University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

One year; one whole year hath passed away, since I
finished the last chapter. This very evening completes
it. And even yet, my hand trembles, in taking
up the story again. I feel like one, who, having grown
old in sorrow and loneliness, is about to enter again, for
the first time, since the death of a beloved one,—the
apartment where she died.—How shall I bear it?—Is
there, do you believe, upon the wide earth, a man of
my age, so utterly desolate, as I, at this moment? I do
not believe that there is. I have loved, and been beloved,
truly and tenderly; very passionately too; and
devoutly, at times;—been blessed, beyond the lot of other
men—with the wife of my heart, and the babe of my
strength, beautiful as day, and good, as beautiful—but
where are they? Man, man! of what avail is all thy
sorrowing and humiliation!—thy penitence and contrition?
The curse of thy boyhood pursues thee! the shadow
of thy transgressions; and, where the good man
beholds but the visiting of God's own hand, in gentleness
and love, the wicked quake under it, as beneath
the unsparing retribution of one, that hath power, and
will not be appeased.

Merciful Father! do thou sustain us. Wean our
young hearts, at an early hour, we pray thee, from all
that the affections cling to, so desperately;—for, O, it
is awful, to be widowed in our old age,—to nurse our
children, into beauty and blossom, and see them lie dead
before us!—to watch, many and many a night, by our
dear one,—and yet outlive her! to see her sweet eyes
quenched;—her lips turned to stone, and her smooth,
living hair, dead—utterly dead—and harsh to the distracted
pressure of our mouth!

One whole year!—and even yet, I am dreading to
touch the canvass again. It is coming, too, immediately,
in contact with mortality. It is—O, I know not
what; but I would avoid it—and will. Can you have
the heart to forbid my wandering awhile. May I not
tell the tale, without name?---one name, at least---in
my bereavement?

Well, well---after that---I was very sick for a long
while; I was at home, when I came to myself---not at
the home where I was born; but Elizabeth was with
me, and that made the place a home, to me:---and, when
I came entirely to my strength, I believe that my character
was greatly altered. —I was less imperious of
manner; and, perhaps, more humble and lowly of spirit.
Elizabeth was constantly with me; and her sweet,
unaffected piety wore upon me, before I knew it. And
Hammond too; he knelt down at my bed side; and there
was something of a grander character in his worship.
His was emphatically religion—hers, piety. He visited
us continually; and, it was a long time, before I rightly
understood on what footing. My sister had determined
not to marry;—and when I looked into her beautiful
heart, and saw all its harmonious proportion;—
at her delicate frame, so exquisitely wrought;—and
thought of her affectionate temper and vivid genius, I
could not but believe, that she had done wisely. Where
was the man worthy of her, who might not, if he were
great enough to deserve her, in some moment of perilous
enterprize, put himself at hazard, in a contention
with some spectre of glory!---and that, I knew, would
kill her;—or, if he were only, like herself, some one of
patient bearing, in life, to whom the sweet ministering
of woman was potent, as the incantation of them that
make the very fountains of the earth boil up---the ocean
rumble---the fire and lava beat through their secret
channels, like blood in the arteries of men---how would
she wear away her life with him, ambitions as she was?
---in solitude?---darkness? and silence? O, no---that
were an idle and unworthy death.

No---there was no choice left; and, when I had her
near to me, it was strangely delightful to think of her,
as of one, that was to be mine, and mine alone, for ever
and ever! I would catch her to my heart, and kiss
her, till the blood was ready to burst through her pale
forehead.

At last, I had the strength to speak of what had
passed---to go to the grave of---of—yes. I will write
it,---of Caroline;---and to pluck up a few blades of the
scented grass, that grew there. It was a wintry and
desolate spot. The sea beach was near; and, at the
spring tide, her grave was drenched with salt spray;
yet, the flowers would spring up; and the sweet violet,
would watch an opportunity, and peep out, for a moment,
at the peril of being torn away by the watching
blast. I went to the cottage. That too was desolate.
The father was in his grave. Of a broken heart, he had
died, if ever an old man died of one, in this world. I
saw his wife again---she, who had well nigh been my
mother. Her heart cried out wildly---at the sight of
me;---and she fell upon my neck, and there, even there,
I vowed inwardly, never to part with her more;---and I
never did---but she left me---for the only place that she
was fitted for; the society of the just, made perfect.---
Yes---of a broken heart, the old man died. His last
hope was a law suit. Again and again, had he expected
a favourable issue; any issue, indeed, would have been
less fatal to him. At last, the day of trial came---but
it went by. Another came---his counsel were ready,
and the old man's heart beat high, with the hope of
dying less abject, by a very little, than he had once apprehended.
He was ready; agitated; and moved even
to tears; his witnesses with him. But---there was some
formality; some unknown privilege; to the other party,
that could not be explained to him,---which prevented
the trial again.---He could not understand it. It was
the death blow to his confidence in man. The lawyers
had drained him of his last dollar---under one pretence
and another;---and now---it was just what his wife had
long foretold him, there was to be no return to him, of
the money that had gone, whatever happened; and then,

in the imbecility of his piteously shattered understanding,
he began to view it as a judgment upon him; for
even so had it been called by the “Society,” for having
set their laws at naught, and gone, unwarily, into litigation.

“He came home,” said Eunice. “I met him at the
door. That night, he never opened his mouth. I
dreaded to mention the name of business to him. I
did'nt ask him one word, about the law suit; but I feared
the worst! He took to his bed. He never held up
his head, again—he never spoke a word, after the first
greeting to me, when he entered the door; and, in three
days, we buried him.

“Can this be righteous?” said I. “Speak to me,
Hammond. You are a lawyer. Is it not a cruel and
hard hearted profession? Do ye not profit of misery
and crime?”

“We do. But do not physicians and surgeons.
Would you destroy them, too? I believe that a
litigous spirit grows out of ignorance, rather than
knowledge. But this poor man owed his death, not to
the lawyers, but to the law.”

“How?”

“Under a sense, and a mistaken one, of moral obligation,”
was the reply.

“I do not understand you. Do you speak of his debts?”

“Yes. He thought them all paid; but they were not;
are not, to this hour. Dormant claims were constantly
arising; and creditors, who had no legal right to
molest him, fastened, like blood hounds upon his conscience;
and tore and lacerated his old heart, as if it
were a pleasant thing to torture one, that had been so
powerful. I had more than one conversation with him,
before his death; and, had he been as sound of understanding
then, as he was once, I could have lightened his
heart, entirely, of the chief oppression that it felt.”

“What was it?”

“He laboured under a sense of moral obligation, that
crushed him. He had persuaded himself, that, although
set free by the law, he was morally bound to
pay every man whom he owed—that he might sleep quietly
in his grave.”

“I pray you, Hammond; remember that I am not a
lawyer. I do not understand your legal subtleties;
your artificial reasoning. But I ask you a plain question.
Is it your belief, that a man may be discharged
from the moral obligation of a debt, under any circumstances,
until it be paid?”

“I answer you, William, plainly, no. The debt must
be paid; the contract performed, or there is for ever a
moral obligation remaining. But we are arguing too
abstractly. Let us take a familiar case, one that will
bring the question to an immediate issue. You have
an insolvent law in this state. A man contracts under
it to pay another, a sum of money. He becomes insolvent;
is discharged, in due course of law. Now, you
would ask, if he be not under a moral obligation to pay
that debt, whenever he is able.”

“Precisely—that is just what I mean.”

“I answer—no. I say that he is not. You appear surprised.
If the law were in existence, at the time when the
contract was entered into; and he had been discharged
under that same law, then there is no moral obligation
left upon him.”

“But suppose that the law was not in existence, when
the contract was entered into; yet, that, before it was
completed, a law had been passed, and the debtor, duly
discharged under it; then there is a moral obligation
remaining.”

“I do not rightly comprehend you, Hammond.—Do
you mean to say, that the law has any thing to do with
this moral obligation? They are two different things,
are they not?—legal and moral obligations?”

“To answer you that question, intelligibly. I must
ask you, what the nature of a contract in this state, is,
under the insolvent law. Suppose that A contracts with
B, to pay him one thousand dollars, in sixty days—is A
to pay him absolutely, come what will?”

“Certainly—there can be no doubt of it.”

“You are hasty, my friend. These are questions
not to be so readily decided. Is A to pay, in case of
his death?”

“Certainly; if he leave sufficient property for the purpose.”

`Very well. Then you, yourself, have already made
a qualified contract of what, in terms, is an absolute one.
By your own admission, the agreement is no longer,
to pay one thousand dollars in sixty days, happen what
will; but to pay that sum, in that time, unless he die;
and then, if there should be property enough.—Reflect,
a moment. Where do you find that law? It exists
no where. It is only a matter of rational construction;
any other doctrine would leave the conscience, of
an honest man, burdened for ever, in the next world, as
well as in this, with his unpaid debts.”

“Now, what is the true contract in your state of Maryland,
when a man enters into one like this. Is it to pay one
thousand dollars, at all events? No. What is it? It
is to pay one thousand dollars, if he can—when he can
—or, produce a discharge under the insolvent law;
leaving certain of his subsequent acquisitions liable for
the debt; provided that the creditor shall take the proper,
legal steps, in season, to establish his claim.”

“That is the real contract, is it not?”

“No. It is not. Judge Marshall has declared that
the law is unconstitutional; and that, therefore, it cannot
be made a part of the contract.”

“In the first place, my dear friend, to speak reverently
of that decision, as becomes me—it is a series of
blundering, from beginning to end. In the next place
—I do not doubt that a state insolvent law is constitutional;
and, in the third place. I do maintain, in defiance
of all that the supreme court have chosen to say then, in
their folly; and since, in confirmation of it, that, even
if the state law were not constitutional, it would still
make a part of all contracts entered into under it.”[1]

“But Judge Marshall says no. First, he says, that
it makes no difference at all, whether the law be anterior,
or subsequent to the contract.”

“There never was a more mischievous doctrine: and,
I believe, never a more untenable one. The law passed
after the contract, could, by no possibility, have been
in the contemplation of the parties, at the time when
the contract was entered into. But that, which was
passed before, might have been. That cannot be denied.”

“Now, it will be only necessary to show that it was;
and Judge Marshall, himself, would admit that it would
make a part of the contract.”

“It will not be denied by any man in his right senses,
that A, in the case named, might have stipulated expressly,
instead of promising as he did, to pay absolutely—that
he would pay one thousand dollars, in such a time; or produce
a discharge:—that is, it will not be denied that, the
law, as it stands, whether constitutional or not, might
have been incorporated into the contract, itself, by writing;
and that, then it would have made a part of it.”

“Suppose that it had. Would there have been any
moral obligation in A, to pay the debt, after he was discharged,
except out of certain subsequent acquisitions;

named in the certificate of discharge.—No. All that an
honest man can be called upon to do; all, that his conscience
requires of him to do, is, what he contracted to
do. What is the contract here. It is in the alternative.
It is not to pay absolutely; but to pay, or to do something
else; of course, if he do that something else, he is released
from payment. It is just as if one should agree
to pay a thousand dollars, or make a conveyance, at a
certain time; and there would be just as much of a moral
obligation in the latter case, to pay, after he had
made the conveyance, as in the former, to pay after he
was discharged.”

“Yes—but that, lawyer Hammond, you will admit,
would depend upon a written contract, into which the
law itself, was formally and substantially, if not literally
incorporated

“And beside—” said Elizabeth.

“Hush! one at a time, if you please,” said Hammond,
very earnestly, but smiling. “I shall now attempt to
show you, that it would make no difference, whether the
law be written or implied; whether it be expressed, or
understood, in the contract; if it be the usage, and the
belief of the trade—the common law; or the lex loci.—
It is now too late to introduce the statute law into all
our contracts. People are obliged to know the law.”

“Not when it is not law; when it is not constitutional,
I suppose,” said Elizabeth, pleasantly.

“Understand me. It would be lawful, undeniably,
for two individuals to incorporate this unconstitutional
law, into their contract. Now, if you can make it appear,
that the law was understood and meant by them, to
be a part of the contract at the time, just as if it were
inserted, word for word, in black and white; the law,
or rather equity, will establish it, on the ground of
mistake: usage of trade, and general opinion will have
again their weight.”

“But how can that be done?” said I,—“How will
you make it appear?—Few men really know the law.”

“There are several ways—first, by making it probable.
Ask any merchant, if he would have refused, for
any other reason than, because of the trouble that it would

have given him, to incorporate the law itself into
his note of hand? the law of endorsement, for example,
or discharge—or notice.”

“He will tell you, no.—And why should he have refused?
He knew that the law, whatever it was, governed
his contract, as effectually, as if it were written therein.
But there is another way. File a Bill of Discovery;
and compel the creditor to answer, on oath, as to
his best knowledge, and belief of the law, at the time
of contracting; and as to his intention.—Yet both of these
grounds may fail. But we have another in reserve, that
cannot fail. A man may plead ignorance of the law;
may swear that he did not know of its existence; or
deny that he would have admitted it, into the terms of
the contract, for any consideration, (and such a man
would not expressly include the statute of limitation, on
one of his notes, I dare say.) Yet, it is always enough
for your purpose, if he have entered into the contract, in
the regular course of business; if he have sold his goods,
or charged his labour, at a fair market price.”

“Why?---because profit is but another name for insurance,
premium. He, who insures, is bound to
know the course of trade; the usage and the risk; and,
it is his own folly, if he do not demand a sufficient premium,
for his indemnification. It were as ridiculous,
therefore, for a man that has sold goods to another, to
allege, that he did not know of the state insolvent law;
as, after he had put his name to a policy, to declare,
that he did not know the perils of the voyage. In both
cases, he has received a fair and faithful consideration,
in his own stipulated profit; or in the regular market
price.”

“Does he complain of this? Does he complain that
he is not paid? that he only knew a part of the risk?
You see that I have supposed the worst possible case,
for my doctrine. Yet he is paid, whether he know it or
not. Who establishes the price? Are they ignorant
men? It is their own folly. But are they so, in reality?
No. They are sober, calculating men; who take into
view, all contingences; the risk of failure, as of
shipwreck, fire and hurricane. He, therefore, who sells

at the same profit with them, receives the same premium;
and is paid, though he may not know it, for the
risk that he runs.”

“Shall the insurer be permitted to come to you, after
you have publickly entered into an agreement with him,
and he has lost; and demand to be set free from his contract,
because he did not know what he was about,
when he made it; or, on the ground that he has not been
paid? Shall he tell you, that there is a moral obligation on
you, to refund? You would laugh in his face.”

“And why not laugh in the face of that man, who
comes to you, after you have been discharged, under the
insolvent law, and asks you to pay for goods, which you
bought of him, at a market price; and tells you of your
moral obligation to him? The cases are precisely parallel.”

“But you forget;” said I—thinking that I had him,
sure enough. “He is not paid at all. He has sold his
goods on a credit.”

“Nor, is the insurer actually paid. Both receive
notes, and take the risk of payment.”

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, timidly, “there may be
something to justify this doctrine, in the difference of
prices that we see, in different cities. In Boston—I
have heard, I think, that there is no insolvent law, there
—goods are much cheaper, I am told, than here.”

The eyes of Hammond streamed fire. “Thank you,”
said he; “thank you, Miss Adams. That had escaped
me. It is very true. Nay---the difference of price in
every city, will prove the same thing. No matter how
honest a man is, he will sell his goods to one person,
at a less price, on a credit than to another-- thereby,
proving, what I say; that the profit which he charges,
is the premium for the risk.”

“Thus, I think, that I have shown first---that though
the state law were unconstitutional; still, if it made, expressly,
a part of the contract, it would have governed or
qualified it. And, secondly, that it matters not, whether
it be constitutional or not; inserted in the body of each
separate contract, or not; still, if the contract have
been made in the usual course of trade; in a state, where

the law was supposed to be in force; that even then, the
law was a part of the contract.”

“I confess, that my opinion is a good deal changed,
upon the subject,” said I, “I had never reflected on it
before. I had always a notion in my mind that there
was only one way of paying a debt; and that, by money;
but I now see that there are such things as alternative
obligations; and, indeed, little else than alternative obligations—contracts,
that are qualified in a thousand
ways, though apparently absolute, upon their face.”

Hammond smiled—“upon my word,” said he, “you
fall, very naturally, into our technical phraseology. You
understand it, I hope.”

“I hope that I do,” said I, a little piqued.

“Well, well, don't be angry.”

“But, you were somewhat bold, for a young man—I
think—my friend,” said Elizabeth, “just now.” I have
waited to hear you through; and I confess, that I find you
quite intelligible. I allude to your manner of speaking
about Judge Marshall. He is a great and good man,
Mr. Hammond.”

“Indeed he is!” answered Hammond, with enthusiasm,
“and that is the reason, why I reprobate such absurdity
as this. Do you think that I would speak as I
do of it, were it the blundering of a common man?—
No. But hear me. You think me arrogant. I am
not. I am only bold and honest. I never say these
things, however sudden and rash they appear, without
having first weighed and considered them well.”

“Judge Marshall says that it matters not whether
the contract be made before, or after the statute. I have
already shown you that it may make all the difference
in the world; and that, it does make it, in the cases
named: that, if the law were made after the contract
was entered into, the law could not, by any possibility,
have been in the contemplation of the parties; but that if
the law were made before the contract, it not only might
have been, under their contemplation; but, unless excepted
in the contract, must have made a part of it, if the
contract were in the usual course of trade.”

“He says too, that it matters not, whether the contract
be entered into between the citizens of different states; or
of the same state.”

“There he is wrong again. The difference is broad
and manifest. Let each state act within her own jurisdiction,
upon the contracts of her own citizens; and
of them only; and there will then be no jarring or conflict,
with her neighbours. It is very right that she should not
meddle nor interfere with a foreign or sister jurisdiction.
Thus, if the debtor and creditor be both residents of Pennsylvania,
the Pennsylvania state courts may settle the
question. But if it be between a citizen of Pennsylvania,
and one of New York, the only suitable authority is
their common superiour, the United States Court. They
both want an umpire. I say nothing of what is called
the lex loci, the law of the place; for that is only a subject
of general squabbling and doubt.”

“Judge Marshall says too, that imprisonment makes
no part of the contract. I shall not stop to quarrel
with the language of the proposition. I will content myself,
at present, with understanding it.”

“Now, I undertake to say that he is mistaken, for I
love to treat great men respectfully. It is a part of the
contract, and a substantial part. It is what all parties
expect; look to; and provide for; nay, it is that, which
drives the debtor to payment, and gives power to the
creditor. If it were not, why is any insolvent law necessary?
If imprisonment were not a part of the contract,
—where would be the necessity of pleading a discharge
of the person, in any case—particularly as the stipulation
or consent to imprisonment, does not appear, in
terms, upon the contract? Nay—how dare a creditor
imprison a man?—and why is he not instantly discharged
on motion, after arrest, in every case?”

“If Judge Marshall be right, the debtor would be so
discharged;—and the creditor would be subject to an
action for false imprisonment—nay, the very officer
himself—and jailor.”

“Yet—mark the reasoning of the court. They admit
a power to be in each state, sufficient for protecting

the person of a debtor discharged within it, for ever.—
Yet, they deny to it, the power of protecting his property.”

“The distinction is ridiculous. I will undertake to
show, at a suitable time, that—one of these two things is
true:—either, that the individual states may protect
property, and person, both;—or, that they cannot protect
either. I hold myself answerable for this promise.—
And I shall redeem it, one day or other, though uttered
now, in conversation, without going to the feudal
tenures, or magna carta; or, as the blockheads in
court call it, magna charter.”

“By this construction of the Supreme Court, each
state is permitted to exercise a power, which has ever
been; is; and ever will be, a source of jealousy and heart
burning, throughout the whole confederacy. It makes
certain of them, places of refuge, where a debtor, honest
or dishonest, has but to touch the soil, and he is free.
It permits one state to interfere, directly; and in terms;
without the formality of any investigation, between the
obligations of debtor and creditor, from another state.
That is—by this construction, a man is permitted to
run away from one state, where all his contracts have
been made; and throw himself into the protection of another
state, that he never saw, till hunted thither, by
the avenger.”

“But suppose that another construction were adopted.
This is, to my view, a false and perilous interpretation;
hastily given, and obstinately supported, merely
for the purpose of evading, what could not be denied,
that the states, in their individual capacity, may
pass insolvent laws.”

“The court admit that. But then, in seeking for the
definition of an insolvent law, they, not aware of the
mischief that they were doing, have denied, that a state
may protect the property, in any case—and granted that
it may protect the person, in every case.”

“But—had they given a different construction, that
for which I contend, to it, there would have been no
such evil to apprehend; no conflicting of jurisdiction;
no clashing of power; no refuge for villany; and there

would be found sufficient analogy in other admitted
powers, of the confederated and individual governments,
to justify it.”

“My construction is this:—that each state has the
right to protect the property and person of her own
citizens—against her own citizens;—but not the right
to protect either the property or person, of even her
own citizens, against the citizens of another state—
and still less, the person or property of the citizens of
another state, against other citizens of other states.”

“She has nothing to do with them. She has no
business to meddle with them. Let the parties go
before their common tribunal, the lofty and impartial
umpire—appointed by the constitution. I mean
the United States Court—you smile—but, they are impartial,
very impartial, where their own authority is
not in question. And how could you expect them to
be, where it is? Are they not men, with the infirmities
of men? subject to the temptation of men? and to some
others, perhaps, that mere men are not subject to—but
only judges and lawyers.”

“I am in earnest. But, I would qualify the construction
that I have just given, by adding that, the
law of the state, to operate righteously on its own
citizens—should not effect existing contracts. Do you
understand me?”

“Perfectly,” I answered. “You mean to say, that if
two men contract, when there is no insolvent law in
existence, that a future law ought not to effect the contract.”

“No—not exactly that. In my mind, there is no
question, that such a law may pass, and operate, upon
even existing contracts; but then, there will be always
a moral obligation in the debtor, after he shall be discharged,
to pay the debt, from which he has been discharged,
by a law, passed subsequently to his contract.

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, timidly, “perhaps I have
not rightly comprehended you, Mr. Hammond. You
will please to set me right, if I have not. This is a new;
but, I hope, not an unprofitable discussion to me. I
hear a great deal of complaint; and see a great deal

of distress—and—but let us talk over that, at another
time. At present, I have a thought, that there is either
some fallacy, or some errour in your argument.
Moral obligation, I take to be distinct from legal obligation.
Is it so?”

“It is. And that too, is it not? which the law will
not lend its aid to enforce?” continued Elizabeth.

“Yes.”

“If then, your doctrine be sound, or construction, I
believe you call it; would it not follow that no moral
obligation is left, after the law has destroyed the contract.
Pardon me. I have not expressed my own
meaning. I am unused to argument; and there is some
difficulty in using the proper language. You say that
each state has a right, to pass an insolvent law, in certain
cases. Do not the citizens know this? are they
not bound to know it?”

Hammond snorted, like a race-horse—protruded his
bald head, half across the table, in astonishment; and
his eyes dilated to twice their usual magnitude, while
she continued.

“And is it not, legally and by construction at least, if
not in fact, in the contemplation of the parties, to a contract,
when they enter into it, that the state may destroy
it, or suspend it, in a certain way?”

Upon my word!” said Hammond, after a silence, of
at least ten minutes; “that is passing strange! For three
years have I been meditating upon this very question—
for three whole years!—and yet, that idea never entered
into my head. Miss Adams, I thank you Unassisted
good sense may do, what will amaze the profoundest, at
times. You have driven me to higher entrenchments.”

He arose, when he had said this; threw back his head,
and trod, less like a dwarf, before her, than I had ever
seen him.

“Yes!—it is true. If my construction be right—
and I feel assured that it is, there can be no moral obligation,
even where the law was made after the contract.”

“All that can be required of one is, to do what he has
promised. My contract then, is not to pay one thousand

dollars, at all events; but to pay it, unless the law
set me free.”

“It is like the case of endorsement. If an endorser
be not notified, he is exonerated. Every man knows
this; or is supposed to know it. It would be ridiculous
for me, to tell the most conscientious moralist, after he
had been exonerated from his endorsement, by the negligence
of an endorsee, that there was, nevertheless, a
moral obligation, on his part, to pay the debt.”

“So, in the statute of limitation. The law maintains
that there is a moral obligation to pay a debt, barred
by the statute. I deny this. But, granting that there
is—still, it does not affect my case. The construction
of the courts, though not law in itself, is the evidence of
what is law. People are bound to know what this construction
is, just as much as if it were a part of the statute
itself. And, therefore, where the construction of the
courts is, that, a subsequent promise revives a debt, which
is barred by the statute of limitation, infancy or insolvency;
such a promise becomes a new and substantial agreement;
and requires no moral obligation to give it force;
except to evade the metaphysicks of law, respecting
a nudum pactum; or a contract all on one side.”

I was pleased, I confess—and the evening had worn
away, in a manner, that I was little accustomed to; I
felt a more inward and sustaining dignity—had a better
opinion of man's nature; his prerogatives, and scope,
and grandeur, than I had before. It was not possible,
to hear Hammond converse on a subject, that roused
him, without, notwithstanding his cold, haughty, arrogant
denunciation of great men, without feeling as if
you had stood upon the hills, and seen giants wrestling,
and pitching the bar. Every movement of his intellect
was so prompt, bold, and athletick.

So pleased was I, indeed, that, after he had gone, I
renewed the subject, with Elizabeth.

“What do you think of him?” said I.

“He is a very extraordinary man;” said Elizabeth.

“But passionate, supercilious, and abrupt—is he
not?”

“Yes. But he has great command of himself; and
his superciliousness, I observe, is never shown toward
them, that the world think below him. To such, he is
really humble, forbearing, and patient. Of his vanity,
I hardly know what to say. He often startles me, with
it; but less, I believe, from its abundance, than from its
honesty. I watch other people; and I find them vain.
But, it is not so easily detected in them. He is bold,
and imprudent. I remember an instance. It is long
ago;—a lady, of great good sense and observation,
rebuked him, in a manner that delighted me, for it —
But you shall see her; and judge of her, for yourself. She
is a remarkable woman. The instance, of which I
was speaking, was this.”

“He had been highly wrought upon, where we were,
and strangely eloquent. He never says fine things;
but, it is difficult to forget anything that he has ever said,
when he has been in earnest. The people, here, begin
to treat him with great respect and consideration.—
“Why,” said Mrs H—, to him, “why did that lady
listen to you, so breathlessly?—and the others too—
why was it?”

“Because I astonished them,” said he, in his calm,
natural way.

“No—” she answered, smiling, at the oddity of his
reply, and startled too, at his boldness—“perhaps not.
You are a little loud, you know, in conversation.” I
smiled.

“No, pardon me, Madam,” said he, “not a little loud; I
am very loud. You meant to tell me so; but, you were too
polite. I know it. I have heard it, again and again. I have
tried to learn wisdom, by reproof; but, I cannot. I am
accustomed to it. It does not hurt me. I was well
nigh running away with a woman—monster that I am,
because she told me, in a lady like way, that I had been
writing about what I did not understand—and that—I
was a fool. You meant to tell me nearly the same
thing. I am too loud. I am sorry for it; but I am so,
without knowing it Will you be kind enough to check
me—I shall understand no sign—no hint—but speak
out, whatever it be, and I shall be grateful for it. I

am called rude—rude!—because I shake off the poisonous
dew, from every flower that I touch—before it has time
to scorch its vitals. No, madam; you are not the first,
whose temples have throbbed at the sound of my voice.
One man, a very dear friend, has told me, that he could
endure anything but my voice, in argument; another,
that it was like a clarionet in his ears; another, a lady
—after I had told her a long story, for the second time,
which I knew that I had told her before; and, when I
reproached her, for her forgetfulness, or complaisance
—she told me, that she never understood half that I
said—that my voice frightened her; and that, no stranger,
or female, without nerves of cast iron, could
endure it. No—madam—I thank you. I feel your
good intention; and will reform. But do not despair;
—when I have become quiet and meek—you laugh—I do
not wonder at it—.”

“Do not imagine that you are the first, that has reproved
me; no—I remember something of the same kind,
at this moment. I had been particularly fine; and the
man, to whom I was talking, was, to my notion, the
most respectful auditor that I had ever had—I stopped.
He made no answer. His eyes were rivetted upon my
breast. At last, he drew a long breath.”

“Mighty powers,” he cried out, “what a play of
langs!” And, on another occasion too, where I had
been very eloquent and convincing—very—a sweet woman
looked me up in the face—there was a dead silence.”

“Pray,” said she, “had'nt you a deaf grandfather?”

“The question puzzled me, exceedingly, for a
while; and the company, I remember, laughed, heartily,
at the time; but it was long before I understood the
drift of it. She must have thought, by my voice, that
I not only had a deaf grandfather, but that. I had been
brought up, or raised with him; and that my deaf grandfather
was in a fair way to have a deaf grand-daughter
in law, if I should ever marry.”

“Some other conversation passed; and, when he had
gone, I asked Mr. H. what he thought of him,” continued
Elizabeth.

“The vainest creature in the world,” said she—“but
then, his vanity is like the vanity of no other human
being. He seems to boast without intending it; without
even knowing it; and, all the while too, as if he
honestly believed every word that he said.”

“He does believe it, my dear Madam,” said I. “Nay,
what is worse, I am afraid that we should find it hard
to undeceive him.”

“I am afraid so, too!” said she, leaving me. “Make
what you can of him, Elizabeth. He is beyond my
skill. They were astonished!—ha—ha—ha!—“Yes—
I will be bound they were; such a noise would astonish
anybody.”

“I reflected on the matter, my good brother, after
she had gone. “Another man,” said I, “would have
talked, if he could, all the while; just as Hammond did;
thereby, showing that he knew his own powers of entertainment;
thereby proving, that he believed himself, to
be worthy of engrossing all the conversation. Yet, he
would never have owned it—never have said it. Hammond
would. There is the difference between Hammond's
vanity, and that of other men.”

“She is right;” said I, to myself. “My sister is
right.”

Ed.