 | CHAPTER IX. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
The duel, at last...Elizabeth...Frightful operation of a disordered
mind...Guilt...Cradle...Superstition...Child's face...Harper's
Ferry...Strolling players...Octavian...Hammond's debut...Emotions...Variety...A
Lawyer...No—not a Lawyer—a Pettifogger
...Plain dealing...Adventures...Political economy...License and
Penalty in law...Same thing in reality.
“We have come now,” said Hammond, leaning
sternly on his hands; and looking. O, heaven and
earth! as if there could be no forgiveness, for what he
was about to relate. His temples were swollen—he
was black in the face—and his features were like those
of a dead man—immoveable—while the bones of his
hand kept rattling, with an incessant motion, upon the
table—“we have come now, to the duel.”
“They had all toasted their women,” said Hammond,
abruptly, locking his hands, with a convulsive
effort: “all!—and then, he—he—he uttered the name of
Elizabeth.”
“The name thrilled through and through me,” said
Hammond. “They all drank it, standing. “Elizabeth!
Elizabeth!” echoed through the whole room. I
covered my ears, with a feeling of profanation. But
that was nothing—nothing! Elizabeth who? cried one
—aye, cried another—let us have it.”
“Elizabeth Adams—” answered the madman, in a
loud voice, throwing off another bumper, which was
followed by the whole company. Your blood boils. I
see, William Adams, to hear me tell it; judge then
what I felt, to hear her blessed name uttered by such a
man, in such a company; associated with the lewd and
blaspheming. I stood thunderstruck, for a moment;
and then tried, two or three times, to get my breath; to
gasp; to cry out; to speak to him; but, I could not.
I could not see plainly; I could not utter a sound. The
company began to take notice of it; and all the noise,
and laugh, and song, and riot instantly died away, into
a stillness, more awful than death; while every eye was
turned upon me.”
“I was leaning toward him—and I whispered, very
faintly, so faintly, that I did not hear my own voice—
but, it came from the deepest place of all my heart—
and he understood the motion of my lips—he heard
me!”
“Elizabeth Adams, of D—?” said I.
“Yes!” he haughtily replied: “Elizabeth Ad—.”
“You are a scoundrel!” said I, jumping up—I would
not let him finish it—dwelling on every syllable; “you
are a scoundrel, and a villain!” A glass decanter
whizzed by my head, as I spoke; and narrowly missed
dashing my brains out. We both rushed at each other;
and he grasped a carving knife; but it was wrenched
from him; and we were separated, till the room was
cleared; a circle formed; and swords put into our hands
but mine was a miserable cut and thrust; and, in receiving
one of his blows, before I could make a pass, it was
shattered to the hilt. We closed; and I was very severely
cut in the hand. No other sword could be obtained;
and we stood, leaning against the wall; panting,
like spent tigers—till the company had agreed to
escort us to a wood, just out of the town; and leave us
to our fate, with pistols. Some objected to this; but
at last, the business was arranged; how, I know not;
and the next thing, that I recollect is, that, we were together—his
friend with us—that it was just day light,
and that I had just levelled and fired at his heart; and
that, I saw the ball strike him—but he stood still.”
“You are wounded;” said his second, approaching
me.
“No,” said I, “I am not—but your friend is—look
to him.” When I said this, he fell. It was wonderful
how I escaped. He was a great shot. But, when we
levelled, there was a strange darkness about me, for a
moment; and I felt as if, already, a ball had passed
through me—coldness and numbness:—but I caught
his eye just then, and observed that, as I dropped my
pistol, his eye followed it, till it was just opposite his
breast. I fired—before he had recovered himself; and
the result was, what I have told you.”
Thus ended the tale of Hammond; but the tones of his
voice! O, no language can describe them. They went
through and through me. I felt myself constrained to
give him my hand, and to press him, in silence, to my
heart. I did—and I felt his flesh quiver at the touch;
and contract, as if mine had been the hand of a spectre.
“Look here, William Adams,” said he, lifting his
black matted locks; “look here!—it was'nt grief that
did it—no, nor old age. But his hand! Three thousand
miles were we apart. Yet, at the moment; the
very moment when he died---the very moment! these
locks turned white! I felt his hot hand there, in my
sleep. I awoke, with a scream, that startled the household,
broad awake. It was midnight---but not a soul
could sleep again that night. You may smile, William,
but no---you do not---you look serious. Are you really
so? Speak to me. Can you believe me?”
“I do.”
“It is impossible. You cannot. You believe that I
am disordered. What! that, at the moment of his death
—the very moment! he should appear to me; and put
his hand upon my temples; and awake me from my
sleep. O, you cannot!—unless:—William, have you
had any experience in such things?”
“No.”
“I cannot believe you. Nothing else would make
you credit me.”
“Then,” said I, “I will tell you the truth. Two
things have happened to me, during my life; two, of
which I never think, without feeling my blood run cold
—yet, I cannot believe them.”
“What were they? Not believe them! Not believe
your own senses! How know you that you are talking
to me?”
“I'll tell you what they were. I once saw a child's
face, without any body to it, as plainly as I now see
yours; pressed against the outside of a glass window,
thirty feet from the ground; no body—no support to it;
nothing but the face. Ha! what ails you, Hammond?”
“By my life! I have seen the same thing! but, I never
mentioned it in my life! It was in your father's house,
at the head of the high stair case—was it not?”
I stopped chilled to the very heart. I laid my hand
upon his arm; but, it was too late. There was no disputing
with him; and that strange, icy thrill went
through all our arteries, at the same moment; and our
eyes filled, and our lips trembled, with horrour and
eagerness—what a strange feeling it is!
“And again,” said I. “I saw a cradle, standing
in a floor—no human being near it—no wind, no
jarring, to disturb it—no living creature near it—begin
to rock, with a slow, regular motion, and continue,
till I stopped it, pale and breathless, with my own
hand. A woman saw it, who at the same moment,
fainted. The child was sick, and lay across her lap.”
“And died;” said Hammond.
“No, it recovered. But, had it died, we should
have regarded it as ominous.”
“What caused it to rock?”
“I know not—I never could find out. I have no
doubt that the cause was a natural one;—but, so help
me heaven, I would give one of my fingers at this moment—nay,
almost my right hand, to discover what
that cause was, to be satisfied about it.”
“Let us change the subject; it is getting dark;” said
Hammond, peevishly. “And I cannot well bear to
talk of such matters, when my own shadow, upon the
wall, frightens me.”
I was struck with his manner. It was really solemn,
white there was an apparent carelessness in it.
“It cannot surely be,” said I, to myself, “that this
man is given to such superstition;” but still, his manner
betokened it too strongly, for me to permit myself,
at that time, to investigate the truth.
“On the whole, then,” I added, in a cheerful tone,
“how were you pleased with Virginia? Let us return
to that, if you please.”
“Agreed—mightily. You have heard of strolling
players. There were a set at Harper's Ferry, while I
was there. The bill announced Octavian, and Rais
theatre. It was the upper part of a barn; a sort of
cock loft, with only one window to it, (a hole sawed in
the boards) and paper hanging, for scenery; but, the
dresses were from some larger theatre. I was delighted—I
had seen Octavian as badly acted by the best of
tragedians; and, had he not, in two or three mad scenes,
when he tore his wig—thrown the hair into our faces;
(but such was our nearness to him, that he could not
well avoid that) — had there been fewer fowls at roost
over me; and fewer country criticks beside me, I should
have done very well. But the farce! O, it was inimitable.
They called it Raising the Wind; and it really deserved
the name. Every one recollected what he
could of his part, (without any copy in the company,
I am sure,) and put it in, without giving or taking any
cue, whenever he could.—There was no plot—no
dialogue, as it was played—but a series of repetition;
whatever took, was sure to be repeated; and Jeremy
Diddler ate, at least, (and who would have wondered
at it, if an opportunity offered) a dozen of eggs, with
the shells on—shells, and all—sound or rotten, and half
a peck of bread; merely that the audience, who relished
that joke exceedingly. might see him snatch it out of the
London booby's mouth. I laughed, till the tears ran
out of my eyes. I had never seen a piece played,
when every man appeared so easy in his part—so free
from stage fright. This served me for a week, at least;
and, every time that I thought of it, during that week,
I would throw myself back in the buggy; give up the
reins; and roar, till my sides ached. But after that, I
had recourse to another expedient. We had mended
and patched our gig so often, at a particular place,
every morning; and I had gone so regularly to breakfast,
at the tavern, opposite to the place where the mender
lived, to wait for it, that I found it a subject of regular
calculation, an item for every day's expenses—“
mending gig,”—so much. Arrive when I would,
I never could take them by surprise—I was always
expected—the table was set---the blacksmith ready
—the painter—and a boy up the road, to announce my
it repaired, in the morning; break it again the same
day; and, returning in the evening, limp through bye
paths, till our course could be traced by the havock,
that we made among the small hickory trees, that we had
hewed down and lashed, every mile or two, to the arms of
the gig, to make it hold together, till we could have it
repaired again. Indeed, I had well nigh contracted for
my board at the tavern, by the week; notwithstanding
the bed bugs, and musquitoes, and a creature that the
landlord called a bar, which I found to be a bear.”
“Pray,” said I, “speaking of theatricals—It appears
to me, that I once heard a story about you. I
do not rightly remember what, but—were you not once
upon some stage?—or—.”
“Yes—for a single night.”
“And how did you succeed?”
“Wonderfully. The people laughed themselves
blind.”
“Tragedy, I suppose,” said I.
“Certainly,” he replied. “I never pretended to
make people laugh, with any thing else. O, I was very
fine—very!—”
“But what put it into your head?”
“I'll tell you. I lived for a time, once, in a small
town, where an awkward little lawyer, who had a
strange notion that he was of a tragedy turn, because
he had been permitted to blunder through the part of
young Norval, at a country exhibition;—proposed to
get up a “corpse” of amateurs. The thing was pleasantly
arranged. We took a large dancing hall;
chalked off the pit, boxes, stage, and orchestra; sent to
Boston, for some of their tattered scenery;—chose
Douglas; and, as an especial compliment to me, who
had never seen a play performed in all my life, at that
time, gave me Glenalvon. You will smile at my
conception of it. I had never seen a play; but I did
not like to own it, particularly, as I had been very loud
and positive, for a long time, in canvassing the merits
of sundry distinguished actors, of whom, I had heard,
through the publick papers—and I had no idea at all
and, perhaps might, in time, have barked through the
character of Richard, or Caliban, without the trouble
of dressing for the parts. Never shall I forget our
first recitation. “Burning hell!” said I, “this were
thy centre, if I thought she loved him!”—whereat, I took
a sort of straddling leap, and such an attitude! O, it
would have done your heart good, to see me. You
would have thought that I had just been thrown overboard
in my sleep. But that was pronounced “very
fine! very”—only, as the exhibition was not intended
for the whole town, gratis, it was delicately hinted to
me that a little less powder—a very little—would be
quite as natural. But, in the soliloquy, where I had to
say “By and by, I'll woo her, as the lion woos his
bride.” O, I was irresistible! Not a creature could
keep his countenance. But alas, alas! the envy and
uncharitableness, of men! I was utterly supplanted
by a man, who had a knack of snapping his eyes, and
making faces, like George Frederick Cooke;—and, after
some shuffling; dragging; and one rehearsal, where
three different Glenalvons stumbled through the part,
with the book in their hands—the affair fell through.”
“But, I was not satisfied; and, not long after, I waited
upon the manager of a regular theatre, and offered
my services for one night. They set me to ambling,
before them, as if to try my paces; and, at last, gave
me, would you believe it! the character of Zanga.
Never shall I forget my reception. At first, the audience
were mute, as if death struck. It is no exaggeration---I
say it, seriously. I never saw any thing like
it, for breathlessness and awe. But it lasted only for a
moment.---At the first sound of my voice---what I was
told the next day, was not my own voice---nor any
thing like it---but a gasping, inaudible sound, like
the smothered cry of a wild beast—there was a
sort of sick shuddering through all my frame; and a
suppressed exclamation, through all the audience; and
a loud, impatient, universal breathing, made up, I
thought, of derision, pity, amazement, contempt, and
compassion. God! I thought that I should sink into
the earth. My heart was in my throat---my knees
upon me--a million of dizzy lights, and eyes—glittered
and danced about, and about me; and there was a confused
murmur coming up from below me, as if I were
upon the sea shore:--and a ringing in my ears, and a
tingling in my blood—a blindness and giddiness—such
as I believe, no other human creature, would ever have
lived through. I had heard of the stage fright; and sea
sickness; and death, from poison—convulsion—drowning—of
faintness---and downright suffocation—but I
never heard of any body, who had survived all of them
together---yet I did. But, just when I was about to
give up the ghost, the murmur of compassion died
away---and I heard one distinct and audible hiss. Lord,
how it went through me! It electrified me. They say,
that my hair stood upright---and that (I was not painted)
my face grew frightfully black; and I know that I
felt my blood ripple and hiss---I'll swear to that---my
anger arose, like fire in a high wind. I forgot
my terrour, in the indignity; my own ugliness, and
the grave encouragement, that I had received at
the last rehearsal, to persevere; for that, in all probability,
if I did, in three or four years, I should be sufficiently
advanced to carry messages. Yes, I forgot it
all—fools!—and in less than twenty minutes, the house
was all, once more, still as death. I left out a whole
scene, but they did not perceive it; and went on without
any interruption—any outcry—until I heard the voice
of people sobbing.—I turned—I looked—my heart
heaved—my own eyes filled—I could have knelt down
upon the spot, and shouted to my God. I had
prevailed! I had made them weep that had hissed and
hooted at me. What more could I desire. Nothing. I
left the stage—even where I stood—shaking off the dust
from my feet, in testimony against them all. Since
then, I have never set my foot upon any boards.”
“Yet you speak, even now, as if there had been a passion,
and deep feeling, in your nature, for it,” said I.
“You are right. There have been,” was the reply.
“The stage wants reformation. I could have reformed
it.”
I smiled, and laid my hand upon his arm, kindly;
but with a look of gentle upbraiding, that I wished him
to feel; yet—he would not feel it—he could not.
“I understand you, my friend;” he answered, “you
are distressed at my vanity; are you not?”
“I am.”
“Yet, what do you call vanity?”
I began to define it; but, he interrupted me, with
great earnestness, and authority.
“No sir—they, who charge me with vanity, had better
hold their tongues, or speak more plainly; and
say that I have too good an opinion of myself. Then,
we should be at issue. And time, the trier of all things,
would, one day, or other, determine whose judgment
was the truest—theirs or mine. I tell you, that they
do not think well enough of me.”
“William Adams,” he continued, rising proudly, with
his haughty lip quivering like that of some young sovereign,
about to lift a flood gate to his army and lay
waste a province. “William Adams! I despise, more
heartily than any man that ever lived, the love of notoriety.
I venerate, as truly; and am as steadfast an
idolator, as ever breathed, of dominion, and power; of
genuine ambition. I love praise, but not the praise of
ordinary men; and, best of all, do I love the praise of
my own heart. I love the good opinion of good, and
wise men; but, most of all, do I love my own good opinion.
Their reproach, I can bear—their upbraiding. I
can bear; but I cannot bear the upbraiding of my own
heart; the sorrow and shame—the burning shame of
my own lacerated spirit, under its own heavy dealing.
And---look at me, sir—look at me—I feel that I am in
the presence of the Deity, while I speak. I know my
follies---I know my vices, better, it may be, than they
are known by any other human being---yet, so help me
God! I never, in all my life, did one act to obtain the
approbation of a living creature, contrary to the movement
of my own heart. I never sacrificed my conscience
for popularity---nor my honesty for praise. Is
that vanity?”
“Yes---the consummation of vanity.”
“Well, if it be so---then, may I live and die consummately
vain!---may I live, and die, with integrity of
heart, proud and honest!”
“As proudly, and as honestly; yea, as haughtily, as
you please, Albert Hammond! That is not what I
complain of-- it is the boasting of it—telling of it---priding
yourself, in comparison with others.”
“This, to me, William Adams---this, to me!---well,
well---let us leave the subject now---we are both getting
warm. What say you for a walk?”
“And yet;” he stopped—“how idly the world judge;
how foolishly! I am called vain, because I say that,
expressly, like an honest man; which other men say, by
implication, like dastards. Ask me my opinion of another--
and you cannot help respecting it. Ask me
my opinion of myself, and you---(by you, I mean all
the world) set it at nought. If I condemn my own
work, it is thought a trick, to provoke contradiction:--
if I praise it, it is thought foolishness, and vanity, in
me; no matter how just may be the censure, or the
praise; no matter how well, or ill, it may correspond
with the opinion of other men. Now, mark the difference.
Suppose me a painter. I am called upon to
say, what I think of one of my own pictures. My
honest opinion is given. I do not seek the occasion—
but I will not avoid it. I say, that I think it worth the
public attention—worthy of being seen by the best
judges—fitted for fellowship with the masterpieces of
the day. I am derided for a vain simpleton. But
another man, one of your modest men—when he is called
upon, to express an opinion of his own work—will
evade it—lie---or equivocate; declare that he is
afraid, and ashamed of it—in doubt about the beauties,
and alarmed at the faults, &c. &c. Therefore— he is
called a modest man. Yet, wait a while. That very
man—the modest man—will put his picture up in a
publick exhibition room!—while I—it is probable, keep
mine at home! He, thereby, proves, that his opinion of
his own work, is as high, or higher, than my opinion of
mine! Yet he is the modest man—I, the vain one.
By showing his, to the publick, in such company, he
say. So, with an author; one will publish, and make two
or three volumes, out of what I would crowd into one—
ornament his work with beautiful type—plates—get it
reviewed by his friends—avow himself the author—in
the very title page;—read it aloud, in company—talk
about it;—and can repeat a whole volume; and yet,
whimpers, and shuffles, whenever it is praised; or,
whenever he is called upon to speak of it, like an honest
man:—while I neither put my name to it, nor can,
for the soul of me—read any thing that I have ever
written, aloud—or remember a single page. Ah, such
is the consistency of the world. Instead of being called
vain—I ought to be called honest; and he—any
thing but a modest man—or an honest man. I speak
not of my judgment. That is another affair. They
know, that I speak what I believe, of myself—and they
know that your modest man never does. What! do I
see no faults—no follies, in my own work. Believe me,
sir—I see many, that no other eye can see—but then, I
can see beauties too, that others will not see; and
therefore, am I indulgent to myself—no, not indulgent:
I am not. But let us walk.”
It was a beautiful day—and we strolled, an hour,
or two, so pleasantly, that—I had no heart for study,
or contemplation, when I had returned. During the
ramble, (I love to mention such things—they go far to
show, the character of a man) we saw a person, at a
distance, whom I knew by reputation—and had heard
that a friend of Hammond, had studied with him.
“What sort of a fellow is he?” said I. “He has the
character of a scoundrel.”
“He deserves it.”
“And yet. your friend studied with him, once—and
introduced him here. How happened it?”
We were now in sight—“release me, for a moment,”
said Hammond, “I have business with him.”
Saying this, he left me, and walked directly over to
the other; a few words passed between them. I saw
Hammond's great eyes of a deadly blackness; and the
sound of his voice, was full of deep, inward determination.
did not exchange a dozen sentences.
“What was your business?” said I—when he returned—“you
appeared very much in earnest; and he is exceedingly
disturbed—see!—he has stopped—ah, he is
coming this way.”
“Never mind him,” said Hammond—he won't come
to us—he knows me, too well.”
“By heaven, he has dashed the tears from his eyes
—that movement of his hand—it could he for nothing
else—what, on earth did you say to him?”
“Merely”—said Hammond, with great unconcern—
“never to speak to me again.”
“And why?” said I—seeing that the man had gone
back.
“Because he is a weak hearted man—with no principle
at all—who lives by his depredation upon society.
A case has just come to my knowledge. He went to a
store keeper whom I knew; and had cautioned, particularly,
against him; and introduced one of the vilest
scoundrels that ever walked unhung, to him, as a man
of property, under some temporary embarrassment, on
account of the seizure of some vessel;—a large quantity
of goods, with some money, were thus obtained; and
immediately deposited with an auctioneer, who found,
after a time, that he had made too liberal an advance.
The other scoundrel then went to him, and proposed, out
of commiseration, to take the goods away, and return
them to the shop-keeper; offering him, at the same time,
his own notes, with “any security—any in the world,
in exchange.” The auctioneer asked whom he could
give.”
“O!” said the other—“anybody—as many as you
please—there is Mr. — so, and so—naming that
man.”
The auctioneer knew nothing more of him, than that
he was a “gentleman of the bar,” and accepted the
offer. That man endorsed the notes;—the goods were
given up, to be returned; and were immediately put into
another auction room, and sold under the hammer!
—and all parties, petitioned, as it is called, off hand,
for the benefit of the insolvent law!”
“Gracious heaven!” said I—“are such things common?”
“Aye—more yet. I heard a scuffle in the street—
one Sunday; and bore it, till I could bear it no longer.
I went out, and found two blackguard looking fellows,
forcing a coloured woman, whom they had literally
stripped half naked—along the street. A carriage stood
by; and there was a tremendous out-cry, that she was
a free woman; and that they were about carrying her
to Georgia. I interfered; separated the scoundrels;—
silenced the mob—and took the whole gang before a
magistrate. This man, whom we have just left, was sent
for, to defend the principal rascal; and with him, came
the villain, whom this fellow assisted in the transaction
about the goods. Both got a little saucy; and I took
the liberty to treat them both, just as they deserved—
particularly the latter, who never could look me in the
face afterward, without trembling in every joint. It
was exactly as we supposed. The negro woman was
free. It was a damnably atrocious affair;—and, before
a month had passed, I was consulted about a note, which
had been given to that very man yonder, conditionally;
to be his, if he prevailed! But he did not prevail. The
woman was set free—yet he passed off the note!---as I
was told.”
“But is it true that your friend studied with him?”
“No—he did not. But I'll tell you what he did.—
He introduced him here; used all his influence, to get him
established; and only abandoned him, when it was no
longer possible for him to hear him named, without
some disgraceful appellation. He spoke to him of an affair
not long since, at the trial table, in court. He protested
his innocence; prevaricated;—but, absolutely,
burst into tears—and cried, William---cried, in the publick
court room, with all the bar about them, while he was
talking to him, in a low voice. I would have protected
that man; shielded him, if I could, for the natural good
disposition of his heart, for he would not willingly, and
directly, wound the feeling, of any human creature.---
Beside, I had known his wife before he married her;---
a most estimable woman, and very beautiful---patient
of such things.”
“But what are his talents?”
“As a scholar—contemptible: As a practitioner, and
advocate, tolerable; for he is cunning and experienced.
In no other respect, is he either a learned man, or a man
of talent.”
“You knew him before he appeared here?”
“Yes—He was in great practice, in my native town;
became a political man; received an appointment in the
army—and was cashiered. That was enough for me;
and when I next saw him, I treated him coolly. It was
sufficient for me, that such a judgment had been pronounced
upon him; but, when I found a villanous propensity
in him, to run in debt whenever he could—where-ever
he could, and for whatever he could, I despised him
more heartily than I can express. But, by some chance, I
read his trial. I was amazed. He was an injured
man. The court had not treated him fairly; and I feel
now that what he did, was right;—and that he ought
not to have been broken. I only blame him for not doing
it more boldly, and avowing it, like a man. You
know that our nature is, where we have wronged one,
to make any expiation, any atonement. I could not
sleep, therefore, till I had got him, by the greatest exertion,
into a respectable acquaintance, and practice.
Nay—I went further, I entered my name with him as
a student; and, during his absence, staid in his office
once, for a week or two; but I never studied with him,
or any other man. I studied in my own rooms, after
my own fashion. At last, I found it necessary to abandon
him; and entered my name with that fiery, impetuous,
noble hearted fellow, of whom you have heard me
speak so often, with such enthusiasm.”
“And tears, almost,” said I—“shall you ever forget
him? think you?”
“Forget him!—no!—when I do—may heaven forget
me.”
“He stopped; but I continued to hear his voice long
afterward, sounding in my ears.”
Thus was the character of Hammond perpetually
unfolding to me; and, always, like some vast map; or,
rather, tapestry, with a constantly encreasing beauty
and proportion. The spots, and broken lines; and disordered
colouring, grew into rivers and mountains; and
became animate with population and intelligence.
Yet, I dwelt upon him, I cannot deny it, with a feeling,
rather of awe than affection. It appeared to me
that we were too nearly alike; not in talent, certainly;
but in disposition, ever to be truly intimate. We were
both too imperious; unconditional; unsocial; unyielding,
ever to be permanently united in friendship. I told
him so; but he smiled, and bade me wait with patience—
that—if I would wrestle with my devil, he would, with
his.
“Mine!”—said I, “what is it?—Ambition?”
“Jealousy. You have many little devils—but Jealousy
is the master among them.”
I could not believe him;—but, when he found that I
was in downright earnest,—that I was really astonished
at the charge, he laid his two hands upon mine,
with a strange solemnity and emphasis, like one conjuring
up devils, out of the sea;—and bade me “beware
of jealousy.” I laughed, and reminded him of Iago.—
But his eyes filled; and I began to feel an unaccountable
apprehension of myself—“Hark! hark!” said he;
---just then—
We were startled by shrieks,—and, after listening
for a moment, discovered that they came from a lone
house at a distance in the wood—it was a cry of murder!
—murder!—My heart stopped for a moment, and then
I ran toward the place; but Hammond had outstripped
me: burst into the house; and stood---I cannot well say
how;—but, when I entered, I saw a savage looking old
man, with eyes like a wild cat, sitting in a dark corner,
his face all grown over with grisly hair.---and watching
Hammond with such malignity, that I suspected
some evil purpose. I was right---he was gradually
getting his hand about the hilt of a shoemaker's knife,
behind him. I saw a bright, quick, sharp glitter---but
Hammond was two keen for him;---he dashed him to
was prostrate, frothing and bleeding at the mouth and
nostrils. We soon found out the cause of the uproar.---
The monster had been beating a family of women;
his own mother, an aged bed ridden woman; another,
that lived with him; and a young girl, all as ragged
and dirty, as disease and wretchedness could make
them. He had beaten them, in mere wantonness, because
he had fallen, in a state of intoxication, and
broken a bottle of whiskey.
“What a picture!” said Hammond, wiping his eyes,
many minutes after we had left the house.—“That
miserable wretch is left there, to tyrannise over three
human creatures, with a disposition, deadly enough
for any crime; their lives coustantly exposed to him, I
dare say---and utterly helpless. Of what materials
---how disorderly and strange---this world is made up!
How the morals of our countrymen have degenerated!
Time was, when the noise of a single murder would
ring from one end of the United States to the other.---
But now, murder, robbery, rape are so common, that
they are forgotten, in our little city, within a week after
they have happened. In truth, my dear friend, it
is a fearful trade, this of mine---this of exploring the
blackest recesses of the blackest hearts---walking,
bare foot, and naked, (for so it is, while you are uncontaminated
by the moral pestilence,) among the ruin and
fire, and rottenness of passions, that have burnt out;
and hearts that have decayed under the visitation of
obscenity, vice and profligacy.”
“Yet, after all, society here, like society every
where else, has a latent wickedness, that will always
be given out by compression:---like heat, from the
coldest metal. The more crowded and confined it is
---the more this evil is apparent.”
“And the very remedies, that we invent, operate as
a reward and encouragement, to vice and beggary.”
“It is our own fault. We have zeal without knowledge.
Every day, we are speculating, with all our resources,
on questions of political economy, which, while
we call them discoveries---have been tried “out and
pernicious and destructive. Our nature is, never to
try experiments on paper, nor with models, but to go
to the business at once, whether of revenue, finance,
or legislation. We have blundered, till our best efforts
to suppress beggary and theft, are-little else, than established
permiums for both. Like the lying-in hospital
of Catharine, which has became so powerful and august
a defender of misfortune, that it is no longer discreditable
to a Russian girl, to have had a child before
marriage—to have “borne children to the state.” In
that country, the natural shame of woman, is a matter
of political profit. And so too, the pleasant invention
at Pekin, to suppress population, by permitting mothers
to expose their “naked, new born babes,” to be
devoured by dogs. What is the consequence? Instead
of operating to retard population, says Malthus, it
encourages it, directly, by removing from the minds of
people, all apprehension about the support of their
children. Boys and girls marry, therefore, under
that permission, to destroy their offspring, if they
cannot maintain them; who, if they were obliged to
maintain their children, would live apart. But why
should we complain? Our whole system of legislation
is radically defective. We reprobate certain crimes,
and yet permit them. We condemn gambling and
drunkenness---yet raise a revenue, by licensing * * *
* * * and tippling shops. Nay---do we not raise a
revenue from the billiard tables, and the bagnio?—
Yes.”
“How!” said I---“what mean you?”
“The same thing, in effect. In one case, we call it a
penalty; in the other, a license. No real difference exists
in the thing; and therefore, all moral distinctions
are confounded. If you say to a man, that he shall not
keep a faro table, under a penalty of one hundred dollars;
what is it, but to say, that he may keep it, for one
hundred dollars? And if you say, that another may keep
a tippling shop for ten dollars a year---what is it but
to say that, he shall not keep it, under a penalty of ten
dollars. In New England, they had a law, forbidding
dollars. What was this, but saying to the rich man---
you may ride---and to the poor man, you shall not—
or, you may ride on a Sunday, for five dollars.
| CHAPTER IX. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |