too far; and by too bad a road.
There, I lived, alone; walking into town, often, twice
or three times a day, loaded with books, like a pack
horse.”

“But—before I forget it—there were other men, like
these—and one, in particular, who knew me not; but
prompted by his own noble heart, knowing no evil of
me, but by report; and some good, of his own knowledge,
he had the manhood to come out, once, and
throw down his gauntlet, in an assembly of men, who
were bitterly prejudiced against me. I knew it not,
till afterward; but—I have not forgotten it—whatever
he may think.”

“But you spoke of your poetry—I have been reading
some of it since our last conversation,” said I.

“You have! and what do you think of it?”

“Not much. Don't be offended with me---but—”

“Offended with you! no, indeed; every man has a
right to his own opinion: and surely, you, who have

written poetry, have, at least, as good a right as another,
to express it, with freedom. Beside all that,
you are my friend; and, I might suspect your sincerity,
or partiality, or judgment, if you praised it.”

“You look a little angry, nevertheless—”

“Indeed, I hope not. I do not feel angry. I am
only very much in earnest. But you are not the first,
who have mistaken my exceeding earnestness, for
want of temper. However, now, that we are upon it;
allow me to tell you something, that may be of use to
you. You have not a pure taste in poetry; and you
want independence.”

“Oh!—just what I might have expected! That
judgment of me, is in retaliation. You say that I
want independence and taste, because I do not praise
your poetry!”

“Yes—precisely. I do not skulk at all from the
inference. I say, at once, that any man who can read
my poetry, without being carried away by it, now and
then, is neither a poet himself, nor a judge of poetry.
Don't look at me so. I am profoundly in earnest;---
the more so, I dare say, because, at this moment, I
do not care one fig about my reputation as a poet. I
forget myself, entirely.---I am talking of myself, precisely,
as I would, of another; as if I were an abstract
idea; and my poetry a mere supposition. Again, I
say, that if you do not tremble, and gasp, over some
passages in my poetry, that you are wholly destitute
of the poetical taste---or miserably deficient in courage,
(why do you start?) moral courage, I mean; and
independence. Nay---let me tell the plain truth.
You would think far more highly of what I have written,
if you did not know me, at all; or, only by sight.
And why? Because you wish to avoid the foolish
partiality of friendship; because you have seen the
senses of other men so blinded and perverted, by their
partiality, for one, whom they knew and loved, that
they could see no fault at all, in any thing that he did.
You, in avoiding that folly, have run into a far more
mischievous one. A truly independent nature would
be honest, bold, and discriminating; it would discover

faults and excellencies, alike, in every page, on account
of its own friendly anxiety and love, which
would never be discovered by the common reader.
I grant that fools praise indiscriminately. But wise
men never censure indiscriminately. It is always a
very easy thing to say, that such a work is wonderful,
or such a man great; but the difficulty is to point
to the very place—to put your finger upon it; where
the one is great, or the other wonderful. It were
easy to say, that a thing is marvellous; but the difficulty
lies in proving it---in giving a reason for it. You
are too indolent for either. Did you not know me;
and, were any thing that I have written, to fall in
your way, by accident---or, as coming from abroad,
you would entertain, altogether, a different opinion
of it.”

“You are mistaken, Hammond.”

“I am not mistaken. My friends have never been
able to endure any thing that I have ever written---
after they once knew that I had written it. My dearest
friends have thrown by, volume after volume, of
my prose and poetry; when they knew it to be mine;
with an alacrity exactly in proportion to their certainty
of its being mine. It is really true. When I
have been praised, in every case, it has been by people,
altogether unknown to me; whose faces I had never
seen; whose names I had never heard. But I
have been most cruelly abused, and admonished---
privately, and publickly, by my avowed friends---most
of whom had the impudence, to declare, at the same
time---as if to give their criticism, all the weight that
they could; that they loved and admired, and respected
me!---while they damned my writing. Only once or
twice, have I been spoken highly of, by any personal
acquaintance; or any critick, after he came to know
any thing of me, apart from my works. In general,
I have never permitted them---and, in no case, have I
ever requested them, or anybody, to praise me, or ever
speak of me. No—I am wrong, I have twice requested
people to show me no mercy.”

“I could tell you some pleasant things of this
kind. Perhaps they are afraid of spoiling me—

of turning my head, by praise. Ah, they little know,
me, if they think that any body could raise me in my
own opinion, in any way. I wrote a poem once. A
perfect stranger, a man of great talent, but no judge of
poetry, spoke in the highest terms of it—and, particularly,
of the preface—while another, at the same moment,
who happened to know me, denounced the preface
as the very devil, for wretched writing—and the
poetry, as not much better. With the former, I afterwards
became somewhat acquainted; and lost his good
opinion by it,—while the first, who did'nt happen to
see me, for a long time, came to have the highest regard
for me! I then wrote a tragedy. The former
looked at it—his heart failed him—he praised it—but,
much as if it went against his conscience. I wrote several
other matters, most of which he took no notice
at all of, and the rest, he stigmatised, as the most
wretched abortions. Why?—because he was my
friend!—because he had'nt the courage to see merit and
power in a friend; because he could'nt believe in the
greatness of a companion; and, because he was afraid
to encounter the ridicule of the world, for supposed
partiality. So, with twenty other works. My own
personal friends—the best of them—would never read
them—because they know me, and love me, and respect
me! My only sister has done little else, than weep
and blush, for me, ever since I began to write; and my
own mother could never get through a short poem of
mine, written chiefly to please her—because, she was
afraid of her own judgment—and dared not believe the
thrilling, that she felt in her blood, to be any thing but
a maternal solicitude and partiality—the yearning of
natural weakness, for the offspring of her own child;
while other people, strangers to me, and to her—read it
with rapture and amazement. So, with a multitude of
things. I have been most extravagantly praised by
the first men of the age—perfect strangers to me, in
every case—some of whom, I have, afterward, come to
know—and, in every instance—as they have learned
to love and respect me—they have thought proper to
love and respect my writing less and less!—by way of
proving their own exceeding impartiality, and independence.”

“You have written a good deal?”

“Yes—for a man of my age—for I was old, when I
began to write.”

“Let me know something about this. You have
done with poetry, you say—what do you mean?”

“That I have abandoned it.”

“Why?”

“Because one cannot be both a poet, and a lawyer;
and—and the fame of the lawyer, is a nobler object for
ambition, than—”

“Than that of the poet! Gracious heaven!—a lawyer!
greater than a poet!”

“Aye, than any poet that ever lived. I would rather
deserve the reputation of a great lawyer, than to unite,
in my own proper person, all the fame, of all the greatest
poets, that have ever lived!”

“You are mad, Hammond. The greatest lawyer
is soon forgotten; the great poet, never.”

“Poh!—nonsense. That is the common slang of
the day. Great lawyers are never forgotten—or Lawyers,
I might say; for no man can be a lawyer, without
being great—Attorneys, Conveyancers are forgotten:
Lawyers are not....Counsellers....Advocates are
not.”

“You have abandoned poetry, then?”

“Yes—”

“But, how do you mean. Have you abandoned writing
it?”

“Yes—”

“It is a shame.”

“No—it is not. It is right.”

“It was a passion with you—was it not?”

“True—but a subordinate passion; one, that I immolated
to a nobler one.”

“Why?—”

“Because, people said that I could not.”

“The spirit of contradiction, then.”

“Humph—”

“Had it much influence with you?”

“Omnipotent. It has made me what I am—and will
make me, all that I shall ever be. They said, that I
could not sit still. I sat, till I almost grew to my seat.
They said that I could not study. I studied, till I
was almost blind. They said, that I was shamefully
deficient in patience. I made an index to a work of
twelve octavo volumes of—of—heaven knows what. I
only know, that they contain the substance of every
thing, that had transpired in heaven and earth, for some
years; and would have made about twenty or thirty
common volumes of history; and had actually worn
out the patience of three predecessors—and driven the
most patient man of the age to despair—the most laborious
work of the kind, I do believe, that was ever
done by man. They thought me presumptuous, because
I dared to give an opinion, of poetry and painters.
I entered the lists—wrote criticism—poetry,
novels, plays, sermons, law, physick, and divinity.”

“But you will write more poetry?”

“And publish it?—”

“Yes.”

“Never. I may write, one day or other, when, the
moon changes, as other men get drunk, for exhilaration;
but never seriously; and I shan't publish. That I shall
leave to the consciences of my administrators—or to
their courage, I might say.”

“I do not believe you. You cannot leave it off.”

“Others have told me the same thing. But I have
done with it—: cannot—pshaw!”

“You, done with it! when your very language is full
of it—full, even in conversation.”

“Is it!---I am sorry for it. You pay me no compliment.
It is childish. No---you are mistaken. You
never heard it, in argument, from me---never.”

I saw that he was perfectly sincere; and yet, it seemed
to me, hardly possible, that one could disdain a gift
like that—and I said so.

“A gift! nonsense. Poetry is no gift. It is only a
little quicker sensibility than common;—more irritability
of nerve—a more inflammatory system.”

“But the rapidity and beauty of combination, the—”
“O, don't bother yourself about poetry, William. You

know little or nothing about it. It is a disease. Some
minds, there are, into which, when a thought enters, it
is always, with a battalion of associations.—All their
peculiarities can be accounted for, by a little more
physical sensibility than common.'

“What!—Are all men poets, who have this kind of
sensibility?”

“No, not at all poets—but poets, painters, musicians,
orators—or of some other profession, where
judgment, patience, wisdom, and perseverance, are
not most wanted;—not mathematicians, theologians
logicians, nor mechanicks.”

“I have read your preface—what a rigmarole it is!”

He laughed heartily. “You are right—entirely
right. Yet it is a pretty fair transcript of my usual
conversation:—nay, perhaps, of my character, at that
time. One that knew me well—and blushed and
wept, in reading it, said so.”

“You appeared to talk from your heart; but such vanity—such
presumption!”

“True—I was vain, then; and am not much humbler,
now. But, I havemore cunning; and perhaps, more
wisdom, now. One thing, however, I must tell you.
When I wrote that preface, originally, it contained only
twelve or fifteen pages: but it lay on my table, for
some weeks, waiting for the press. In the mean
time, my eye would glance over it, now and then,
when I was worn out with study—and sat lolling at the
wall—and I would add an occasional note, on the blank
side; for, in writing for the press, I write only on one
side of the paper.”

“These notes gradually accumulated to the size of
their present shape; but, unluckily, my references were
omitted, as the printer was—like other printers, none
of the wisest—and printed text and context, margin
and commentary, pell mell, altogether, page after page.
I am, naturally, the most patient of men; and very amiable—very—and
full of expedients. So, I went to work;
and, by splicing in a sentence, here; dove-tailing a
phrase there; and lopping off another here, I succeeded
in reducing the fracture, or dislocation, to its present
shape.”

“But what, in the name of heaven, could induce you
to tell the story of your disgrace in Philadelphia?”

“Hark'ee Adams. It has always been a maxim
with me, if I run my head against a post, to be the
first to laugh. If I had not told the story, some body
else would, and it would have stuck to me, like a mortal
discomfiture, to my dying day:—whereas, now, it
is altogether the reverse. It is now a thousand times
more disgraceful, to the Athenians, than to me. Yet,
I cannot deny the justice of your censure. Several of
my best friends were unable to read the preface
through; and my own mother locked up the whole
book, with tears in her eyes, when she received it, and
would not let it go abroad, till she had received good
evidence from me, that the confession was my own;
and that it was no counterfeit or forgery; and had not
been racked out of me by terrour or madness.”

“But how beneath your dignity!”

“Dignity! Talk to me of dignity---why! if the
Philadelphians had been left to tell the story, in their
own way, I should never have stood upright---you
smile---I do not mean in body, William Adams, but in
soul—again, while I had life in me:---and so too, if I
had told it with diguity.”

“But what good effect had it?”

“What good effect! I`ll tell you. It made some of
them ashamed of themselves, and of the city---and
some laugh heartily at themselves, and at the book;
but nobody, at me. That was all that I wanted.”

“Nay, it did more. It made me some warm
friends there; set them to thinking upon their arrogance
and pretension---and, best of all, drove one of
their reviewers, to a course, that I had been three years
battling with them about---a recantation of a vile and
malignant attack upon the poetry of a friend: (it was
handsomely made;) and a slight, very slight, timid, but
respectful notice of my poem, at the tail end of some
other. I smiled---for I saw what it was meant for---
a playing off---a sort of a dash and somerset to begin
with;—something in the way of magnanimity, to set
off a new journal with. Nay---that was not all; for a

man who wrote a satire in Athens upon the American
Bards, was simple enough to pay me a compliment or
two, partly in prose, and partly in poetry, Philadelphian
as he was---for which I thank him;---though I
do assure you that his praise was far less than enough,
to counterbalance the censure of a scape-gallows poet, of
the west, whose book I have never yet seen; though I
have striven mightily; and am told that he has cut me
up root and branch---and that Mr. Southwick, of the
Plow-Boy, had entered the lists, on my behalf. But
I have met with an extract from it; and, really,
painful as it is I am obliged to confess, that---that he
seems a devilish off hand sort of a fellow, though my
friends wont think of such a thing.”

He stopped, and looked at his watch—“Take a bed in
the next room, William, will you? and, to-morrow, I
will finish,” said he. “You don't know what to make
of me, yet. I do not wonder. I am so exceedingly
like yourself---contradictory---incomprehensible.”