University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The next day, Hammond led me out, through the borders
of the city; and amused me with such a variety of
information, anecdote, and wit, that I was seized with
a strange, troubled, anxious admiration of him.—
Where had he acquired it?—among men? No—he had
been less among men, than I; though older, by two or
three years. Where then?—by studying his own nature.
I looked at him with amazement. Touch what
theme I would, he had always something to say upon
it, that was new, and worth repeating. I found too,
that, what he said, was said, in a manner so peculiarly
his own, so simple, so energetick! that I was able to
repeat it, word for word, sometimes, though the same
things, perhaps, would have made no impression upon
me, had another said them; or, had I read them. His
manner was often sudden, vehement—abrupt,—pleasant
for a moment or two, but not longer—yet so indignant,
vivid, burning and sarcastick, that I felt an
unaccountable sense of his superiority oppressing me.—
Go where he would, there seemed to be no thought of his
ugliness, even in the boys. Every body saluted him,
respectfully. But he had no companions, I observed,
among the youthful. Two or three middle-aged men,
and several aged ones, came out to meet him; and stood
and held his hands, as if he had been one of them, while
we went along. I felt like a boy in their presence.

At last, we came to the woods---where the most beautiful
stream in the world, goes, making a picture at
every bend before you.

“How happened it,” said I, while we stood looking
at the water below us, which ran, smoothly and swiftly,
in one part of the stream; and then broke out into quick,

turbulent flashes---and bright sparkles, at another---that
we pass by the countenance of Nature in her repose
and tranquillity, as if we saw it not; and that, we are
only startled into exclamation or delight, by meeting
with it, when it is agitated or disturbed. It is that---
but you are about to speak---go on—.”

“It is a part of human nature, William. Power is
never felt or acknowledged, unless it be mischievous.
A great and good man, who spends a whole life, in fulfilling
every duty, and appointment of life; who is a
father and a husband; a brother and a child; a citizen
and a magistrate---who lives and dies in the scrupulous
discharge of every amiable duty, to God and man---
how far is he known---by whom---and how? For a few
miles---by a few people, and only as a good man? Few
believe him to be a great man; --for, whatever may be
his greatness, it has never been visible to them. No
man ever was great in the management of his family,
and relationship with society. To be great, he must
have the power, at least, of being mischievous;—
and even then, until he be mischievous, people cannot
be certain of his power to be so. Look at that water;
It is far deeper, more useful, and richer, with a greater
multitude of fish, just there, where it is going, quietly
and smoothly, on its way, reflecting you willow trees;
and darkened by the shadow of that green bank---see!
that where I point --how singular!---one cannot tell
where the water touches the bank, so uniform is the
deep green, and so vivid the reflection: but what I was
about to say, is this---that we pass that part of the
stream with careless insensiblity. Yet here, we stop, and
lift up our hands in delight;---here, where the water appears
to be spouting up, out of the broken rock, in a
thousand bustling cascades---just as if Moses himself
had been here---and smitten the solid granite---till it
dissolved in water spouts---or gushed out, through a
hundred shattered fissures, in brightness and smoke.---
Yet here there is no utility in it---it is only beauty. So
with the human character. It is ruffled to light---nay,
I once wrote half a dozen lines on the same subject----
perhaps I can repeat them.”

“I do not remember the words exactly, but they are
somewhat after that fashion. I wrote them hastily;—
and am not often, as you know, foolish enough to repeat
my own poetry.”

It was very true. I had never heard Hammond repeat
a line of it before; and I verily believe, that he did
not remember twenty lines, of all that he had ever written.

“So too, in the moral word,” continued Hammond.
“Great virtues are, by the very law of their being, unobtrusive,
calm and beneficent. Men see nothing, and hear
nothing of them. Women fulfil their duties, with all
the affectionate secrecy and silence of devotion, every
day, in the world;—yet, what woman is taken notice of,
while she performs only her duty? Look at the French
Revolution? The women that became conspicuous then,
during the reign of terrour, were not greater, in reality,
than while they were nursing their children, or comforting
their husbands; and watching over their household.
Yet, till they were sprinkled with the blood of
their dear ones—or, had became sanguinary participators
in the revolution, they were unknown. So with
politicians and writers. The arts of peace are beneficent
and gentle. Those of war, tumultuous and confounding.”

“Nay”—(after a pause—during which, he uncovered
his bald head—and lifted up his large, full eyes to the

sky, as if he were overheard there—and was not ashamed,
nor afraid to be overheard there)—“even with God
himself, it is altogether the same. We are not conscious
of his presence, and power and greatness, at
such a time as this, when all creation is actually sleeping
under his outstretched hands. But anon, when he
arises—and would rebuke us—when he shakes the
skies; and the earth trembles; then do we cry out,—The
Lord God of heaven and earth! The Lord God omnipotent!”

There was one remarkable peculiarity in the countenance
of this man, which I have omitted to mention,
as it deserves. It was this. His eyes were very large;
and, in general, very ugly; particularly, when he was
deadly pale, as he was, for ever, when agitated or moved
—and his rough hair was tumbled—and tossed all over
his head,. But, when they were uplifted,—the large
black balls—with a wide, glittering, white edge below
them—they were, if not the most beautiful eyes, that I
ever saw, the most awful and amazing. They had
the faculty of dilitation and contraction, like those of
the cat family, and the owl—such as I never saw, before,
in any human eyes. It was not, that the pupil enlarged—but
the pupil—iris—and ball—instantaneously,
would grow to twice their usual size. At such a time
too; and, hardly at any other, was there a certain unity of
expression all over the face of Hammond; a vast harmony
—his large white teeth, and red mouth---and broad
nostrils were actually sublime. In looking at them,
ugly as they individually were, all except the mouth,
you would absolutely forget the character of each, in
the wonderful expression of the whole. In fact, Hammond
the Dwarf, was made to look up---everlastingly
up---at the sky, or into the face of his Maker. When
he communed with men; or with the creatures and
things below him—his face was more that of a brute
beast, than of a human creature—coarse, broad and
sensual---to such a degree, that his chaste and expressive
mouth, took the character of gloating sensuality
---low appetite—and even gluttony. There was at such
a time too, no unity of expression in it. His eyes appeared

to have no connexion with each other---no communication---and
less, if possible, with the rest of his
face,---while one was broad and open---the other was
nearly shut---I have seen this many a time: and one, I
have seen lighted up to a dazzling depth—while the
other was cowering like a serpent's eye, among the
coarse, abundant lashes. At the time that I speak of,
however, there was none of that contradiction. And
I actually shook with the noise of his heart; and felt my
heart dying within me, when he stood up and shouted,
with a solemn clear voice---which was returned to him
from all the hills about---The Lord God of Heaven and
earth! The Lord God omnipotent!

It began to grow dark; and we were yet in the beautiful
dim wood that skirted the hills about our city.

“You will spend the evening with us,” said I—

“Do you desire it?”

“Yes—.”

“You are cordial.” said he. “I accept your invitation.
But---we are alone now. You know me. You
have known me for some years. I want a friend. I
have looked about me. I find few, that I would wish
to be my friends—none, that I would take much trouble
with, to make so. Don't interrupt me. I am weary of
acquaintances. You hated me cordially, once. You
hate me no longer. I would have you love me, as cordially.
Three months from to-day, I shall offer you
my hand. I do not ask you if you will take it. I leave
you three months to think of it. It is no light matter,
for men like us, to swear friendship. It must be done
cautiously, deliberately; but once sworn, we are like
brothers.”

There was a peculiar emphasis in what he said; and,
particularly in the word brothers. It startled me then,
I remember; but, I paid less attention to it, at the time,
than afterward.

I offered him my hand. He put it back, proudly.

“No,” said he “not yet, William Adams—not yet.
Let us not be precipitate I want something to love;
something that will love me—die for me. You are the
man, I think. Women are out of the question. They

cannot love at all, as I would be loved—and if they
could, God has forbidden it to me.”

His voice trembled—.

“I thought that you had such a friend,” said I.

“Whom do you mean?”

“Young W—.”

“He!—he, a friend, such as I want. No—Do you
know me? Do you know him? No, I am not to be
flattered or made a fool of. I have no respect for boyish
attachment. The friendship of boys, and the love
of girls are not aliment for my stomach. I covet the
affection of children, but not of grown children. Mr.
W. is a young man of uncommon genius; but he wants
nerve, fortitude, iron. Stop—let us go by my chambers,
and I will show you what he is. On the way, I
will tell you how our acquaintance began. It was one
of his seeking. You know that I am a solitary fellow.
The young men avoid me: and the old are afraid of
me; and this very day, you have seen many men cross
the street to speak to me; and stand before me; with their
hats off—who, a few years ago, would have thought it
presumption in me—to—.”

We were now upon the pavement again; and were
interrupted by a shriek; and saw a crowd gathered a
little before us. I sprang forward—but was withheld
by Hammond. “Stop!” said he. “Let us take our
measures, before we get into the mob—that we may act
in concert. We shall be separated there.” Just as he
said this, a young woman leaned out of a window, that
we were passing, to fasten the blinds. I stopped to
admire her neck and shoulders. They were most beautifully
turned; and there was a noble, patient loftiness
in her look, that I never forgot afterward. I mention
this, because it agitated me, at the time, and because
—but no matter. Before we met again, an unaccountable
notion beset me, that she was lame—and—.

We soon found, that the uproar was caused by a brutal
ruffian, a drayman, who, in the mere wantonness of
his heart, had struck a young negro girl, a blow with
his whip, that brought the blood through her thin
clothes. It was actually oozing out, and trickling

down to her feet, when we came in sight. My first impulse
was to knock the scoundrel down.

“Stop!”—said Hammond, imperatively. “Silence!
—what is the meaning of all this?”

All began to speak at once.

“Have done!” he cried, leaping into the middle of
the crowd, that gave away on all sides, some in terrour,
and some in mockery—and facing the ruffian.

The turbulent voices all died away. Every face was
turned to his. The poor girl, who had been sobbing,
as if she were cut to the bone, stopped, all at once;—
and from the scornful, malignant scowling of the rascal,
with the whip, I began to apprehend that I should
soon be wanted in the aftray;---but no—he could not
well stand in the rebuke of the Dwarf alone. Every
look was upon Hammond. He had not moved his eyes
from the face of the man, for nearly a minute.

“How is this?” said he, at last. “Have you struck
her?—are you not ashamed of it?”

Instead of replying, the scoundrel raised his whip,
and, for a moment, seemed to menace Hammond. He
only smiled I should have cut his throat, upon the
spot---but he only smiled. I waited the issue.

The next moment, the whip resounded—like a pistol;
and the poor girl leaped, upright, from the earth---as if
she had been cut through the heart.

I had raised my arm, and---but Hammond was already
at work. I looked at him---he was black in the
face. He stood holding upon the naked and brawny
wrist of the other---who was struggling with him---and
appeared searching for something, in his side pocket, at
the same time.

“Do not strike her again”---said Hammond---“do
not. I would not have your blood upon my hands.”

“I will, by God!”—cried the other, attempting it,
violently, but in vain.

“Begone!” cried Hammond—biting his lips—and
knitting his brows—to the stupid girl—“Begone!”

She shook, and obeyed him.

The man wrenched away his hand, at last, and
would have pursued her.

“Another step!”—said Hammond, plucking at his
arm.

That other step was taken; and, ere you could have
clapped your hands thrice, I heard the lash strike the
limbs of Hammond; and saw him, with his teeth clenched—and
the blood issuing from his nostrils, kneeling
upon the breast of the other. Both were motionless.—
The people retreated in consternation, and shrieked.
I plucked Hammond from the fellow; but he had hardly
life enough to stand up; and the blood was in a little
puddle, on the earth where he ell. The man lay, in
the street, like a dead body—his neckcloth torn—and
twisted round, and round—and his eyes blood-shot—
It was a case of life and death;—I had seen the blow,—
with a whip too---and could I blame him!

Hammond put his hand to his side---and my first
thought was, that he had burst a blood vessel; but no---
he was only wounded. He had been stabbed in the
scuffle.

The man was taken up; and soon gave symptoms of
life;---and Hammond sent for a carriage; took me into
it, called upon the surgeon himself; and submitted to
inspection on the spot.

Such was his coolness, or insensibility, that he continued
the conversation, in which we had been interrupted
in the same tone, just as if nothing had happened---till
the business was over.

“What think you of it, Doctor?” said he.

The Doctor shook his head.

“Nonsense, Doctor. We know your profession.---
Law and physick are alike. We never shake our heads
in bad cases. It is then our business to keep up the
patient's heart. But in less serious matters, we shake
our heads, so that we may have the more credit for our
cures.”

The Doctor laughed.

“Do you think that there is any danger, Doctor---
any? you understand me”

“Any,” said the surgeon, hesitating. “There is a—a
—some danger, you know, in every wound—but, I—
we can tell better, tomorrow. If there should be any inflammation—or—.”

“My dear Neck or Nothing—leave me alone with
the good man, a moment;” said Hammond.

I started, at the old and well remembered name—
and obeyed; and the surgeon told me, afterward, with
the air of one that cannot rightly believe what he has
just seen, with his own eyes, what passed between
them.

“Tell me,” said Hammond, “plainly; and without
any shuffling, whether you would advise me, to be prepared
for the worst? I feel that the wound is deep;
deeper, perhaps, than you think. I know that there is
one bad symptom—it does not bleed, outwardly—it is
in a part, too, particularly subject to inflammation; and
I could feel that your probe did not follow all the turns
of the knife. My notion is, that I bent the blade, after
it entered my body; for, he tried, more than once, be
fore he could draw it out.”

“Can you bear it?” said the surgeon.

“Bear it!—bear what?” answered Hammond; his
beautiful mouth curling—and nostrils dilating. “I
can bear any thing. Am I to die?—immediately? do
not fear to tell me so. There is no time to lose. Bear
it—I!—why—what have I to frighten me?—A pure
conscience? No—let me die. What have I to bind
me to life?—No children—no wife—no beloved one;—
a monster—a hideous and mis-shapen monster—no,
no good doctor—tell me at once, what is my peril?”

“I do not believe you to be in great danger;” was the
cautious, uncomfortable reply; “but the knife has gone
near, very near to a vital part; and, I am afraid, has
wounded an artery. We shall do the best, that we
can, for you. You shall have a bed in my house. I
will go, immediately, for Doctor Jeffries—but, I would
—I—it might be well, you know, to—to—to be prepared.
Every prudent man will be prepared. There
is no knowing what may happen.”

“Well, well doctor. I shall go home, if I can. I
thank you, nevertheless, for your offer—come in, William.”

“I entered—helped him into a carriage; and we were
soon at his own chamber; he, chatting, as unconcernedly,

as if there were no apprehension within his
heart.

But I—I could not talk. And, when the consultation,
which followed immediately, was over, I shed
tears, in thankfulness to heaven that it was not a mortal
wound.

“I was saying,” said Hammond, as soon as they had
gone—“that I could not brook acquaintances. I will
have no friend, who cannot lock and rivet his heart
to mine. I gave you three months, for a trial. It will be
long enough, for us to understand each other, thoroughly;
and then, if we both feel that we can embrace, like
men; and stand up together, against misfortune and discouragement—it
will be well for us. If not—let us
then part, and never cross one another's path again.”

“You spoke of Wallace. Take that key—the secretary
there—open it.” I opened the cabinet, and
took out a bundle of papers. “Yes—yes—that's the
bundle—thank you.—This letter, I wrote to him a long
time ago. Read it. It will give you a better notion of
what I am; and of what my friendship is, than you can
now have, of either. Nay—not just now. Read it, when
you are at home. Meanwhile, let me tell you, as I
promised, how we became acquainted;—but first, tell
me what you saw, in that window, as we passed? Some
angel, I suppose—they are very plenty, of late. Every
square has a few of the breed. You colour. I have
not hurt you, I hope. Was it any body that you know
—and—and—why, what alarms you?”

“I know not;” I answered, “I know that I have never
seen her before; and yet, I feel as if I had—some where,
I know not where.”

“Her! whom?”

“That woman. I cannot get her out of my mind.—
I feel as if I had been acquainted with her, in my childhood—in
another world—or as if I had seen her picture
some where.—It is'nt as if I had seen her.”

“Poh—nonsense. This dreaming is common with
your inflammatory spirits. Every beautifully-faced, or
proudly-walking woman; every timid and delicate innocent

creature; and every superb one, is full of sentiment
or magnificence, to the high in blood.”

“And the high in heart;” said I.

He turned, and smiled; and as he turned, he caught
a view of his own countenance, in the mirror; it darkened.
“A big head!—a big head!” said he, glancing
at me.

I understood him; it went to my heart; but, I had
presence of mind enough to reply, in his own words,
just as he had used them, years and years before—striking
my breast, as I did so, just in his own impressive,
strange manner.

“Yea—and a big heart too!”

He grasped my hands—the swarthy red of his bald
forehead, vanished—vanished, like a shadow; his frown
went off—but, he remained deeply affected, for a minute
or two.

“I thank you,” said he; “it is true. I have a big
heart.”

So he had. Had he not? He could not have said
so, as he did, if he had not.

“Some day or other, you may meet that woman
again—” said he; “and then, you will remember these
very sensations; and imagine that they were sympathetick
and ominous! Was the woman beautiful?”

“No,” I replied; “but wise, and lofty of heart, I am
sure.”

“Yes, yes, I dare say so. And, marry whom you
will, dear Neck or Nothing—(I started again—I
could'nt get reconciled to the name;) for marry somebody,
you must, and will; and then, I shall give you up;
this it is, that makes a woman of me, when I think of
opening my heart to one that will not, cannot, in the nature
of things abide, for ever, in it—it tempts me to forswear
opening it at all. But, I was saying that, when
you are married, no matter to whom, there will always
be some such incident in your memory, to hallow your
delusion—as if—I suppose these phenomena are common.”

“No;” said I, seriously. “That neck and countenance—no
matter—I cannot talk of her. I wish that

I could forget her. I am poor and lonely; and I shall
never meet her again.”

Hammond smiled benevolently, compassionately, at
first; and then, while I watched his face, it took a slow expression
of pity, then of scorn—and then of bitterness.

I felt my cheeks burn.

“Your love must be valuable, and very permanent—”

“It is” said I,—“My love is! My hatred is! My
friendship is! Take your choice.”

“I like your spirit—let us leave the subject. O, I
remember. I had begun to tell you of Wallace—I will
finish it now, if you please. My acquaintance began,
three years ago—I was on a visit to a friend of mine.
He had in his possession some work that I had written.”

“An author too!” said I, with surprise.

“Yes, an author,” continued Hammond, in the same
tone. “He had shown it, or lent it to Mr. Wallace;
and, expecting to see me, had told of it; and made a sort
of promise to bring us together.”

“There is a note,” said the man, handing a paper
to me, with his strong countenance all illuminated,
“in which you have some concern. The writer wants
to know you. Read it, and tell me what you think of
it.”

“I read it. I was the subject of it. It had, evidently,
been written for me to see. It was laboured and
unnatural—no note at all. It was a piece of affected
enthusiasm; full of powerful, but unmeaning words;
without principle or feeling, or sincerity.”

“I do not wish to know him,” said I, returning the
note.”

“He smiled, and told me the character of the man; that
he was a poet, highly gifted, enthusiastick, but inexperienced”

“Still, I felt no desire to be acquainted with him.—
He was too much a man of the world, for me.—I did'nt
much like being cajoled, so barefacedly.”

“But, not long after, I happened to be in company,
where the conversation fell upon the poets of the day;
and his name was mentioned by a fine intelligent girl,
who had known him from his very boyhood, without

having understood him. She had rather a happy talent
at description; and a quick sense of the ridiculous.
She described him as “immeasurably” affected—“inordinately”
vain—“superlatively” conceited, &c.&c. (using
the same kind of disproportionate language, which
you will hear, every day, from what are called smart
women—whose vivacity and impertinence are mistaken
for wit and talent;) and, finally, she gave us an imitation
of him, in one of his best fits of abstraction, in
a fashionable company, sitting apart, if you please,
and talking, for half an hour together, in a plaintive
voice, just loud enough to be overheard by the company—about
poetry—melancholy—cold blue water—
willow tresses washing themselves in the shadow,
and moonlight—the emptiness of worldly enjoyment—and
especially of sensual enjoyment—like
some spirituality, looking with eyes of compassionate
wonder, upon the coarsenses of all mortal appetite;
and this, perhaps, with a glass of wine in one hand, and
a lump of cake in the other—surrounded by ribbons,
laces and chattering girls—and dressed in a suit of
perfectly fashionable clothing, from head to foot—so
arranged as to prove, that, whatever else he thought of,
he did not forget the tailor.”

“I listened to all that she said of him; and left her,
wondering less at the follies, of which she had been
speaking, in a man of genius; than at herself, a woman
of fine judgment, and a good heart, for not discovering,
in the very excess of his vanity and pretension, conclusive
evidence of sensibility and genius—for sensibility
and genius are inseparably combined; and always
proportioned to each other. I determined to see him;
and if it were not too late, to save him. I went out of
my way, for the purpose; and prevailed upon him, at
last, to comprehend that there was a time and a place
for all things; and that superlative poetry, misapplied,
would only be superlatively ridiculous. I taught him
that the spirit of poetry was a holy thing,—a light, not
to be shown idly;—an odour, and a flavour, not to be
diffused, but in holy places, and on holy occasions;—
a kind of enchantment, that, to be acknowledged by the

multitude, should be withheld from their encroachment;
enshrined and unapproachable, except to the
pure of heart, and high of thought; to be touched irreverently
even by the keeper himself, of it, only at the peril
of blindness and confusion.”

“I studied his character, I tell you, as no other
man would ever have taken the trouble to study it. I
found the elements of his mind in pitiable, but shining
disorder. He was labouring under a moral derangement,
which the world could not understand, and would,
in time, mistake for intellectual derangement. He
seemed to have no settled principles of action—no aim
—no object, except an indefinite one, that kept continually
shifting. He was ambitious, to be sure; but not
for eminence, in any one particular thing. His ambition
was rather a diseased appetite, for present
notoriety, than the gallant longing of a great heart for
an imperishable, and distant reputation. To his view,
the present was immortality; and he was foolish enough,
to believe, that the future must echo to the voice of the
present. He was, emphatically, a man of genius—
though not a man of talent;—but of such a genius, as I
would not that a brother, or son of mine should have,
for all the world.—It was a kingly shadow, with the
shadow of regal habiliments, about it, which, when
you approached them, fell off and faded into brilliant
exhalation—like coloured ice; in the sunshine. Talent
is substance. Genius is show. Talent is a primary
quality of things, like weight—genius the secondary
quality, like colour.”

“Mr. Wallace I mean to say, was not conspicuous
for talent, weight or substance of material; but he
was for genius—fashion—shape—colour and beauty.”

“He was incapable of reasoning, for five minutes together,
with any thing like continuity of purpose; and
was almost incapable of understanding a legitimate deduction.
His colloquial powers were showy, and artificial;
and his best conversation, at one time, although
he improved somewhat, before I left him, was a
perpetual digression. He never understood how to introduce
a story, an illustration, or even a remark; but,
let him say what he would, when he was in company,

where he wished to shine, it always appeared
premeditated; as if he had just been reading about it;
and was determined to talk about it, before it was forgotten.
Then too, he had tricks of forgetfulness, and
abstraction, that every body could see through; bursts
of enthusiasm, that all could perceive were counterfeit;
little absences, and abruptnesses, which were evidently
predetermined, to disguise a want of aptitude for conversation,
under the appearance of originality, precipitation,
and extreme thoughtfulness. He had no real
sincerity of temper, and no true integrity of heart.—
The fault was in his education. He was intended for
a man of the world; and he sought to be something above
the world. The consequence was, that he became
neither the one thing nor the other. He had too much genius
for the former; and too little good sense, for the later.
His mind was a world of beautiful material, all in disorder—a
mine of brilliant, but unvisited ore. He had
far too little of natural grandeur—that awful and distinct
something, which comforts and upholds great
men, under all the dispensations of the world—too little
of that heroick originality, which shows itself continually;
and acts without study, or preparation; and far
too much of that showy counterfeit, which common
men employ themselves about, with indolent assiduity
—troubled, impatient hearts, unsteady hands, and confused
eyes. He was totally destitute of delicacy; and
would flatter his best friend, most grossly, to his face;
and that, not as if taken by surprise, or carried away
by passionate enthusiasm; but, as if he thought it expected;
or a part of good breeding; or, would produce
a return cargo of like nastiness;—and, not unfrequently,
so as to convince a keen observer, that it was done for
the purpose of doing him—in the way of management.
So too, he would bear flattery in turn, that ought to
offend any man: or, if that were withheld, he would
speak of himself, in the most extravagant terms, not as
I have known one man do, whom, I could not help forgiving
for it, even at the time, offensive as it would
have been in another, merely because, he spoke, and
looked, as if he believed what he said; and as if he had
been driven to acknowledge, what he was too honest,
and too bold, to conceal or deny—his own proud opinion
of himself. No; Wallace did not speak of himself, in
that way, although he had seen the same person, that I
just spoke of; and, having been dazzled and confounded
by his great self confidence, had striven to imitate it.
No! but he spoke of himself, in extravagant language,
just as if it were a matter of calculation with him;
and as if he, himself, did not believe what he said; but
only thought of making other men believe it. So that,
at last, if you studied him, as I did, you would, probably,
have come to the same conclusion; which was, that
he thought far too highly of himself, and spoke far
more highly of himself, than he thought.”

“In short, I studied him thoroughly; and set him down,
at last, as a brilliant, idle creature, wonderfully mistaken
by the world; and altogether ignorant of himself;
presumptuous enough to imagine, that, by continually
practising upon two or three paltry maxims, such as
the veriest school boy will begin the world with, he
would be able to overreach the rest of mankind. A pitiable
delusion; but one, that has led many a vain fellow
into a belief, that he was winding men about his finger,
who were only withheld, by their compassion for his
youth, from expressing their contempt for him. If he
could have got rid of his artificial enthusiasm; counterfeit
melancholy; his propensity to imitation, trick
and deceit—a propensity which made him imitate what
was altogether beneath himself;—play tricks with them
that he most loved, without any possible excuse, unless
it were that of habit;—and deceive people, where
he had nothing to gain, and every thing to lose, by deceit;—and
if he had shut himself up, and away from
the world; studied and meditated for a few years, until
his mind were composed, and habits of discipline and
self denial were established, he might become an astonishing
man; but he was likely, from all that I saw,
to run only a short, useless, and shining career; wandering
a while without aim, through the beautiful element
that he had fallen into—heedless of the wonderful
creatures that flew and swam, for ever about him—
and terminating the whole,in darkness and forgetfulness.

I pitied him, as I have told you—from my heart, I pitied
him. It appeared to me that it was yet possible to save
and reform him; and that, if any man could do it, it must
be some friend; a true and honest friend, such as I could
be to him. I had known the want of such an one, when
I was another Wallace. But none came. God
chose to save me, in his own way. I was well nigh
wrecked, to be sure, body and soul; but that only made
me the more thankful for his beneficent interposition;
and I asked myself how I should acknowledge the mercy.
By doing that to another, said my heart, which
had it been done to me, when I was young and headstrong,
would have saved me and mine, from utter degradation.
Till I encountered Wallace, I had few opportunities
of putting my thought into execution. Some
young men, I had met, to be sure; but none that was
ever in the same danger as he; or so much like what I,
myself, had been, in my youth. You smile, William.
Well, smile on. I do feel like an old man. I am an
old man, when I compare myself with men, that were
born about the same time with me. I feel as if I were
of a generation before them. Smile on—I am in truth,
much older at my heart; and far more experienced, than
you, although we are so nearly of an age. However,
to return to Wallace.—With all his faults, I feel
assured that he was very sincere in his attachment to
me; and that he dealt more plainly and directly with
me, than with any body else; for the truth is, that he
was afraid of me, even while he loved me; that he trembled
before me, even while it was a pride and boast with
him, that I was one of “his dear, five hundred friends.”
I have mentioned how I came to see him; and, one day
or other, perhaps, I may describe to you the whole of
our first interview. It would make you smile. He
was a good deal disturbed, and disappointed, when he
saw me. He had expected to find me, a stern, thoughtful,
and melancholy man, with a haughty forehead,
wicked mouth, and austere eye; and he found me so totally
unlike what he expected, that it was a good while,
before he recovered from the shock, that my appearance
gave him. Before I had well seated myself, I
found that there was quite too much electioneering address
in his manner, for me. He was altogether too much
of the gentleman. I have said, that he was disappointed,
when he saw me; but he was yet more so,
when he heard me talk. But he was afraid to tell me
so; and was, therefore, put to the ridiculous necessity,
of concealing his mortification, by a feigned enthusiasm,
and surprise, which he continually expressed, at
whatever I said; it mattered not, how common place,
just as if he could discover some hidden meaning at
the bottom;—and just, if he meant to make me believe,
that he could see through all my affected simplicity, and
directness; and detect the lurking and significant mystery,
therein—with the readiness of a twin spirit—
communing with another, before men, in some unknown
language. This amused me a good deal, I assure
you, for a time; but, at last, I felt a little offended;
and, particularly, when I found that he would not understand
me, at all; according to the received meaning
of my words; and that he had the presumption to think of
flattering me—as if any man could do that! William,
you know that I am not made to play upon other men
in that way; and still less, am I to be played upon. I
hate mystery. I always speak, as I think. My speech
is only audible thought. I think aloud. If played upon
at all, it shall not be so gently. I cannot endure
the dainty fingering of white-handed people. I am
not a guitar, nor a jewsharp. If men will bring the musick
out of my heart, let them leap upon it, at full
length, like Handel upon the great German organ, and
play upon it, with hands and feet. No! the little that
I have, shall not be teased and pestered out of me, by
babies. I continued near him. I began that night;
and, before I left that part of the country, I had put
him in training for greater matters;—and, in time, if
he would have followed my advice, which was very
simple, and confirmed by experiment on myself—and
been content to labour steadily; and work, as if idleness
in a man of genius, were impiety to God;—as if
he felt that the power and capacity to be any thing,
was altogether the same thing, as to be any thing;—
and that talent was not intuition:—if he had done this,
and been content, under the disregard of the world;
awaiting, calmly, the consummation of his destiny; giving
out, continually, that patient, affecting confidence in
his Maker, which a man of true genius, with all his infirmities,
cannot help giving, as an expression of gratitude,
any more than the wilderness can help giving out its
blossoming, and exhalation; and musick, and thanksgiving—after
a shower, when the sunshine is upon it;—if he
had been unintimidated, unyielding, determined against
temptation and trial;—and had toiled on, for a few years
only, as I shall toil, for ever and ever, till the world
have gone through all her revolutions, with me, he
might have been a beautiful phenomenon—not perhaps,
an amazing one, perplexing the nations; but one, whose
coming and going, would be stayed for, and sorrowed
after by gentle hearts, and affectionate dispositions.—
But enough of this. Let me relate two or three anecdotes
of our acquaintance, that you may the better understand,
how I expect to be treated by you, if we ever
pledge our hands together—and what is the worth of
my friendship”

“We were about parting one night. I found it necessary
to speak to him, face to face, like a man. I told
him that sudden prepossessions were never to be depended
upon: that the affection and esteem, of men, must
be rooted; or they perish, with the first trial of cold and
wind: that I had distrusted his sincerity---but that I began
to think better of it. In short, I gave him a severe
lesson,---for, I had began to love him; and I wanted to
respect him. He was like what I had been, in temper:
though I had never been a flatterer---and he was one;
partly, by feeling, partly by nature, and partly by a
settled design---giving out largely, that some of it, at
least, might return to him, in the circulation of society
---curse such munificence! I say.”

“Would you believe it?—many months after this, I
received a letter from him; for I had consented to a correspondence,
that I might keep pace with the growth
of his thought—and he wrote, oftentimes, very beautifully—in
which he repeated, almost verbatim, the remarks
that I had addressed to him, together with my
suspicion of his sincerity; and applied them to me! Had

he forgotten the author? or did he believe that I had?
No matter which—it showed the character of the man's
mind. He was more anxious to write a beautiful letter,
than a sincere one;—more solicitous for effect, than
for friendship. He was disappointed, and could not
bear to own it. He was like some young girl, in love
for the first time, with something very commonplace,
or perhaps crooked, like myself; endeavouring to torture
her warped lover into beauty and proportion, correspondent
with the heroes that she had read of—blind,
and deaf, and obstinate to every thing like conviction.
Thus, for a time too, he insisted on regarding me, as
“grand, gloomy, and peculiar.” I laughed at the notion.
I was neither gloomy, nor grand, by nature; nor willing
to follow the fashion of the day, and be peculiar, like
everybody that I knew. I had a character of my own,
as distinct, as that of the founder, of the “grand and
gloomy order,” Lord Byron himself:—another had the
impudence to call me a “good natured fellow enough.”
Fool!—had he known me better, he would have charged
me with everything but good nature—and have been
pretty cautious how he came near enough to me, to
form any opinion at all of me.”

“And once, when I was sitting with Wallace; and
he had wrought himself up to the belief, that he had a
great man in his room, I could not forbear, maliciously
enough, too, I confess, to tell him what I had been—
with the steadiest emphasis, and particularity in the
world! His countenance grew paler and paler—trembled—paled
and lengthened at every sentence; and he
kept changing his position, till, at last, he had nearly
turned his back upon me. It was a severe trial, I confess;
and I have never yet found one of my new and
violent admirers proof to it. One, a lady, who was
quite an enthusiast, for awhile, overwhelming me with
attention, was barely civil to me, after I acknowledged
that I had, a few years before, lived in a shop, and
sold tea to her.”

“Wallace was a poet—a fiery and intemperate one,
—and capable of being one of the first. But, when I
knew him, he was labouring at the trade. I had dabbled
in it—got some reputation, and found that mak

ing, what we call poetry, was only setting madness to
musick. And so—perhaps, because people said that I
could not—I abandoned it—did abandon it, just as I
had abandoned my painting—and the army—because
people thought that I could not. William Adams!-I could
do anything—where it depended upon myself. I can,
yet.”

“One evening, I was in his room—and he showed
me some stanzas, upon which he had been toiling for
two or three days. They were pretty; but full of faults;
—and, when he demanded my opinion, I gave it freely,
frankly, honestly. He was quite sore under it, and mortified,
and begged me to write something. I could not well
refuse, you know; and I dashed off a few lines, which he
affected to relish exceedingly. I did not. I told him so; I
took them up, began to criticise them; and, in fact, treated
my own verses worse than I had his. I attempted to
copy them, but I could not;—and, finally, at the end of
a few minutes, I produced a fair copy, entirely different,
however, from the original, even to the measure, tone,
and thought. They were, really, very pretty and very
unintelligible.[1] To give them greater value, I said,

as I laid down the pen. There—I shall write no more
poetry.”

“Are you serious?” said he—taking the cigar from
his mouth, and knocking the ashes from it, over the
edge of a wine glass, half full of old Madeira (for these
things were, emphatically, a part of his library.) “Perfectly,”
I replied.

“Then you will have no objection to say so, in black
and white:”—offering to fill my glass—

“Not the least—no, no, I thank you—I have drunk
one glass, to please you.”

“Only this one—it won't hurt you,” said he.

“No”—I replied, “not another drop.”

“Do me the favour then to write, under these lines,
(they had been written in the book of a fine girl that he
was then loving—after the fashion of poets) that you
have done with poetry.”

“With all my heart”—I did—dated the note—and
signed my name to it. A long time after this, he begged
leave to dedicate a poem to me. I consented, on
condition that he should be very temperate. Soon after,
a manuscript came on to me, with a letter, praying
that I would do—what he had not the patience to do—
see the faults in it, and correct them. I was willing
to make him my friend, if he had the metal for it;—
and, while I thought of the Bishop in Gil Blas, I went
about the work; and cut and slashed, into the very
heart of the manuscript;—knowing, that, savage as it
appeared—that was the only way of trying his fortitude.
The poem was printed—but he could not bear
it. He never spoke of it, though I pressed him directly
and indirectly. At last, that, which he had promised
to dedicate to me, came on, in manuscript. I read
it. It was a dark, taugled web—of brilliancy and shadow—but
without order and design. The colours
were rich—the tissue golden—and, with a proper

management—tapestry worthy of Heaven, and all
her stars, might have been woven out of it—but no! the
yarns were knotted and snarled. I told him so, and
returned it. It requires a stout heart, William Adams
—to take such aliment, from one that you reverence,
as I offered him; but a stouter heart, and a bolder hand,
to offer it I did my duty—I drove the knife home—
home to the vitals of the sufferer,—determined to let
out the black pestilent humour, the thick, coagulated
blood; and save him, if I could. Months went by, and
no reply. I found it necessary to write, and to speak,
once for all very plainly. Months went by, again—
and I received an answer. He had been sick—even
unto death, he said. That letter which you have by
you, is a copy of my last to him. It will show you
what I am.”

I opened the letter, and read, as follows—(it is still
in my possession.)

I lifted my eyes, when I had finished the letter, and
started at the intenseness of Hammond's gaze—our faces
almost touched. His forehead was wrought, his
countenance lighted up—and there was a cold, intrepid,
searching manner, in his aspect; without passion;
without tumult, vehemence or enthusiasm, that made
one feel strangely, very strangely, at the heart. You
will recollect that he was remarkably pale—with very
bright eyes—a profusion of loose hair, except just upon
the top of his head, where he was quite bald—so
that, his head looked larger; and his forehead much
broader than it was. The natural expression of his
face too, was very severe—but the settled one, at this
time, was an artificial sternness and fixedness.

“What think you now, of my friendship?” said he.
“Could you bear such a letter as that?”

“Yes,” I replied;—wondering at the disproportionate
size of his head.

“And what would you do? (never mind the size of
my head) pistol me, I suppose, off hand.”

“I beg your pardon—I—That would depend upon
our intimacy. Pistol you! No. I would examine my
own heart. I would know there, if what you had said,
were true. If it were—I would bless you for it, and
put forth all my strength—though it killed me—in one
continual effort to be great. If it were not—and I
should soon know it, if it were not—I would put your
letter by, and when you were upon your death bed—
or I, upon mine, I would put it into your hands.”

“William Adams!” cried the creature, leaping upon
his feet, and halting up to me—“there is my hand! from
this hour, let our friendship begin. It is not now, nor
do I pretend that it is, what it will be. I cannot love
you, all at once—nor, can you leap into my heart—
that whirlpool of passion and wrath—without some
preparation. You know me not---verily, I have a devil
here---but, I have clipped his wings, I hope.”

“And made him---a prisoner, for ever!”---said I.

“Yes---but I have diluted his poison---and pared his
nails. I keep him now, only for such cattle as we met
to-day.”

“By the way,” cried I---gasping for breath---“I was
on the point of asking you---but I dared not.”

“Speak out. What is it?”

“Did not---I pray you, pardon me---did not the lash
touch you?”

“Did'nt it!---Why aye, I rather think it did. But,
you shall see.” He rung the bell, and ordered the servant
to get him a shirt.

By heaven, there was a red and blue welt, where the
whip had buckled round him, that girdled his waist,
like a swollen serpent.

“You—you—” I could not articulate, for some moments.
“What shall you do to him?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Kill him....murder him....strangle him.”

“Upon my word, William Adams---Neck or Nothing
rather. I am likely to have a precious acquaintance
of you! Why should I kill—murder—and strangle
the poor devil? Have you any choice in the matter—one
or all—I am half ready to do your bidding.—
But, seriously—has he not suffered terribly enough,
already, for stabbing me?”

“For stabbing you!—yes. But not for horsewhipping
you.”

“I'll tell you what, William Adams,” said he, after
a moment of deep seriousness---“there is something
wrong in your heart about this. Have you ever been
horsewhipped?”

“I---I!---Would you have me curse you to your face?”

“Well then,” said he, “all that I can say is, that
you are a d—d incomprehensible fellow; and most of
a lunatick, when the world think you least of one.
What! You would have me kill a poor devil, outright,
merely because he horsewhipped me!”

“To be sure;” said I---“I would---though it were in
church.”

“Hurrah! for Walter Scott!” cried Hammond---you
are of the gentry that,

“You appear indignant. A little more, and I shall
look to feel your knife in my side. But, soberly, my
dear William; this will never do. The age of blood
has gone by. Chivalry is done with. There are laws
and magistrates now. And we have so little opportunity
of playing a brave part, or a great one, in our limited
sphere of action, that, if it please you, for we are
henceforth to stand or fall together, in this world---we
will content ourselves with doing good---as the act directs---as
humanity, and the law, and the Gospel---and
a Good God have commanded us---without bloodshed.
What say you to that?”

I was strangely affected. His voice went through
my heart; and there was a deep movement, an inward
agitation there, as if he had been the first visiter, to its
best place.

I embraced him---and forgot, as I did, that he was
so cursedly ugly of shape---that---no matter, let the
dogs bark at such men---they are regal creatures,
within their own dominions, of magnificent stature and
bearing---wherever their souls have room to stretch
their limbs, and walk abroad.

Upon my soul, I have seen that man, Albert Hammond,
on many occasions, but particularly on one—when I
could have fallen upon my face, before him, and done
reverence to him, as the only true believer, in him, who
taught the doctrine of peace and long suffering, that I
had ever known. I remember the whole affair, as
well as if it was yesterday. We had been to a RAISING,
in New England. A raising, is the name there, given
to a peculiar, rational frolick. Most of the people,
or nineteen twentieths of them, live in wooden houses.
And their mode of getting the frame put up, is what
they call, a RAISING. The frame of timber is prepared,
marked, and arranged; notice is then given, through
all the country, round about, that, on such a day, the
frame will be put up.[2] All the day and night before,

if it be in a part of the country, which is not very populous.—Nay,
for several days and nights before,
scores and scores, of sturdy young men, would be seen,
flocking to the place; some on foot, and some on horseback—and
some with their teams—(by which they
mean ox-teams only, throughout New England; for
there you will hardly ever see a team of horses; and
here, by the way, it were well to mention that, in New
England, they do not drive their oxen with a whip, but
simply with what they call a gourd, meaning, probably,a
good. It is a long, slender walnut stick, (about five
feet long, with a brad in the end, which they manage
with exceeding dexterity.) At last, the day dawns.—
At day light, the tables are spread—cider—beer—metheglin—egg-pop—meat—(rum
or whiskey now, or
punch)—pumpkin-pies—and all,that the country affords,
may be seen lying about, under the trees, and upon the
grass, where a multitude of women and children are
assembled, The signal is given; and up go the joice,
timber and braces, in every direction, with the celerity
of magick. The frame completely set up; and
sometimes boarded all over, and even clapboarded, or
shingled; and some refreshment taken, the rest of the
day is consumed in athletick; and, often in very dangerous
amusements—of which, leaping, pitching quoits,
and shooting at turkeys, and poultry, are the principal,
with small rifle balls, sixty to the pound, scarcely larger
than a buck shot. It is at these places, that the
champions of all the country round, are sure to assemble;
and wo to the man, that prevails in the wrestling
ring. There is no peace with him, for the rest of his
days. He is bound to contend with all who may offer;
like the champion of England, not only on the day of
his victory, but at every other day, wherever he may
be. It was on one of these occasions, that I saw Hammond,
who had been a silent spectator of the scene, for
a long time, without opening his mouth, suddenly set
upon by a brutal wretch, a little in liquor, who, in retreating
from a pair of wrestlers, trod upon Hammond's
foot. Some little altercation followed—during
which, the man was too abusive almost for human patience;—till,
at last, Hammond had become the laughing
stock of all the boys about. I could hardly help enjoying
it, I confess; and yet my blood boiled—coward
as I was—when I saw the looks of the dwarf. He
was deadly pale—absolutely white—but not so much,
from anger, as from inward strife. At last, the man
collared him.—What was the consequence? Nothing
but this—Hammond buckled his long, lithe arms, with
the swiftness of a black snake, about his waist—knuckled
his back, till his head and heels almost touched; and
laid him down, gently, upon the grass—amid the most
deathlike stillness that I ever saw. It was near nightfall—but
from that moment, the sports were over; and
the people separated on the spot, drunk or sober; and
every man went his way, as if he had seen the devil.—
Nobody knew him; and nobody stepped forward, as
had been the custom, for ever, on such occasions—
to try a fall with him, when he had thrown the man,
whom we found after, to have been, for years, the bully
of all the country round.

I should have killed him. But Hammond merely
put him down, as if he pitied him. Yet, I was weak;
and Hammond had the strength of a ring-tailed panther,
or an ourang outang, whom by the way,he much resembled:
nay, I have seen him wrestle with a bear, and
prevail too—almost to the tearing of the animal's jaws
asunder—though it was not quite grown, I confess.

Then, there is what they call a Husking, which is confined to the
New England states, (the legitimate Yankee population,) for, at the
South, the blacks do the business After the corn, not what the
English call corn—but Indian corn is got in; the men and women,
young and old, assemble together, night after night, at each others
houses—and tear the husks off from the corn, and weave it, by one
or two remaining upon each ear, into large bundles, when required;
or leave it in heaps to dry, in the garner or barn. It is at these
Husking-frolicks, that most of what may be called fun, is to be met
with in this country. The girls romp—and laugh—and sing, with
all their heart and soul, as if to shew the yeomanry what they would
do, if they were wived—lawfully. But there is no bundling in New
England. That is confined, if it exist at all, now, to Pennsylvania,
New York—and to the Dutch and German settlers, or their descendants.

And even with those, it is wonderful how little advantage can be
taken of it. I have an intimate friend—a painter, of great talent—
who was invited to bundle with a very pretty girl, at a house where
he staid, in travelling, by her own mother. He was amazed; but
consented, of course. The girl, contrary to what he looked for—
did not undress. She only threw off her outer loose gown—she
was young and wild—but he assures me, and I believe him—that
the girl would not, and did not, permit him to take any liberties
whatever, with her, except such as he might have taken with any
country girl, in open day light, without reproach—as kissing and
hugging, for instance; and, that whenever he grew troublesome, she
cried out, or threatened to—and the house was full of people, who
would have received any insult, as a breach of honor and decency.
Such is custom!—Ed.

On looking at them again—I begin to lose my patience. Wallace
has made the publick so familiar with his imitations of Hammond,
that, even to my own eye, they look like imitations of him.—
To me, there is nothing left of their original freshness, to atone for
the violent nonsense of a poet. However—there they are.—Ed.