 | CHAPTER III. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Grouping...Mrs. H—...Elizabeth...A family...Disputation...
Modesty...Hammond...Miss E—...Well bred People...
Old School and New...Shakspeare...Friendship...Mr. D....
Hamlet.
“Pray,” said Elizabeth, to Hammond, as we all sat
together, the very first evening that he appeared below,
his lovely hostess, in a loose wrapper, and in a most captivating
humour. “Pray, answer me two or three questions
more about that insolvent law.”
“O, no—in mercy—no!—Let us have no agrument
to night,” said Mrs. H—, “Come, come, you
are an invalide, you know; and all our arrangements
are made---wrangling aside---for a lively, cheerful evening.”
I looked up in her face, while she spoke. Her voice
was melody itself; but there was a little—a very little
affectation in it:—yet, nevertheless, not forgetting a
dash of coquetry, and an occasional sally of the eye,
showing a familiarity, with early and uninterrupted dominion.—She
was a singularly beautiful, and engaging
woman for her age.
“Nay, Miss Adams; remember that I am an invalide.
Let your questions be few, or some of my blood vessels
may give way; for Mrs. H. I perceive, by her eyes,
look!—is foraging already, in our cantonment of
hearts. We shall soon be brought to battle.”
“You mentioned something of analogy, in our last
conversation. I have looked a little into the matter,
since I saw you,” said Elizabeth.
“Shall I tell you why?” said Hammond, interrupting
her.
“If you please.”
“Because I flattered you. It turned your head.”—
Elizabeth coloured—but there was less of anger, than
of surprise, in the expression of her face.”
“Upon my word!” said she, “I cannot deny it. But,
you have taught me, by that remark, how to estimate
your compliments.”
He was touched—I could perceive that—for his lips
trembled, and his brows worked, as he replied. “Pray,
what were you saying of analogy?”
“I would have said—but for your timely interference,
which prevented me from exposing myself--”
“Nay—now, you are angry with me!”
“No—not angry,” she replied.
“But hurt, I suppose. Well, well, let me have it.—
Prove to me, that you are not angry. If you are not,
you will proceed.”
Elizabeth recovered her good humour immediately—
and continued. “Where is the analogy, of which you
spoke, to justify your opinion, that each state, had
the power to pass an insolvent law!”
“O—there is no longer any question about that, you
know. That is admitted. The supreme court, does
not deny it. But what is an insolvent law? That is
the point. I say, that it is a law, protecting the citizens
of that state, and no other, where it is passed; and
not interfering with any other state. I find sufficient
analogy for this doctine, in the concurrent powers of the
general government, and the individual governments.
Each may pass laws for the punishment of crime: each
has had, and may still have naturalization laws:—and
each has the right of levying taxes. But, observe, in
every case, this power of the state, must be limited,
not only, so as to operate exclusively within its own jurisdiction,
but so, as not to interfere, in any way, with the
neighbouring states.”
“No evil can arise, where no interference can take
place, of this nature; and it cannot, under a state insolvent
law, whatever be its provisions.”
“Very well. I think that I can understand that;”
continued Elizabeth. “But, what of the policy of the
law. What of imprisonment for debt?”
“One word of the latter, first. If a man will contract
to be imprisoned, it is all very well. In one way
or other, it will be effectual at last. But, it is a useless
so would torture be. I hope that it will be abolished,
in this county; and I do not doubt that it will. It has
been in every civilized people upon this earth, by one
qualification and another. And what will be its consequence,
here? This, and this only. The creditor,
if he think the risk greater, without the right of imprisonment,
than with it, will charge a higher price for
his merchandise. That will be all. We shall protect
ourselves then, by enlarging the premium or profit, a
rate of interest, till it weigh down the risk. You can
make a contract now, that you shall not be imprisoned;
but, you must pay in proportion. You will do no more,
when imprisonment for debt is abolished.”
“Of the policy of an insolvent, or bankrupt law, I
have little to say. It is, emphatically, a national blessing.
Look into the history of all the nations of the
earth. Just exactly, in proportion to their commercial
importance, has always been the liberality of their insolvent
and bankrupt law, toward the honest debtor”.
“In England, they punish the fraudulent one, with
death; but allow the honest one, a support for his family,
in the shape of commission. In France, they send
the first to the gallows, and the latter to the Elysian
fields.”
“Without it, you make slaves of them, that God hath
afflicted. Observe what I say. Make a fraudulent
bankruptcy criminal. But punish it, as you do other
crimes—with severity, in proportion to the difficulty of
proof, and the greatness of the temptation. But, before
you punish, let the guilt of the offender be formally
established. At present, a large part of our most
valuable population; enough, I know, if they would
confederate, to shake the union to her foundation, if not
to a dismemberment—men of wisdom and experience—
literally schooled in adversity, are left in a condition
more deplorable than our slaves. They have no right
to property—till they have paid all their debts; but how
many can ever do that? Their slavery descends to
their posterity—in the worst shape; they are unable to
to educate them—and are made to entail ignorance,
is not their own—nay, nor their lives; for they may be
immured, their young hearts beating for valorous
achievement—and left, to rot away, piecemeal, in a
prison house, worse than any grave; for they can look
out of it, and see others walking about, unfettered; they
can hear too; and the musick of men's affairs, the voices,
of the free, and hearty, and happy, torture them, like
the taunting of devils.”
“Hundreds and hundreds of human creatures lie idle;
for, they cannot work—nobody will trust them; or will
not work—merely that their sweat and blood may not be
counted out, drop by drop, to their task masters—to
undergo a transmutation, in their sweltering hearts—
to gold. But no—no!—I will not think of these things.
The time has not yet come. But, by the living God!
if there were a few such men, as our fathers were, they
would soon find a Canaan and a Joshua. We would go
out, from among the Egyptians, and form an empire of
our own! Dastards—Dastards! These insolvent debtors
would stand by, I do believe, and see their wives and
daughters profaned; and their children made into mince
pies, for thanksgiving dinners, to their patrician lords,
without lifting their hands.”
“But suppose that a natural bankrupt law should be
passed—or a law, protecting the person only, of insolvent
debtors—that is—a law compelling a man to be a
scoundrel, under the penalty of starvation;—for how can
he get any property—how support himself, if nothing
be left to him—and his earning, for a time be not protected?—(when
his nest egg is taken from him every
morning) unless he became a rogue?”
“What would be the consequence? This, and this
only. People would protect themselves more carefully
by their contracts—demand higher profits, prices, or
interest; or security. This accursed evil would then
pass away, for ever.”
“Judge Marshall grants to each state, the power of
passing a statute of limitation. Give them that; and
what more do they want? They may, as effectually, shelter
the insolvent, by that, as by any law of insolvency. It
certain contracts should not be available at all, after a
certain event had arrived, unless judgment were obtained
before, which judgment should be good only, till
another event should happen. Why may not this event
be insolvency? Such is the law, in relation to judgments-on
simple contracts--it is precisely that. I see little
difficulty in it. There is no reason why an event that
operates as a limitation, may not become “a rule of
pleading,” as well as a period of time, which is so called,
because it so operates.”
“Or suppose that—for, several of the states, profiting of
his hint, that they may make such rules of pleading as
they please, have done so-suppose that a state should pass
a law, not for “staying execution,” as they call it, for
one, two, or three years—but to all eternity. If they
have a right to do the one—they have a right to do the
other. And why not go further?—and say that, in
certain cases (which may correspond with our insolvent
cases) no execution at all shall issue?”
“Would this be impairing the obligation of contracts?
Certainly not; for Judge Marshall says; and he is supported
by Lord Mansfield—that the obligation of a contract
is one thing; the remedy another. A state may
regulate the remedy at her own discretion—but she may
not, and shall not touch the obligation!”
“I like these distinctions. They save a thick headed,
plain man abundance of trouble. So—instead of quarrelling
with Judges Marshall and Mansfield, about definitions;
I will only say to the state authority: Protect
me, as you have a right to do, against the remedy;
and the devil may take the obligation. Just, give me a
rule of pleading, by which my creditor shall not be permitted
to meddle with me for the next fifty, or one hundred
years; and I will give you no trouble about the
obligation.”
“I have done.”
“Upon my word, I am glad of it!” cried Mrs. Honeywell,
rubbing her eyes, and yawning. “You say a
great deal about Lord Mansfield—is Lord Chesterfield
no authority with you? One of your formal creatures
fine woman—in that way. You would soon come to
the—the—butter—rebutter, is it not?”
“No—the joinder, and rejoinder first”
“O yes! and then the re-butter—and surrebutter—take
my word for it, you would soon be the SIR-rebutled”
“Well done!—cried Hammond—tell me, now, honestly—you've
heard that before—hav'nt you?”'
“No—positively—no—never.”
“But you made it before hand?—or have said it before.”
She nodded, and laughed.
“I could have sworn it,” said Hammond, “by your
blundering about the butter so long. You meant to
make a pun of that too, I suppose. What was it?”
“I forget—it slipped through my fingers.”
“Ha, ha, ha!—you are incorrigible. I see plainly.
Your last visit to Philadelphia has spoilt you, utterly.
I began to have some hopes of you, till then. We must
send you to Cambridge—Harvard—there is a man
there, who puns in the pulpit—in his prayers. I have
heard him.”
I looked at Hammond with astonishment. How
came it that he was such a favourite, and with beautiful
women too?—He never flattered then. He was abrupt,
loud, and imperious. Yet they bore with him,
ugly as he was. They seemed to forget that he was a
dwarf. How natural he was! With what an air of
readiness and sincerity.—with what a heart, he said
every thing, even the most trivial! Where had he learnt
to trifle so gracefully? It is the most difficult thing in
the world, I have heard, to do it,—without lessening
one's own dignity. Yet he did it; and there was such
an agreeable raciness, pungency, flavour and juiciness
in what he said—that indeed. I can well understand
now, what a woman of great wit and accomplishment,
once said to me; that the nonsense of a great mind was
more tolerable, than the good sense of an ordinary one.
It is so. We love to see straws and violets handled
gracefully—though they be handled by a strong man,
in armour.
I saw Elizabeth whispering to Mrs. Honeywell—
just after this—and heard her say, “provoke him—
bring him out—William does'nt know him—we are all
alone, you know. Do, do!”
Mrs. H. nodded; and a few moments after, began
to quote poetry. Her manner was happy; her memory
good; and one of her old friends, a maiden lady, of
strong understanding, but too abrupt and decided in
the expression of her likes and dislikes, sat near her—
and cut in, now and then, herself. “Let us tie up the
bell,” said the latter,—(her name was Miss Emmitt,)---
and make ourselves at home this evening.”
“Lest some of your favourites may intrude?” said
Mrs. H. spitefully, I thought.
“Upon my word,” said Hammond, “I feel a presentiment,
that the Frenchman, to whom you were so rude
—or the lawyer, whom by the way, you do not understand,---the
creature of your abhorrence and detestation---will—.”
“The reptile!”---answered Miss Emmitt, with a
scornful emphasis.
“Allow me,” said Hammond, turning about and facing
her-- “allow me, to do that man justice. You are
disposed to underrate him. He is no fool; no reptile;---
he is a man of sound, homely, good sense; and a good
heart. Believe me---I know him.”
“You do not know, I am sure that you do not, the
reason of my dislike;---the contemptible creature!”
“Nay, Miss Emmitt---that is unworthy of you---beneath
you. It proves that you do not think him contemptible,
when his very name disturbs you”---(“with
passion,” he would have added---but---he stopped short
---and his eyes dwelt, for a moment, upon her face, so
steadily, that the colour mounted there.)
“If you knew—”
“I do know it,” continued Hammond, interrupting
her. “He behaved in a shameful manner. It was unpardonable.
But you owe it to your own dignity, not
to show that you were outraged by it.”
“Then you do know---who told you?---Mrs. Honeywell---or
Mrs. Carter---or Miss Julia.”
“It was purely, accidental;---and, upon my word, I
have forgotten who told me.”
“No---you are unwilling to tell me.”
“Miss Emmitt!” said Hammond, with great dignity.
I understood him; and the blue eyes of Mrs. Honeywell,
dashed abroad for a moment, with a sort of ma
licious pleasantry. Elizabeth sat near her; and their
arms, I observed, were intertwined---a little of that
sweet coquetry, which beautiful women, when they are
in the presence of men, are never utterly without----
caressing and affectionate---they prepare our hearts, inwardly,
for the nourishment of those silken tendrils
that, if torn, will bleed for ever---when they shall once
have been knitted to us.
Hammond was in the opposite corner; I, in the middle,
so situated, that I could see the working of every
countenance about me, without being seen. Over my
head, burnt a beautiful lamp like thin moonlight---the
milky coloured globe on the top, shedding a pale vapour,
as if it were a great pearl, with a lamp of revolving
fire in the centre.
I took a survey of the company; and, leisurely, entered
their features upon my memory. First, there was
Hammond, his great, pale, swarthy face, under the shadow
of the mantle piece—his broad knotted forehead
written all over, with phenomena, like the sky—with
the annals of God: his long lithe arms, folded and intertwined,
as if there were no bones in them; and one
of his ugly legs drawn up so, that, at times, his knee
almost touched his chin. His eyes were nearly shut;
and they were vivid and fearful—terrible—when he
opened them—but about his mouth, there was an expression
of intense beauty, that all felt—but none could
account for. It was the terrour of his wrought lip;
the deep, and instantaneous electricity of his thought;
—the sallying out of his imagination;—and the bold,
strange eloquence of his heart, that issued there—that
it was, which made his mouth the rallying point of all
eyes and thoughts.
In the opposite corner, was Elizabeth—her delicate,
undulating figure wrapped up in the ugliest shawl “as
woman:—her countenance, full of anxiety and expression—but
subdued;—her hair, profusely, and negligently
wound up, like dark coloured, rough gold—
upon her finely turned head,—her blue-veined hand covering
her temples; and half buried, in the loose, abundant
hair. She was leaning upon the arm of the sofa
—and when she spoke,—it was seldom indeed—that
night, it was in an unknown tongue. I knew her not
—the action of her mind seemed to be suspended—the
substance dissipated. It was all flavour tone, beauty—colour
and essence.—but without body. Twice
—when she was most forgetful, there was a timid and
strange movement of her eyes, toward the opposite corner
as if their haughtiness had been, some day or other,
rebuked there. They were haughty—that's the truth on't
—even when down-cast:—and shed, even through the
shut, cowering lids, a sort of intellectual light, that,
with the sweet wisdom of her mouth, a fellow would
be very unwilling to disturb idly—I should think.
And once too, when Hammond was in all the heat
and hurry of his mind, during an accident, which I shall
just mention. I caught her eyes rivetted upon him, with
an expression that alarmed me—I know not why:—I
should have said that it was—like jealousy, if Elizabeth
had not been my sister,—or envy, perhaps; but I
do not know. The sensation was death like, quick and
hot—like the sting of a little serpent—a sickness and
scalding at the heart, and a trouble in my blood. She
saw me looking at her—and coloured all over;—and
her delicate fingers played, with an agitated, incessant,
involuntary activity, for some minutes after, among the
dim tufted gold upon her white temples. Hammond
too—had he seen it?—his teeth were set,—his glittering
white teeth, and his red lip, writhed bitterly—But---
let me describe the others. Our number, in a little
while, had augmented to seven, or eight; but, as they
came in, one after the other, during the debate, I mention
it now, that I may not be taken off, by and by, when
I am better employed, by repeating the conversation
that followed. I wish to do it accurately; and, I believe,
of the sort make such a distinct impression upon me.—
Everything that Hammond uttered, fell, as if it were
weighty and hot, upon a heart of wax; and sunk deeper
and deeper—at every sob—till—till—no matter
for the rest. You understand me—till their most worthless
tablets became heavy with his thought, without
their suspecting it—pregnant with his spirit, believing
it their own,—rich, with the melted ore that he had
poured into them, with a prodigal hand, without (for
they saw that it did not impoverish him)—thankfulness,
that it enriched them.
Next to Elizabeth, reclining, like Cleopatra, in her
barge, was Mrs. Honeywell; a lightly wreathed turban,
like drifted snow, wound about her beautiful forehead,
and dark, glossy hair; her blue eyes, young and
passionate as ever; and lips, even in their over-ripeness,
shedding a warm and voluptuous exhalation.
Next to her, sat one of her two daughters; a fair haired,
noble looking girl—with a superb person, tranquil,
blue eyes; a most beautiful neck; a sweet, red mouth;
and a mild, doubtful, uncharacterised, but amiable
manner. She had a newspaper in her hand.
“What is the meaning of that?” said she; reaching it
to me. “I cannot understand it.”
“It was the census of the United states.” I told her,
looking at a part of the sheet, where I thought her eyes
directed.
“No, no—I do not mean that. I know that. But
where am I to look, for the—the—”
“For the total?” said I—there it is—there, by your
hands...nine millions, and—”
“What!—nine millions in Philadelphia—is it possible!”
(Her eyes were upon the word Pennsylvania.)
“O, no;” said I. “Nine millions in the whole United
states.”
“Is it possible!” said she, in the same tone of astonishment,
precisely!
The population of our city, is not mentioned here;”
said I. “It is, I believe, however, somewhat over one
hundred thousand.”
“Is it possible!” she exclaimed.
I looked at her, in astonishment. She had just been
amazed, that there were nine millions in the city; and
was, now, just as much amazed, to find one hundred
thousand. I smiled, and spoke of it afterward, to
Hammond. “You cannot easily understand that woman;”
said he. “She has a noble, and feeling heart;
but, she has been spoiled by her mother—a coquette,
without knowing it; great good sense; and a quick,
but deep and hidden sensibility, which she, herself, is
ignorant of. Her observations were perfectly natural.
I know the very tone and look, with which they were
made. She has caught them of her mother; a remarkably
well bred woman, who is “mightily” apt to anticipate
your thought; and answer, without understanding
it—not because she cannot understand it—
but, because her mind is away. Her daughter, amiable
and mild, like her mother, is sometimes playful and
witty; but, not like her mother, she wants practice, and
experience. It takes a longer time, to make a well
bred woman, or man, than people generally imagine.
Children do well enough, to stand up with, in a cotillion
party; but, if you are to parade a ball room, or
walk about, in the presence of majesty, your only companion
is the gentleman, or lady, of the last century.
Gracious heaven! how unlike, in their courtly ease, superb
self possession, and stately promptitude, to the
ribald patch-work gentry of the present day; compare
the graceful impudence, and easy trifling, of the old
school, with the awkward pawing, and pleasantry of
the new. I cannot endure the latter; and, for that reason,
I never go into what is called good company, or
well-bred society, unless it be into that of the well bred,
of the last generation but one. I hate your loud, vociferous
merriment—your unmeaning tartness—your
lubberly ease—your starch formality; at parties, for
example, with powdered black footmen; such, as I have
seen taken from the plough, set into shoes, like wooden
dishes—and employed in carrying round, not a loaded
waiter of turnips and beets, carved into the shape of
cauliflowers, and white and red roses—but each one,
of white, another of brown. No—
curse such flummery, I say.”
Next to this daughter, was another; a younger one;
utterly unlike her sister, in person, heart, and character;
a sour looking, pale faced, thin girl; with a spiteful,
old-maidish expression in her eyes—and a great
sharpness of tone—staid—stiff—rude—impudent and
busy; with a singularly quick, active, and good mind;
but, destitute of sensibility, originality, charity, enthusiasm,
and sweetness of temper. Had she been properly
disciplined; and properly whipped, now and then,
before her frowardness had become established; or her
bad temper, so very acrimonious, as it was, unless continually
soothed and flattered, she might have been
made into something like a superiour woman. I have
seen her, when she was quite an interesting girl—for
a single moment;—when the tears were starting into
her eyes—and the blood was lighting up her fine
forehead. And I have known her to say, not only
some tart and pleasant, but some really witty things.
The best part of her character, however, was her regard
to the truth. She had a great deal of probity and
moral courage; and she was the only one of the whole
family, that had any at all; and, if she were actually
in love—as I do believe that she might be—it would
sweeten her temper, change her whole constitution,
physical and intellectual; till, I dare say, she might
hope to die a much happier woman, and a much fatter
one. Her sister was rather pleasant and companionable.
She would bleed at the heart, if she had hurt another,
even by accident. But this one, without any
evil disposition, would be very likely, if not awed at
once, to carry a “stain away” upon her weapon, even
while playing with it.
I remember once having met with one of these good
natured, credulous, unthinking women, like the other
sister, who, when I had ended a sally of extravagance,
in which I had been maintaining, that young terrapins,
which the people of the country ate, sometimes, alive,
were neither more nor less, than negro babies, with
shells on.
“O, Mr. Adams!” cried the girl, lifting her hands, and
looking me innocently, up in the face—“how you talk!
you will never make me believe that!”
The elder of these daughters might have said the
same thing, a few years before: and so might the
younger—but if she had said it, so different would
have been her tone, that you could never have mistaken
it. It would have been witty in one—childish inattention,
or surprise in the other.
Next to her, was a beautiful child, who, the chief
part of the evening, had kept her little eyes, upon the
knotted joints; and rough, hairy skin; and ridgy nails
of the Dwarf's hand, that lay upon the table near her.
Nay—in the very heat of his discourse, while she was
touching it, just as she would a pet toad—and whispering
about it, to one of the ladies, Hammond let
it lie there, just as if it had belonged to somebody
else.
Beside these, there was a woman, of whom I have
already spoken, a proud masculine creature, with
a powerful understanding, and full of high blood—independent
and strong of thought; fearless and bitter.—
She was called Miss or Mrs. E. I liked her afterward;
I had many reasons for it; for she flattered me,
continually; and flattery, from a strong minded woman
of any age, though not very adroitly administered,
is apt to lull the dragon of the worst heart.—
But then—I did not like her—I would as soon have encountered
a woman with mustachoes, as one that dared
to say, to men, what I have heard her say to men; and
what had she been a man, she would have been run
through the body for.
There was another; a French woman, with a plump,
round, beautiful person—still youthful—graceful—spiritual—with
a handsome face—remarkably intelligible
eyes---lofty heart---familiar with the best society of
the European courts; and at home, in her spirit of accommodation,
wherever she was.
And there were two gentlemen of the bar there; one
a small man, with a pleasant, mild countenance; and a
singularly chaste, amiable, and clear mind—modest,
retiring, yet strong of heart and high of purpose; and
unassuming man, who, for his quiet unobtrusiveness,
was prodigiously apt to be underrated.
Such was the company that, before it was time to
separate, for the night, had collected in the parlour.
Mrs. Honey well, as I have already said, with a spiteful
disposition to bring Hammond out, had begun to
lavish her playfulness all about, like one flinging light
and vapour from a censer.
Hammond sat, thoughtfully, studying the countenance
of the child, that I mentioned, as if, already, he
could see her red lips blackening; her delicate transparency
sullied, with the calamities of life:—the fierce
light of his orbs, waned, quivered—and the lids filled;
but, just then, his thought was forced back, by a violent
convulsion, like one that starts broad awake, from a
terrible dream, by the stopping of his own heart—just
as if a ball had passed through it.
“What was that?” said he, “that quotation.”
Mrs. Honeywell had just been quoting a phrase that
struck on his ear—even in its abstraction, like a knife.
“The ravelled sleeve of care”—she answered.
“The what!—pray, what do you mean by it?”
“Mean! why it is Shakspeare, you know.”
“I know no such thing, I assure you.”
“What! you don't read Shakspeare, I suppose. You
throw him aside, with the lumber and rubbish of old time
—the classicks.”
“No, pardon me; I do read Shakspeare; but I do
not quote him; and I scorn to remember the trash
even of Shakspeare. I cannot pardon, will not tolerate,
nonsense in him.”
“How dare you!—you!—you will not tolerate or pardon
Shakspeare! Would that he might appear to you!
he and Johnson, and Milton, and—.”
“Would heaven (not would to heaven.) they might!
Aye, that they sat there—there, upon that seat, at this
moment—what! are you alarmed!—they would agree
with me—they would say, that—”
“Well done!—Why you would not dare to touch the
hem of Shakspeare's garment—you!”
“Would'nt I! I should tremble and sweat in his presence
I suppose!—nonsense—William Shakspeake, himself,
would laugh at our ridiculous, and indiscriminate
enthusiasm;—aye, laugh at us, for our veneration of his
nonsense. Do you believe that he would permit any
one of his plays to survive his indignation, if he could
hear it read, now?—No, he would trample them all
in the dust.”
“You dare not surely reprobate his plays?”
“Dare I not? Listen to me. I dare to do more. I dare
to say, and to prove it. I dare to give my reasons for
it. I dare to say, that he never wrote a play, which
would be tolerated upon the English stage, if it were to
come out now; now, for the first time, from an unknown
author?”
“O, blasphemy! why have they been so worshipped.
Why does he hold such sway over all our natures?
Why is he so followed and imitated? Why has there
never been such another genius since?”
“Never such another genius!”
“There is—there has been, many a one, his match,
in genius: many, superior to him in dramatick talent—
why worshipped? Because an army of commentators,
criticks, and actors, have swarmed out of his corruption
and fire; and become partakers in his immortality.”
“His immortality! I thought that he had no genius.”
“No—I have said no such thing. No human being
had ever more genius than he; and none ever had more
reverence, for his genius, than I have, It is that, which
makes my blood boil, when I hear his name mentioned
in this way. Shakspeare, himself, would be indignant
at it. You would read him, as you acknowledged to
me once, that you read the bible—through and through,
again and again, from a sense of duty; though you “did
not pretend to understand some of the chapters,” you
said. Tut! You might as well have read it in the original
Hebrew or Greek. Shakspeare is the god of the
unthinking. His dramas, are their bible; his blundering
ignorance, their unimpeachable gospel. He wrote
without design; an uneducated, rash man; full of thunder
to emit them all, in his own way. He
struck off his impressions at a blast; never believing in
their value—never caring for them; beginning his dramas
without any outline; too lazy to look back; or to
read over; or remember, what he had once written; and
therefore, blundering continually; but, even in his
blundering—like a giant, stumbling over mountains—
supplying his own forgetfulness, by violent and crowded
incident, unnecessary characters, and setting at
naught all the laws of the drama. Why? Not because
he was above them; but because he was ignorant of
them. Had it not been so, he would have outraged
them, with a bolder hand; like one that crushes an enemy
with his mailed foot, knowingly; or respected them
—for they deserved it—to a certain extent. His mind
was a treasury of precious things; musical instruments,
shattered and broken; and coloured, brilliant, burning
imagery; but all in disorder. Hence their rapidity, are
splendour of his mental operations; they were perpetually
revolving phenomena; a mental kaleidoscope,
where the greater the disorder, the more multiplied,
beautiful, and varied, are the combinations. But, all
that he has done, is consecrated. By heaven, if the
cursedest nonsense that was ever coined, had been
trumpetted about, century after century, as his hath
been; studied, all the while, by men whose only hope of
immortality consisted, in finding, or imagining, some
secret, deep intention, in his veriest gossipping, that
all others had overlooked; it would be hallowed, at this
moment, like his. O, how he would laugh, were he living
now, at your veneration for parts, that never had
any meaning in them!—parts, it is ten to one, taken
from his loose manuscript—from scraps of paper, where
he had merely tried his pen! How little of it would he
endure at this moment! How much significance had
been hunted out; how much spirit distilled; how much
mysterious depth of meaning imagined, by actors and
criticks! O, he would wonder at his own Hamlet,
could he see it performed, at this hour!”
“I have heard it said, that Garrick understood
said Mrs. H.
“That would be nonsense, madam. Yet, I do not
doubt, that the creatures of Shakspeare—his Richard,
Othello, and Hamlet, for example—were utterly unlike
the Richard, Othello, and Hamlet, of the stage. Every
actor has his own conceptions of the part. It is for
others, to say which is the best and truest. The original
is only an apparition; and, it is likely, that he, who
first called it up, by his tremendous sorcery, and taught
it language, saw with as clear an eye, and as understanding
a heart, what were its attributes, as they that
have conjured it up, again and again, at second hand,
by their baby incantations, out of book, till it has become
an automaton, practised to move and talk, after
a certain fashion, when regularly dressed, interrogated,
set, and wound up.”
“But Shakspeare, madam, like other men, has blinded
himself, sometimes, by dashing too heedlessly among
the stars. What think you? Is he an example for a
dramatist? You speak of Garrick's veneration for
him. Garrick has left the best proof, in the world, of
his veneration, by the manner in which he has garbled
every drama of Shakspeare's, that he touched. Not
one of them, however, even yet, could a modest woman
read aloud, in company; not one ought she to sit out,
upon the stage; and yet it is the Bible of your libraries;
nay, to be found, where no Bible is-to be found; ready,
with its poison and death, for the unstained hand, and
unpolluted breast, of every child; and so spoken of,
that it is more terrible blasphemy, to speak as I have
spoken of it, to-night, than so to speak of the Bible.”
“What are our children to think of such things? Do
you hope that they will pass over what shocks and
thrills them—like brilliant little serpents, nestling, in
the way to their bed room—upon their dressing tables
—without any sensation, either of loathing or horrour,
or fascination. Which is most likely? They are trained
to regard Shakspeare, as the unapproachable one,
whose web of rainbow and beauty, drenched with flame,
and sprinkled with blood, is little else than the wayward,
rials, and drunk with genius;—the great gossipping of
one, whom, on account of his lonely beauty at one time;
and passionate conception at another, we cannot reprobate,
even when he deserves our united malediction.
Your morality—shame on your independence!—shame
too upon your decency!”
“You wonder at my presumption—I can see that you
do. You think that no such genius as Shakspeare hath
ever lived. Yet, what did he?—look at his dramas—
I can recollect but two, where there is one master passion,
delineated with a steady eye, throughout. One is
jealousy—Othello; and even there, we are not certain,
that jealousy is the master passion—and the play is
damnable—unnatural—beastly. Another is love—Romeo;
and so utterly hath he failed there, that, to this
hour, men are in doubt of the authorship. In all the
others, there are compounded passions; a variety of
characters; violent, ridiculous and huddled incidents,
showing the labour of an inexperienced mind, ignorant
of its own power---incapable of hoarding its riches---
lavishing, immediately, whatever came in his way, however
fooolishly; lest, when he wanted, it might not be
found,---and making up for his ignorance, by startling
transitions---stage trick, indecency, buffoonery, and
contradiction. Madam, you think that no man has written
like Shakspeare. You are mistaken. You ask who
ever wrote like him. I answer---nobody---or nobody
but Ireland. Yet it were very easy. He did---a mere
boy too---and succeeded so, that the criticks were cheated.
I could do the same---I could write a play, that
criticks would swallow for Shakspeare's.”
“Hush! hush!”—said Mrs. Honeywell,—colouring
to the eyes—with pity and consfernation—
“I understand you,” continued Hammond—leaning
toward her, and smiling,—“I am not mad—yet, I
would undertake to write a play, in forty-eight hours
—after I had got a few materials ready,—that should
pass for Shakspeare's.”
The tears almost filled her eyes. She was ashamed
and terrified, at his earnestness; and, while she blushed,
him from exposing himself.
But no—he repeated it. “You think that I am vain
—I do not blame you. I do not wonder at it. Again
and again, I have been told so. Yet, it does not change
my opinion, one jot or tittle of myself. I know what I
say. I believe that I could do it. I repeat it—though
it pain you, to show you, that it was not said merely in
the heat of contradiction. No—I have done with that.
Yet—believe me, I thank you for your compassionate
feeling. You would prevent me from making myself
ridiculous. It was kind in you—and, though I have no
fear that I could be so—in any case—still I thank you.
Many persons have said to me, that I was mad—or
insufferably presumptuous and vain; yet my own hear
does not tell me so. If it did—or, rather, if it did not
tell me that I was not mad, I should have discretion
enough, I hope, to hold my tongue. There was one
man---a very respectable man too, who was once civil
enough to tell the publick, that something which I had
written was full of “paltry egotism, and childish vanity.”
That was very well. It was partly true—you
know whom I mean—I could have lacerated him for
it.”
Mrs. Honeywell shook her head—rather emphatically.
“Yes, I could!”—said Hammond, in a voice, that
came from his heart—“and nothing saved him from it,
but—my respect for his daughter, and the interference
of Mr. Morton. You smile, madam. You wonder
more at my vanity now, than ever. By heaven! I could
have cut that man to the bones and marrow!”
Her blue eyes were lighted up with fire---and her lips
trembled.
“No---no!---you could not---he is too great a man.”
“A great man---he a great man!---O, no, he is an
honest, respectable, decent sort of a good man---but
far enough from being a great one.”
“No---no---not to the marrow---not to the bone!” she repeated.
“Aye---aye!” reiterated Hammond, evidently, I
thought, to bring her to battle---“aye---and I could
years---I know it---I feel it---he knows it.”
“You---you!”---repeated Mrs. Honeywell---the blood
rushing over her forehead again---the veins all swelling;
and her agitated hands rattling upon the table—do
you know who he is, and what?”
“Indeed I do not---who is he?”
“A persecuted, good, and great man—I have seen.--”
“I know what you would say. I have heard of it—
some plate that his townsmen gave him.”
“A man,” continued Mrs. Honeywell, that has educated
his daughters—so—look at them---.”
“Yes, Madam—there I agree with you. I respect
him for that---but he is not a great man---nevertheless;
and pray, now that we are upon the theme, how know
you, that he is so good a man?”
“I have known him for ten years.”
“Well, does that prove that he was good, before you
knew him?”
“No---but I have heard his history.”
“From whom?---from himself, I suppose---or from
his daughters?”
“No---from others.”
“Ah!---from others then, that---how know you, that
they did not have it from him, or his daughters?”—
“Pray tell me, plainly—do not let it disturb you—
I do not mean to injure him.”
“Well!”
“Have you ever inquired of strangers about him?—
his early life?---his character?---at home?”
“No---why should I inquire? I knew him---have
known him and his family, for ten years. No---I would
not listen to anything against him---I would not believe
it---I—”
“Is that prudent?—is it wise?”
“I care not whether it be prudent or wise---I speak
from feeling. I will not hear him slandered.”
“But how can you love one, without knowing him
fully?---ten years, twenty years are not enough for this
---a man may be honest all his life---and a scoundrel
at the last hour. One fact will prove a man to be a
be honest. How know you that he did not leave his
country---perhaps---“for his country's good”---suppose
that some one should come to you, and tell you that I see that you are excited---that he—.”
“I will not hear you. No man shall speak disrespectfully
of him, in my presence.”
“I like your spirit,—your feeling—your generosity.
But is it prudent? Would he thank you for it—would
I?—you have never inquired. Why?—because you
were satisfied. But what right had you to be satisfied
when you had heard only one side?---You would not
listen to the other. Had your dearest friend come to
you, and said---that man is a scoundrel---I have heard
---that—”
“Yes---yes,” said Miss E—, moving forward
eagerly---“I have heard too---that is charming---is'nt
it Mrs. Monette?---what a treat it is!”
“No”---said Hammond proudly---“I know nothing
at all against the man. I spoke of him, accidentally,
merely because he had been severe upon me---not in revenge,
I am sure; for, had I been revengeful, there were
other ways to punish him. He was utterly in my power.
You smile, madam. Let me give you one instance,
among many. I had said that, we, in America, had no
names except Washington's, worthy of poetry. He took
it up; and, with a great waste of fuel, began to ask,
what!---have we no Franklin's, no Jefferson's! No
Adam's, &c. Bless his heart!---I had been speaking
of names---and had even italicised the word, that I
might not be mistaken; and all the fuss that he was
making---whizzing and whirring, like soap suds in a
gutter---was about men. That was one instance. I
could name others: but---I respect the man. He paid
me some compliments---but they did'nt go to the right
place---he did'nt feel, he could not feel what I had
written; and, therefore, his praise was worse than his
condemnation.”
“But Shakspeare! Shakspeare!” said Miss E. edging
in.
“In one moment,” said Mrs. Honeywell.
“You have had a severe trial,” said Hammond, hobbling
out his chair, and offering her his ugly claw—
“a very severe one: but you ought to thank me for it--you
were never so eloquent; and, as I told you—your unwillingness
to hear me open my lips against your friend,
looked suspicious. Had you been half so sure, as you
pretend to be, you would have dared me to tell, all that
I had known, or heard--instead of preventing me.”
“O no---of what use would it be: it would only make
me unhappy. There is evil enough about us. All the
world are too ready, now, to hearken to, and repeat it.”
“For that reason, I would have my friend listen to
it, were I in a like situation. It would enable her to
vindicate me, with knowledge, as well as zeal. The
innocent grow brighter in the very trial, and scrutiny,
that destroy guilt. I thank nobody for such inprovident
confidence in me. If you have aught against
me—tell me of it; make me answer to it. What mean
your eyes. You have heard something against me.
Tell me, plainly, before all these people---tell me; or
you are not my friend.”
Mrs. Honeywell smiled---a quick glance passed like
an electrick spark between her and one of the ladies.
I turned, and Hammond repeated the question.
“Why---what is the meaning of this?” said he, “you
look distressed.”
As he said this, his eye flashed upon the distant white
wall---when---Oh! it must have been terrible! he saw
what had caused their meriment and confusion.
They were looking at his shadow;---the unsightly
blackness was like a plastered devil, upon the white
wall opposite---and a large pointer, upon the rug, lay
eyeing it, with strong symptoms of terrour.
All eyes were turned toward it. And the room was
silent as death.
Hammond set his teeth---his eyes dilated---his lips
writhed---he put his locked hands to his forehead, for a
moment---a mortal paleness followed---the disorder of
his heart was soon gone---his lips parted, and quivered---and,
when he took down his hands, there was a
melancholy lustre, as of a noble nature, outraged to
tears, under the lashes.
Elizabeth, I perceived, had retired behind her beautiful
neighbour, and I could not well see her face; but, I
observed that her hands, which I could see, were agitated,
in her lap.
“You had been kinder, Madam,” said he, in a lower
tone, and with an altered front---all its lordliness had
gone---he stood, like a broken hearted man---“had you
been more sincere. I forget myself. I do not blame
you for laughing at, or quaking before the horrible
shadow. If it were the shadow of anything that God
had not made---and breathed his divinity into, I should
laugh, too. But, I cannot mock at his doing---and I
will not weep, while I, alone, am the sufferer. You had
done better; it would have been worthier of your gentleness
and humanity, at first, to tell the truth---the shock
would have been less humiliating and sudden.”
There was a pause; and not a breath could be heard;
yet I thought that there was the sound—very faintly—
of some one, sobbing—I dared not move—I dared not
inquire who it was—but I had my suspicion—and I
grew faint with it.
“Yet, this is not the first time—no, not the first,
that the distorted shadow of one, made, it hath been bitterly
said of me, in the image of God Almighty—hath
been the cause of distress, or merriment, among brave
hearts; and once, it left me bloody—bloody! I have
not yet atoned for it—I—I am naturally kind of heart
—but, there was a child too; a lovely child, that I so
frighted once, as to make its mother hate me. She was
like that one—I strove hard against my nature, and
with the devil here, not to strangle them both, for it.”
Another pause—it was yet more terrible. The room
was getting dark—the lamp waned—and there was
nobody to remember why. All looked, as if they thought
it preternatural.
“I do not wonder,” continued Hammond, with a
voice, like one parleying with a spirit, at his very elbow.
“I do not wonder, that Richard was a devil—
that Lord Byron is a devil—but O, (clasping his hands,
together; and wringing them, till the joints cracked)
Merciful Father!—let me not live to be a third—let me
my own heart—to forget this inward scalding.”
He then went to Mrs. Honeywell, whose face was
buried in her hands. “Come, Madam, come—it is all
over now. The cut went to my heart—but, it was the
cut of a sharp knife—rather deep, than painful; one
word more, however. You are wrong, not to listen to
both sides, where a friend is concerned. Tell me, will
you—what it is that you have heard of me?
“Do you insist upon it?—here?” said Mrs. Honeywell.
“Yes, Madam. Really, it is a poor compliment—
this hesitation. It shows that you have some doubt.”
“Oh, no—not at all.”
“I beg your pardon. If you had no doubt of my innocence,
you would mention the report, fearlessly;
whatever it were.”
“Were you ever acquainted with a Captain Seyton?”
Hammond started—was silent for a moment, as if
struck with a sudden pain—and then answered.
“Yes.—I shot him.”
“In a duel?”
“Yes.”
“Not in a duel!---Hammond—Mr. Hammond! I would
say;” said Elizabeth, with a faint cry.
“Yes—in a duel. Hereafter, I will tell you how it
happened, that I was so wicked, and foolish.”
“Well, well—never mind the duel—let us hear the
argument finished”—said Mrs. E. “It is the greatest
treat in the world, to me, to hear you and Mrs. Honeywell
converse. Let it be finished.”
“Yes—so I say—let it be finished—” said Mrs. Honeywell,
laughing.
“Renewed; you mean, Miss E—. said the younger
daughter; “arguments are never finished.”
The oldest daughter here rubbed her eyes—and one
of the lawyers left the room.
“Yes—I am willing to finish it, I assure you; for, I
am anxious to convince you—and I am sure that I
could,” said Hammond, to Mrs. Honeywell.
“Convince me! of what? that I ought to hear my
friend slandered? No—never—never!”
“Madam—I do assure you, that I could—nay—I
will—if you will listen to me, for five minutes.”
“What! if I were a wife, I suppose that you would
come to me, and tell me all that my husband had ever
done—and break my heart—and—.”
“Yes!—Yes!—Yes!—If you were my sister—and he
had been scoundrel enough not to tell you! Yes!—Yes!
if I heard a slander, that I knew to be false, I would
tell you of it—that you might not hear it from another;
if true, that you might profit by it.”
“Yes—and destroy my confidence in my husband—
set me, as a spy upon his action; fill my heart, with
distrust and apprehension! O, these are the people,
that drug the cup of heaven, with death!”
“Beautifully said, Madam; but, hear me, for one moment.
Our attachments, to be valuable, must be the
growth of knowledge. Is it not so?”
“How?”
“I mean, that they should be founded upon examination,
study and enquiry. It is our duty to know our
whole nature, if we can, before we are intimate, in any
degree. But your doctrine would lead you to shut
your eyes against the dearest friend on earth, though
he should come to you, and say. You are intimate
with Mr. A. or Mr. B. You believe him to be a good
man. You are deceived.”
“I would not listen to him.”
“I would, upon my honour---very patiently---though
it were uttered against the dearest friend that I have,
on this earth.”
“You would!” said Miss E.
“Yes---and I would then go to my friend, and tell
him what I had heard---show my confidence in him, by
giving him an opportunity to vindicate himself; search
into the truth of the whole matter; never rest, till I
came to the bottom of it; that done, if I found it true,
though it cost me my own life, I would go and thank
the man; nay, if it were false, and he, who had set me
upon the track, had acted with a manly, or innocent
power to contradict it; but, if it were coinage of his
own; malicious or vindictive---wo to him---wo to him,
though he were my own brother. But you, Madam,
you would not listen to him.”
“You, yourself would not. I am sure of it.”
“No—you would not, perhaps, if the person were
addressing your daughter.”
“O, that would be a different affair.”
“Or yourself!”
“Why, in such matters—they are extreme cases! I
might be willing to listen.”
“You ought to be, in all cases. Who knows what
would become of us, if we followed your doctrine, even
in the common intercourse of life? What would console
you, if, after you had refused to listen to a friend,
you should find that some villain had been, for years,
the companion of yourself and children? No—do your
duty—be cautious, circumspect, and distrustful; if you
would make your good opinion valuable. Do your
duty; and, whatever happen, you will be happy. I say
to you, as I did to Mr. Hull—when he came to employ
me, in behalf of his son, who was afterwards hanged.
You cannot save him, said I. You must not expect it.
But, do your duty; leave no stone unturned. You will
be happier then, though he be hanged, than you would
be, if he were pardoned; and you had neglected anything,
to procure his pardon. In the first place, a consciousness
of having done your utmost, would sustain
you; in the latter, your heart would reproach you, for
ever, with having hazarded your child's life, by your
omission.”
“But, let us examine the business, fairly. If you
were married, would you, or would you not listen?”
“O, then,” said she, tenderly, passionately, like one
that had suffered; “I would be ignorant. “Where ignorance
is bliss, 'twere folly to be wise;” you know.”
“I commend your recollection, my dear Madam; but
ignorance never is bliss. And why might not one tell
you of any hidden evil, in your husband's nature—
any—.”
“What good could it do?”
“Much—I can imagine many cases.
“No, no! It is impossible. You never shall convince
me.”
“Madam;” said Hammond, leaning toward her, his
large, black, glittering eyes rivetted upon her; and his
hand thrust into his bosom, up to the elbow, as into hot
embers, in search of his own heart. “Madam!---I can
convince you. I will!”
“Suppose that your husband had been intemperate, in
his youth---a madman; and that a glass of wine would
drive him again. to fury; suppose that you knew it not;
that he had kept the secret; and that you had wondered,
for many years, at his abstinence, but never knew the
cause; that you had, for it might well be, in the festivity
of your heart, determined to make him overcome his
dislike to it, though you were obliged to mingle the
wine with his food. Suppose then---then! Madam, that
some friend, who knew your husband's infirmity--knew
that it was a secret, to all the world, but the sufferer
and himself, should come to you; and lay his hand upon
yours, and cry out “beware! would you put poison into
his cup?” How would you bless him! It might save
you, and your little ones.”
“Yes!---and make me die, ten thousand deaths, by
apprehension—set me to watching every movement of
his countenance—every tone of his voice—in the horrible
thought of madness.”
“Nay; but it would enable you to aid him, in his self-denial:
to spare him the agony of explanation—to sustain
him, under temptation, and trial—and to prevent
others from playing, as you were about to play with
his life---and soul!”
“Yes---but it would kill me:---it might prolong his
life---but I should die of a broken heart, frighted away
from him.”
“And what death would be so welcome to an affectionate
and devoted wife?---to die in preserving his life
---to—”
“She was silent---and her deep eyes were clouded
with passionate emotion:---and Hammond continued,
that, when he had done---we all drew one long
breath together---and were silent for many minutes.
“Suppose another case”---said he. “You are married,
and happy, beyond the lot of women. Yet---and
you know it---there is a terrible, untold calamity, in
the life of your husband, upon which it is not lawful to
speak. No matter how you have come to suspect this.
You know not what it is---but---when the sea roars---
and the wind blows---and the rain beats---or the noise
of shipwreck---and the cry of drowning people are told of
---you see his forehead work---and the sweat coming
out of it. Would you not bless the man---kneel down,
and bless him---who would come to you, and say—
“Lady---beware how you talk of sudden death---or of
drifting bodies--or of the wild sea breaking, in wrath,
upon the wind,---for your husband once lost the dearest
things on earth to him---a wife and child!--by shipwreck
---and went mad upon the spot. He loves you---hath
always loved you, to distraction---but he dared not tell
you this, lest it should drive you mad.” Would you not
bless him! You yield. I knew that you would. You are
always right, when you permit yourself to think. I
would risk my right hand, that I can bring you to agree
with me, where—bless my soul!—I had no idea
that it was so late.”
“Yes”—said Mrs. Honeywell—“but—you will give
up, about Shakspeare?”
“What—about that nonsense which you quoted.—
What was it?—repeat it, will you?”—
“I forget how he brings it in—but the thought is
beautiful—he speaks of knitting up the ravelled sleeve
of care.”
“And what idea have you of it?”—said Hammond. She began to explain, but he interrupted her. “No—I
never saw it before—and if you did not assure me, that
it was in Shakspeare, I would deny it—I would swear
that such intolerable trash could not be his. I wonder
at you. It is a confused, ill-managed, laboured conceit.
Why not say, sew up the scarlet elbow of care—
or new cover the buttons—or try-out the cuff. There
my honour, I can see no difference between them—it is
the—I beg your pardon—but no other word will express
it—it is about the damnedest nonsense in the
world.”
There was a general shock—as if a thunderbolt had
exploded in the ceiling—and his voice were a trumpet
call.
“But it is Shakspeare; and that is enough. I remember
once travelling through Boston, and meeting
with a paper, called the Centinel, in which some fool or
other—I don't mean the Editor—had hit upon a new
reading in Shakspeare. You remember where Hamlet
meets his mother, and compares the pictures. Hamlet
is speaking of the usurper, who, like a thief, “the precious
diadem stole—and put it in his pocket.” Now,
said the critick, the words in italick are only a stage
direction—which, in transcribing, came to be incorporated
with the text—and mean that Hamlet puts the picture
into his pocket! “What!” he cries—“a diadem to be
put in a king's pocket—What a pocket his majesty must
have!” It was in a friend's counting room, that I saw
it;—and, so indignant was I, that it was for some minutes
a question with me, whether I should break into
the Editor's house, and curse him for his stupidity, in
admitting such a criticism, or reply to it. But I resolved
on the latter—and there, as I stood, scribbled a
few lines, on two or three scraps of execrable paper: and put them, with my own hands, into the box, as I went
by. They were published. The blockheads!—They
knew not, what they ought to have known---before
they presumed to approach Shakspeare, except, upon
their naked hands and feet—that till John Kemble's
time, that part was always played with two portraits,
hanging side by side—of the two kings;—as if the murderer
could abide the painted spectre of the dead monarch—or
his incestuous queen, the awful reproach of
his lifeless shadow—perpetually smiling upon her, it
may be, even while she was in the arms of his murderer.
It would have been, to the full, as easy, one would
think, to put the diadem in a pocket, as one of the
portraits—and quite as natural.
“But again—the ghost appears---and then, if the
critick be right, Hamlet is directed to put the picture into
his pocket, before he takes his position—his attitude
of horrour. By heaven! it were about as rational to
give a stage direction to Hamlet thus—
Ham—“the precious diadem stole.
“And—
(Ghost enters---Hamlet blows his nose)
as to give it in the manner that the critick requires which is this---
Ham— “the precious diadem stole,
“And—
(Ghost enters---Hamlet puts the picture in his pocket.)
“But what meant Shakspeare—Shakspeare! the anointed
one! He meant this---and none but a commentator,
a critick; or an Editor---could have misunderstood it.
He meant that the scoundrel king stole the crown, like
a shop-lifter, from the “majesty of buried Denmark” that he did not conquer it!--in harness and steel--blood and
dust. But---heaven forgive me!”---he added, halting
toward the French lady---who sat mute with astonishment;---for
he had not permitted a living creature to
open his lips, that evening.”
“Ah madame, Je vous demande pardon,” said he----
“Pardon!---pourquoi?”---she replied.
He touched his lips---and she understood him---for
she smiled, wickedly, and added---now! I vill-zay to
you, Mr. Hammon, vat-zat zee queen say---zee queen
Elizabess---she-zay to zee ladee zat haf not gif, to er
zee jewail---how you say zat?---zee bague.”
“O, the ring,” said Hammond, bowing---“I wait
the report---this battle of the eyes over; it is a part of
your duty to give in the killed and wounded---but what
said Elizabeth?”
“O,----zee ladee haf-keep zee jewail----Monsieur
Hammon---cést egal; vous avez fait la même chose you haf keep ze jewail.”
“O, ho!”---said Mrs. Honeywell, tapping Hammond
on the arm,---“I understand the drift---you have given
us words, and kept the jewelry to yourself.”
“Throwing pearls before—ahem—” said her
younger daughter---colouring at the sound of her own
voice.
“Hush---hush!”---answered the mother---“well what
did the queen say---madame?”
“O, she-say----Dieu peut vous pardonner----mais,
moi!---Je ne vous pardonnerai jamais!”
“Bravo!” cried the elder daughter, laughing outright,
till her large blue eyes ran over, “bravo!” Mr.
Hammond, I think you have got the bague now.”
Note by Editor. There can be no doubt, I think, that the author
has introduced this page, for no purpose in the world, but, as an excuse
for repeating a few words of French, which, it is highly probable,
that he does not understand. I have met with such things before.
There is a Spanish phrase in Logan, taken from Gil Blas, “a dios
amado, &c”—and another line or two of Italian, from Goldoni,
which is the motto of the first chapter. Shame on such childish
pedantry!—Ed.
| CHAPTER III. Errata, or, The works of Will. Adams | |