 | CHAPTER VII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
The duel...Black hair, turned gray...Reflections...Effect of
study...Futurity...Temptation...Profanity...First love...........
Pleasures of the country...Catterpillars and cream...Coquettry...Jealousy...Revenge...Joe...Divorce...Friendship!
We met, according to appointment.
“I promised to tell you,” said Hammond, slowly,
after a silence of half an hour; during which, we had
set together in his chamber, till it had grown so dark,
that we could not see each other's faces; and just then,
the door suddenly opened.”
“A man entered, and began stirring the fire—“leave
it,” said Hammond—“begone, and leave it.”
“Shall I bring a light, sir?” said the servant, in a
tremulous voice.
“No—begone.”
“No light!” said I, involuntarily.
“No light!” echoed Hammond—“are you afraid of
the dark?”
I know not what I was afraid of; but, I confess, that
I did not much like the opening of the story. Was he
afraid to let me see his face, while he told it? I was
very silent; and he began.
“I promised to tell you,” said he, in a voice so deep
and sepulchral, that I should not have known it, had I
heard it in another place; and then he stopped.
I waited some minutes—oppressed with an unaccountable
sensation—to hear it again;—and, at last,
his breathing had become so loud, as to alarm me.
“Hammond!” said I, going to him, and laying my
hand upon his head—“dear Hammond—speak to me—
what ails you? What has happened?”
He tore away his locked fingers, from his forehead;
sprung upon his feet, with a cry of horrour; and pressed
my hands, to his heart; as if he would crush them, bone
and joint. I could hardly suppress a shriek—and, I
observed, that his palms were wet, as if he had been
the Dwarf; said I, to myself—O, no—it is only sweat,
or blood—it cannot be tears.
“Hammond!” I said, again to him, as I really felt,
affectionately.
He attempted to rise—staggered---and fell back into
his seat. “What! what!—was it only you, William;”
said he, “only you! Give me your hand!—
here! here! (placing it upon his temples, among the
damp hair) do you feel any moisture there?”
“Yes—the flesh is wet, and the hair saturated.”
“Locks of the raven, boy—locks of the raven!—
black, and glossy, as her wing—yet—William Adams,
they have been touched—there are grey spots upon
them—ha!—ha!”
He was choking.
“Grey spots, my boy; in the form, too, of a human
hand!”
I shuddered at his voice—and I remembered a
strange appearance upon one side of his head, where
there were several grey locks, lying amid the jet black
hair.
`How happened it?” said I—with a feeling of mysterious
gloom, that I cannot describe.
“Happened it! He came to my bed side, at night,
and stood there—and put his cold hand, deliberately,
upon my head—and all the moisture of my brain fled
from the pressure. I awoke!—and the feeling of the
hand, as of cold iron, was there, yet—and—damn it,
how your teeth chatter—what are you afraid of! Have
you, blood upon your hands? For shame—for shame.
Look at me—you see how I bear it. I went to bed,
with locks black, black as the plumage of the raven—
“black as death.”—I arose, the next day, with grey
hair upon my temples—I—”
I remembered, now, that Elizabeth had told me,
never to speak of that appearance; and, dark as it was,
I fancied that I could see the livid hand of the spectre,
there yet, like an impression upon wax.
“It was not grief—nor sorrow—nor old age, that
did it,” said the Dwarf, almost inarticulate, and sobbing,
my sleep, and hooped my heart round, and my temples,
with rough iron, till I feared to breathe, lest I should
be lacerated.---I knew it all---saw it all--the whole
process, through my shut eyelids; and, on the morning,
when I awoke---I was an old man.”
Upon my soul, I could have fallen upon the creature's
bosom, and wept aloud, at the sound of his
voice. It was like something martial, and alarming,
when he began---but, when he ended—ah, it was the
mournful, sweet, melancholy, wailing of a fond heart,
broken---not the voice of complaint; but the noise of
one bleeding to death inwardly.
I was willing to turn off his thought from the affliction;—but
no—he spoke bitterly, like one that could
read my thought, and pity it.
“Presently,” said he—“presently. Let us talk of
something else, awhile. Only one thing, upon this
earth can disturb me—talk to me---say something---
any thing---talk!—will you?”
“You are disordered, Hammond,” said I—“You
have studied, till your nerves are all vibrating with
over tension.”
“Oh, no—no, you are mistaken. My time of hard
study has gone by.”
“But you do study all day long, and nearly all the
night. Depend upon it—that—”
“I understand you. You would say that continual,
and temperate acquisitions of knowledge, are better
than those made by violence, and suddenness. Who are
the wise, and rich?—they that have been a long while,
in amassing their wisdom, and wealth. Yes—I have
overworked myself. I shall do better. My new plan
of study is better.”
“What is it?”
“To take up a title in the law; and read every thing
upon it, good, bad, and indifferent, that has been written;
and make my comments while I proceed—this enables
me to detect innumerable errours.”
“But, it will destroy you.”
“No—I first do my professional business. That is
the first thing. Then, I read a certain number of pages in
the law: and then, the rest of the day is my own, to employ
on miscellany, composition, or languages.”
His tone grew more eager and natural, as he
proceeded, like one that tries to keep up some delusion,
and cheat away the time.
“But I cannot understand, how it is possible, to read
so fast.”
“Habit—practice—nothing more. I have read a volume
of poetry through: and written a review of it,
while another was writing a letter, at the same table;
and I finished, before he did.”
“But how do you get over the pages? You skip
some.”
“Not a syllable. Give me a book—let there be any
false English, or even a letter upside down; and I
will discover it, as soon as you. I cannot pass it. That
is a proof that I not only read every word, but every
letter. You pronounce every word, in reading to yourself—do
you not?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well—then you cannot read any more to
yourself, in a day, than if you read aloud. Now, I can
read five times as much.”
`Not pronounce your words!”
“No—and what will astonish you yet more, my eye
is in advance of my thought, a whole sentence at a
time. You smile. Are not your eyes, in reading, always
in advance of your voice? Certainly. But how
much? That depends upon your practice. I can read
to myself at least, five times as fast, as I can read aloud.
I save all the cadence, articulation and pauses.”
“The more that you read, the more will your eye take
in, at a glance, from letters to sentences. The child,
when it begins, can never see beyond the very letter,
which it is made to pronounce. After a little time, it
sees a whole syllable, with the same glance; then, a word
—and, finally, more and more, until it can take in a
whole line, as easily as it once could a syllable. So it
is with me. I read by sentences; and yet, nothing escapes
you will find it quite as intelligible—as your story
would be, to the reader, who is only able to spell. if
you should tell him, that you can see whole words at
once. He would not believe you. You cannot believe
me. But why do you look at me so earnestly; your eyes
are full of compassion and anxipty.—I—.”
“I am sure, my dear Hammond,” said I, deeply affected
at the manner—it was so like one trying to
drive away sorrow and madness, by an affected hilarity,
“that you are nervous, from excessive application.”
“No—No, I am not, nervous! Albert Hammond
nervous! No—no, it is something worse than that—but
talk—talk—talk—as fast as you can—my blood is
curdling—come nearer—yes, yes—hush!—do you hear
nothing—Ah!—what is that? There! there!—Hush! I
told you so—now you will believe me!—Hush! hush!”
As he said this, he leaped upright—and I—I knew
not where I was! I felt all the childish terrour of a nursery.
“Hammond!” said I, feigning to be indignant,
while in truth, I was frightened; “Come back!—come
back! and let us reason together, like men—what is
this?”
“What!—did he not touch you!—didn't you feel the
hand?”
Some minutes passed, before I could prevail upon
him to sit down. I stirred the fire then; and his countenance
in the red flashing of the embers, when the disturbed
sparks rushed, like a torrent of fire, up the
chimney, was frightful and appalling. Had the devil
himself, been there, he could not have set more naturally
upon his haunches; or looked through his huge
knotted fingers, with more fiery and troubled eyes.
“Thunder and lightning!—did I not tell you!”
As he said this, he plucked out a handful of his hair and
threw it upon the red hot coals; a quick flash followed.
I began to stir the fire.
“Let the fire alone! will you,” he cried.
I was angry.
“Hammond,” said I, “you are mad.”
“And you would leave me,” he replied, in a voice
that went into my heart.---“I did'nt leave you, William,
when you were mad. No, I am not mad. Sit
down and listen to me, patiently. You ought not to
have stirred the fire. It is about his hour; and he might
have been near us, you know. But fear nothing, now
---he is appeased---they are appeased---the hair quieted
them:---No, no, never stir the fire, when you are with
me, at this hour. Why don't you talk? Do talk, William.”
I felt assured now, that he was disordered;---but, as
I had been so, myself, I attempted, for half an hour, to
lead him into some kind of conversation, that would interest
him; but, all the time, he held my hand like a
vice, to his bosom;---and his breath came out, as from
the furnace of an overlabouring heart.
“I shall be obliged to leave you,” said I, at last—
The pressure grew tighter. “I am sure that I have
now found the cause of your illness. Law will be your
destruction. Will you write me, after I am gone?”
“Yes.”
“May I depend upon it?”
He threw away my hand—“May you depend upon
it!—I—“Look you,” said he, recovering his natural
manner, for a moment---“I have told you that I
love you---and respect you. Is that enough? If I appear
to neglect you, it will be appearance only. Do
not misunderstand me. I do not say it, to appease you.
You are my friend. I know it—I feel it. Would you
not rather see me ten or twenty years hence—a”—
“You talk very calmly of ten or twenty years.”
“I am obliged to talk calmly of it. It is the end of
my covenant. I am ready to die, then. Do you think
that great men are made in less time than rich ones?---
great statesmen, in less time, than good tailors, or bricklayers?
Twenty years are little time enough, to make
any man master of any trade; and I won't be an understrapper
all my life. Would you not rather see me, ten
or twenty years hence, occupying a higher station in
the world, as an honest and able man (I do not say lawyer,
lest you should think it a contradiction in terms)
less frequently; than to see me in an humbler situation,
in consequence of a more frequent indulgence, in
what is really my chiefest pleasure, conversing with
them that I love, either with my mouth, or pen?”
“Yes.”
“Let me go on then, as I am going, night and day; and
give yourself credit for the relinquishment of a portion of
your own right, in favour of friendship and ambition.”
The moon now arose, in a troubled, and beautiful sky,
full of scudding and tumultuous clouds; hurrying over
the fathomless blue, like a great fleet, driven over the
ocean, in a hurricane. I could just see his outline---
and movement---but nothing of his features, where he
sat. The whole earth too, was covered with new fallen
snow.
“How beautiful!” he cried---`the gallant moon, and
the innumerable stars---the deep serenity of the revolving
heaven---the profound repose of the whole earth----
the hushed and awful spirit of the universe;—all creation
holding its breath before God. Lord! what is man,
that thou art mindful of him.”
Never before had my heart heaved, in worship, as
it did then, while the voice of Hammond arose, louder
and louder, in the darkness, like one dreaming in his
sleep; or praying inwardly.
“Go on, for mercy sake, dear Hammond,” said I, “I
could sit, and listen to you, for ever.”
“No, no, I dare not, in truth, William. I dare not.
He is there; there, in the presence of the Almighty, standing
upon the wind. No, no—I dare not uncase my
heart again. I dare not unbuckle the harness, and ligatures
about it, lest it should sunder, and fall apart,
for ever. No, I must keep it ribbed in armour; ironed all
around; be temperate, very temperate all my days, and
labour to make up for lost time; and recover, if I can,
the wasted hours of my youth. I am growing old,
William Adams; and I would not willingly die, till I
had done something, to show my gratitude to God, for
all that hath happened to me, whether in affliction,
shame, or humiliation. And if I do—O, if ever a man
were upheaved; and the spirit of a buried man ever came
out, to weep for his transgression, and shudder in the
cold moonlight—mine will! So, if for no other reason,
I pray heaven to spare me yet a little while, and my
friends to have compassion upon me.—Come! come!
talk!”
“But why, dear Hammond,” said I, “why devote
all your faculties to the law? May I talk upon that?”
“To the law! No, I do not. I will not. But, by
this I mean, (speaking very rapidly,) statutes, precedents,
reports and commentaries. To them, I shall not
confine myself. But to law, in its magnificence and
amplitude—covering all the earth alike, just as that
snow there—the mountain and the valley, the rich and
the poor—to that, I shall; for, to my thought, every earthe
ly science and accomplishment may be made subordinate
to the consummation of a lawyer, and advocate. Nay,
other studies are a relaxation; and, the worn and jaded
mind, which might, otherwise, tire itself with inaction;
or slumber away its power, under pretence of recruiting
it, after a day of toil upon the law, will find comfort,
warmth, aliment and exhilaration, in lighter and more
passionate studies.”
“But why not write? Why not give to us, annually,
some work of the imagination—the mere revelling of
your leisure hours?”
“Perhaps I shall—I am constantly writing.”
“Yes—but I do not mean matter of law, or history,
or politicks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Poetry.”
“Poetry!—(he laughed scornfully) “my oath, William,
my oath! No, I shall never publish any more
poetry.”
“But you will write it?”
“Perhaps I may.”
“You have written.”
“Not a line, since I said that I would not write any more,
Indeed, William, the thought will run through my heart,
now and then, with a sweet, brief ripple, thrilling, that
write poetry. And I have nearly resolved, to set about
something in prose, merely as a sort of receiver for the luxuriant
vegetation, and brilliant herbage, that will spring
up, you know, in hot hearts, when left untrodden a long
time, to fatten with corruption.”
“I hope you will, by heaven!” said I.
“Nay, do not swear.”
“That is not swearing—it is—at any rate, not profanity,
but devotion. But you talk of swearing, you!
Advice comes with a good grace from you, to be sure.”
“Why should it not?” said he. “Who has a larger
fund unappropriated than I. It has been accumulating
for years. Shall I regard it as a special deposit,
neither to be used, nor circulated. No—I prefer putting
it abroad—it may profit my neighbour, though
it should'nt me.”
“But you are very profane,” said I, “I am glad that
you mentioned it. You make my blood run cold sometimes.”
“Do I? I am sorry for it. I used to be terribly so,
William; and I shake when I look back on the fierce blasphemy,
that I have uttered—once, in particular, when
the heavens were all on fire; and I saw my own shadow
in the clear water below me—I wonder that the blue
lightnings had not rushed into my heart, all at once,
and exploded there. Yes—and once too, when I was
rebuked for it, foolishly, by one that had no authority;
and less diguity; and threatened too—I, I remember
that I took out my watch, in defiance; and swore, till
I was hoarse and black in the face; but that was the end
of it. I, afterward, resolved to break myself of it; and gave
them that knew me, full leave to strike me, where ever
I was, as hard as they pleased, and when they pleased,
whenever I committed an oath. They were glad of
the chance, I do assure you; and, before the week was
out, I was beaten black and blue; for I had an account to
settle with each, every day; and often for the same oath.”
“You will write then,” said I.
“I may.—If I should attempt any thing of the sort,
it will startle you, I am sure. You know my ambition.
and shuttlecock of the fancy. I know not what I
may do; my time is constantly taken up; and I shall
never neg ect my business; but, as I trifle none of it
away; and write, I believe, with unprecedented facility,
it is possible that I may attempt something in the way
of a novel, or a history, or law, or physick; or divinity.
So don't be terrified, if you should chance to detect me,
in any thing new, at home, or abroad. Yes—I will
write you, if we part—whenever my heart is full. You
will remember me, as I shall you. Do that, and it is
all that I ask—William.”
I started broad awake. I looked all about the room.
Yes, it was the voice of Hammond; but how different—
my blood tingled with it. “Say on,” said I.
“You asked me, if I were ever in love. Let me tell
you the truth. I have been---once, devotedly---and
two or three times, after a fashion.”
“The old malady!” said I; “the true love of a woman,
who never loves but one—at a time. You are a believer
in first love, I suppose.”
“Of course.”
“That they are eternal!”
“Certainly.—Why what a heretick you are!”
I was delighted, at the result of my efforts, and determined
to keep him, for a time, away from the subject,
that had brought us together; and, if I succeeded,
never again, upon this earth, to mention the duel or
the hair, in his presence.”
“But how do you manage,” said I. “How many first
loves can a person have?”
“O, the number is unlimited; but then, you can only
love one at a time! Thus, I love to-day—I am a woman—I
love, with all my heart and soul; that is my
first love; and, of course, eternal; but, a year afterward,
I love again. I love differently; for, the passion
is never twice alike; O, then I find that I was mistaken
before. I thought myself in love; but I was
not then; now I am. But a third—a fourth—a hundredth
happens; and the first love will always be found,
by a beautiful confusion of speech, common enough
that I am profoundly orthodox—the creed at my finger-end—tenets,
doctrine and all.”
“You are very bitter;” said I.
“Bitter!—poh—how can one be bitter upon women?
Is not a woman's last love, always, her first love?”
“Shall I tell you what one, that knows you, has said
of you?”
“No—I don't desire to hear it. Why did she tell
you? That it might reach me. She might as well
have told me to my face.”
“Nay—be patient—it is no mighty matter, after all.
She says that one would think, to hear you speak of women,
sometimes, that they were your scorn and detestation;
but that, at your heart, no human being was ever
so passionately devoted to them—none so true to them,
in trial, and in—”
“Stop!” cried a voice, close to my ear. I looked up.
An ugly shape stood frowning, with his face almost
touching mine. It was Hammond—but convulsed from
head to foot.
“Stop!” said he, more mildly. “There is only one woman,
upon the round earth, capable of saying that; and
I will not hear her named now. I—”
He stopped for a moment; turned round, facing the
sweet moon; and, crossing his arms over the back of
his high chair, sat down, resting his chin upon them.
I watched every motion—he would twist and writhe, at
such moments, as if he had'nt a bone in him; and, oftentimes,
I have wondered how he managed to get his legs
and arms entangled, as I have seen them, when they
were all in a snarl; knotted and intertwined, like fat serpents.
He had the faculty too, I have half persuaded myself,
of dilating; or, rather, of extending and contracting
them, like earth-worms, at pleasure; for, I have seen
him suddenly start up, and swing his arms about, like a
tall man—and then, bundle them up in his bosom like
coiled rattle-snakes.”
“You know,” said he, slowly, “that I am not remarkable
for personal beauty. But it has now and then so
happened—curse it, how I hate to talk of such things—
but you must know me, thoroughly; and I will tell
life, that women have been in love with me. William
Adams, you are laughing at me.”
“No.”
“You are—I can tell by your breathing.”
“'Pon my honour, I am not. I have known stranger
things.”
“Yes—women have loved blackamoors—apes—fourfooted
beasts. William, the breath rattles in your nostrils—but—but—one
evening, I happened to meet a
strange little girl, with melancholy, dark eyes, &c. &c.
&c.—that had been deeply in love.”
“I was in exactly the humour for trying an experiment.
I had heard, that the heart, sore with recent
disappointment, is most susceptible; that, once inhabited
by love—the heart of a woman cannot remain vacant;
that, the chambers of the soul, will be filled, after
one riot has been had in them; that the incense and
warmth of love, once felt, the spirit of woman lies with
its mouth open, and eyes shut, and hushed heart, for
ever and ever—contented, with no other nourishment,
than love. Is it so? you have had experience.”
“It is.”
“I believe you; and, so far as my little experience
may go, I would prefer attacking the proud heart, when
first humbled; the sore one, when just crushed, and
smitten---the cold one, in its first thaw; the tender one,
in its first weeping, than at any other time; that is---I
would prefer to be the successour of him, that had first
smitten, crushed, thawed, humbled or distressed it.”
“If you were in pursuit of a heroine”---said I.
“Aye---or a woman.”
“But not a wife. The women of Byron, for instance.”
“O, no,” he replied; “the women of Byron---poh!
they are women for mistresses---not for wives. Byron
has no idea of that sweet, holy, mute, fervour—that
passionate stillness of a pure heart—that, which carries
a woman, with the untrusted, untold, unhinted affliction
of her heart, into the grave—that!---O, I have seen
it!---her heart was breaking, but her mouth was patient
as death.”
“Go on;” said I; and my own tears fell upon my hand.
“Well, well---I frightened that sweet girl. But soon
after, there was such a melancholy loneliness in her
eyes; her hair was so wonderfully dark and beautiful,
in its wet luxuriance---her foot was so pretty---her
round, sweet voice, so touching and plaintive---curse
it, William, I can't go on—I—”
“Don't swear.”
“Well then, I won't. At first, as was very natural,
she shuddered a little, when the flesh of our hands
touched but, after a time, she began to tolerate it. And
one Sunday she suffered me to hobble along by her
side, in company with one other couple, an amiable,
quiet woman, and a red headed fellow; and to sit by
her under a tree, for an hour or two. I contrived---
it was like filing off one's own fetters with a jack-knife
---to cut the initials of her name, and my own (so that
no human being could decypher them) upon that tree,
beneath which we sat. She was marvellously disposed
to be sentimental; and the dirty green puddle at
our feet, stagnant with vegetable corruption; and
swarming with insects and vermin, we contrived to
pass off, upon our own senses, for a rivulet of blue
crystal; and the damp turf---with the loose earth,
and a tree full of bugs and spiders, over our head, for
all that is beautiful in a country life. You have been
in the country—after a long anticipation—with the
holiest passion for rural comfort. Did'nt you feel, as
if you had been running yourself to death, when hard
pushed for money, to drive some slow winded fellow,
to an adjustment of accounts---and then found---look
me in the face, will you---that you were the debtor.
How like going to enjoy yourself in the country! You
are obliged to be delighted, enraptured with it, you
know---to be orthodox---or you never will be permitted
to open your mouth again, in the company of women---or
to talk of a novel, a poem, or love.”
“Wading through loose earth, high corn, and wet
grass, after berries,” said I.
“Aye, and visiting, on some great, unmanageable,
and hard trotting horse, or afoot, over cornfields, and
living in the next county.”
“And then, led out to take tea, under what is called
a bower---an arbour, or some such contrivance,
dripping with wet, or smothering you with dust, at every
blast of the wind---and wormeaten leaves, or
worms.”
“And bugs, and musquitoes,” I added.
“Catterpillars and cream---colds, catarrhs---and
rain storms---no books---no conversation---no company---no
news---no fresh meat, no market.”
“Let them that like it, live in the country—eternally—if
they can,” continued he. “But, let me
leave it, now. In time, this girl began to exhibit
symptoms that alarmed me, whenever I approached
her.”
“Agitated---terrified! I suppose,” said I---“very natural.”
“What! quizzing me Adams---by heaven, you
had better set your foot upon a bed of live coals.”
“Patience, man—don't get in a passion.”
As I spoke, the moon broke out, all at once, from
the sky, as if she were descending---shone all over his
face; and I sat, with my hands upraised, to wonder at
his countenance. It was pale as death; and his blood-coloured
lips were wet and glittering.
“In time, I began to tremble too. She was imprudent;
and I had just come enough to my senses, to feel
that I was dancing upon a precipice. Prepare yourself.
I am cautious---not easily deceived---care little
for the love of woman---of some women, I mean. Are
you prepared?”
“I am.”
“She loved me!—nay, do not move your hands. I
can see you biting your lip. You do not believe it
possible. But—it is true---ugly as I am, that beautiful
creature loved me, truly, passionately;---not, I am
sure, as she had loved a scoundrel before, that toyed
and trifled with her innocence---breathed poison upon
her lips,---and death into her heart; but, with a love,
such as I would wish to inspire in a wife; with awe
and tenderness. I was very sure of her—and I began
if it were lawful to perpetuate a breed of monsters
—what will not love do!—I persuaded myself that
it was. But her heart—could I trust to it? Her head
---was it such a head, as I should be proud to see, one
day or other, ruling my household; educating my children?—Don't
laugh, William, I cannot bear it---you
are thinking what they would look like.---I'll tell you
—like over-grown toads, squatting about the nursery---
I know it. Yet---I doubt if there might not be some
pleasure in begetting toads---as much at least, as in
begetting slaves---like your Virginians.”
“What do you mean, sir?”—said I, in a heat—
“Sir—I mean this; that your young Virginians, when
hard pushed for money, will run in debt, on a credit of
nine months; and get all their renewals for nine months.”
“And what do you infer from that?”
“This---that they may pay in stock”—
“Stock---what is your meaning?”—
“Their own flesh and blood, man.—Damn it, William
Adams, don't I know the Virginians?—Don't
Iknow that the best blood among them, has mulattoes
and quadroons, for half brothers and sisters.—”
“Hav'nt I seen a fellow there, gambling for his own
children—deliberately sinning, that the fruit of his
sin, might be born in season, to meet a note? Have I
not seen mother, and babe, at the breast---sold---at
publick auction! Gracious God!—what a state of
morality? Do you wonder that a man, humpbacked,
and hateful as I am, should have a passionate longing
to perpetuate himself; to give an inheritance so hateful,
to the innocent and beautiful, unembodied, and unappropriated
spirits about us;—as that a stout hearted
Virginian, high in blood, and ready to die for religion
and liberty---should sell the fruit of his own loins to
slavery?”—
“Well---well—go on,” said I---“how did your love
affair terminate?”
“I'll tell you. Just when I felt quite secure of her,
that red headed fellow, who, I had told her once (with
her own approbation) was a fool—cut me out. She
had engaged to go into the country, about a dozen
could not---for, on horseback, I have an unlucky aspect—in
the day light. But I agreed to meet her, on
her return, in the evening, by accident. I set out, in
season:---but, missing stays on my road; stumbled, and
swore; and finally, came back to a house, that I had
passed an hour before, to inquire the way. I hitched
my mare at the gate, and waddled up to the door---the
dog set upon me, of course—the very geese and cats—
and the poor mare, terrified, perhaps, at my shadow;
for, like Alexander, I had not dared to let her see it,
when I mounted her—slipped her bridle, and set off,
on a fine, free gallop, into the wood. Nothing could
have been more opportune. I am quite a philosopher,
at such moments. So,---I set off after her, half determined
to cut her throat, or beat out her brains; but
how could I?—was'nt I in love?—and since Petruchio's
time, there has been little efficacy or sentiment in such
freaks. After some difficulty, I overtook the animal;
forgave her; mounted; and pursued my way, just exactly
in the pleasantest humour, that ever man was in.
I soon met the party---Mary Anne had a beau at her
side. We exchanged salutation---but hers---bless her
foolish heart!----was quite too stately and freezing
---and, no matter what---it sent a chill to my heart:
and, I was half a dozen times, on the point of setting off
in another direction; but I forebore, and, on we rode,
side by side, without speaking one word, till we arrived
at the gate.”
“Good night!” said I, sullenly wheeling my horse.
“Good night, sir,” said she, with a cold peevishness.
“Home I went---and spent, you may be sure, a rather
uncomfortable night. The next day, I was unable to
think of anything but red hair; and “good night, sir.”
Yet, I was not of a nature to be trifled with; and could
I have been sure, that she did not care a fig for me---I
should have done one of two things, before I slept—
strangled her red-haired lover—or looked her, in the
face, once---but once---and left her, for ever. But I
was in doubt. “Perhaps,” I said to myself---O, how
I have wounded her—let me give her an opportunity
to tell me so—and then, if we must part---why, let us
part.”
“So, the next night, I went again. Red-head was
there; and with that beautiful tact; that instinct of coquetry,
with which women are born;-- that, which
will set a babe at the breast, if a female, twinkling
with her eye, and hiding her head, while a great lubber
of a boy will look you full in the face, with a stupid
honesty---she began, immediately, to be particularly
attentive and delicate to Red-head, after the fashion
of the very few heroines that she had ever read of----
calling him aside, to say nothing to him, in a whisper;
giving him flowers---with a mysterious word or two---
hang him!—”
“All that was foreign to my taste---in my situation,
I mean---how it would have been, in his, I know not---and
when I had born it quite long enough, I bade her good
night, in earnest.”
“About a week after, while I was yet sore---confoundedly
sore, I heard that she had accepted a ring
from Red-head; and was engaged to be married to him.”
“I staggered, or rather, my heart did---within me,
at the news. It was not that I cared so much about
losing her---or that another should win her. But, it
was, that I had lost her in such a way; and to such a
fool. At first, I thought of counteracting it:---but
that, I soon found, to be unworthy of me; a few hot,
hot, scalding tears fell from my eyes,---when I thought
how mightily I had been abused;---how deeply I had
loved her---and how utterly unworthy of my love, she
had been---and then, it was all over. By heaven!
Adams, much as I loved her; so truly great and pure
was my love, that, I do believe, I should never have
married her---merely that I might not expose her to
ridicule. But, I knew her temper. I knew that she
respected me;---and I knew, that, after a few irregular
pulsations, her heart would settle down again, if
it had time, into the right place. It did. At the end
of another week, she had returned the ring to Redhead;
herself, to see me, actually, at my own store, in her
imprudence; though one, that knew me, had said---beware
of that!---he is not the man to endure such things:
---he would never marry a woman, who had no respect
for herself, however she might love him---however
he might love her.”
“We met---it was on the steps of a friendly house:
---a sweet star-light above us. I held her hand. It
trembled. “It may happen again,” said I.
“Never”---was her reply.
“I felt no rapture. I feigned none. In a little
time, during the visit, I had no opportunity to tell her
my heart. But I neither pawed her about, nor slobbered
her with caresses---fool that I was---how little
I knew then of her true nature.”
“My affections are engaged,” said she, sobbing, as
if her dear little heart would break.”
“Merciful beaven!---what could I think of such a
woman! Had she been winning me to a precipice---
only that she might play out the part of some heroine
of a novel, by telling me, at last, that her affections
were engaged.”
“My manner instantly changed. Both of us had
wept---both. But I arose, like one that had done all
his duty, regarding her as a creature sanctified to another,
prohibited to me, for ever.”
“Again we parted, friends—the truest friends in all
the world!—and tremendously disposed to the heroick,
and unearthly. She had many suitors; but, after hovering
about her awhile, and scorching their beautiful
wings, they left her; or were scorched off;—and I had
another summons. I dreaded to hear it, indeed I did
—but I so loved her yet, that, had I heard it coming
up from the bottom of the ocean, I would have plunged
after it.”
“We met, and were very happy. My arm encircled
her beautiful waist; and, as I sat by her, she put her
wet lips to my forehead—my blood thrilled, and I
pressed her to my heart---with no rudeness---no
fierceness—no—I loved her too tenderly—so tenderly,
and held myself, as I touched her, to be “a marvellous
man,” and fitted for companionship with her loveliness.
Yet---a change followed---what was the cause, I
know not---women are so capricious---my phlegm, or
my philosophy;---my suspicion, for I could not feel
that undoubting, unqualified, noble confidence in her,
that I had once felt---it required time and trial to restore
it---and I told her so---these might have been the
cause;---but after thought, more experience among
women have explained the mystery. I was not ardent,
rash, impetuous, impudent enough. I did not
fendle, nor lip her enough---my manner was too reverential.
What woman would'nt have been offended
---to be treated, at such a time, as if she were not a
woman. I could scarcely breathe, when her hand was
upon my forehead; and my hair thrilled---I could feel
it, to the root---when her fingers went through it: and
my arm---that very arm---which enwreathed her fine
waist, ached with pleasure---and yet---I believe in my
soul, that I never touched her lips---nay, I do not know
that I ever did touch them, during all my love. Zounds!
what a bitter sarcasm upon woman! How ignorant I
showed myself to be---though I was twice her age
nearly, and a thousand times more experienced:---and
how cruel, it was in me, not to understand her. I loved
her too purely---with a passion too intellectual. I
visited her, as one enshrined, to whom incense should
be burned with our eyes shut---and our hands crossed
upon our bosom. Mine was love; but she knew it not.
It was not that love, of which she had read in novels,
and poetry; nor experienced; nor seen upon the stage.
I neither whined at her; nor fell upon my knees, in a
set speech; nor pawed her about; but I loved her, as
women ought to be loved, with tenderness and truth;
trembling to the heart, when I touched her forehead,
or when our arms intertwined. But that was not love
—not that love, which she looked for. She was like
some woman, that has never seen a madman, or a murderer,
except upon the stage---or, in a novel,---who,
if she should see one in real life,---would be sure to
novel, or act like the man on the stage.”
“O,” said I—half delirious with the deep tranquillity
of my own spirit---“how very happy I am!—”
“I heard a faint whisper, in reply. “It may happen
again, dear,” said I. “It may---and if it should—
O, I know not what will become of me!”
“Her tears fell, like hail, upon my forehead, as I
lay upon the sofa; and she stooped over me. She assured
me that it could not happen again.”
“Yet it did!---by heaven it did!---in less than half an
hour, a friend of mine, who had been making love like
a two and forty pounder, in the next room, on a sofa
---came to me; took my hand; and, squeezing it affectionately---and
be hanged to him —”
“Speak!” said I---“out with it, Joe.”
“She says that she never can love you, Hammond;
that she respects you; and—and—”
“O, very well,” said I, quite unconcernedly---entering
the room where she remained, as I spoke---and
addressing myself to her, as if nothing had happened
---“good night, ladies!---good night, Miss!----Mary
Anne!---good night.”
“I left her, but she still haunted me. She loved me,
if ever woman loved man. She loved me, I am sure;
but she, herself, did not know it. She was beset by
fools; and worried to death by puppies;---and I began
to get distressed in my business, about the same time.
My dear friend Joe, my counseller in matters of love;
the most discreet, sage, and virtuous of men,---having
been grievously captivated in the same neighbourhood;
and having seen the sweet Mary Anne weeping, in
consequence of some unkindness in his dear one (about
a pair of pretty little slippers of her own, which she
had managed to exhibit, at an unlucky moment, upon
the mantle piece---the little devil!---while the big feet
of his dear one were in view) and having gone home
with her---and cried, it is probable, all along the road
with her---began to retract certain notions of matrimony,
which he had been repeating, for several months,
marrying.”
“Let me give you a specimen of it.”
“The most imprudent thing, in the world,” said he---
dutifully, as we rambled along by a mud puddle,
walled in, which was called a canal, there---“you must
not think of it.”
“Of what?” said I.
“Of getting married?”
“Of getting married!---getting devils!”
“Of course,” said he, bowing.
“Should I chuck him into the canal? I had a great
mind to. Nobody would have missed him, except his
tailor, and washerwoman, at quarter day---and it
might have saved them something---in the long run---
at least, in shoe leather.”
“But what is your objection?” I continued, smothering
my passion, and looking him in the face---the
smirking rascal---“Late marriages make early orphans;
you know. Dr. Franklin recommends early
marriages.”
“True---and, at the same time, he says, that a young
widow, with half a dozen children---that was in his time;
in the early settlement of America---was considered a
fortune.”
“The devil take the young widow; and all her children;
and Dr. Franklin; and yourself, into the bargain:
none of your ready made families for me! I tell you
what 'tis, Joe:---it's a d----d barbarous thing, for a
man to marry late. He is sure to die, leaving a family
of uneducated helpless creatures, behind him.”
“True---but with money to educate them---and estate
to make them sought after,” was his reply.
“By whom? Scoundrels, and fortune hunters. It is
a curse to leave an estate in a family. The boys are
spoiled by it; and the girls are either married for their
money, or are always miserable, under the suspicion
that they were. How can they ever know, certainly, that
they have been married for love? For my part, I hope
to leave my wife pennyless. You need'nt laugh, Joe.---It
as I have.”
“Humph;” said Joe, pulling his hat over his eyes:
“and put her up for sale, to the highest bidder,” he added,
“to obtain bread for herself, and her little ones.”
I shuddered---my heart wheeled about, and threw
two or three somersets, before I could get my breath.
“No,” said I---“I will strangle her first, on my death
bed. Gracious heaven! what can be done? Women
sell themselves every day---to the old and decrepid, and
hateful; and the publick look on, without any emotion--
without one pang; or one cry of detestation upon the unnatural
crime. Why do they not brand her, who sells herself
to an old man for his life; a few short years---as they
do her, who sells herself to a young man, for a year; a
month, or a night? O, it makes my blood boil, to look
about this fair world, and see what women have done,
and are doing, in the light of heaven, for money. It is
not marriage---it is coupling. The blessed institution
of marriage should be sacred---inviolable. No
power on earth should have the right to break it up.
Publick policy requires that both parties should consider
it eternal; that they may have the better reason to
be kind, and patient, and forgiving, to each other; and
to their children. The law will not permit a conditional
marriage; and society calls it infamy; and the fruit infamous;
nay, the law does the same. It may be doubted
then, whether there be any legislative power, existing,
to destroy a marriage---for what the parties cannot
do, themselves, by a positive stipulation, no other power
shall do for them. Whence can there come a power of
divorce? There is no such power. A marriage, lawfully
had, must be for ever:---on what ground shall you
proceed to grant it?---ill temper---unfruitfulness, adultery?
You offer a premium, and reward, for ill temper;
a crime; and from indulgence---you take away the
chief restraint. And yet---O, how reasonable men are,
and women too---they will permit a young woman to
sell herself; or a young man to sell himself, like a
beast, to the pleasure of another, who is old, and infirm;
sick, and nasty---without reproach, or infamy; when,
few years. Shame on them!”
“All very well,” said Joe, musing---“but I don't see
what it has to do with the subject.”
“True,” said I, “but to-morrow evening, I have to
maintain, that our legislatures have no power to grant
a divorce; and I was willing to practise a little in advance.”
“Our conversation ended, with the most vehement
protestation, on his part, against my marrying at all;
particularly, that woman---and, more particularly, at
that time.”
“That was all very well; but, about a month afterward,
I saw him get out of bed, one morning, earlier,
by an hour, or two, than he ever did before; and go
about some mysterious operation; while I lay, and
watched, pretending all the while, to be asleep. It was
of a Sunday morning. Not a thought of his heart had
ever been a secret from me, till about that time. First,
he twisted his legs (he called them legs---and used
them, as I am a living man, for the purpose of walking
and dancing) into a pair of silk stockings; and then
stuck the ends of them---the lower ends---into a pair of
tight new morocco shoes, that made him gape as he
did it.”
“That was enough---I turned over, and went to sleep;
sure that he was in love again, up to his eyes. But
little did I suspect the truth. My dear friend---my
own dear, dear friend, was in love with my own mistress.
Several little pleasantries had passed between
them---a ring---which he stole from her hand, at the
gate; and which she sent for afterward; a card case---
and some other matters, so that, I was not absolutely
thunderstruck; when, having led him along the canal
again, soon after, I found his memory, or opinion,
respecting early marriages, so cruelly disordered, that
I'll be hanged if he did not take the affirmative, and
use my own argument in favour of them, before we returned.
So much for Mary Anne.”
“What became of her?”---said I.
“Gone the way of all flesh,” he answered.
“Dead!---poor heart---is it possible?”
“No---married—”
“Married! Why didn't you marry her?”
“For four reasons. I was too poor---she, in too
great a hurry--I would'nt have her---and she would'nt
have me.”
| CHAPTER VII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |