 | CHAPTER XVII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
Conclusion by Hammond...Explanation...Elizabeth...Fate-of William
Adams...Early intimacy of Hammond and Emma...Emma's
letter to her husband.
A manuscript has been put into my hands, by a
woman, who, while she was living, had no equal upon
the earth. She was upon her death bed; and she commanded
me to take it, and relate all that had happened
to her brother, from the time that his reason last
wandered; and to read no more of it, than what she
seemed to intimate concerned myself. The rest was
sealed up; and I have just read; or rather, last night,
I finished reading, all that I was permitted to. My
hand shakes yet, with terrour and grief; and, I can
hardly persuade myself, that actions, so innocent as
mine; so well meant, as they were, could have been capable
of such an evil interpretation. I remember my
own agency; and I shudder at it. I look back, in vain,
for consolation; in vain, for the proud feeling of self
approval, that upheld me, at the time of the catastrophe.
I am innocent—and yet, I am inconsolable.
What should I be, then, had I been guilty! I quake,
to think of it.
Eight years have now passed away, since William
Adams, the brother of Elizabeth, was struck crazy.
He was an extraordinary man; and, if he should have
done justice to himself, in any measure, while telling a
part of his own history, the reader must have been
satisfied of it. He had few equals; but, his passions
were tempestuous, beyond all example. I know not
what he may have said of me; for, I have not been permitted
to read it; but, I have gathered enough from
Miss Adams, (his sister,) on her death bed, when she
committed the manuscript to my charge, last summer,
to believe that it is a true history of his own life. If
so, I have, probably, a material share in it; for, at
times, we were friends; ready to die for eachother; and,
and, never my enemy, but when under mental
alienation; or some strong and terrible delusion.
He died—I must be forgiven, for coming to it so abruptly;
but, I cannot bear to think of it—of mortal apprehension—died,
from the fear of dying. “O, God!”
he was heard to cry out, one night, as if in prayer, a
short time before the utter destruction of his faculties;
“O, God! God! have compassion upon me! I cannot
dwell in the uninhabited place—Emma! Emma!—I
am afraid to die!—O, no! no!—I cannot die—I dare not!
O, my God! my God! let me live a little longer—take
me away from this desolate house!—Hide me, where
thou wilt; O, Lord God Almighty!” And, many a
time has he caught the arm of the keeper, while the
writer was remonstrating with him—and held him,
with his white teeth chattering; his lips, blue and swollen;
and, to use the keeper's own words—“his nose,
livid and pinched up;” and shrieking out, that he
was haunted by two jabbering imps—“there! there!---
do you not see it?---O, Christ! Christ! have merey on
me. I cannot die---I cannot! Emma! Emma!---pity
me---pray for me! Do you not hear him? He keeps
saying, death is near! death is near!---O, you do not hear
it---you must hear it! Ah, my dear friend---stay by
me---O, do! do!---Will you not?---O, Lord God of heaven
and earth! have mercy upon me! No living creature
about me!---not one---and a house like the universe!”
And then, he would fall away into a paroxysm
of terrour, as if he saw something. Alas---he was,
after I knew him---the greatest coward on earth---respecting
death. He knew it, and acknowledged it; and
trembled like a child; and cried like a child, when they
ventured to speak to him, about death. But, enough
of this. It is frightful to think of it.
The family are now extinct. He, poor fellow, died
but a few months ago; and Elizabeth has just followed
him. My obligation is now in force. I have but just
left her green, untrodden grave; and I cannot die in
peace, until I have fulfilled all that I promised to her.
She, too, was a very extraordinary creature; but, probably,
if so. I will not attempt it. There is a vividness in
his language, when in conversation; (I know not how
he may write, except, from the little that I have now
read) that would leave me nothing to say, if I were to
follow him, on the same subject; and there were a truth
and sincerity in his nature, so opposed to all artifice, or
concealment, that, whatever he may have said, may be
depended on. I know what I say---and I am willing
to abide by it. What he may have said; even of me,
evil or good, I am sure, was of his knowledge and belief.
But, enough of this.
By looking back, upon the incidents related, so far
as I have been permitted to see them: and recalling
dates, I find that the manuscript must have concluded
about the very time; and, perhaps, on the very night,
that he was found wandering, in a heavy rain, about
the church yard, where his wife, of whom he had been
distractedly fond, lay interred. He had been shut up
in his room, for more than a year; and the letter which
is added to this, lay open upon his table. How he came
by it, I know not. He had refused to see me; or hear
from me: and more than a year had passed, since I had
abandoned the thought of explanation; or attempted to
put her letter into his hands. I never knew how he
came by it. It was in my case, and I never missed it—
but it could not have been long with him; for I remembered
having seen it in the usual place, with her miniature,
which I had once obtained, without her knowledge,
from an artist to whom she sat—and had worn, all her
life. From that hour, he never spoke a rational word.
At times, he was outrageous; and, though there were
minutes, when he would look piteously upon me; and
pluck out a whole handful of his hair, at a time (which
had turned as gray as an old man's of seventy) and
sit a whole day together, and look at it—and then
walk about, as if he neither saw, nor heard, nor felt
any thing; yet I am sure that he never had one hour of
heaven's light, within the deep darkness of his brain;
nor one glimpse of reality from that, till the time of his
death. Yet such were his amazing powers of expression,
him liberated from confinement, under the strange belief,
that he was not mad, but melancholy; and only
wanted a little gentleness, and attention, to bring all
his faculties out anew. Alas!—their commiseration
was vain. He was stricken to the heart; and, when he
died—poor fellow---there was an awful, steady melancholy
in his eyes, while he rivetted them upon me; that,
had I not known beyond a doubt, that he was mad,
would have terrified me into a belief, that he was dying,
not of delirium, but of a broken heart.
Sometimes he would talk of blood, in a low voice, to
himself; and say that many visions, which he had once,
in his early days, were all now fulfilling: and then:
but nobody attempted to fathom the wandering of the
unhappy man—that there were worms dropping about
him—; and then he would rebuke the keepers of the
hospital, for abusing him, as if they were determined
to deprive him of his senses.
Strangers went to see him; and some of them came
away, I have been told, fully possessed with the opinion,
that he was not deranged; or, that if he was, it was
a derangement produced by a black conspiracy. Poor
creatures! Who would have conspired against him?
Violent as he was---overbearing as he was---there was
not a dry eye in the city, when God smote him with
madness; not a heart, that did not heave with compassion,
and sympathy. O, better would it have been to
be exposed to the fury of wild beasts, than for men, that
had so practised upon his stout heart, and noble talent,
to show their faces abroad.
But, let me leave him. He died, I fear, under a
feeling of relentless, and implacable bitterness towards
me. I am sorry for it. I did not deserve it.
Soon after his death. I was induced to make some
enquiries about his family, or that part of it, rather,
which I had not personally known. I succeeded beyond
all expectation, by an accident, that I cannot
mention here, without a breach of confidence. Enough,
however, for me to say, that, from having been continually
with his immediate relations, I was mistaken, I
deformed, and dwarfish; and entrusted with a manuscript,
which I have the best reason to believe is true,
wherein I find a record of the family, with all its intermarriages,
for nearly two hundred years. For my
salvation, I would not make that record publick—it is
a catalogue of nothing but crime and madness; desperate
suffering, and destructive genius.
Several of the earliest of the family in this country,
perished in the ancient Indian wars: one of them,
whose life is contained in the manuscript, of which I
speak—a woman—was hung at Salem, in Massachusetts,
for witchcraft—and sorcery—: another nearly
related to the father of this Mr. Adams, a young and
beautiful girl, destroyed herself in a manner, that
would be believed impossible—absolutely impossible.
She had always been remarkable for her violent temper,
and great beauty. When a mere child, such was
the former, that on one occasion, she was confined to
her bed for two months; covered with blisters—having
no less than six upon her at one time, merely because
her school mistress had slapped her, on the hand:—
more than once did she attempt her own life, before
she was twelve years of age: and her beauty was so
extraordinary, that an agent of the royal government,
to the last colonial governour, of Massachusetts, mentions
it, in one of his official despatches, of the day, as
absolutely “wonderful, and miraculous.” He—himself,
lived to see her a corpse. She loved—and, the passion
of love, in such a child, was the breath of life to it.
Her parents discovered it—she fled to the woods—
went among the Indians—was found, almost naked;
and squalid, with suffering, and sickness—brought
home, confined, tempted—but all in vain. Her last
words were. Let me go free—treat me kindly—and I
never will see him again, without your consent; but—
treat me, in any other way—and my blood be upon
your own head. They left her, taking care to secure
the doors, and windows—and removing all possible
means of self destruction, as they thought—even to the
bed cords, and the bed linen—and the glass. But when
it, they found it fastened within. They called. It
was frightfully still. They burst it open. She was
found dead—lying flat upon the floor; with her face—
swollen, and discoloured, though very beautiful, in a
basin of water. In that way, had she died. Who, that
ever lived, could have done the same thing. I have
known one case like it, since:—that of a man, who
sat down, and leaned his throat against a rope, until it
strangled him.
A second was quite as terrible—nay, a thousand
time more terrible than this. It was the case of an
uncle on his father's side. His name was Augustine.
He was a proud, wayward, melancholy man. He was
married—and had five children. He kept company
with nobody; and nobody knew whither he went
sometimes, for days together. He would take up his
rifle; strike into the woods; without giving his family
any notice; or preparing them for it, by any symptom
of departure. No one knew where to look for him—
and nobody dared to enquire—for he was known to
have shot several Indians—and one white man, under
pretence of mistaking him for an Indian, because he
was lurking in his path, in a time of great peril to the
white settlers. At last, he grew jealous of his wife—
yet nobody knew it, till, after his death; for she loved
him passionately, though she trembled before him.
He was the handsomest man of his day—I have heard
several people declare, who knew him: tall—square
shouldered—with an eye like the bald-eagle—and an
arm, like that of the panther.
At last, he determined to die. And, that the woman
of his heart might feel it—he determined to die by the
hand of her own children; those very children, whose
legitimacy, he never could have doubted, if he had not
been a madman; for every one of them was the talk of
the whole county round, for his beauty, and courage.
One day, when his wife had gone to a neighbour's—
he put on his wedding clothes—dressed himself with
great care—collected a great quantity of brush-wood;
made a sort of cabin of it; lining the whole with the,
just large enough to admit his body. He then disposed
about the cabin, all the little, pleasant, endearing relicks
of early affection, that he had left; and commanded
the largest boy to go to the house for some fire. The
boy refused—for there was something, he said, so
frightful, in his father's look, that he was afraid to
leave him alone. At last, however, he consented—
and brought the fire. That done, the father kissed all
the children—embraced them all—wept upon them
all—told them to be good to their mother; and to love
the “baby,” the child, then at the breast, which was the
real cause of all that he had done—and then made the
second child set fire to the brush-wood. It was all in
a roaring blaze—in a moment. The pitch, and rosin,
and combustible leaves, were lighted up, instantaneously,
as by a flash of lightning. The children fled,
screaming, to the woods. And the neighbours, afar
off, suspecting that the Indians were upon them, blew
their horns, and mustered man and horse, in every direction—and
kept pouring in, to the rescue. They
found the wretched man, and tore him out of the
flames, in spite of all his powerful resistance, and half
suffocating curses; but he broke away from them again;
and threw himself into the blaze. They were reinforced;
and, at last, succeeded in extinguishing the flames,
and dragging him out—with a great part of his body
burnt to a coal. He could hardly utter a sound—but
the noise of cursing, and bitter reproach, was continually
issuing from his whole chest, which was outwardly
consumed, so that the motion of his lungs could be
seen, agitating, and convulsing, the cinders—that still
adhered to his whole body. Yet he did not die—that
night—but told them that they were fools, and deserved
death to them, and theirs—for their meddling—that
he had been sold to his MASTER, who would call at
eleven, the next day, for him; that, if they had let him
die in his own way, his body and soul both, would have
been consumed; and the MASTER outwitted.
The most remarkable circumstance, after all, perhaps,
was that—precisely at eleven, the next day, he
died.
But the other case, in the same family, was, if possible,
more terrible yet; and a thousand times more
affecting. One would be led to think, that a judgment
was upon the family; for none of them seemed to die,
if I may trust to the manuscript, in a natural way:
perhaps, however, it was only a constitutional predisposition
to blood—a derangement, that led to bloodshed.
The last was the case of a younger sister, whom I
well recollect, for the uncommon brilliancy of her
dark eyes. She was married to the younger son of a
British nobleman; a small, but very handsome man;
who, if report told the truth, had been a sad profligate,
at home. She loved him to distraction—and bore three
children, the youngest of whom had remarkably large
blue eyes, totally unlike the rest of the blood. I have
never heard the story aright; and the manuscript is
not very satisfactory—but the amount of it is nearly
what I shall relate—: a part of it I know to be true,
from my own knowledge; and the principal facts, I will
answer for. It is only in the less material circumstances,
that I have any doubt at all.
This child with the large blue eyes, when about eight
months old, had became the very god of the father—
to the exclusion of all the other children, and even of
the mother. It was for ever in his arms. Scarcely
would he permit it to go away, for a moment; and,
at last, he actually slept with the boy in his bosom.
For a long time, the mother appeared to be pleased
with it,—and doated but the more fondly upon him,
because he doated upon the child. Before the birth
of the baby, as it was common to call the youngest
child, in every family, he had been hardly ever at
home;—but now, he was never away, nor abroad. The
people wondered at the change;—and a thousand
strange and foolish conjectures were afloat. Some said
that it was not her child—but one of his—that he had
contrived to exchange:--and some were wicked enough,
to say, that the other children were not his; or that he
thought so. Whatever it was, however, the wife, at
last, grew uneasy. Go to the house when they would,
and rocking the little creature, all the day long, with
her foot upon the cradle. At last, however—the catastrophe,
which I am about to relate, took place;
some said, in consequence of a meddling, bad woman,
having come to her house, and told her of a girl with
very large blue eyes, whom her husband had loved to
distraction, before he married her; others, that a beautiful
girl, with the whitest neck in the world—and the
largest, clear blue eyes---from over the sea—who knew
the family of her husband; and only came to die upon
his bosom;—had come one day to the house, when he
was absent—and had fits, when she found that he was
married;—and others, who are supported by the manuscript,
say that poor Margaret (that was her name)
had once found a miniature among the papers of her
husband, long after their marriage, of such a blue-eyed
woman, with a profusion of hair, like floss-gold;—and,
that he had amused her with some idle tale of school-boy
love, until she had forgotten it;—but, that, one day, she
came into the room unexpectedly, and found him comparing
the face of the child, with that of the miniature,
and weeping all the while. She stood over him, says the
writer, and heard him sob—and saw him take a bunch
of golden hair out of his bosom, compare it with the hair
of the child—and hold it to his own eyes and mouth, and
then to the mouth of the babe—and then fall upon the
neck of it, in a paroxsym of tenderness—during which,
with her poor heart smitten to the very core, and her
brain giddy—she escaped from the room, without having
been discovered:-and that, from the hour when she
saw that, her own eyes were no longer the same—they
became cold, unsettled, melancholy, and were always
full—till one day a strange woman, with blue eyes
did come for her husband, when he was away—and,
after sitting awhile, fainted away, and was put to bed;
and that, upon the bosom of the unknown woman, after
it was all over, was found the string---a ribband twisted
---soiled and torn---as in a desperate struggle---for the
blood of her neck was on it, with a small piece of gold
adhering to it---from which a miniature had been
upon the floor. After the affair was all over---it is
told that people tried to discover the features of the
person, in the broken ivory; but, that it was all in
vain. And the strange woman, when she awoke, and
found her miniature gone—which she did, before she
discovered any other sign of life, began to scream,
and tear her hair; and never stopped, until she, herself,
was a corpse.
But let me return to poor Margaret. By and by,
the husband came home; and, contrary to his usual
practice, he went to his wife first, where she sat, as
usual, rocking the cradle; and kissed her forehead—
before he attempted to take up the child, or even to
uncover its little face, and look at it.
“You look very pale Margaret, what is the matter
with you?---and now that I look at you, again---why,
what have you been doing. You are dressed like a
bride. I don't know when I have seen you look so lovely—and---but
why so very serious?”—
“Faver,” said a little fat, bare-footed boy---cuddling
up to him, and leaning against his father's arm, which
was affectionately resting on the mother's lap—“Faver--Hi--hi---mammy--ee--ee--is
toot---and tut, tut-off ee
baby's head.”
The father paid no attention to the child, for some
time; but kept playing with his hair, and talking to his
wife; and complimenting her on her appearance. “But
why so serious, Moggy---have I offended you? Nay,
nay, your eyes, love, are strangely altered...hush (the
child kept repeating what he had said) hush, you little
rascal...what's that—no, no, Margaret...let him stay...
what is it, that he says? You understand him best.”
“Ask him yourself, Edward” said she...It was the
first word that she spoke, and the last.
“Gracious God, Margaret—are you ill!—your voice
frightens me”—said he. “Come here, Bob—what's that
you say?
“Hi---i—me---mammy.....mammy....I's a feered---
Faver.”
“Speak! will you.”
The boy attempted, several times...and, at last, succeeded
in telling the wretched man, that his mammy
had cut off the baby's head, with a sharp razor.
The father went to the cradle...turned his eyes upon
his wife...who smiled, and fell back in convulsions;...
threw down the clothes, and found that the child, had
told nothing but the truth—the head was really cut
off..and the cradle was full of blood.
I he story. I admit, is almost too horrible to tell...
but I know it to be true, in all the material circumstances.
And truth may be forgiven, where fiction
should be execrated.
Such was the family on the side of the father; and
such an abstract of their history. What wonder that
my poor friend became the inmate of a mad house, at
last.
But let me return to him again. Before he married
Miss Larence—nay, before he saw her—I
had seen her, and loved her. But there were circumstances
to prevent me from ever acknowledging my
passion. She never knew it. And when I found that
they had met; and were truly devoted to each other;
as I had no hope for myself, I did all that I could to
promote their marriage; cautioning her, however, as
I did, (for I was an intimate friend of her, and her family,
for many years, though Mr. Adams knew it not,
for reasons, which I shall explain, by and by,) to beware
of two or three dangerous propensities in his
character. But she was a woman;—and though I
told her very plainly, that he had shown symptoms of
derangement, more than once, (from violent passion,
I believe)—was distinguished for a certain high handed
profligacy among women; and jealous beyond all example.
Yet, she so loved him—that she could not give
him up. I saw this—when it was too late;—and, when
it would have been death to him and her, if I had been
discovered to have had any agency or acquaintance
with her. Perhaps I was wrong; but such were my
motives; and such was my belief at the time. The result
has shown, that I had been wiser, had I been more
open and direct in my counsel. I am sorrow-stricken
then, with the best intention; and feel, only, what every
man of common humanity would feel, who had been in
any manner instrumental, in the suffering or destruction
of another.
At last, however, I grew alarmed. Emma Larence
(that was the name of the woman, whom he married)
became too passionately fond of him; and, though
I knew that he would sooner tear his own heart out,
than shed one tear upon her hard, if it sullied her;
yet, I did tremble for her. I knew her nature, too
well. I knew that he would never marry a woman,
whose heart he had not tried in fire; who was not capable
of resisting him to death. I interfered, therefore,
trembling as I did so; lest my interference should
be mistaken by her; her, whom it was difficult for me
to approach at all, without a trembling and sickness of
the heart; and sure that, if it came to the knowledge
of Mr. Adams, he would cut my throat.
But, he behaved to her, like a man, at the last moment---a
man!---yea, like a prince! Never had I
thought so much of him. But when I looked, with
some degree of exultation, to their future marriage,
now that he had redeemed himself so gallantly—
I found that he had been dismissed---and insulted! I
knew his temper. I was amazed at his moderation. I
inquired into the affair; and, from my soul, I pitied
her inexperience, and their infatuation. William Adams—I
must take the liberty of calling him so, yet
—was of an unforgiving temper, till he knew her; a
man, that would have taken her out of her bed, at midnight;
and set fire to the house, if the thought had entered
his head—six months before, was now so bettered,
by his love for her, that he bore, patiently, with
what few men like him could have born. I spoke
to him of it, and asked him how it was.
“It is for her sake,” he replied, with solemnity. “I love
her, too devoutly; too truly, to hazard her happiness,
in any way. She was right, in dismissing me, for a
time; but, she did wrong, to leave me no hope, none;
after I had humbled myself, as no mortal man had ever
will live to repent it; but, assuredly, I do hope that
she may not. I love her, yet—I shall love her, to my
dying day. But, I have now done all that I can, for
a reconciliation. If we ever meet, it must now be, by
accident. I cannot advance—and she dare not. I am
bound, by my own feeling of honour and rectitude. I
have done all that a man, a man of honour, and a
Christian could do. I cannot advance—and she will
not, though she die, and I die, while we are both
wishing for a reconciliation. I know her well; better,
I believe, than her own father knows her; in some
parts of her character, I am sure that I do. His interference
was wise, and humane; but, the determination
was her own—altogether her own—uninfluenced,
as I am told, and believe; (for, I have never met her,
since)—nay, even against his influence; for, he urged
a greater time, for consideration—and told me, in
black and white, that, if her determination had been
otherwise, he would have promoted our happiness, by
all the means in his power.”
Your prudent parents dare not attempt to influence
the judgment of a child in marriage!—Why?—Their
reason is admirable. Lest, if she should be unhappy,
she might blame them! The same reason should prevent
them from ever giving her any advice. If it be
not useful in weighty matters, it is impertinent in light
ones. Any advice may be disastrous.
I have suffered keenly—just enough to learn, that, a
certain degree of bruising, quickens our sensibility,
and makes our heart sore; but encrease that, ever so little,
and you deaden the one, and make the other callous.
I have already mentioned what the father said.
William repeated it, word for word. He told me that
they were apart, in all probability, for ever.
This was unexpected to me: I began, now, to feel
some confidence in her wisdom; to repent that I had
interfered at all; for, such love as his, could not be
mistaken; and, if, under all the irritation of a dismissal,
he could still speak so feelingly; and so reverently
of her, I felt persuaded that he was the man, to make
her happy, beyond all others.
I determined, therefore, to bring about a reconciliation,
so soon as I could be satisfied, that it was wisest
and best. I waited for some time, I felt that such things
should not be hurried; and I felt, above all, my own
accountability, if I should have had any hand in such
an undertaking.
Time would give me an opportunity of studying his
character, more closely; it would prove his constancy,
and principle; and love; and her's also. And, more
than that, it would enable me to understand the nature
of that infirmity, to whose visitation, he had been formerly
subjected; and that strange jealousy of his, the nature
of which, I never rightly understood; or I, certainly,
should have done differently from what I did. After
much inquiry, and reading, and consultation, I found
that this temporary derangement of his, was nothing
more than a blind and tempestuous passion.
---Subdue his passion; and his madness would never
return. This was a difficult task; but, so long a
time had elapsed—nearly a year, during which, I
had never seen him, but once; and then, only for a moment,
transported, beyond the common bounds of rightful
anger, that I began to feel tranquil, on that score.
I set about the reconciliation, therefore, in good earnest;
and, that neither should ever have cause to reproach
me, for my agency, I made it secret and natural.
Another good effect arose, from this conduct; it kept
each, uncertain of the result, till it came to them; and,
they were happy. I permitted neither to make the
first advance—and neither, to believe that the other
did; thus, keeping a reservation for the worst, in case
another separation should occur.
At last, they married. And, if ever man and woman
were happy, upon this earth, they were. He was
a most wise, attentive, gentle, affectionate husband;
and grew more and more amiable, under her sweet influence,
every day of his life, All the world could perceive
it. I loved them both; but, there were reasons,
which prevented me from going to the house, except
on particular occasions. I was not envious of their
love. No!—it made my heart feel warm, to look upon
fellow that I ever saw—but, I never left them, without
a melancholy feeling, that saddened me, for many a day
afterward—almost beyond my power to shake off—a
sensation, that nearly blinded me, at times, when busiest
with the common transactions of life. The fact
was, that—but no, there is no necessity for telling why
I was so deeply interested in her happiness and his.
They removed into the country—to a magnificent
old mansion—which I never entered without feeling
that I was in the habitation of princes. I mention
this, because the tremendous desolation that fell upon
that house, a few nights after he left it—had an effect
upon my mind, that I can never forget. It was struck
with lightning; and, for five minutes, I am told, it was
all in a bright blaze; the smoke, and fire issuing from
every window, door, and chimney, in it, as if a great
quantity of powder had been blown up—and then it
was all as instantaneously dark again. Perhaps it was
blown up—for once, I remember hearing a terrible intimation
from him, that—God!—I am frightened at
my own thought—but I must tell it—and while, I do,
I wonder that it never occurred to me before. He once
told me, that, if he were ever suspicious of Emma's
love—he would destroy her, himself, and all the children—either
by fire, or powder—and that he was prepared.
I laughed at the time; for it was in a moment
of pleasantry—but now, I remember it, with horrour;
for it is quite possible that the lightning, when it struck
the house, found its way to the powder, and blew off
the roof—and shattered the walls, and tore all the windows—and
blackened the whole, as it was, when I saw
it. Yes—it must have been powder—the lightning never
produced such a change, so instantaneously. I sometimes
met her as I walked, or rode—and now, and then, for
a moment, at church; and once or twice, in the street,
when we usually exchanged a few friendly inquiries,
and parted: but one day—my blood boils at the recollection
of it. I heard, in no gentle way, that I was
mentioned as an old lover of hers—and, as being rather
too intimate with her, after her marriage. I, a lover
and all my soul—but she—the noble and beautiful woman,
she never dreamt of my rashness, or presumption.
But this was no tale to be told her by another. I went
myself, therefore, to her home. I told her, as delicately,
as I could, that I should see her no more. I dared
not tell her why—I dared not. I am not the handsomest
man in the world; and I should have trembled in
the mild rebuke of her dark eye, had I uttered one
word of myself. She was affected, even to tears—agitated,
till, I had almost been obliged to support her
with my arm—but no!—that might not be—she would
sooner have died. No woman was ever truer to her
allegiance — and then, at the most critical moment
of my interview; when she had just communicated
some story, that she had heard, repeatedly, about her
husband, in a mysterious way—and that very day, in a
letter, signed with my name, which she was so generous
as to say, that she knew had never been written
by me—detailing a shameful intrigue of her husband
with a beautiful woman, of her acquaintance; when I had
just bidden her to be comforted—for, though I had
heard of the story, and knew the parties, the woman,
in particular, in whom I had little confidence, yet that
I would pledge life, and soul, upon his fidelity. I did
not pretend, I said, to understand his motives for their
long, and lonely conference together—but, be assured,
said I, “he is never the man to keep any thing a secret
from you—never the man to wrong you—no,
never!”
Just then the door opened, and her husband entered,
pale as a dead man—faltering in his step. I was sitting
upon one end of a large sofa; she, upon the other.
We were both startled—and I—I hardly knew why,
there was—I knew not wherefore, some feeling of
guiltness, and consternation, about me, which I ought
to have understood, and gone back to explain—but I
did not—and left him, immediately, in a state of confusion,
and perplexity, that I cannot describe, exchanging
only a formal bow. There it ended—but I always
comforted myself in the belief, that his wife had told him
now, to believe, that she did not—why, I do not pretend
to say—but, whatever was her motive, she was wrong.
Perhaps she misunderstood the nature of his jealousy;
and, having gone one step in concealment, was obliged
to go another; lest, by retracting, she should appear to
make the first appear too serious a matter. Perhaps
too, she had heard the same stories, that I had; but had
too much respect for me; and too much value for her
husband's life; a rash, headstrong man, at all times;
but like the bruised lion, where his wife was named
lightly, or irreverently—to risk our quarrelling. I am
sorry that she knew me so ill. I would not have
quarrelled with him—I would have told the whole
truth; and then, if he could have shot me, he might. I
should not have raised my hand.
A long time after this, when I had nearly forgotten
that there had been any ill blood between her husband
and myself, I returned, unexpectedly, to the city, after
a long absence, late one afternoon; I was to leave it
again the next day, early, on a voyage for my health,
that would prevent me from seeing the family again
for many a month; perhaps for years—perhaps for
ever. I could not bear to part with them—all the
world to me—without one farewell. I went first to
Mr. Adams' counting room; but he was abroad, and
exceedingly busy, I found, in getting off a ship to Smyrna,
and the East Indies. I went to every place, where
I thought it possible to see him, until I thought it best
to go, at once, to his own house, with the privilege of an
old friend.
I was shown up into the little parlour; the only
small, comfortable room in the house; and found his
wife romping with her boy. She was heartily glad to
see me; and shook hands, cordially, with me—told me,
what was true, that she had given up all hope of ever
meeting me again. She spoke of her happiness; her
unutterable happiness; her children, and her husband,
as blessings, in some measure, for which she was indebted
to me. She was eloquent; and, before I knew
it, her little boy, whom I held in my arms—bawled out,
not look upon that lovely, and high minded woman,
without cursing myself, that I had been made so—
hush! hush—my rebellious heart!—thy voice must not
be heard in this council of death.
Whether she read my thought, I know not; but, as I
rose to go, she put her beautiful hand into mine, with
great emotion, saying, “heaven bless, and protect you,
noble minded man!”
Could I do less—it was the only reward, that I ever
coveted—I put my lips respectfully to her hand—but—
I heard a suppressed breathing—I turned—
There stood her husband, again!—there! like an apparition,
before me. I knew not what devil possessed
me. But I could neither stir hand, nor foot—nor utter
a sound. The room grew suddenly dark—whirled
round with me—and, if I recollect right, his wife fell
upon a sofa, with a faint cry—just as I rushed into the
street, like one stunned by some tremendous visitation.
I walked, hurriedly, for a few squares, until
I came to a full sense of my own folly, in having left
the room—as I did. I determined then, to go back—
but, on looking about me, I found, that I was far out of
the city; and I hurried on, determined to call him out of
bed, if there were no other way; and put his heart at
rest, before I left him. But heaven had willed otherwise.
In turning down a long street, after several
hours of laborious travelling, I saw somebody hurrying
across it, far below me, like a madman—my figure
seemed to catch his eye, for he immediately stopped—
it was all still as death; and, near where I stood,
were three large trees, and a broad pavement. He came
striding towards me—but so wild of mien; so altered
in his voice, that I did not know him, till he had offered
me a pistol.
It was Adams, himself. I strove to soothe him. But
he shut his lips, firmly; and looked like one, whom nothing,
upon this earth could turn aside from blood. For
the first time in all my life, my presence of mind deserted
me. I ought to have leaped upon him, and disarmed
him. I could have done it, I am sure. And,
but merely, heaven forgive me!—because I
was really willing to die—weary of life. I know not
how often he repeated the offer; but, I constantly refused
it, until he hurled one of the weapons at my head,
and shot away, with the other, a part of my right cheek;
thereby adding, if it were possible, to the natural deformity
of—poh—poh—let me not talk of myself.
I fell—and thought that I felt the bullet pass through
my head; and I was thankful for it; but, I still preserved
my senses; and, after a little time, recovered. Reader!
have you a heart of iron? If not, throw down the
book. Would, that I had never promised to tell the
tale!—But, the promise has been made, and shall be
performed. If you have a heart of iron then, proceed.
After a little inquiry, I found that Adams, who, we
thought, for a time, had made away with himself, or
been consumed in his own house—which the whole
family left, that very night—and never entered
again---even to take care of the furniture—stay---I
am confounding dates, it was before the fire, that I was
at the house—had probably, gone off, in his own ship;
as she had sailed, that very night; and a boat had been
seen waiting, at one of the wharves, till a late hour—
and then, hurrying over the water, as if, for life and
death.
This hope kept his wife alive—and, this, alone. We
dispatched two pilot boats after the ship; and, instead
of going to the south of France, as I had determined,
I wrote a note to his wife—for, I had determined never
to see her again—telling her to keep up a stout heart;
for, dead or alive, I would bring back her husband.
God sustained her, for a while. She replied, at the
end of three days; thanking me, and enclosing a letter
for him, which I promised to deliver into his own
hands.
I saw, by the date of the note, that she was no longer
at the country seat; and I rode out, to make some
enquiry of the servants. By heaven, I cannot attempt
to describe the awful and savage desolation of the place.
The great front door was wide open—several of the
and children—nay, the very candles and lamps were
standing. I went through the house. Not a living
creature could be seen—and there were no neighbours,
nearer than the old man, of whom they had hired the
house. I knew not what to do—it was enough to
break my heart, to think of the family; and to look at
the noble pictures—the rich furniture, that was left—
all exposed to the depredation of the world. I locked
all the rooms—fastened the windows, in the best way
that I could; taking care to place every thing, precisely
as I found it; even to the wine glasses, and cards, that
were left upon a table, in one of the rooms, where, I
suppose, that some neighbours had been playing whist,
the night before—came away; and sent the keys to
Mrs. Adams—Emma. The next morning, two hours
before day, I set sail—after his own ship—for Smyrna.
Three nights after, in a tremendous thunderstorm—the
house was struck with lightning—but, from that day
to this, I have never felt satisfied about it. There can
be no doubt that the lightning struck it; because, it
could be traced, when I returned, through one end of
the roof; and, it is highly probable, that the whole was
blown off, with gunpowder—but, what became of the
old man? Nobody knew.—He had been seen, two days
before, travelling, backward and forward, continually
—night and day—with a covered wagon, loaded down;
perhaps—it is possible—that he robbed the house; and
then burnt it down, or blew it up—to conceal the robbery.
I sailed, as I have said, and arrived at Smyrna; and,
finally traced him to Constantinople—chiefly, by the
beauty of his person; for, he was a man, to be distinguished,
among ten thousand, by his lordly bearing;—
and, after a search of six whole months, hearing of him,
every now and then, among the Jews—Christians—
Turks—and Greeks—I, at last, came upon him, all at
once—when I had gone out, after the Greek manner,
armed with two cimeters. This had well nigh been
fatal to us. For a moment, I was a fool—a madman
—and forgot all my errand—his blessed wife and children.
after a tempestuous voyage, during which, we were reduced
to such misery, that we preyed upon each other;
we arrived at Philadelphia, again.
We were too late—too late—the angel was in her
grave. Her boy had died, immediately after our departure;
but, hope had buoyed up her heart. The
mother was smitten to death; but the wife lived on;
praying to her Maker, only to meet her dear husband
once more; to meet, and return one kiss of forgiveness,
and reconciliation;—and then, to die. She had no hope
of life; no wish to live,—I heard the intelligence
first—and I, it was, that would have told him the tale;
but he spurned me from him; and, for a moment, I
hardly pitied him—he had scorned even her letter; that,
of which I would have let out my heart's blood;
though, in his soul, I do know that he believed her innocent.—But—God
smote him, to the brain. He maddened—and—farewell,
reader, whoever thou art—farewell!—I
shall only seal up her own letter, and add it to
the bundle, just as it was written.
She wrote it, upon her death bed.
LETTER OF EMMA ADAMS, TO HER HUSBAND.
(Enclosed.)
O, my husband! my husband! what shall I say to
thee!—I am blind, and sick, and desolate; and thou
art far away!—William, my husband!—O, come back
to me—Leister is sleeping in his little crib, at my
side, but I—I cannot sleep. I never shall sleep again,
William, if thou art not returned to me. Night after
night, have I watched for thy tread;—night after night,
overcome by drowsiness; and wet to the heart, with the
tears of our child, I have sunk, for a single moment,
into some terrible dream—fancied that we were restored
to one another—that thy strong arm was about me
—thy true heart beating against mine—and woke, with
a shriek, that startled my poor boy; till, brave as he is,
he would cower, and hide his little face and hands in my
art thou! On the wide ocean--away from thy disconsolate
wife—thy widow—widow!—God grant me patience
—our own righteous God!—Who can tell that I am not
a widow!—who can tell, that my poor boy,—blessings
on his innocent sleep—is not a fatherless orphan—O,
heaven—heaven, have mercy upon me!—
William, forgive me—on my knees, I pray thee, to
forgive me! Come back to me—love. By all our sorrow
and wretchedness, in our early affection!—by all
that hath followed, of happiness and delight!—by my
dead child, thy daughter, William, the creature of thy
loins!—by thine own boy!—O, I do intreat thee; implore
thee, to come back to me!—come! though it be but to
close my eyes,---and seal them, with one affectionate
kiss---for ever. Come! and death will be welcome to
me, then!—
O, my husband!—my pillow is wet through, with
my tears.—Penitent and broken hearted, I am before
thee. O, pity me!—come to me! I will never doubt
thee, again. Never! never, never!—I will lay my heart
naked, before thee and tell thee all, all—even to the
innermost secret of my thought. O, come to me!—
William!—William—canst thou abandon me—me!
—in whose arms thou hast slept, year after year,
through trouble and darkness, and sorrow; pain and
humiliation—me! the mother of thy babes---me! whom
thou hast so loved—O, William, canst thou abandon
me!— * * * * * I cannot
write---I am blinded with my tears. Nothing that I
can say, but seems cold and unnatural to me. Where
is there language for me---where shall I find aught,
to bring back a father to his child---the cradle of one
child, and the green turf of another---a husband, to the
bosom of his wife---a bosom that—O, no william, I
will not so wrong thee, as to allege my innocence. I
know that it is not in human nature to doubt me—that
thou, thou, thyself, my husband, art sure of my innocence,
even while thou meditatest an everlasting separation—
—I have done---the paper is all blotted---I
me---I have no more to say---but---if thou wouldst see
me alive—come to me! come, speedily---I—I—
| CHAPTER XVII. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |