University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Meanwhile, I had become somewhat intimate
with Mr. Mowbray, the reverend gentleman by
whom I had been married. I had met him in
some of my rambles, and as he was a person of
invincible self-esteem, he had contrived to keep
with me, in spite of the evident coolness which I

manifested towards him. His adroitness finally
broke down my barriers of reserve, and I listened
to him, after awhile, with tolerable patience,—the
unfavorable impressions of my mind gradually
giving way, the more I was brought in contact
with the offensive object. This is one of the most
fruitful dangers which beset young men. I had
reason afterwards to believe that Bud Halsey had
instructed Mowbray to throw himself in my way,
with the view to bringing me round to his purposes.
This young man spoke with a vivacity
which was very much akin to wit. He was
sprightly, forcible and pungent in his remarks,
frequently novel and always audacious. That he
was thoroughly unprincipled, need not be said,
when it is remembered what life he led and what
principles he professed to teach. Perhaps, there
is no hypocrisy so complete and lamentable, as
that of the professor of religion, having the care
of others, yet daily, and daringly, indulging in the
most unscrupulous practices of sin.

“You are cool to me,” he said one day when I
was more than usually depressed by the circumstances
of my situation. He had joined me when
I least looked for, and least wished, any such
companionship.

“Why should we not be friends?” he continued,
without giving me time to answer. “Here
we are, both of us young fellows, neither wanting
in stuff for conversation, why should we not be
more frequently together? As we have a little

world of our own here, why should we not make
the most of it?”

“You may—you should,” was my answer.
“But you forget, it is your world, not mine.”

“Make it yours—why not?”

“Thank you, but I have no taste for cutting
throats or purses.”

“Pshaw! I do not mean that. There are
enough to do that without requiring either you or
me. My taste as little inclines to it as yours.”

“Why then are you here?”

“A truant disposition—like your own, perhaps.
But now that we are both here, whether from
choice or necessity, I am for making the most of
the situation. Why should not you? Why, for
example, should you mope alone in these woods,
when you might have company?”

“Have I not? Are you not with me?”

“Yes; but I verily believe that you would
rather my room than my company.”

“You could scarcely believe this, yet continue
to give it me.”

“You forget my profession!” he answered,
with a laugh. “My religion compels me to seek
the unhappy—my humility prevents me from
heeding their rebuffs. I am for saving you, my
friend, in your own spite,—for consoling you
when, perhaps, you would prefer to drain the
cup of bitterness to the dregs, through sheer
obstinacy,—and for giving you my good company,

always, when you are most oppressed with
your own.”

“Do you not incur some risk in this liberality?
Intrusion does not always get off with a simple
rebuff.”

“Ah! you must not suppose I carry my religion
to excess. I do not tell you that I turn the
other cheek that it may be smitten also. I have
not yet reached that point of patience and forbearance,
when it is agreeable to set up for a
martyr. I have still a taste of the old leaven in
me, and can lay on as well as my neighbor. But
there need be no quarrel between us. Time
sometimes hangs heavily on my hands here, as it
evidently does on yours. If we were to meet
oftener, it might weigh more lightly upon both.
I have usually been considered a good fellow as
a companion, and you seem a lad of mettle. You
have sense and spirit. Let us see if we cannot
help each other through the swamp—no bad
figure for representing the dull days in this quarter.
Come, now, let me be your guide for the
next half hour, and I will show you some retreats
here which, I suspect, you have never seen before.
What say you?”

I suffered him to lead me on. Indeed, I was
now not only indifferent to the route which I
should take, but somewhat regardless of the
character of my companion. The last few weeks
had made me tolerably reckless, and setting
aside some of my scruples as I proceeded with
him, I abruptly asked him for his history. I was

anxious to get some insight into a character which
seemed so curiously compounded.

“My history!” he answered. “You shall have
it. It will scarcely interest you, but will do you
good. You smile?”

“Yes!—why should you care whether it will
do me good or not?”

“You mistake me somewhat. I have no wish
to do you harm.”

“What! not to involve me in your meshes—
make me an outlaw like yourself?”

“Pshaw, no! I care for this neither one way
nor the other. My fault, indeed, is want of sympathy
with my race.”

“Why do you wish society, then—companionship—why
seek mine?”

“Simply because I am selfish. Selfishness
makes good companionship. I seek you for myself—for
my own enjoyment, not yours;—though
I shall have no sort of objection that you should
gain by the communion. But, you will know me
better when you have heard my story. Here,
we are secure. We have quite a pleasant shade.
The trees arch here in cathedral fashion. The
sun scarcely penetrates, except in little droplets
of light, and the effect is very much such as we
should suppose it would produce through the
stained windows of a gothic abbey. The breeze
comes up very pleasantly from that water. Your
wanderings have brought you here before.”

The spot was very beautiful, with an interest
derived entirely from the foliage, and the mixed

effect of shadow and subdued sunlight. There
was no inequality in the landscape. The ground
was perfectly level, with a slight slope to the
water's edge. The creek wound semi-circularly
about us, and along the opposite edges was lined
with a thick fringe of canes, from whence shot
up the gigantic spire of cotton-wood tree or pine.
We sat down upon the shaft of a fallen tree, and,
after a few preliminaries, my companion began
his story as follows:

MR. MOWBRAY'S STORY.

You see in me an instance of the injurious
effects of endeavoring to force goodness into the
heart by a sort of hot-house process. Unless by
miracle, by the direct intervention of Deity himself,
you cannot make a man a saint before his
time. There must be some long preliminary
courses. There must be trials and preparations,
by which to subdue stubborn tendencies, irregular
passions, and a dogged, inflexible will. I do
not pretend to set before you the sort of training
which should be employed for this purpose. It
is enough that I had none of it; and, with just
enough of prudence—cunning, perhaps, would be
the proper word—I suffered myself to be converted
into an apostle, before I had ever thought
to overcome the natural desire which every man
is supposed to have to be a sinner. I was born
of good family, in one of the oldest of our northern
cities. I need scarcely tell you that the
name I bear, is not the one to which I was born.

I was tenderly nurtured and well-educated. My
father was not only distinguished in the social,
but in the intellectual world. He was a man of
profound scientific and literary acquirements,—
highly and equally esteemed for his moral virtues
and mental superiority. It was, perhaps, my
misfortune in particular that he died, just at that
period when, emerging from boyhood into youth,
my training required the firm hand and the calm
thought of experienced wisdom. My boyhood
gave signs of intellectual promise. My youth
had other developments. I was wild and vicious,
full of blood and passions—eager in the attainment
of my object, and not over-scrupulous—
speaking within certain limits—of the process by
which this was to be done. But the tenderness
of relatives, and the sympathies of friends, kindly
charged all these developments to the exuberance
of youth. I was simply sowing those wildoats,
which, I am disposed to think, must be sown
by all men, sooner or later, at some period in
their lives. The misfortune is, that, in my case,
sufficient time was not allowed me to sow my
tares, when I was required to enter upon another
sort of harvest. It is scarcely to be wondered
at if the tares and wheat came up pretty equally
together.

Our family was reduced in fortune and straitened
after my father's death, to such a degree, that
it became necessary—painful necessity!—that
hereafter the sons should sow that they might

reap. We were all required to work for our
bread, and the question was, in what way we
should encounter a necessity so humiliating, without
losing the rank and consideration of gentlemen.
This inquiry, of course, involved a farther
necessity, not only of finding a proper employment,
but one neither mechanical nor laborious—
one that would neither soil the hands nor lessen
the leisure. Two of my brothers were already
lawyers, one was a physician, and as both these
professions were crowded, it was unanimously
concluded among my friends and relatives, that I
was to be a parson. Not that I had shewn any
of those moral qualities, which would naturally
incline a devout parent to see a future saint in
the son. I was neither humble in spirit, forbearing
in my anger, nor gentle in my deportment.
I had nothing devotional about me. I had the
most indomitable will,—I had the most fierce,
selfish and passionate desires. I had no single
requisite for the business of the pulpit, but such
as belonged to the simple intellect. As I do not
scruple to declare my moral deficiencies, so I do
not hesitate to avow my intellectual adequacy to
the work before me. I was warm, animated,
fluent,—intense, in my earnestness, to the last degree,
and, in the employment of illustration and
figure, equally forcible and ready. I was destined,
so every body said,—regarding nothing but
my mental endowments—to figure as a new
Boanerges in the church.

But, at first, I was just as unwilling as I was
unprepared, to enter upon a duty for which my
mind had no sympathy. If I inclined to anything
in particular, it was to the law. To the forum
I looked as to the scene of my future triumphs—
as to the field of my future eminence and fame.
But I was made to see with the eyes of others.
I was shewn the crowded state of the bar. I
was shewn the struggling and always half distressed
situation of my brothers, neither of whom
had, as yet, earned the salt for his porridge. They
were still an incumbrance on the very little property
which the misfortunes of the family had
spared to my mother. Nobody seemed to regard
the moral requisites of the Churchman, as
at all necessary. Nothing, at least, was said on
this part of the subject. It was chosen for me as
a handicraft—a trade—by which I was to jump
into a snug living, and have the farther privilege
of choosing, as my own peculiar property, one of
the richest ewes of my flock. These results
were continually spoken of, as a matter of course,
by all around me. They formed a familiar topic
with the community. Religion had become so
much of a profession, among laity and clergy,
that the trading results were habitually looked
to, by both parties, as a legitimate subject of consideration.
In old communities, which have been,
from immemorial time, distinguished for high social
tone, the maintenance of social appearances
becomes, finally, the leading object with all parties;

and all that is then requisite with the individual
is, that he should respect his own cloth.
It does not matter that he should not deserve to
wear it. The only important particular is, that
he should wear it with decency. The rule holds
with religion as with medicine or law—it is ranked
with these as an ordinary means of employment,
and by many, as one of the most inferior.
Indeed, one of my objections to adopting this profession,
arose from hearing it so frequently spoken
of as one that required little or no ability. The
common saying among us, was, `when a fellow
is too stupid to be lawyer or doctor, you must
make him a parson.' There was room for the
sarcasm. We had many boobies in the pulpit.
There was little eloquence and less thought.
Some of our divines were able men, but they had
grown tired of warring against those feminine
tastes in the audience, which called for little more
than common-places and declamation. Women,
of whom most of our American audiences are
composed, do no little towards the degradation
of the clergy. It requires but little skill and
management among them, to win the reputation
of great piety; and still less ability, to secure
that of eloquence and talent. I have frequently
amused myself, during my brief career in
the pulpit, in preaching nonsense-sermons, that
were simply complicate and high-sounding, larded
at frequent intervals, with biblical phrases,
with which they were commonly acquainted. I
have observed that, on such occasions, my preaching
always gave the most satisfaction. I have
always been applauded for these sermons, and
more than once called upon to print them,—but
I too well knew that what would be tolerated in
the pulpit, would never pass the gauntlet of the
press,—though, towards the close of my career,
—when I was willing to break with my congregation,
I was more than half tempted to comply
with their wishes, and put forth a volume to show
how easily and admirably they had been gulled.
But I anticipate.

It was with considerable reluctance that I was
brought to regard the wishes of my friends and
family with favor. It was only when it became
evident that this was the only way in which I
could get my bread, and get it buttered too, that
I consented. Promises, assurances the most positive,
were held out to me, not only of a church,
but of a wife, both of them the most elegant and
eligible in every point of view. Then there was
the influence, the authority, which the cloth exercised;—and,—this
was my own thought, and
that which rendered the suggestions of my friends
more palatable—then there was the distinction,
the eminence to be attained by the pressing, persevering
and highly endowed intellect. Won by
all these considerations, I became a student in
divinity, put on the grave suit and demeanor, and
went to my studies with the resolution not to
forego the cakes and ale, if they were to be had

at the expense only of a little hypocrisy. My
character was one of great energy, and might
have been of great power, had it been less capricious.
As it was, I devoted myself to study with
that earnestness which distinguished me in the
prosecution of all my plans. I was late and early
at my studies. Ambitious, to a very high degree,
the goal immediately before me was one of human
distinction. My industry and zeal became the
popular theme in our little world. Old men
looked upon me with wonder—old women with admiration.
I was sought by the grave and the seniors
of both sexes. I listened with reverence, and
when I spoke, dealt in sententious apothegms. I
practiced my part with a degree of skill, which,
perhaps, was only remarkable for the consistency
which my character displayed, in spite of my
passions and caprices, during the tedious period
of my noviciate. I was successful, and the time
arrived when I should take orders and be admitted
to the priesthood. The ceremony you have
witnessed. I need not describe it. It is enough
for me to say, that, solemn as it is, terrible as is
the trust which the neophyte undertakes, and
awful as appear the responsibilities accruing
from his obligations, my mind strove in vain to
concentrate its thoughts upon the proceedings.
My heart had nothing to do with them. It was
communing apart with its own vanities—yearning
with its merely human passions, and canvassing,
at every interval, the hopes, and fears, and
fancies which occupy the spirit of the worlding.
But a little distance from me stood a maiden
whom my eyes had long singled out as the object
of their desires. I saw her not then, but I felt that
she was there. Pure and meek, she had long
before won the affections of one who was neither
pure nor meek. Unknown to herself, I had already
made a conquest of her. That I knew. I was no
small judge of the female heart. I had fathomed the
intricacies of hers, and resolving that she should
be my prize, I had adapted my deportment to
those tastes which, I felt assured, distinguished her
nature; and, even at that moment when devoting
myself, mind and spirit, irrevocably to God and
the Redeemer, I thought of neither, except vaguely,
uncertainly, and without being at all touched
by the profound depth of the obligation which my
lips had sworn. I thought only of the mortal
beauty whose spirit seemed effused about me,—
whose presence I felt was near,—whose eyes, I
well knew, watched every step in the progress
of the ceremony, with the intense interest of the
purest human love. I was ordained—I had attained
one of the objects of my hypocritical endeavor,
and the struggle now was for the rest.
Did I attain them? Did I doubt of their attainment?
You shall hear!

Yet, do not misunderstand me. If you suppose
that I did not strive after religion, when I had
once undertaken the study, you will do me injustice.
It may be that I did not strive enough,—

with all my heart, with all my mind, and with all
my strength, as we are required—but I certainly
did not set out to persevere in a merely cold system
of hypocrisy. I was not unwilling to become
what I wished to profess. I strove, I studied, I
thought, I asked. It is not improbable that in
study, thought and inquiry, I sometimes forgot
prayer. I did not pray enough. I never acquired
the first most necessary frame of mind. I
had no humility, and this want,—had not my
congregation been wilfully, and beyond redemption,
blind,—must have betrayed me long before
I wilfully betrayed myself. I was myself deceived.
I sometimes fancied that my condition
of mind was good—was what it should be. This
was during my noviciate. I was never deceived
in this manner after my assumption of the duties
of the priesthood. No! no! I knew myself by
this time, and the struggle thence was simply to
keep the real nature from any and every exhibition
inconsistent with that which I had put on.
But of this hereafter.

My friends kept their promises. They procured
me a church, and noble congregation. I
was at once installed into a good living, and, very
soon after, chose, from among my flock, the fair
and truly good creature, upon whom, so long a
season, my eyes had been set. She did not, with
feminine subtlety, endeavor to hide from me the
joy she felt when I declared my passion for her.
`She was too, too happy.' Such were the words

muttered in my bosom, as she yielded herself to
my embrace. We were married, and with herself
she brought me a handsome property. Was
I satisfied? Was I happy? No! I had reaped
the reward of my toils,—I had gained all the
objects which had been proposed to me, when I
first commenced my career of hypocrisy. Station,
fortune, fame!—for I had grown famous in
our little world—but, I did not deceive myself!
I was not only not happy, but I was ill at ease.
The constraint upon my nature was a bondage
which I yearned to throw off. I was like the
captive in the toils! True, I was surrounded by
plenty—beauty was in my arms—fortune at my
feet—crowds of admirers followed in my steps—
troops of friends gathered at my bidding—my
voice could still or rouse the multitude—my name
was honored wherever spoken—but I lived a lie!
—and every moment of breath and being was a
pang. I do not say that my moral sense revolted
at this condition. No! it was my blood, my
passions, which, restrained, in order to the acquisition
of an object, threatened momently to
revenge themselves for the unnatural and uncongenial
bondage into which my will had forced
them.

Meanwhile, had the theatre of my mind been
such as it could have chosen, I should have been
content. My mind was fully exercised. In the
habit of intensifying on every subject, I was
necessarily a most enthusiastic preacher. Never

was the vehemence of true zeal and genuine piety
more life-like than mine. They attributed this
vehemence to my zeal and piety, when it was
only the natural working of my blood. In a disputation
in behalf of atheism, I should have been
equally vehement. It was the characteristic of
my temperament. But nobody inquired into this.
It was enough that I kept them from sleeping;—
that, all animation myself, I enlivened them. Of
course, nobody who goes to church applies to
himself the denunciations of the preacher. The
simple fact of church-going seems sufficiently to
satisfy the ordinary mind; and people fancy they
are in a very comfortable sort of trim for heaven
when they yield audible responses to the preacher,
and never forget to make their genuflexions
at the appropriate moment. I saw and understood
all this, and was by no means unsparing of
the scourge. I laid it on with heavy hand, and,
assured in my own heart of my own miserable
hypocrisy, this conviction furnished an additional
reason why I should cry aloud, and spare not, in
dealing with the sinfulness of others. In this
sort of excitement I lived—I drew my breath.
My blood demanded excitements, and, dammed
up in its natural tendencies, was forced to find
outlet and utterance through other avenues. Was
there a controversy with another sect or church,
I headed it;—was there a new mission to be
established, I counselled it, urged it, and compelled
it. Furious in my struggles, I made a
battle field wherever I came, and while all were
delighted and wondering at my zeal in the cause
of the Redeemer, I brought nothing but religious
uproar, and confusion, and disputation wherever I
appeared.

Had my congregation been only half-witted,
—had they but bestowed upon the subject but
half the thought which the meanest of them gave
to his ordinary worldly concerns—they must have
more than suspected my sincerity. The very
excess of my fervor, must have made them doubt
its purity and source. But a few years before—
not five,—I had been notoriously a very vicious
youth—noted for excesses, and recognizing, with
difficulty, any restraint. On a sudden, the change
had been effected. Now, it is not denied that
this change of heart, can be effected by the ruling
powers of Providence, at any moment,—in a moment,—in
the twinkling of an eye;—but this change
of heart, must subdue the heart,—must teach patience,
humility, and moderation. The individual
must remember, with horror, his own past offences,
and must, in fear and trembling, approach
those of others. If such a change produces any
external results at all, it must be in this very particular.
It must lead to great toleration. Mercy,
not denunciation, will be the language of the
newly reformed—humility, not arrogance,—patience,
not imperiousness. There was no such
show in me. On the contrary, never did self-appointed
legate, more freely use God's thunder.

The Pope was not more imperious, when, setting
his feet upon the necks of princes, he insisted
that the act was done in his two-fold character,
of man and father,—than was I in dealing with
those very faults and vices in others, in which,
but a little while before, I had notoriously indulged
myself. But I had no help. My passionate
and imperious nature was resolute to speak out,
and this was the only way in which it could exercise
itself, consistently with the part which I
was now compelled to play, to the mockery of
God and man alike.

But there was a change at hand. In the midst
of my successes—when I stood in the regards of
the community as little less than a God—when
thousands followed, and, without knowing or suspecting
it, hundreds of poor women worshipped
me—when my eloquence was most brilliant, my
exhortations most urgent, my severities and rebukes
most pungent, and excoriating—my secret
was discovered. It could not be concealed from
one who had been among the first to follow—to
worship me and to love—my wife! Without
being a philosopher, her moral and religious instincts
were true;—there are religious instincts in
every nature, to be brought out by education;—
to her my secret was betrayed on numerous occasions.
Seeing me at home—in disabille—
without those restraints of decorum in which I
garbed myself for the encounter with others, she
soon had sufficient proof that I was no saint.

My passions, my temper,—my real nature—was
not to be hid from her, and when the applauses
of others filled her ears—when her friends eulogized
my virtues, and congratulated her on her
good fortune, in the possession of such a saint,—
she only wept. She was no more to be flattered
into happiness, than she was to be deceived
by externals. She could not conceal her convictions
and feelings from me. Long did she strive
to do so, but her Christian spirit triumphed. She
revealed to me the extent of her discoveries, her
fears, her wretchedness,—she implored me to repent
in sincerity, or, at least, to forbear the profession
which could only be dishonored by my
hypocrisy. She did not use this language, but
this was the substance of what she said. She
employed the gentlest forms of speech, such as
were dictated by a still devoted heart and an
ardent passion. But I flung her from me. She
had doubly offended me, as she had discovered
my secret, and, in doing so, had shewn me that
the love which she bore for me, did not amount
to the adoration which alone I sought. My desires
were of that imperious sort, that would admit
of nothing qualifying in the homage which I
received. The whole heart for me, or none,—
and it must be a thoroughly confiding heart, a
perfect faith, never questioning, always submitting,
always assured—with the old-time loyalty of
the serf—that the king could do no wrong. I
flung her from me,—it was the Sabbath,—and,
proceeding to my pulpit, I made the high ceilings
echo again with the intensity of my exhortations.
I was never more eloquent. I was stung, provoked,
exasperated,—and, at such moments, my
vehemence was a torrent that defied all let or
hindrance. But my wife went not with me.
From that day forth she was never more an auditor
of mine. She prayed at home—in secret,
and, I well knew, that her prayers were for me.
But her firmness vexed me. Her superiority
wounded me. Her keenness of remark annoyed
me. She was no longer to be deceived; and,
whatever might be her external bearing—and it
was exemplary,—I felt that, though, perhaps, secure
of her obedience,—I was no longer secure
of her respect.

Thus passed several months, and, with my
domestic relations such as I have described
them,—the constraints of my public career became
more irksome. The redeeming circumstances
by which I had been consoled, the applause
and admiration—though not by any means
lessened,—began to stale upon my estimation.
The field was a confined one—the audience
was the same—I had already heard their wonder
—it no longer gave me pleasure. It no longer rewarded
my eloquence or stimulated my exertions.
I felt, more and more, with the progress of every
day, the intensest cravings for my freedom. That
denied, what was all in possession? The passion
grew to morbidness, and, but for one event, the

catastrophe which finally happened, would at once
have taken place. My wife brought me a child,
a fine, fair son, that, for the time, by appealing to
the more ordinary human feeling, reconciled me
somewhat to the restraints of my position. Caressing
him, I felt how sweet it was to be a father.
My wife seized the moment when she saw me
most tenderly engaged in fondling him, to renew
her entreaties and exhortations,—and so meekly,
so tenderly, so like an angel,—that, had my passions
been less like that of a demon, I must have
been overcome. I answered her gloomily, almost
fiercely, and left the room. It is not easy for you
to imagine my feelings from this slight survey of
my position. No man, whatever be his nature,
feels quite at ease in daily communion of the most
confiding and affectionate character, with those
whom he defrauds. Such was the relation in
which I stood with my flock. Besides, mine was
a diseased nature, and the fraud was one of the
most extreme and vital character. Every encounter
with my congregation was productive of
a struggle, and you may suppose many more
struggles of conscience and prudence must have
grown out of a position which exposed me to some
of the most peculiar temptations. The office
which I held is one of peculiar and scarcely limitable
privileges and powers. The trial must be a
great one, even where the professor is a really
good man, conscious only of the best purposes.
What was mine? That I yielded—that I did not
always struggle,—that I frequently abused my
trust, you may conjecture—it is not for me to relate.
But, usually, the vicious man, if busy without,
in a practice which wrongs his neighbor, is
not often met at home with those rebukes and reproaches,
on that account, which he does not hear
abroad. If he himself does not offend against his
wife, she is very apt, readily, to forgive his offences
against others. Not so, mine! Her love
for me, based originally on her convictions of my
piety, was not sufficient to keep her silent when
my secret was in her possession. Her love for
purity was greater. Her loyalty to God was
superior to that which she felt for me; and for
this, I was indignant. Half-formed calculations,
plans and purposes, of remedy and relief, began
to fill my brain; and, at this time, had my sermons
been scanned by a suspicious judgment, they
would have been found distinguished by a tone of
bitterness and sarcasm, if not contempt, which, addressed
as they were to my audience, would have
tended, in no great degree, to render them satisfied
either with their seats or my eloquence. It was
then, too, that I amused myself at their expense,
with those nonsense sermons, of which
I have already given you some idea. You may
imagine it did not increase my estimate of the
value of their judgments, even when shown in
my own eulogies, when I found them particularly
delighted with these specimens of rigmarole.
Having reached this stage, can you not guess the
rest? Having gained all that I could gain by the
constraints which I had put upon my nature—
having found these gains unsatisfactory, if not
worthless—what had I to bind me to my home?
My wife pitied rather than loved me, and the
flock by which I might have been loved, was the
object of my own scorn and dislike. I left them,
—and, with a sense of joy in my new found
liberty, which I should find myself at a loss for
language to describe. You cannot conceive the
satisfaction which I felt in writing a farewell
letter to the heads of the church. I revenged
myself in that for long months of bondage. I
filled it with passages of most withering scorn.
I avowed my own hypocrisy, but reminded them
of theirs, and asserted my better claims to God's
favor, by the very proceeding by which, in the
estimation of the world, I had renounced God
himself—namely, my resignation from a station
to which, as I alleged, scarcely one of us had any
proper pretensions. That I had ceased to be a
hypocrite, was a sufficient reason to hope for my
final regeneration as an honest man. This step
was taken in connection with several others. I
renounced home, and wife, and child, at the same
moment. It was some proof, perhaps, that I was
not utterly reckless, when I felt unwilling any
longer to look them in the face. I had means,—
I had money,—and, passing to New Orleans, I
found an element of sufficient elasticity for my
moral nature, in its various theatres of pleasure
and dissipation. I took ample revenge for my
long abstinence. I drank—I gamed—and, to
make a long story short, I am here! You look
at me with horror! Hear me! I believe there
is a God, and I believe there is a devil. We are
the subjects of one or the other, and if one rejects
our services, as not worthy of him, it is scarcely
possible to suppose that the other will not have
need of them. We cannot well war with the
direction given us. Miracles may do much, but
there is little wisdom in waiting for them. I
would hope if I could—but I despair. I toil with
the conviction that I am a doomed man—doomed
from my birth. The appalling feeling is over
me, that under this doom I will perish—perish
forever! That this high spirit is utterly outcast
—that this high thought, which I have betrayed,
and this glorious mind which I have defrauded
of its privileges, and degraded to evil purposes—
will become extinct. I shudder with the thought
of annihilation, since it is only the hope of immortality
that moves the moral, and satisfies the
intellectual nature. You see that I do not exult
in this depravation. You see that I relate the
story of the past without pleasure! That I suffer!
That I feel the folly and the sin of all that
miserable boy-career, begun in narrow schemes,
and finishing in shocking perversion. You ask
why I do not change—why I stubbornly live in
sin—why I do not regret, repent, retrieve? What
if I tell you of my tears, my prayers, my repentance?
I do weep! I do repent! But what is
repentance that does nothing but weep? This is
mine! I do nothing! My repentance is without
results! I cannot pray—I cannot toil—in any
work of good! There is a terrible power that
denies me—that keeps me back from the very
first performances of repentance! I dare not
ask what is this power! I only feel that its presence
is upon me, baffling my purpose, and
mocking at all my hopes! It never can be withdrawn!
I am not suffered to approach the
throne of God—I am doomed, utterly doomed of
heaven!”

Thus ended this extraordinary narrative. The
speaker had risen, long before he came to the
close, under the exciting character of what he
said. He now sat down, but, suddenly, again
rose to his feet, as if to depart. There had been
a very decided and remarkable change in his appearance,
during its progress. At the beginning,
his features had been marked by a good-humored
indifference, a sort of easy, careless, good-natured
recklessness, which half reconciled me to
a person, against whom my prejudices were naturally
strong at first. But, as he proceeded, he
became excited in his narrative, and very soon
illustrated, by his example, the characteristic of
intensity, which he insisted upon as so prominent
in his temperament. At the close, and when he

pronounced those scarcely coherent, but very
solemn sentences, with which he abruptly finished
his narrative, his features grew dark. There
was a wild and troubled expression in his eyes,
which were sombre and restless, as some deep
pool which secret fires are troubling. His lips
were parted and the corners drooped, while his
breast labored with emotions, which must have
aptly corresponded with those which his words
expressed. The awful thoughts which had fallen
from him, if really entertained, were well calculated
to awaken the most fearful agonies in his
breast. To what a dreadful approach had he
come! Upon what a precipice did he stand;
and how wretched and demoniac the sort of
philosophy from which he proposed to draw his
consolation. We may suppose that when Lucifer
broke finally with Heaven, and had no more
hope, that he consoled himself by some such
philosophy. He was not in the mood, nor I in
the vein, for farther conversation. At such a moment,
any attempt at exhortation on my part,
would have been as injudicious as impertinent.
We walked together for a space in silence. I
need not say how much my respect for this unhappy
person had increased, from hearing his
story. I say respect,—because it was now evident
to me, that his position and practices were
not such as were agreeable to him. He was
wretched, and the worm of remorse was already
busy at his vitals. In this was my hope on his
behalf, though it was evidently not his own.
There is some hope for the sinner who is miserable,—none
for him who is insensible. As we
reached the place where he had joined me and
we were about to separate, he turned to me,—
and said warningly:

“I had forgotten! Be cool, be cautious, in
what you design. Do nothing hastily! Bud
Halsey already suspects you, and he is master
here. His brother can do nothing. Be warned!
I would befriend you.”

“What mean you?” I demanded.

“Nothing but what I have said. It is what
you mean, that is the question. Bud Halsey has
noticed your discontent. He suspects its cause.
He suspects you, your wife, his brother! He has
his eye upon you all. Beware!”

He disappeared in another instant, and, musing
upon what he said, I made my way homewards.