 | CHAPTER XI. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
Hammond on horseback...Frankness...Will Adams encounters an
old acquaintance...Metaphysicks...Free agency...Voltaire...
Dr. Reid....Frederick of Prussia...Argument...The Bible...
Mr. Lawrence......His character.....Anecdotes.....Magnanimity...
Emma.
My health grew better, and better, every day;
and I was confidently hoping in that restoration,
which would give it permanency; lay the unquiet spirit
within me; and pour enough of balsam, and warmth,
into my bruised heart; to keep out the wintry feeling,
and the distracted one, with which it had been lately
so familiar:—and one evening, after I had been much
happier than usual, as I sat with my arm round my
dear Elizabeth's waist; and leaning my cheek upon
her shoulder, while she read to me; for she read with
exquisite feeling; delicacy, and judgment; and I so
loved to hear her plaintive tones, wandering through
all the chambers, of my heart, like one that holds his
breath to hear, in his old age, the song that captivated
him, in his boyhood—the melodies that he first loved;
and first wept over--ah! I was very happy; and suddenly,
I observed a change of tone—one, that I thought the
passage did not require; I was half asleep and dreaming—but
I opened my eyes, then; and observed some
appearance of confusion in hers. I saw the cause. It
was Hammond—he was passing the window, on horseback;
and I do not wonder, that she trembled; for, never,
since the creation of the world, I do believe, was
there so unsightly a creature in the saddle. He reined
the animal with great strength; and perfect self-command;
and sat firmly, in the seat; but—he looked rather
like a lump, than a man.
I believe that I smiled; a little bitterly too; for Elizabeth
shut the book hastily; and turned away her
face; and her little hand, upon which mine lay, twitched
convulsively, for a minute, or two, under mine.—
The door opened.
Hammond, himself, entered, before we had broken
the silence; and she addressed him, with a firm, kind
manner, which I could not, though I tried hard,
bring myself to like.
“Are you fond of writing?” said Elizabeth.
“Very,” was the reply---his great shining eyes, all
alive, with the exercise; and his countenance flushed.
I never saw him look so handsome.---She gave him
her hand; but I thought that he hesitated to touch it;
and, when he did, a mortal lividness shot upward from
his lips, to his temples.
“Why do you ask?” said he, respectfully.
“Because,” she continued, looking him steadily in
the face---“because I do not like to see you on horseback.”
“I thank you,” he replied, rather haughtily, I
thought---but he immediately repeated, in a tone of
deep quiet, and profound thankfulness; that, I am sure,
came from the bottom of his heart. “I thank you!---
I shall ride no more. I understand your motive. It is
a blessed one---and I have felt it---felt it, bitterly, before;
but I have striven to overcome it, as weak, and
paltry. My opinion is changed now; that cannot be
weak, and paltry, which all the feelings of my heart
swell against---and, that certainly, cannot be unworthy
of my attention---which Elizabeth Adams can
find the heart to condemn.”
“Damn your familiarity!” had half escaped me---
but I gasped---and merely looked at them, successively---till
they understood me, coloured, and smiled. I
felt a rising bitterness here---here!---and there is no
knowing, what might have followed; for my new blood,
after all, was of the same temperature, as my old---it
thrilled and curdled, as readily, at the touch of Hammond's
flesh, to my sister's, as if a rattlesnake had been
put into my own bosom---naked---but just then, the
door opened, and a clergyman, whom we well knew,
was shown in. He was a man, under whom I had once
been at school; a strong minded, ambitious man; of
singular power, in his way; and absolute, in his influence,
beyond all example. I had once encountered him
and, I never left him, till I had humbled him to the dust.
He had been bitterly mistaken in me; for my pleasantries
were those of a light hearted fellow; thoughtless,
and free; rather than those of an habitual trifler. The
truth is---that I was challenged, to make him laugh, if
I could-- for he had not been known to laugh for years;
and the gentleman with me, had once stood in such
awe of him, that what he said, was listened to by him,
as the indisputable declaration of God, himself---miraculously
communicated to man. After this challenge,
I made the attempt, and was eminently successful; for,
I kept the minister in one continual smile, for two or
three hours---and, two or three times, produced a
downright laugh. But, at last, he undertook to curry
me down, as he was accustomed to curry down, the
wisest of his own congregation. I kicked a little---and
then, he abused me. I bore it, till I could bear it no
longer. I opened upon him, then, at his own weapons;
and fairly beat him into his entrenchments; and
beat him after he was there. The fact was, that they
had fallen to decay. He had never considered the
other side of the question, which we disputed about:—
he had learnt his particular belief, as a trade; as a matter
of subsistence; and had been so long accustomed to
dictation, that it threw him off his balance, when he
found any one ready to oppose him. To him---it was
downright rebellion. But the lesson was a good one;
and, before I left him, he treated me with profound
respect.”
I was glad to see him here---very glad; and Elizabeth
too, I could perceive, was not less so. She had
long wanted to pit Hammond, against him, upon some
doctrine, on which she held to the clergyman's belief;
and reprobated Hammond's; and she manifested, I
thought, no little dexterity in bringing on the battle,
here---for, after some skirmishing with the outpost,
there was a fair held fight---somewhat after the following
fashion, between the two.
“For my part, I never meddle with metaphysicks.
They are, in a measure, incomprehensible to me, if not
of the clergyman's, whose name was Paynim.”
“They are better never meddled with;” said Hammond.
“They only serve to bewilder, and perplex.
I remember, that I spent, at one time, of my life, many
a sleepless night, upon the doctrine of Free
agency.”
“And, what restored you?” said the clergyman----
interrupting him.
“My own reasoning,” was the reply. “I toiled to
the precipice---and then I awoke.”
“I am glad to hear it,” answered Mr. Paynim. “It
has always been a matter of astonishment to me, that
any rational man could pretend to doubt, what he has
the evidence of his own senses to prove---his own liberty;
his own moral freedom. You smile:—sir--perhaps,
I have misunderstood you. It may be—I beg
your pardon, if I am wrong—that you have not arrived
to the conclusion, which I hoped.”
“I believe, that I have not, sir;” was the calm reply
of Hammond.
“Can it be possible, sir? You surely have never
thought much upon the matter---but then, people have
believed, or affected to believe, in stranger things.---
Surely you cannot have thought much upon it.”
“Sir!” said Hammond; turning slowly, toward
him; and raising his hand in that impressive, cold,
solemn way; as if every word that he uttered, were set
down at the moment, by a recording angel—“Sir! I
have thought of it. Night and day, have I thought of
it, for whole years. A friend, a dear friend roused the
lion in my heart---five years ago---and he has not
slept since. And I have never been happy since. It
was injudicious in him; but the spirit that one man
may disturb, legions may not quell.”
“And pray, sir---Mr. Hammond, I believe, (Hammand
bowed)---a— you came then, to a conclusion---
pray, what was that conclusion?”
“Are you determined to hear it?”
“Certainly not, if you are seriously disposed
against telling it—or ashamed of it—or afraid----
or—”
“Sir,” said Hammond—his dark eyes filling, all at
once, with starlight, and beauty. “I am neither
afraid, nor ashamed, of any thing. My opinion, sir!
It is this---that there is no such thing as freedom.
That God only can be free—and that freedom is Omnipotence.”
“But you take away man's accountability, by that
doctrine,” said Mr. Paynim, peevishly; and confound
moral with physical freedom.”
“Yes—I know it; moral and physical freedom are
inseparable. I hold too, that man will not be punished
for any thing that he does.”
“Nor rewarded?” continued the other, eagerly.
“Nor rewarded,” echoed Hammond; “that is a
part of your own doctrine, that there is no merit in
man's good actions.”
“And you make the Deity, the author of sin,” said
Mr. Paynim—with a scornful, but compassionate expression
of the lip.
“Yes, sir—of all, that you call sin. All that happens,
happens by his permission; nay, by his authority.
He can prevent it, but does not. He is infinitely
wise, good, powerful:---of course, what we call
sin, is consistent with infinite wisdom, goodness, and
power. Nay, more---God is the author of all law, the
violation of which constitutes sin. Being the author,
he can suspend it at pleasure. It is only necessary,
therefore, that he should suspend, any given prohibition,
and the prohibited deed becomes lawful. Is it
not so? God peopled the world at first, by an incestuous
communion, between the sons and daughters
of Adam. He sent his angel among the nations; and
they melted away in the breath of his nostrils. The
earth runs with blood at his bidding. He commands
one man to slay another---nay, to slay thousands, and
tens of thousands!---He orders the Egyptians, to be
spoiled of their gold and silver, by the Israelites; he
permits his chosen one, David, to sin upon the house
top with a woman. Here then are murder, adultery,
incest, and theft, all done by his direct authority.
And what is the consequence? They cease to be criminal.
He proceeds to the work of death. Suppose, that he
had done it.”
“But he would never have done it,” said the clergyman.
“Ah!” replied Hammond; “then why is Abraham
celebrated for his faith, and obedience? But, suppose,
that he had done it; who would have dared to censure
him? Who would have dared to resist the angel of
the Lord? This night---suppose, sir, that this night,
one of us should be convinced, in his understanding,
and heart, by a vision, that he was ordered of God to
offer up some babe---and suppose that he obeyed.
Would he sin?”
“No---he would he a madman. The age of such
communication with heaven, is past.”
“You see---sir,” said Hammond, with increasing solemnity;
“that, what we call sin, when done, or authorized
by God, ceases to be sin. Nay---if you pursue
it for a moment, you will see, that, without sin, there
would be no virtue—no suffering---and, consequently,
no patience, fortitude, compassion, sympathy, resignation---nor
piety,--no virtue, nor shadow of virtue.
It is a subject, sir, which I hoped to avoid; many, and
many a weary, sleepless night, have I passed; and I
had nearly come to the resolution once, of never
speaking upon it, again; and I do it now, with reluctance.
I long to hear it refuted---sir! as I am a
living man, I would go down on my knees, before any
human being, who would convince me, that I am a free
agent---morally free; capable of doing right and
wrong.”
“I would recommend professor Reid, to you,” said
the other, as if he pitied Hammond.
“Professor Reid!---Sir, I have read him, through
and through; again, and again. I mean no disrespect
to you; but I am more familiar with him than you are.
He has deceived himself; no wonder that he has deceived
others. He is the champion of your side; but
I have set my foot upon his neck. Professor Reid!---
yes, sir; and, after reading, and writing, upon the subject;
every man that opposed me; making converts, when I
neither sought, nor desired it; awing presumption into
silence; and prejudice into nothingness, I met with the
letters, that passed between Frederick and Voltaire,
on the subject; and I found that I had answered—without
ever having seen them; the very doubts and objections,
on both sides, which Frederick and Voltaire,
themselves, had pronounced to be unanswerable.”
“Can you pretend to believe that you are not free---
Mr. Hammond, when you are acting every hour of
your life, as if you believe it; and, are continually planning
for the future”---said Elizabeth.
“My dear Miss Adams,” said he, with an air of the
deepest, and most affectionate sincerity. “That is man's
nature. Who acts according to his belief? Nobody.
We believe that there are no apparitions---no spectres;
yet we are all more or less frightened in the dark. We
believe that we shall die, every one of us, and be judged.
Yet, who acts as if he really believed it. We know
that death is inevitable---yet we act as if we knew that
it could not happen.”
“But why should we reason?” said Elizabeth, interfering
again, to keep down the warmth of Hammond.
“Do we not feel in every pulse, thought, and throb, that
we are free?”
“Yes!--that is the unanswerable argument after, all,”
said Mr. Paynim;---“we have the highest possible evidence
of our freedom; and, therefore, we are free.”
“Professor Reid says the same thing,” Hammond
replied. “But I answer thus:—In the first place, it is
not true that we have this evidence. In the next place;
if we had it, it would not prove that we are free,---and
finally, though our consciousness and our understanding
should unite in their testimony to our freedom—
still, they might deceive us—still we might not be so.”
“Upon my word!”---cried the clergyman, breathless
with astonishment, “What evidence would you
have?”
“I would have the evidence of my reason, because
it is higher than that of consciousness,—not because
it would be conclusive.”
“But are not the evidence of your reason, and consciousness
the same thing?”---said Elizabeth.
“Ah, my dear Miss Adams,” said the clergyman,
smiling, “you had better not trouble your head any
more with metaphysicks.”
“Why not?” answered Hammond, seriously.---“I
am sure, that she makes the proper distinction between
reason and the evidence of reason.” You will
find her able to comprehend your most attenuated
and subtle distinctions”---(Elizabeth blushed, and bowed)---he
continued. “No---I care little, or nothing,
for what the wise have said on the subject. I have
my own notions. Consciousness in us, is like instinct
in animals. It is something, that anticipates the deduction
of reason;---something, that is antecedent to
experience. However, it matters little in what sense
we use it here: for, a little reflection will convince us,
that consciousness is not infallible. A dreamer, a lunatick,
a disordered man; one in a passion, or intoxicated;---each
will have a consciousness that is false,---each
will be conscious for a time, that he is, what he is not.
A crazed old man may be conscious that he is a monarch.
Is he a monarch? A drunken man may be
conscious that he is sober. Is he sober? A dreamer
may feel a consciousness, that he is tumbling from a
precipice. Is he tumbling from a precipice? Unless
you answer in the affirmative, that man is, whatever, he
is conscious of being, you must give up the point that
man is free, because he is conscious of being free. Just
so, may his understanding play false---his reason.”
“But,” said the clergyman, “You have not shown
what you promised, that we have not this consciousness.”
“It would require too much time. I can only speak
for myself. I never propose to do a thing, or even resolve
to do it; but, in a qualified way. I do not feel
convinced that I am at liberty to do anything.”
“Nay---that is too bad,” said I---“You do not feel
satisfied or convinced, at this moment, that you are at
liberty to lift your hand to your face!”
“No---when I reflect upon it, I do not. While I only
feel, I admit that I act, as if I did feel free; and that is
only while I do not think at all. Many things might
happen to prevent me; a change of mind; some muscular
affection; the cramp; palsy or death. You smile---
and, not, if you will allow me to say so, as—but no
matter. All, that we do, is subject to some accident,
restraint, or contingency. So, all that we resolve to
do.”
“Why, sir, if I understand you right, you make freedem
to consist in entire independence---(said the clergyman)—in
a sort of animal power—not a moral power,
of choice.”
“True, sir—in a moral power, which is incapable of
physical control—in OMNIPOTENCE. You are startled
—but—”
“I am—I confess it—if your doctrine be at all just,
only one Being can be free.”
That is exactly what I said, when I began, sir, “answered
Hammond.”
“And yet,” said Elizabeth, timidly, her pleasant,
lovely, impatient eyes dashed with shadow and light, as
she raised them reverently to the clergyman;—“I have
always been led to beheve, that guilt or innocence
were in the mind, alone;—that he, who meditates a
murder, though he be unable to complete it, is a murderer;—that
moral guilt is in the thought—not in the
deed;—that he who kills another, without intending it,
is innocent; and that he, who puts poison into the food of
another, which is not eaten; or gives a balsam, by mistake,
when he would drug another's heart with death,
is a murderer in his soul; morally guilty of all that he
meditated.”
“Surely, surely, Mr. Hammond.” she continued,
stretching her beautiful hand toward him, till she almost
touched his shoulder, in her passionate, sweet, yet
lifted earnestness—“the guilt of the heart need not be
consummated” by the guilt of the hand!—and, if not—of
what matter is it, whether we are free to do what we
determine, or not, provided that we are free to determine?”
The clergyman's eyes ran over—and he held her
hands in his, for a moment.---“Beautiful enthusiast,”
he said---and the words broke from his lip in fire---“he
trembles from head to foot! --this is using your power
and loveliness, upon the earth, as your Heavenly Father
would have you!”
Hammond's broad forehead lightened, absolutely
lightened, as he repeated---“Beautiful enthusias! yes—
right or wrong, ye will be followed!—who may resist
your enchantment!—not the strong of heart; for, at
the sound of your voices, the stout hearted fail!—not
the powerful in mind, for, at your bidding, they lie
down in the dust! like giants fainting before an incantation.
But no—I will withstand you:—for truth is
mightier than beauty; wisdom, than loveliness. God
is truth. “Suppose,” he added, approaching Elizabeth,
and speaking in a low, composed tone, with action
full of solemnity and emphasis. “Suppose that
it should prove---let me suppose the case---that, he who
drugged the food of another with poison---was not at
liberty---but did it under some preternatural, hidden,
but irresistible influence, would he be guilty? Suppose
that one, operated upon by physical force, or by persuasion,
and by nothing else--to kill another, nay, to strike
another with an intention to kill him, would he be
guilty? It might be, you know, for self preservation---
as if he were thrust against another---upon a piece of
ice, where only one could stand. Suppose him to be
excited to it by wine, or eloquence, or fanatacism, or
visions from heaven, or madness---would he be guilty,
then?”
“You crowd your questions too thickly upon me,”
answered Elizabeth. “Yet, I should think him
guilty, only in proportion as he was free; and that his
guiltiness diminished, exactly in proportion to the influence
operating upon him, whether intellectual or corporeal.”
“Thank you,” cried Hammond; “thank you, Eliza---
Miss Adams, I mean. Now we are coming to the
point! We shall soon become altogether intelligible
to each other. We are not so wide of the truth, as we
the fanatick---each may have given the blow, with an
intent to kill—each believing that he was free—yet,
after all, when God shall try him, his guilt or innocence
will depend, as you have already admitted, not
upon his own belief, or consciousness of freedom; not upon
the intention to kill—but, upon the fact, whether he
was really free or not—(whatever were his belief:)—and
he will be guiltless of blood, in proportion to the influence
that operated upon him.”
The clergyman regarded him with alarm, as he proceeded.
“You are wrong, therefore, Elizabeth; and Dr. Reid,
great and good as he may have been, is wrong; and all
of you are wrong. Let me give you, substantially,
one of Dr. Reid's arguments. The foreknowledge of
God, said he, is no more incompatible with man's freedom,
than his memory is: that is, if we had no faculty
of memory; it would be as inconceivable to us, as foreknowledge
is now. We could never be made to comprehend,
how he could remember a thing that was past;
any more than we can now comprehend, how he should
foreknow a thing, that is to come, without, in some way, affecting
the liberty of the agent. Now, it is true, says Dr.
Reid, that we are able to comprehend it, &c. &c.---but
why repeat such an argument: alas, for the wisdom and
honesty of such men. Their blindness would be inconceivable,
were it not so evident. I answer him thus.
Granted. I am willing to grant all that you ask—
every thing—in yourown language, too, if you please A
thing must have been, before it could be remembered.
Yes. And if foreknown, it must be! Yes. That is
enough. We care not, whether foreknowledge and freedom
be, or be not irreconcileable. It is enough for us, that,
for some reason, no matter what, whether by the constitution
of things, or not---or, whether, because it was
foreknown or not---it is enough for us, that, whatever
is foreknown, must take place. If it must take place,
the agent is not free. Yes, I repeat it, you are all
wreng. Moral guilt does not consist in the determination
of the will, or of the mind---nor, from whatever we
we are free or not. It is, therefore, a begging of the
question, petitio principii (that was to the clergyman---
the first part to Elizabeth) to maintain, that the guilt
is in the will. The dispute is, whether man is free, or
not. And you do no more than reiterate your own proposition....when
you say, first, that man is free—and then,
that the guilt is in the will. It is precisely like saying,
that the doctrine is dangerous....for, that is supposing
it false. If true, it cannot be dangerous; because, believe
what we may, it can have no influence upon our
actions. We are not free.”
“I do not see it,” said the clergyman—“Dr. Reid
was not so feeble, or blind a logician, as that—an identical
proposition from Dr. Reid! Oh, no.—Pardon
me!”
“Let me put this question in another shape. I have
a child, of a perverse, obstinate, disobedient temper,
who is particularly fond of a particular kind of fruit.
Willing to try him, I put him into a room, with some
of the fruit; and command him not to touch it, or taste
it. I leave him there. Now, one of your way of
thinking, will say, that the child is free to obey, or not;
and that, I may be able to determine, and to foreknow,
almost to a certainty, whether he will obey, or not.
Sir—hearken to me.—Exactly in proportion to my
certainty, would be his want of freedom: and when I
came to foreknow positively, as God is admitted to
foreknow every thing, how he would behave in that
room, he would be no longer free. You smile. Sir---
I do not wonder at it. I do not complain of you. You
pity me---believe me, Sir---I am not deserving of it.
If I am wrong, I am unworthy of compassion: for, I
am wilfully and obstinately convinced, that I am right.
However, to carry the thing one step further. Suppose
that child to be so disobedient, that, it were
enough to make him do any thing, only to have me
command him not to do it. Suppose that the fruit in
question, was a favourite kind---for which, he had
been longing, for a great while, and had endured
all risks, to obtain---and then, suppose that he were
morally certain of his disobedience, when I hadleft
him in the room with the fruit. But, where would be
his freedom?”
“The child would be perfectly free, nevertheless---
perfectly free.” said the clergyman---“free to choose.
“Ah!---then, if he be perfectly free, in this latter
case, he must be more than perfectly free, in the former.”
“I do not see that.”
“The temptation is greater in the last case---is it
not? Ah---you do not like to answer. Is it,--or is it
not?”
“It is.”
“Is temptation an influence?”
“Certainly---I cannot deny that. Make what use
you can of it.”
“Then, sir, if he be perfectly free, with a given
quantity of temptation, or influence—he must be more
than free, when the influence or temptation is diminished.”
“Well but—I do not—I beg your pardon, sir. You
are too fast---I—.”
“Allow me, sir, if you please---for a single moment.
Now, I do not contend---nor, is it necessary that I
should contend, that my foreknowledge or prescience,
in the case of the child, has any necessary influence
on, or connection with, his conduct. I am willing to
grant, if you please, all that Dr. Reid, or anybody
can ask; that foreknowledge, of itself, has no influence
at all (for the sake of argument, I mean) on the freedom
of an agent. But, all that I contend for, is, that,
exactly in proportion to the certainty of my knowledge,
or prescience; or that of any being, whatever,
of any event, or in relation to any event, or the action
of any agent; that, just in that proportion, is the necessity
that that event should happen; and that agent act,
no matter for what reason. I care not why it must
happen---it is enough for me, that it must happen, in
proportion, as it is certainly foreknown.”
“Well. God foreknows every thing, certainly, absolutely,
and without qualification.”
“Consequently, all that he foreknew, or foreknows,
must happen, as he foreknew, or foreknows it: just
as the child must eat the fruit, in the case mentioned,
if I, or any body, man or Deity, foreknew certainly,
that he would eat it.”
“Therefore, sir, do I repeat, that the determination
of the will is not, even when it takes place, apart from
all visible influence, but in mere rebellion, and downright
disobedience to God, as it may appear, not only
to us---but, to the man himself, who rebels, and is disobedient—is
not the measure of moral guilt.”
“And yet sir---mark me. If Dr. Reid were this moment
arraigned before the Judge of all the world; and
condemned, for some deed, done in the body---done, too,
while he believed, that he was free to choose and determine---what
would he say, if he found, then, that he
never had been free? Would he not, if he had the
power, remonstrate? Would he not say---“Spare me,
O, God, spare me! I was under a delusion....I was
deceived....I thought that I was free....yet, now, I
know that I was not...that I was ever, in my will, determined
by another power....even by thee, O, God! for,
from thee, cometh all influence....all attraction....wilt
thou punish me, O, my Father! that I was unable to
fathom thy mystery. Lo, my brother is standing at
my side....Upon the earth, he dipt his hands into the
heart of his own children....even as thy servant, of
yore, was called upon, to do....he believed that he
was commissiones to do this....behold him, trembling,
before thee....he was deceived. Shall he be punished?”
“This may be eloquence; nay, it is eloquence, Mr.
Hammond,” said Elizabeth, “but it is not argument.
The poor creature believed that he was doing right;
but we are speaking of those, who believe that they are
doing wrong!”
“I confess it,” answered Hammond, turning a little
pale. “Yet, yet! I pray you, bear with me: if it
should prove, at the great day of account, that he who
had done some terrible crime upon this earth, wilfully,
and intending to do wrong; and believing that he
was at liberty to do it, or not; if he should find, at last,
to forbear; and that he could not have done otherwise;
would he submit patiently, to his punishment.
I care not who, or what he is. I dare to say no. I
dare to say that Jehovah, himself, will not, cannot punish
the man, unless he was free. You tremble---I do
not. I have confidence in God's attributes. I believe
that he cannot be unjust.”
“Then God himself, is not free,” said Elizabeth.
“Hammond stopped, confounded, overwhelmed---
but, it was only for a moment. “Yes,” he added, “God
is free; and may do what he will. I retract what I
said. Do what he may, though it be contrary to all
our notions of right and wrong; yet it must be right, in
him. Still, do I believe, though I do not tremble, that
whatever is, is right; and that He will have mercy
upon all that he hath fashioned.”
“But what confidence can you have in this opinion?
unless God himself, be subject to some immutable law,
of his own nature; and if he be,” she continued.
“And if he be!” answered Hammond, standing upright,
like one suddenly struck blind; but he soon recovered
himself. “If he be! that law is God! no matter
what that law is; no matter how it operates; if there
be any law, which compets the Being, whom we call
God---to any mode of action; pay which influences
him, in the smallest degree; though it be in his own
nature”—he faltered, his brow wrought intently in its
darkness---his great blood-shot eyes waned---his lips
moved, but no sound came from them.
“Now!” cried Elizabeth; “now! Mr. Hammond do
I see you where I have been hoping to see you—in the
deep ocean--the deep, deep ocean of God's nature---now
is it that I see your reason totter! your,ajestick nature
struck with darkness, abashed and shaking in the
contemplation of it. O, Albert!” (the tears filled her
eyes, and she stopped.)
“I know not,” said Hammond, in an humbler tone,
“I know not what this feeling may mean. I have
thought many a weary year upon the subject--- wrestled
with strong men---written, and talked upon it---but
frightful incomprehensibleness. I can believe yet---I do
believe it--that I am not free; yet, I will act so, if I can, so
that, if it should prove at last, that I am free, or have been
free, I shall be on the safe side. Yet, what confidence
can I have in the mercy, or benevolence of God,
unless I believe that his nature is, of necessity, benevolent
and merciful:---and, having gone thus far, I establish
a necessity superiour to him. Well, be it so---I will
not---I never did, and I never will shrink from any
conclusion, however appalling, to which my reason
hath conducted me. The highest principle then;
the God of all-nature---is Benevolence. Whatever that
God does, we have agreed to call by the highest, best
of names. To that God, necessarily omnipotent, omniscient,
and all-merciful, I, from this hour, devote
myself, and all my faculties.”
“You have arrived then,” said Elizabeth, locking
her hands, fervently, and lifting up her beautiful eyes
to heaven; “you have arrived at wisdom and consolation;
that wisdom, which will be very dear and profitable
to you; that consolation, which will be with you, a
present helper through all tribulation and trial; the
hour of death and the day of judgment.”
Hammond looked, as if he could have fallen at her
feet, and buried his mouth in the dust. The
sweat stood upon his white lips---his hands were
violently agitated, for some moments, as he vainly
attempted to reply, while the clergyman sat,
with shining eyes, and mouth open, in mute admiration
of her passionate enthusiasm.
“Elizabeth,” said Hammond, after a few minutes of
deep, unbroken silence, “I cannot deceive you. I have
had leisure to think. My spirit has been above, in
the presence-chamber of our Father, since I heard
your voice; and stood there, with her face covered,
and---and---this---this hath been written upon her
forehead. There is one Lord God of Heaven and
Earth; and but one! Whatever he does, he does, by no
law; no influence; no necessity; but, by the free operation
of his own will. Our confidence, in his mercy
and benignity, and power, is not deducible from any
reason. Whatever he does, or suffers, or permits, or
authorizes, is not only right, and wise; but wisest,
most right, best. He has entirely surrounded us by innumerable
influences and attractions; subjected us to
the accidents of education; the contingencies of material
things; the operation of spiritual things; filled us
with passions, and appetites; and subjected them all
to temptation and trial. Whether we be free at all,
it is impossible to determine. Our reason declares
that we are not so; our feeling that we are. In what
degree, we are free, we shall never know. But that
we are not entirely free, is as certain, as that entire
freedom must be a power incapable of being influenced;
agitated or attracted; subject to no passion, appetite,
or law; inaccessable to temptation or trial, whether
of earth or heaven, material or immaterial---and
—nay, more, I cannot admit any thing like degrees of
freedom. There may be degrees of slavery. To be
free—or right—at all--is to be wholly free, and wholly
right, and—.”
“Pray, no more, now. I hear a step.”
“The door opened, and Mr. Larence entered; a
young man who had long been a devout admirer of
Elizabeth. (She gave him her hand, at one, unaffectedly.)
“Really! Mr. Larence,” said she, “I am very glad
to see you. He threw up his dim sunken eyes, to hers--
and attempted to speak.”
“I—(a slight, tremulous movement of his chin followed.)
“I hope that your long absence has been of
service to you—(she faltered)—to your health.”
“Miss Adams,” he replied, while his handsome, melancholy
features lighted up, for a moment, with an
expression of intense feeling. “I---I—I thank you----
I cannot flatter myself, that it has been. My long absence---has
not cured me.”
“He laid a deep emphasis upon the words long, and
me;--and Elizabeth, concealing some emotion, smiled
faintly, as if she considered it in the light of pleasantry;
but he did not; he grew more serious—and the
timid, and reluctant. All have felt a strange unwillingness,
to begin a conversation, during a dead silence.
It is like beginning a letter; or a speech; a
thousand times more difficult, than—(ending it, I
was about to say, but that, I know by experience, to
be yet more difficult) than continuing it, then, I will
say. You cannot trifle at first—every eye is upon
you; every ear open; and it is the devil to be serious,
at the onset—when every body is listening to you.
This Mr. Larence was a slender, interesting
young man; one of the most interesting, that I ever
saw—and, absolutely, the most elegant—who, if ever
a man was devoted to a woman, was devoted to my
sister, heart and soul. His family, talent, reputation,
and character, to all the world, but her and
me, were unexceptionable; to her, I know not for
what reason—he was a great favourite with the women;
and what is really unaccountable, he deserved to
be—and to me, only, they were not, because I could not
bear to think of sharing her heart; the heart even of my
sister; with any human being; still less, of giving it up
so utterly, as I must, to such a man as George Larence,
if he once got possession of it. But for that, I never saw a
man, to whom I would so readily have entrusted the
happiness of Elizabeth. He was patient under trial;
dignified—pious; and truly meek, and lowly of heart:
unpretending; but gifted with a blessed, and bright intellect;
a pure heart, and a romantick, lordly sense of
honour, without show or parade; never talking for
effect; never aiming to astonish; but winning all
hearts, by the gentleness of his deportment; and the
sweet, mournful tenderness of his genius. A creature,
however, with all his meekness, not to be mocked at,
or touched upon, with impunity. Let me give you an
example, that just occurred to me: I sat by him once,
when a ruffian was awed and confounded, so completely,
by the collectedness of his manner; the evenness of
his clear look, that he trembled from head to foot.
Nay, I have seen him bear much; but I never saw any
other symptoms of passion, than a high hearted
usual, in his melancholy eyes. I remember, that he
had once been challenged, for some hasty thing that
he had said; and that he had the greatness of heart to
go to the same place; and apologise for the affront,
before the same company, for what he had done. I
asked him why! But let me tell you all about it.
“Because I was wrong,” said he, mildly; “and the
man was rather smaller than I—”
Yet while he was there, with every eye upon his
pale, placid features, he was goaded to such desperation,
by a professed duellist, in consequence of the
apology, that he turned round to him, before the whole
company, and rebuked him, as with the authority of
a superiour being, for the blood that he had spilt.
The other raised his arm.
“Do not strike me. Frederick Harding;” said he---
“it would be unmanly, (his dark sunken eyes, were so
full of severity, and steadiness---so undisturbed; so
beautiful, that the other's arm dropped powerless before
it—and he continued.) “You see that I am unable
to resist your bodily force; that I am, in a measure,
helpless, and defenceless; this you can see; do
not strike me. The disgrace would recoil upon yourself.
You have not a brave heart, Mr. Harding—
but it is the desperate heart of an assassin---a murderer.
You have that constitutional fearlessness of
death; that regardlessness of God, which would have
made you, what the world calls a hero; but which, by
being shown in the commoner affairs of life—has
made you only a murderer—nay, nay, do not threaten
me—I do believe that you are a coward. Well! threaten
me. I am not to be intimidated. A truly brave
man, Frederick Harding, would never bully a smaller
one, in company; and before women. Nay—nor
tremble before him, as you do, at this moment, before
me. Now strike me, if you dare! Strike me,
sir—strike me, if you can,” he added—(for the women
had fled from the room—stepping up to him, with his
eyes flashing fire, and trembling with emotion)---
“strike me, if you have the manhood. What! a pistol---level
what a reptile! Gentlemen, look at this man. Behold
him there—the terrour of the town:—one that
had ridden over your hearts; the best and bravest---
trampled all the courtesies of life into the dust; bullying
his way through society—dripping with the blood
of one of the best men, that ever trod this earth!
Behold him!---going armed into the assembly of women—insulting
me—a man, of half his weight: and
why? because he knew me to be principled against
duelling; and because he had just heard me offer an
apology to one, that I had injured; and because he believed
me to be a coward! I, a coward; when he---
the dastard; hath not the strength to lift his hand.
Begone!—sir!---leave the room, this instant;---or I
will cowhide you upon the spot.”
Saying this, he pressed upon the fellow; who, black
in the face, with passion, and frothing at the lips,
cocked the pistol, which till then had remained uncocked,
with a shaking hand; and levelled it.
“Another step,” said he, menacing, inarticulately---
I was thunderstruck at what I thought the rashness of
Larence; and sprang forward to arrest the shot; but
the pistol was already struck from his hand---the
room rang; and the ball rattled along the wall, and
through the window. Larence stood at the door,
unharmed; and the discomfited wretch, overcome with
his sense of inferiority, and shame, walked sullenly
away.
While we were yet pressing about the heroick Larence,
who stood, with his fine eyes running over in
thankfulness to heaven; and so weak, that he could
hardly stand; another young man entered, and handed
a note to him.
Larence instantly recovered himself; stood upright,
with a calm forehead, and untroubled mouth.
Why could not I have done the same? I know not, but
I could not---I never could---my heart would have
burst, while his only bled, in such a silence---but Larence
was a hero---I was not---I was only a man; a
man!---I was less than a man. He read it through.
“Do you know the contents of that scrawl, young
man?” said he.
The other bowed haughtily.
“It is a challenge, gentlemen, said Larence,” handing
a dirty paper to me--“and the fellow cannot write
English---nor spell; he begins every word with a capital;
and writes up hill---poh, poh! (he added, glancing
with a pleasant look upon the bearer;) don't put on
any of these airs here, sir---you are a young man.”
But the other persisted.
“Look you,” said I, “my lad”--stepping up to him,
with half a mind to pitch him out of the window; but
Larence rebuked me---walked composedly before me;
and stood tearing up the note, leisurely, while he added,
in a cheerful, but determined tone—
“You are young, sir; I pity you---I would not hurt
your feeling; but I shall take care, that you, as well
as the scoundrel who sent you, are properly punished
for this frolick. Nay, don't approach me. You do not
know, perhaps, whom you have to deal with. I said
before, that I pitied you;—if you do not go soon, I
shall despise you; and, probably, make you despise
yourself. The coward that sent you, I do not fear; if
he attack me, I shall know how to defend myself --but
I shall put both of you into safe keeping, directly.---
Stand by, sir! and let me pass: you had better stand a
little aside; for so sure as you are a living man—or
boy, rather; if I am once provoked, I shall give you a
lesson for your impudence, that will not be very palatable.”
Saying this, he attempted a third time, to force his
way out; but the other put his hand upon his collar. Larence
gently displaced it, with one of his; and threw the
torn paper into his face, with the other.
That was going too far; and the stranger darted a
blow, quicker than lightning, at his face.
Whether Larence received it, or not—I cannot tell:
he certainly did not return it; and yet there was the
sudden noise of a blow; as if a bone had been broken—
and the stranger's arm dropped powerless at his side;
and his youthful forehead contracted in agony. I
and staggered against the wall; attempting, again,
and again, to raise his arm; but it refused obedience
to his will, and hung, as if dislocated.
I was afraid of some evil to Larence, who walked
leisurely and silently away, after throwing a compassionate
glance upon the handsome young stranger;
and I followed him; we had never been well acquainted
till then; but from that hour, we became intimate,
and continued so, till, I never knew for what, he became
unaccountably dejected; avoided our house; and
went to the Indies.
Reader, there is a part of my life, that I cannot, cannot,
bear to dwell on. If some suspicion should obtrude
itself upon you, pass it over—in charity, if you
can—in pity, if you have the heart. During that period,
it was, that Larence had left America.
I was glad to see him return; yet sorrowful on his
account; for, after a few minutes, I saw that Elizabeth
was under a painful restraint in his presence; that she
wished to soothe his noble spirit, but dared not, lest
it should give him encouragement, where it was not
meant. Her manner grew colder and colder, in spite
of herself; and his, more troubled and dejected; till at
last, unable to endure it any longer, he arose.
“Miss Adams,” said he, firmly; and then he spoke
more faintly—the words were scarcely intelligible;
but it appeared to me, that they were something like
these, “I see that I have no hope;” and then, in a louder
tone; he added, bowing low “ten thousand miles;
three whole years have I passed, merely that I might
see you once more—alone, if it were possible—entirely
alone. Will you permit me an opportunity? Do
not refuse me—can I see you to night—tomorrow—
the next day—for a single moment? I hope that I am
not presumptuous—forgive me, for my importunity---
no, no, dearest of women, I cannot leave you; will not,
though forty thousand strangers were near you, till--”
Elizabeth, as I could see, (being the nearest to her)
had been motioning to him, pale as a spectre, to beware.
I knew her motive; she was unlike other women.
where there was no hope; and she arose,
agitated nearly to death---took his hand---firmly persuaded,
I am sure, that nothing less could prevent him
from exposing his fine heart to the world.
“Yes, my friend,” said she “I will see you, alone;
and immediately. I know your intention. I know
the purport of what you would tell me. (This, she attempted
to say, in a tone of pleasantry; but her eye
filled, and her red lip quivered and swelled.) “Brother,
you will be so kind as to entertain our other
friends, till I return. I shall walk with Mr. Larence
to see Emma Larence. Ah brother! you colour! I
see that you would like to be one of the party; but it
won't do to-night---farewell—”.
Reader, I must stop---it is the first time that I have
written her name---my hand shakes---I---I---farewell---
| CHAPTER XI. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |