 | CHAPTER XIV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
14. CHAPTER XIV.
Marriage...Reflections thereon....Fashion of the time....Confession
....Elizabeth... Jealousy....Romping...Levity... Beware of
Mystery...Dreaming...Education...Apprehension...Love....
Consummation.
The time of my marriage was now rapidly approaching;
and, as it came nearer and nearer to me; there
was an unaccountable heaviness upon my heart, constantly
augmenting; a mournful, and rather pleasant solemnity;
a kind of depressing tenderness, that made
me weep, when I was all alone, without knowing why;
and kept me mute as love and death, when I was with
Emma. Yet, O, I could not have given up that gentle
sorrowing, for all the fierce riot of the imagination;
and all the frenzy and delirium of my past life. Now,
I felt that I loved, purely and tenderly; for my only
thought was for her happiness; my only tear that I
should not be all that she believed me to be. “Tell
me,” I would say, “tell me, love,” as soon as I could
recover myself sufficiently to command my voice—“is
there no doubt upon your heart, Emma, none? no question
that you would ask me, yet? I have told you all
—my whole life—no—I am wrong, I have not told
you all.”
She turned deadly pale—and leaned, in her helpless,
faint sorrow, and alarm, for a moment, against my
bosom. How could I wonder!—our separation, before,
had been owing to an unintentional concealment—a
little deceit—but no falsehood—on my part—; and
now, to imagine, that such an event might happen
again—oh, no wonder that she turned pale—poor
Emma!
“No, dear Emma;” I continued—“no! I have not
deceived you. You believe me at this moment, by my
own representation, rather worse than I am. What I
meant to say, was this. If there be any question—which
concerns only myself; and not the secret of another—
ask it—and the truth is yours. That is such confidence,
ever I will do, as I would be done by.”
“No:” she replied, faintly, reassured in some measure—“but,
while we hold to this, would it not be well;
(she faltered, for she never pronounced my name,
when we were alone—she trembled to be familiar; and
dreaded to appear formal—so that she would neither
say William; nor Mr. Adams; and still less, what no
delicate woman will, in any case—Adams, alone—it is
too masculine—) to—to—be more heedful about admitting
such confidence.”
“Certainly—certainly, dear; now that we know
each other; while our two hearts are so truly one, that
their very blood keeps time—”
(She plucked away her hand from me—with a slight
petulant, movement, that made me smile; for my fingers
were upon her pulse.)
“Together—we ought never—never—to admit a confidential
communication from any human being, but
with the privilege of committing it to each other.”
“In no case?” she replied, timidly.
“In no case, love—perhaps a case may be imagined;
one of life, and death; but I cannot, at this moment,
suppose any situation capable of justifying a wife, or
husband, in receiving what neither can, under any
circumstances, communicate to the other. Is it
not so?”
“Really—I—I—after marriage, you know;” (colouring,
and smiling, while her wet eyes danced pleasantly
through her dark lashes—like revolving jewelry.
I love to compare things with one another.)
“Yes,” said I—“that may make a difference in our
love—nay, it will—”
“Not in mine—not in mine, I am sure—(very earnestly.)
“Yes, Emma, it will—the mystery, and enchantment,
of delusion, will be done with; a better,
more permanent, and holier feeling—a deeper, and
more quiet—and less passionate love, will arise in our
breasts. We shall tremble less; and love more inwardly;
with a feeling of warmth, quiet, and comfort:
O, yes!—we shall be dearer, infinitely dearer, then, to
be unlike that, which now agitates us. You will have
done blushing, then.”
“I hope not,” said she, affecting a little pettishness,
to conceal her beautiful confusion.
“What!” said I, pulling her to me—“is it so pleasant,
to blush—or do you already anticipate an occasion
for it?”
She turned away her head; and pretended, for a moment,
to be adjusting her collar; but I saw the blood
rush into her fingers, till they were all of a transparent
scarlet, almost as when a delicate hand is held,
open, with the fingers shut, before a candle.
“No,” said she—resuming a more serious manner—
“I have nothing to ask—not a question. I have that
confidence in you, now, that I believe you would not
represent yourself better, than you are to me—; such
confidence, as to believe, that, whatever is proper for
me to know, you will tell me; if not now, at some
future period; and that you do not distress me with the
painful, and revolting particulars, of your early wandering,
and transgression—not, because you would deceive
me; not, because you are afraid to tell me; not,
because you wish to conceal them from me—but because
they are the secrets of others, more than of yourself;
and because—(she faltered again)—you would
not familiarize my thought with impurity, and wickednesss—though
repented of.”
While she was saying this, she hid her lovely face
in her hands; and her hair, of shadowy brown, fell,
gloriously dishevelled, over them; and I locked her to
my very heart, in rapturous delight, and pride.
“Perhaps,” said I—“there may be.”
“I understand you;” she replied—“you are right.
There is one thing in your temper, which alarms me.
It is not what the world calls it; but it is a passion that
makes me tremble.”
“And what does the world call it?”
“Jealousy—ah! your lips turn white.”
“Jealousy!” I replied, affecting to laugh—“no---oh,
no, Emma, I am not---I—” I, stopped; was I not
a compound, quite as terrible as jealousy?—and very
likely to be mistaken for it? Others had called me jealous---might
it not be true?
“But what do you think—Emma?”
“To deal frankly with you, then,” said she, putting
her hand upon my arm; as it lay over the chair—“I
have no fear that you will ever be jealous of me—of
my---what shall I say? I know that a certain degree
of apprehensiveness is always the attendant upon true
love; that we are only without that delicate alarm,
and anxiety, where we do not love; and that, in proportion
as any object is dear to us, is our perpetual terrour
of losing, or sharing it; that is our whole nature. I
mean to say, then---but here is Elizabeth!---she shall
say it; she knows your temper, better than I—”
Elizabeth had opened the door softly; and now
stood, leaning over Emma, with full eyes, dancing in
their brightness; and bosom beating high, and beautifully,
from the exercise of walking.
“Ah!—brother! brother!” she exclaimed—`anticipating,
are you!—and ah, sister—bless me, don't blush,
dear—I was only about telling you, that I would not—
if I were you, Emma, dear, put up with any of his admonition,
until I, could not help myself.”
“Come!—come! young lady,” said I, pulling her into
my lap—“no compassing the king's death here—by
construction;—no treason—no rebellion. But you have
come in good time; we are discussing a grave matter.
Am I of a jealous temper?—or am I not?”
“Are you serious, brother?”
“Serious!—yes---am---I—jealous!---speak plainly---
comfort poor Emma—there—she believes.”
“Nay, nay, brother—don't trouble yourself about
what she believes: she knows you better than any of us;
for all that quiet, decisive—hang it, girl, you won't
let me speak to you, but you colour all over. What has
happened? I shall begin to imagine, that— Brother!
look at me—have you been whipping her?”
“Nay, Elizabeth—speak to the question. Am I
jealous?”
“Yes,” she replied; starting upon her feet; and laying
down her hands upon a great book—“you are
indeed—upon my veracity, you are—”
I was a little hurt. “Selfish too, I suppose,” said I.
She nodded.
“Suspicious?”
“Yes, dear—any more questions?”
“No, I thank you!—Why, What a mischievous
wench it is!” said I, not a little nettled though, at her
plain dealing.
“Come, come brother, don't get huffy about it.
Your jealousy, as Emma, knows is like yourself; the
greatest oddity in the world. We call it jealousy, for
the want of a better name; and because it is more like
that passion, than any other. It grows, I do not like
to flatter you—it grows out of your self-distrust. Nay;
don't sparkle so, at the eyes—you are vain enough, on
all other subjects; but, where you love, a sense of your
own unworthiness—ha! ha! ha!—isn't that frank?--keeps
you in perpetual hot water: and then you never give a
fellow an opportunity for explanation; but, up you
jump, and bounce off, as if you were full of congreve
rockets.”
Emma laughed outright--and shook her head at
her.
“Now,” said I, to Emma:---“may I be parboiled---
heart---and all---if you haven't been telling tales out
o' school, young woman.”
“Guilty! guilty!” cried Elizabeth. “Now for a
confession! Help me, Emma,—help me! Don't stand
there; shivering, like a moonstruck creature. Now is
your time! If you mean to keep your ascendency, you
must establish it in season. Bring him down—“down
to the dust, with him!”
“Out upon thee, witch!” I cried, “will nothing content
thee. Spiriting up my sub—.”
“Your subjects!—there! you see what you are coming
to. After marriage, he would'nt have clipped that
word, you may depend on it. If he had not been sure of
you—now—he would have swallowed the first syllable,
as well as the last—bad symptoms, Emma.”
“Hush, hush”, I cried, “I do plead guilty. Why,
what the deuce possesses the girl—are you mad?”
“Yes! leave me be!”
This was said in a manner so irresistibly happy—reminding
me of one of my own snappish answers, that
they both joined anew, in a hearty laugh.
“By Jupiter!” said I, “girls! rebels! you will carry
a fine hand over me, one of these days, if I do not put
a stop to it, at once. I can feel my throne totter—the
jewels blowing away, like dust from my forehead.”
“Very pretty indeed!—was'nt that Emma?”
“Very,” said Emma.
“Come, be serious, will you—sit down, for a moment;
and then we will all take a walk together. Do you
believe, (my tone was very serious; for I began to feel
a deeper concern, than I was willing to confess)—do
you believe, that Emma has any thing to fear, from this
jealousy of mine?”
Elizabeth looked at me, till her eyes filled, before she
replied; and then, pressing my hand, and Emma's together.—“Yes,
brother—yes!—more than from any
thing else; nay, more than from every thing else, in all
this world. I will answer for every thing else—for
your love, honour, tenderness, fidelity and kindness; but
for that—that, there is only one hope! You must watch
and pray, Emma—and you, for yourself, brother.—
Emma, your hand trembles. Do not believe that he
will ever wrong you, Emma. No, he will not—in
thought, word, or deed.”
“Do not believe that he will ever doubt your truth;
or your principles—no, he will not; but, for a moment—
hear me brother! hear me! my blessed, sweet girl,
whom I hope to see the wife of my brother—hear me!
I hope never again to speak of it—I have waited, too,
for a long time: and, though I have trembled at the
thought of it; and put it off, many, and many a day,
when it has been upon my very lips, yet I am now
glad, that an opportunity has arrived—for a moment,
dear, he may doubt your love. O, do not weep so bitterly,
Emma—I only say, that it is possible---possible,
dear---the thing may never happen---nay, will never
know the worst, and be prepared for it. Have no
reserve with him. Do not wait to be asked. He will
never ask you a question, if he once begin to doubt—
you will not be able to know what he thinks, unless
you speak to him, of it. You will find his jealousy,
then, to be unlike any that you have ever heard of. His
manner will be more tender; delicate; assiduous, but
thoughtful; perhaps, even sorrowful. He will never
watch you—no---and should he believe that your heart
faltered for another---you will only know whom it is,
by the double portion of his confidence, and kindness,
that will be lavished upon that other. Speak then---
speak, quickly, Emma---or my brother will be gone for
ever! Have no mystery in your conduct. Do not
wait to be told by him, that mystery is wrong. Be,
for ever, as it is your nature to be, frank and communicative,
with him. Believe nobody---nobody!---that
would preface his tale by any hint of concealment---
do this, and you will be happy beyond the lot of women.
But fail---O, Emma—I know his temper---his
extravagant exaltation of sentiment---he would die, of
a broken heart; away from you---far---far away---and
you would die a widowed creature---without having
heard one word of reproach, or upbraiding. Brother!
---do not weep---yes, yes!---weep, weep together!---I
will leave you. The truth is now told. My heart is
unloaded---and I will now leave you, together.”
Neither of us could detain her. I felt poor Emma's
heart beating hurriedly, and irregularly, against my
arm, where it encompassed her waist---for many minutes
after Elizabeth, had gone.
There was a melancholy silence for some time.
“You tremble dear,” said I---“but not with apprehension,
I hope?”
“Indeed,” she answered, faintly—“it is with apprehension.
I am not afraid of myself. I do not fear
that I shall ever deserve to suffer; in the way that
Elizabeth has mentioned---but---circumstances—accident---and
you are so impetuous---so heroick, I should
call it, were it not, an unnatural violence, and elevation,
that you might break my heart---without---nay die,
yourself, of a broken heart---without giving me an opportunity
for explanation.”
“Never!” said I, firmly---“never! We have already
suffered enough, to teach me wisdom, on that score.
No---Emma, whatever happen, as I have said, many a
time before, you shall always have an opportunity
for explanation.”
“She carried my hand, convulsively, to her lips.
What startled me!---what was it, then---that shot, like
a cold adder, through all my heart! I know not---I---
I; but there was a something in her manner, too eager,
too grateful---and abrupt, as if my promise were more
important to her, than it ought to have been—which
set me thinking
Let me pass over the rest of our courtship—preparation
and marriage. Enough, to say that we were
married—as I always determined to be—without romping
or festivity---with no mob about us; and, almost
alone—feeling, at our hearts, that it was a religious
celebration—upon which, to trifle was blindness, and
deep infatuation. For my part, I can only say, that
my sensations were awful—more so, I verily believe,
than, if I had been called up, to receive the judgment
of death. Not, that I did'nt love her—O heaven! with
all my heart and soul. But, we had thought, until our
hearts were heavy, of the deep accountability, into
which we were about to enter. It was not my happiness
alone, that was at stake; mine alone, here and
hereafter—but, it was hers—hers! and, perhaps, of
other immortal creatures, to be born of our love, nourished
in our endearment; and left—O, righteous heaven!
helpless and dependant—beset by temptation and trial—undiciplined,
unsustained. Man, man!—hast thou
a heart; and canst thou step, with a firm, and a high
heart, unpreparedly, into a charge, so awful! Woman,
woman! canst thou!—is nursing angels, angels
that thou art to meet hereafter, in heaven, so light a
matter, that thou wilt not even look serious, or devout,
at the moment of passing the threshold of such a fearful
consternation and tears! Do you believe, that I saw no
comfort—no blessedness in the future! O, ye are strangers
to the heart of a thoughtful man, if you believe,
while it is fullest and heaviest, that there are no pleasant
sources of consolation in it; no sweet, inward fountain
rippling, with life blood in it—like sap through the
trodden leaf. No—when I held her to my heart; my
own, my wedded wife; while our tears ran down, like
rain, upon her white dress; and she sobbed upon my
bosom, and trembled, all over, as if her dear heart
would break—while the few that were near, stood
around, with amazement—as if there were something
ominous in such sorrow;—yet, even then, there was
the stirring of nature within us; our hearts yearned, to
be yet nearer to each other—and their incessant pulse
and palpitation, were but the beautiful alarum of unspeakable
tenderness—and delicate, bashful, anticipation.
Even then—then! I grew dizzy—and felt a strangling
sensation in my throat—a sudden darkness followed—and
then, I saw my own boy at her bosom—
as plainly as I can see this paper. I felt his little
hands, playing about my lips; and when, a weary year
afterward, we were standing together, at a window;
she, holding her new born babe in her arms—by heaven!
just in the very spot—as she was leaning upon my bosom—it
all flashed upon me at once, and I told her of
the vision, that I had at our wedding—while she hid
her modest, blushing face in her great shawl.
And then;—but no—I must not hurry with such rapidity
to the precipice. My brain may become giddy,
if I do—and I shall not have the force to finish,
what I ought to tell.
I would speak, for a moment, of our past trials. All
newly married people have them. Prepare themselves,
as they will, there will be some disappointment; some
difference, between the realities of marriage, and their
visionary anticipations. Ours were temperate, guardedly
so; and, we soon found the advantage of it; for,
each became dearer, and dearer, every moment, to the
other, for having practised no deception, either on
ourselves; or on each other.
We saw little company; for, our resources would
not permit it; and, none at all, for the first month of our
marriage. Our sentiments were alike, upon that subject;
my wife was no more willing to be exhibited to a parcel
of impudent coxcombs, whether in petticoats, or out;
or still more impudent women, the day after our marriage,
than I was, to exhibit her. No!—if there ever be
a time, when all the tenderness, and delicacy, and holiness
of retired love, are most wanted, for the consolation
of woman—when privacy, and silence, and loveliness
are most welcome, it is in that hour of renewed being,
when, all at once, the girl has been touched, and
transformed into a woman. Yet, at this time, in the accursed
depravity of the age; the gross indelicacy of
fashion; women, who are ready to faint with terrour and
shame, and confusion, are put up, pale, and trembling,
like breeding cattle, at a fair, to be criticised, by all the
town.—Faugh!
REMARKS ON EDUCATION.
My dear Emma—I am alone. How I shall get
through the night, I know not---unless I pass it, in writing
to you.
I would have the education of a child begin, with its
birth. My first attention should be directed to the development
of his physical properties; for, so intimate is
the sympathy between the mind and body, that each
will always participate in the suffering of the other,
exactly in proportion to its own delicacy and feebleness.
A sound constitution of body; firm and hardy, though
not a robust habit, being formed, I would begin to
lay the foundation of intellectual character. The materials,
I might have been collecting, before; the stature
and proportion of the creature, that I meant to
train up, for a good and great man, might have been
contemplated, again and again; while its corporeal energies
were moulding themselves into beauty and strength
—but, I would never touch the mind; whatever I did, with
the morals; other than, as if by accident; never, by any
approach to system, until the body were, in a measure,
then, a deep lesson written upon his heart; but, never, a
studied one; never one, that would require much thought,
in the child; and, my system of education for the mind,
should not begin, in general, before ten; and never, in
any case, so far as my experience among children, has
gone, before seven.
I speak of the mind, now, love. But, the heart, and
temper, I would put in training, from the first hour of
a child's birth. My first aim should be, to subdue that
fretful, impatient, peevish, petulant nature, so common
to all children. I would deal plainly. If I said no, to
the prayer of a child, I would persist in the denial,
though I should be sorry that I had said no, at first. Why?
Because, if I yielded, he would lose a portion of his
respect for me; and I should be pestered for ever, with
prayer and entreaty, if I were once to revoke my own
law. This, I would do, for a long time, until the
child were able to endure an errour of judgment in me;
without losing either his love or veneration for me,
but when it was no longer necessary for my authority,
that I should be held infallible in his eyes, I would
change my course.
The first indication of ill temper, the very first, I
would treat with immediate severity. But I would require
the most conclusive evidence that it was ill temper.
It might be pain; it might be sickness; but, if I
were once satisfied, that the crying of a babe, though it
were not a week old, proceeded from ill temper, I would
make it smart for it, immediately. Women would call
this barbarous. A mother would go distracted, probably;—but,
if she were a wife of mine—if she resembled
my wife---she would never interfere at such a moment,
though her heart ran blood. When we were
alone—I would listen to her; and, though I might not
love my babe as doatingly, or as tenderly as she, yet I
should not fail to convince her that I loved it as strongly;
and that I would probably endure more, for its happiness
and health. Why? Because, till it were capable
of feeling an heroick nature lit up within its heart,
I should often be compelled to appeal to its little senses
---if a child be old enough to betray an evil temper, is
is old enough to be punished for it. A puppy or a kitten,
before its eyes are open, may be taught not to repeat
certain things. And will you presume that the
young of a woman, have less capability.
O, it would be so cruel! say the kind of heart. How
can the little creature know why it is punished?
It does not know why. It need not. But, it is your
duty to associate the idea of pain, with certain acts; and
that of pleasure, with certain others, the first moment
that it is possible. A burnt child dreads the fire. An
infant will not readily touch a candle, that has once
burnt him; or a kitten, that has once scratched him, a
second time. Do not forget this principle. It is merely
planted, like a flower, in the youngest heart, as an indication
of the soil. Apply it. If a child should cry
from ill temper; and experience the same pain, that it
did, from playing with the flame of the candle; or the
claws of the kitten, would it cry as readily a second
time? No. Nature gives the hint. Let us profit
by it.
You will bear in mind, that I do not pretend to teach
an infant the difference between moral right and wrong.
That would be faulty, indeed. But, for want of properly
considering the subject, there are many, who would
ridicule, or reprobate my system; they will ask me,
how a child can be taught what is right; and what is
wrong, before it can reason.
To this I answer—just as a blind puppy can be—not
by reason, but by being made to feel, that certain acts
are followed by pain; and certain other acts, by pleasure.
Neither is taught morality.
I do not mean to make either understand the connection
between causes and effects. I only aim to make
them feel it. It is God's system of education, that I
would adopt. It is instinct and sensation; not reason,
that I apply to. What keeps the babe from eating serpents?—or
gnawing its own fingers?---or pulling out
its own eyes? Sensation and instinct What teaches
the little mouse to hide, with its glimmering eyes, at the
the head from the worm, before she feeds her young with
it? The puppy to cower, when you lift your arm, or
stoop, as if to pick up a stone? The chickens, born in the
same nest, to keep away from the water, where the
ducks are paddling? Instinct and sensation. A little
experience suffices for a brute; without any knowledge
of right or wrong. He never forgets the hand that has
tortured him; the animal, that has worried him; and can
we expect less of a babe? I hope not. I do not. I have
known cases in confirmation.
Tell me, Emma---why does the dumb animal crouch
before the uplifted hand? Nay, before the menacing eye
of a stranger? That is not instinct. Is it sensation?---
It is a compound of sensation and memory. Both are
necessary. Have not our children faculties like these?
As soon as the babe could articulate a cry, I would
begin with teaching him, that, though he cried his little
heart out, except from pain or sickness, he should be unheeded.
I would never give a child any thing, sick or
well, for which it cried. This would be one of the most
difficult rules to observe---for, when there was any
doubt, I would always lean to the belief, that the wailing
of my babe was that of nature, in pain or sickness;
and not, in mere ill humour. Once satisfied, however,
that it was ill temper, though it cost my child its life;
and me, mine own---I would not yield. It should learn,
that the sure way not to get a thing, if it were a matter
of mere pleasure; and not of health or necessity, would
be to cry for it:---and that, even when necessary to it,
crying was no acceptable or profitable mode of persuasion.
My next lesson would be that it should never tell a
lie. I would permit it to be silent. But I would say,
never tell a falsehood, never, never!---in look, word or
deed, though it be to save your life, and the lives of all
that you love. This should be continually repeated.
I would not begin with tempting him; but, in time, I
would tempt him, even with pain and humiliation. He
might fail, once perhaps, or twice; but, in the end, I
should prevail. But, if he did wrong, whether intentionally;
believe that a candid confession, of his fault, was an atonement
for it. No---he should suffer:---but not so much
as if he had concealed it; and less, than if he had tried
to conceal it. Nay, I would never permit him to think
it possible for a child to lie, and live---if it were
not, that such a sublime mystery, would soon be derided,
by even a child. He would see, and hear, and feel lies;
and I could not conceal that such things were. But
though I could not conceal it, I would teach him that a
liar was a fool, and a coward. But if he did lie, I would
never let him know that I suspected it, till I was certain
of it. At first, he should not be permitted to imagine
that he could lie without my knowing it;—and, as that
wore away; for experience would soon convince him of
that errour, so far as I was concerned; I would make
him ashamed of the very thought, as of something inconceivably
mean and dastardly.
At a very early age, if he had any sensibility, I
should abandon all the common modes of coercion. A
blow, I should teach him, was not to be born;
wherever struck, or by whom—never forgotten, or forgiven.
But first, I would teach him never to deserve
it. After the age of four, I should never strike him.—
Nor would I, at any time, were it possible, by confinement,
shame, or some interdiction of food, to make him
feel, that pain was a necessary consequence of misconduct.
That is the great secret. Children, like
men, should never be permitted to think of pain, but as
a consequence of guilt, or misconduct;—of guilt, but as
of something that would be inevitably followed by pain.
This association should always exist. Destroy it; and
you destroy the man. Destroy it, and you destroy society.
I would next teach him to keep a secret. No matter
how he obtained it; or from whom: or, under what circumstances:--having
been once admitted to the confidence
of any creature; evil or good, I would teach him
that it were better to die, than betray it. This would
be a simple, but severe lesson; and, in time, I should
qualify it, by mentioning the necessity of discretion in
such confidence.
I would then teach him to bear pain; to think of
death, as a matter of little moment.—O, God! how
earnestly would I inculcate that doctrine; of dishonour,
as immeasurably worse; and that cowardice
was the greatest of dishonour. Still, I would inculcate,
that a quarrelsome; rash; arrogant manner, was, next
to cowardice, (the cloak of which, it often is,) the
greatest of dishonour, short of cowardice.
Take care, I would say, never to give a blow, unless
it be well merited; and never to receive one, without
returning it, though it be from a giant—in church;
merited, or unmerited. Yet, beware how you obtain
the character of a bully---or a quarrelsome boy. Be
patient, kind, forgiving; ready to assist all your playmates
in any peril, right, or wrong, at the hazard of
your life; for if they are in peril, that is no time to
abandon them; still less to admonish them;—and let
them understand, at once, and for ever, that you will
forgive any thing, but a blow.
You may not be as strong, or as wise, as another;
nor so tall; nor so handsome; but you may always be
as brave. I could bear to see you turn pale as death,
at the very moment, when you struck another; but I
would never forgive you—if you did it, without emotion.
He is the truly brave man, who fears most; yet,
does his duty, notwithstanding; and I have seen a fellow
with a par-boiled face, so weak, that he could hardly
keep his seat in the saddle—and the sweat fell like a
shower from his forehead; and his feet rattled in the
stirrups; under whom, I would rather go into a desperate
battle, than under others, that I have known, to
whom death, and blood, seemed to be matters of indifference.
The former was intellectually; the latter,
physically brave—one was a constitutional; the other
spiritual courage: one, the heroism of bones and
blood, and insensibility to danger; the other, that of
the heart, and a sense of reputation.
When I was a boy; before I knew what heroism
meant, I was struck by a little fellow. I was ashamed
standing by—he was a new scholar—I did not even
know his name. I went up to him, with my blood beating—he
was the largest boy in sight---and gave him a
blow in the face. I was severely beaten for it. But
no boy of that school ever quarrelled with me, afterward.
I was naturally a coward—yet, on that occasion,
I was a hero.
The same spirit stood with me. When I was eighteen,
I insulted a middle aged, respectable man,
very cruelly. A quarrel ensued. He said some bitter
things. A few days afterward, we met again. I
begged his pardon; but, before the words were out of my
lips, his manner was so provoking, that I knocked
him down. He thought that I was doing from fear,
what I did only from shame. He insulted me; and I
punished him on the spot. There, I behaved like a desperate
coward—rather than like a hero.
Now, I should do differently. I have learnt to forgive
every thing in this world, but a blow: and that, I never
will forgive. I take care to make this known, that no
man who has a disposition to quarrel with me, may be
ignorant of the stake.
A child may soon be taught all these things—and you
may then lay the foundation of his moral greatness.
Does he manifest a partiality for any particular amusement?
Do not be so foolish—I am addressing all
parents—not you, my beloved—as to believe that he
has a genius for that. Human creatures are born now,
as they were five thousand years ago; and it is ridiculous
to suppose, because a child builds card houses;
plays with powder, or types, that he has a genius for
architecture, war, or literature. What became of children,
that were born with a genius for literature; or
painting; or musick; or printing, before the invention
of either? Does God supply our children with a genius,
fitted to the discoveries and inventions of men, who
are not to be born for centuries, and centuries, after they
are dead. If so, it is probable that Fulton's alphabet
may be traced, to his having scalded himself, some time
or other, with the steam of a tea-pot—and that of Franklin,
a dark entry—or some other, equally rational, or
philosophical pastime.
No---do not believe in these manifestations of the
Divinity. Look to the boy's face; movements; habits,
and mind; and if you discover that he won't do for any
thing else; do not make a parson, or a lawyer of him, as
people commonly do, in a large and fashionable family.
Be assured that it is the effectual way of making a worthless
metal, yet more base. Do not teach the boy to
speak pieces;---leave him unrestrained, even in company,
to sit pretty much as he pleases. And not, as I
have seen some men, and good men too, keep up such a
cruel and intolerable system of observation, over the
child, that it has no comfort of its life—and flies any
where for relief—to the kitchen, rather than to the parlour---to
anybody on earth, rather than to his own father.
If you see any propensity to imitation, check it at
once. Yet, if you find only enough of it, to render it
evident that the child is not conscious of imitation, cultivate
that. That is not debasing. Of course, I speak
only of manner and action, and voice here, and such too,
as are worth a little of our study.
God has implanted within all of us, a burning sensibility
to dishonour, and outrage. It is right, therefore,
that we should be angry, on fitting occasions; for they
will occur; and it is right, also, that the feeling of resentment,
which is given to us, that we may not be
trodden under foot by the arrogant, should be sometimes
manifested:---but it is a base, cowardly spirit, that becomes
tempestuous in its wrath, or noisy, in its anger.
Let it be deep, solemn, mild, sorrowful, and determined.
Then, too; if you must punish; your punishment will
bear the aspect of justice; not of revenge. Away with
revenge. It is brutal, bloody. The very beasts do not
feel that passion. But by this, I do not mean that you
are to forgive your enemy, till he be under your feet;---
or forget his indignity, until, in the language of scripture
(for they understood such things well, at that time)
until you have heaped “burning coals upon his head.”
while the blood of your heart is all in a foam; and all
your veins are distended to agony, with the heat that
he has raised---never pursue him, never! for his blood
—but merely that you may bury him alive in hot embers.
That is all---and you have scripture for that.
Make him feel, that he is in your power; and then, forgive
him. Do not even ask him to acknowledge it.---
It is enough for you, that he sees your chariot wheels,
about to roll over him; the armed hoofs of your chargers
about to leap into his bosom---then, you will turn them
both aside.
Whatever you promise to a child, good or bad, that
do you. Keep your promises with it, be they wise or
foolish. This will make him respect you; and teach you
caution in future.
If there be two of you, never interfere with each
other. No matter how wrong the wife is, at the time;
let the husband never interfere. No matter how preposterous
and violent is the husband; let the wife forbear
all entreaty and remonstrance, till the children
are sent away.
Never speak to a child, in a passion---still less, strike
it. But beware how you punish it, with a pleasant
countenance. That is the cruellest tyranny. Let your
front be steady; and your manner that, which he never
sees, unless he have done wrong.
Begin to treat him like a man, as soon as possible;
not by reasoning with him; or by encouraging him to
smartness; for few things are so detestable as your
smart men and women, except it be smart children;---
but, by addressing yourself to his understanding, in matters
of simplicity and plainness; and by showing him
that you have confidence in him; and by expecting him
to do, what your experience convinces you, that he is
able to do.
Let your punishment be proportioned to his faults,
with great nicety; but never punish him, never, unless
you have the fullest evidence of the fault; for that connexion
once broken, between misconduct and mortification;
guilt and pain;---he will begin to lose his reverence
wrong. It is better to overlook two certain offences,
than punish your child once, for a fault that he did not
commit. The evil effects are many. If you cannot
learn the truth in one case, you cannot in another;---he
will say; and, in the end, will probably cheat you into a
notion, that he is better than he is, merely because you
have let him know, that you have once thought him
worse than he was. In short---when you have once
punished a child, for a fault, of which he was innocent,
you have given the death blow to his belief in your infallibility.
You have taught him that you do not know
when he is guilty---or, that you are wicked and unjust;
---and that it is the same thing to him, whether he be innocent
or guilty. Beware of that lesson. He will
never forget it.
Nourish in him a high sense of honour. Teach him
to regard any withdrawing of your confidence and respect,
as the most grievous punishment. Accustom
him to reposing all his little sorrow, and humiliation,
and discouragement, in your bosom. Be temperate;
and uniform, above all things.
Never permit him to weep. Let him understand, that
that is unmanly, in every case; but disgraceful, to the
last degree, to weep from bodily pain, or terrour.
Would you stimulate him in his studies? Teach him
to regard them as a privilege. Should he play truant?
Forbid him to go to school for a month. A longer time
might reconcile him to the punishment; and enable
him to find new pastimes, and new companions.—
Would you have him go to church?---fond of his Bible?
If he be a bad boy, prohibit his entrance to the one,
and his reading of the other, for awhile. If good, go
with him to church: not in fine clothes---but poorly
clad; with the privilege of giving away his superfluity
to the poor, with his own hand. Do not, if he be a
bad boy, set him to committing a hymn; or reading a
chapter in the Bible; for it is the sure way, to make
him hate them both. Such associations are destructive
to our reverence for both. Hence is it, that we have
so little true relish for the simplicity and beauty of
eloquence in the classicks. They are constantly associated
in our minds, with the recollection of our
school-tasks; labour; coarse familiarity; and punishment.
Neither should ever be seen in a school.
So with every other study. By a judicious and unwearied
perseverance, you may bring a child, as you
may a man, to any habit of application, as to his food
and rest. Create a habit; and you give him a continually
augmenting impulse; an impulse, too, that is irresistible,
exactly in proportion to the difficulty there
was, at first, in forming the habit.
Would you have him a lawyer? Do not name him
after Mansfield, or Parsons, or Kent, or Erskine.
Such things only make his first attempts, in life, a
matter of ridicule. Do not put him up in a chair, to
recite awkward verse, with a gesture, like the clockwork,
that you see annually wound up, and exhibited,
at Cambridge University; creatures cunningly put together:
automata, that raise first one clumsy arm, and
then the other, as natural as life, at every other sentence.
Would you make a minister of the gospel of him?
Teach him that he is to be God's vicegerent. Carry
him to see Mr. A. Show him why that man is disqualified.
He wants authority—voice—dignity—action.
To Mr. B. His pronunciation is detestable; his
whine execrable. Your nerves are jarred to death, by
his barbarisms. Strange that men will be above such
little things, as correct pronunciation, and clean teeth;
when they know, that the best discourse—the most
overpowering eloquence—lose their effect for awhile,
if our ears be made to tingle with a provincialism. We
cannot attend to the reasoning, where we are fretted
with the sound; the meaning of a sentence is lost, if
we are made to swallow it, word for word. To Mr.
C. He is of the Boston school of Unitarians: ninety-nine
out of one hundred, of whom, are the servile imitators
of a young, ambitious fellow, there, who happened
to be coaxed into the desk, when he ought to have
been harnessed for the field;—or sent abroad on any
dainty action, and melifluous cadence—and sickening
affectation. Bid your boy avoid that example, as he
would chanting in the pulpit. Take him to Mr. D—,
he is of the orthodox tune—Andover—or Princeton—
look at his arms—his hands—watch him, when he
meditates the pathetick. What on earth can be so ridiculous?
Nothing, except his attempt at eloquence and
storm. Why does he gesticulate? Why!—not because
he feels; not because, there is any sympathy between
the vessels of his heart, and those of his limbs:
not because there is any illustration in their movement
—for his manner and action; and voice and tone; and
look and language, are perpetually at war. It is Cicero
speaking---and Roscius acting---but then, you must
suppose that each has a different piece; or that one is
deaf and the other blind---or, you have no faithful idea
of his gesture. But why does he use it? Because he
has heard that, where he preaches, for a man to stand
in the pulpit like a skewered turkey, is to be, not exactly
the thing.---So he takes the hint, unskewers his
arms; and flourishes them about, like a telegraph---
cramped---in a high wind---or, as the turkey might, if
it should try to fly, after it was unskewered.
Having taught him this---that action is not to be
learnt by a diagram in the “American Preceptor;”—
nor by the attitude of any actor, in any situation---take
him to see what hypocrisy and villany are. Show to
him a minister of the Most High---breathing fire and
smoke into the hearts of men; and pollution into that
of every woman, that he meets---a minister, arraigned,
accused; but braving it out; and the women defending
him. Why?
Mistaken creatures! They are mothers and wives;
irreproachable, it may be, for aught but their blindness
and infatuation toward their pastor, who should
be burnt to death; scourged to the bone, in the publick
to death, for the desolation, that he hath wrought
in many a family of love; for the undying reproach,
that he hath thrown upon the ministry of God---yet
they adhere to him, till he repeat his offence---the
scoundrel, lest, by abandoning him, they should seem
to admit him to be guilty, him, who was the companion
of their sick chamber, and death bed;---the only unprohibited
visiter, next to their husband, even to the
household sanctuary. Unhappy women! It is enough,
for them, who break the bread of eternal life, to be
suspected of such deeds, to authorize you to abandon
them. Are they wronged? God will defend them!---
It is not for women and wives; mothers and daughters,
to rampart, even a man of God, who is charged with
such deliberate infamy. Ministers are but men—
it is true---but they should be the best of men.
No man should permit the live coal to touch his lips,
until he be made sure, in a measure, of his resisting
power; for, who of all men have such temptations?---
so uninterrupted, so seductive. They are bitterly watched.
It is the better for them. The wicked and profligate
love to spy out their nakedness; and drag them
shivering, before the publick. They know this. He
knew it---yet he spoiled the innocent---laid his profane
hands, freshly, it may be, from the distribution of the
consecrated elements,---the body and blood of Christ,
himself---he laid these hands, first, upon the bosom of
another man's wife---and next, upon the naked heart
of the virgin. God! why slept thy thunder!---Why was
he not reduced on the spot, to ashes and cinders!--or driven,
by thine Angel, naked upon the cold world, with all
the plague spots, black and fiery, as they were, upon
his heart, revealed. Do we delight in such things?—
Is it a reproach to us, that we delight to tear away the
profane and lewd from the altar?---that we have the
courage to pluck down the priesthood of sensuality,
that are enthroned in the temples? No---we deny it
not. We glory in it.
Lead me to the man that, standing up before Jehovah
himself; aware that the eyes of all heaven and earth
his heart, and shuddering at his blasphemy; and wondering
at the compassion of God; and asking, with
their eyes, and uplifted hands, if his patience and forbearance
be not utterly exhausted. Lead me to him—
let me hear him denouncing his fellow men—while
his own heart is festering in corruption;—raining
fire upon the sore places of other men—while he,
himself, from the crown of his head, to the sole of
his foot, is running with greenness and death; and
I will pluck him down from the sanctuary, though
he be clinging to the horns of the altar. Ah, that will
I—while I have breath—for ever and ever.
Teach the boy this—if he be to minister in holy
things, that, it were better, never to have been born,
than to go into the temple, with unclean hands. Then,
lead him to another man—one of the pupils of Doctor
—, a pupil, worthy of his master....one, that dares
to stand up, before his Maker; and reason, with the
arrogant manner, that men use, when they reason before
their inferiours....one, that hesitates not, after the
manner of his preceptor, to avow himself an Apostle...
and interrogate the Divinity, even in the pavillion of
his darkness---one, that tore a daughter, from the bosom
of her father---ran away with her---married her---
and went into the pulpit;---stood up, before the men
and women, whom he had been calling upon, for years,
to “obey their parents,”---and defended it! Gracious
heaven! to what has this world come, when the ministers
of our holy religion, have the folly and presumption,
and wickedness, to intrigue and plot, for novel
writers and dramatists!---to steal away the daughters
of their congregation---and then---to plead love!
---love, at such an age---and in such people.
I do not say that I would not do this thing....but, I
say that no honest man would do it. I do not say,
that no man ought ever to set a father at defiance---
and break into the peace of a family, with fire brands,
and bitterness of heart....but I say that a minister of
the gospel, who remembered his duty, his influence,
and his obligation....if he were worthy of the office,
would have done it.
But....it had become a matter of too deep an interest
to the happiness of another. Ridiculous! Nay, worse
than ridiculous. What!....would an honest man steal
into the heart of any woman....abuse the confidence of
a father....and skulk and prevaricate---yet, never consult
him. Would not an honest, an honourable man, go
first, to the father---aye, first! at the first symptom of
affection, in his own heart, if he meant not to extinguish
it---and lay his pretension and character before
him. I do not ask if he should court the father,
before he did the danghter---no!—Still less, do I ask,
that he should engage the father's influence, or any
earthly influence, over the heart of the woman; for,
women are strangely jealous, on such subjects. To
break the seal of a letter, first; to be the first, that knows
of the tumult in another's heart, are things of inconceivable
importance to them; things, that men cannot understand—but
I do say, that, as an honest man, he should
enable the father to do what the daughter never would
—and, probably, never could do;—and that is, to enquire
into his history and character, before her affections
are engaged. Was this done? No. The poison
is insinuated; a noble heart is drugged to death, in
secrecy—and then, this anointed of the Lord, declares
it to be too late, to think of duty—and that love must
have way.
My boy—I would say. Behold these men. They
are beacons. Men are frail---their hearts will dissolve,
though they be about the altar, if the hand of Love, or
Wealth, or Ambition be laid heavily, and hotly, upon
them---but, there should be decency in their fall. It
should be regal, like that of Cæsar. They should
gather up their robing around them and shut up their
infirmities; and hide, if they could, the inroad, that
had been made upon their immortality---and not fall,
obscenely and nakedly, while the sacred elements were
distributing.
No---I would say---No, my son---if it must be; if
thou canst not, in some measure, cease to be a man;
vices, seduction and dishonesty; if thou canst not practice
the commonest act of self denial, that, of forbearance
in gross sensuality; nor be humble of deportment,
even, in the temple of thy God, I would say to thee, then,
Go down from the altar. Be a man, yet, though thou
canst not be of the priesthood; tear off thy consecrated
habiliments; lay them reverently upon the pile....
set fire to them, with thine own hands; and never,
again, open thy lips, aloud, as an instructor, and an
example to other men.
Wouldst thou be a lawyer? Beware of this man's
example. Shun it, as thou wouldst emasculation---.
avoid the manner of that man, as thou wouldst that of
a foaming lunatick---and of that---and that---and that;
for reasons that, boy as thou art, if thou hast the commonest
principles of good taste, or independence, will
make them all hateful to thee. Take care to see the
end of thy speech, before thou beginnest it. Above
all---accustom thyself to thinking whole sentences, a
once.
I would as soon have a drunken surgeon blundering
about me, with a sharp knife, as a lawyer, about my
case performing experiments upon it, at my cost....
beginning a sentence, without knowing where it would
carry him---and arguing, as the fashion is now, in circulo.
Permit me---I know a man---a smooth spoken fellow
---one of the most gentlemanly and gracious of the
children of men: remarkable, for his “vast legal erudition:”
and truly, I am greatly inclined to believe that
it is vast for no learned man ever husbanded his erudition
better: and, where there is so little expenditure,
with any accumulation at all, there must, in time, be a
respectable stock---this man, of all that I know, I would
have one avoid. His reasoning is literally endless---his
learning, so profound, as to be bottomless---his faculty,
immeasurable---his rhetorick, and grammar, unparalleled.
No man makes so many points: and no man
keeps them so constantly in view, all at the same time,
as he. True, I have, more than once, thought, that
the superiority of a lawyer's mind, should consist, not
vision never sees but one thing at a time: the, undisciplined,
(in the person, newly couched, for example,) sees
every thing, and in the same degree of proximity. The
feeble mind, like the feeble eye, has to learn, after it
has been couched, or lanced: not so much to see many
things, as to see what it pleases, to the exclusion of
every thing else. And, I have always thought that logician,
and that lawyer, who made many points, in an
argument, to be in rather a bad way; and that, seeing
more than his neighbour, is rather an evidence, in both,
of a weaker, than of a stronger sight: while seeing further
is not. I mention this gentleman, because he is generally
known: and I would have every admonition felt.
I know not what more, I could say, my dear wife.
Much is upon my mind: but, I have wandered widely,
from the mark, and it is now too late to return. I
cannot even pause, to reconsider it. Let it go, therefore,
with all its ruin upon its head. That I am not
mistaken, in many things: some serious; many frivolous
ones, would be too much to hope, even with my
presumption: but that, whatever I have said, has been
said, honestly; with an honesty, equal to its boldness, I
am sure. Farewell! How unlike any thing that I
have ever written before. But, you will forgive it.
Yours—
WILLIAM.
| CHAPTER XIV. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |