CHAPTER IV. The Miser's children.
It will scarcely be supposed that, with the passion
of covetousness gnawing at my heart, I had
space or convenience for any other feeling. But
Abram Skinner had loved his children; and to this
passion I was introduced, as well as to the other.
At first I was surprised that I should bestow the
least regard upon them, seeing that they were no
children of mine. I endeavoured to shake off the
feeling of attachment, as an absurdity, but could
not; in spite of myself, I found my spirit yearning
towards them; and by-and-by, having lost my
identity entirely, I could scarcely, even when I
made the effort, recall the consciousness that I
was not their parent in reality.
Indeed, the transformation that had now occurred
to my spirit was more thorough than it had
been in either previous instance; I could scarce
convince myself I had not been born the being I
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represented; my past existence began to appear to
my reflections only as some idle dream, that the
fever of sickness had brought upon my mind; and
I forgot that I was, or had been, Sheppard Lee.
Yes, reader, I was now Abram Skinner in all
respects, and I loved his children, as he had done
before me. In entering his body, I became, as I
have mentioned repeatedly before, the subject of
every peculiarity of being that marked the original
possessor: without which, indeed, the great experiment
my destiny permitted me to make of the
comparative good and evil of different spheres of
existence, must have been made in vain. What my
prototype hated I was enforced to hate; what he
loved I found myself compelled in like manner to
love. While moving in the bodies of John H.
Higginson and I. D. Dawkins, I do not remember
that I experienced any affection for anybody; which
happened, doubtless, because these individuals confined
their affections to their own persons. Abram
Skinner, on the contrary, loved his children; which
I suppose was owing to their being the worst children
that ever tormented a parent. He loved them,
and so did I; he pondered with bitterness over the
ingratitude of their tempers, and the profligacy of
their lives, and I—despite all my attempts to the
contrary—did the same. I forgot, at last, that I
was not their parent, and my feelings showed me
that I was; and I found in the anguish that attacked
my spirit, when I thought of them, one of the
modes in which Heaven visits with retribution the
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worshipper of the false god of the country. When
the votary of Mammon has propitiated his deity,
let him count the children he has sacrificed upon
his altar. Avarice, as well as wrath, sows the
storm only to reap the whirlwind.
I am growing serious upon this subject, but I
cannot help it. This portion of my history dwells
on my remembrance with gloom; it keeps me
moralizing over the career of my neighbours.
When I see or hear of a man who is bending all
his energies to the acquisition of a fortune, and is
already the master of his thousands, I ask, “What
has become of his sons?” or, “What will become
of them?”
With the affection for the children of Abram
Skinner that took possession of my mind, came
also a persuasion, exceedingly painful, that they
were a triad of graceless, ungrateful reprobates;
and, what was worse, there was something whispered
within me that much, if not all, the evil of their
lives and natures, was owing to the neglect in which
their parent, while engrossed with the high thought
of heaping up money, had allowed them to grow
up. The consequences of this neglect I felt as
if it had been my own act.
The first pang was inflicted by the girl Alicia,
and I felt it keenly—not, indeed, that I had any
particular parental affection for her, as doubtless I
should have had, had she not run away so opportunely.
On the contrary, a vague recollection of
my amour, and the inconstancy of her temper,
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caused my feelings in relation to her to assume a
very peculiar hue; so that I regarded her with
sentiments due as much to the jilted lover as the
injured father. But what chiefly afflicted me was
the hint she had given in the postscript of her letter,
warning me of the fatal call to be made upon
me, within two months' space, to render up an account
of my guardianship, and surrender into
the hands of that detestable Sammy Wilkins, my
late cousin, the rich legacy of her aunt Sally,
which, being chiefly in real estate, I—or rather my
prototype before me—had, without anticipating
such a catastrophe, managed so prudently that it
was now worth more than double its original value.
The thought filled me with such rage and phrensy,
that, had she been twice my daughter, I should
have rewarded her with execrations.
My quondam uncle, Mr. Samuel Wilkins of Wilkinsbury
Hall, who, it seems, received the girl as
well as he afterward did his daughter's husband,
thought fit to pay me a visit, a week after my transformation,
to confer with me on the subject; and
receiving no satisfaction, for I was in a rage and
refused to see him, sent me divers notes, proposing
a reconciliation betwixt myself and his daughter-in-law;
and these being cast into the fire, I received,
in course of time, a letter from his lawyer,
or his son Sammy's, in which I was politely asked
what were my intentions in relation to settlement,
and so forth, and so forth.
I received letters from the damsel also, but they
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went into the fire like the others; and my rage
waxing higher and higher as the time of settlement
drew nigh, I set myself to work to frame such a
guardian's account as would materially lessen the
amount of my losses.
But all was in vain; the married Alicia was at
last of age, and all I could do was to fling the
matter into the lawyers' hands, so as to keep the
money, the dear money, in my own as long as possible.
My reader may think this was not a very handsome
or reputable way of treating a daughter; but
he must recollect I was in Abram Skinner's body.
The matter was still in suit when I departed from
my borrowed flesh; but I have no doubt the execrable
Samuel Wilkins, Jr. got possession of the legacy,
as well as ten times as much to the back of it.
But this, great as was the anguish the evil inflicted,
was nothing to the pangs I suffered on account
of the two boys, Ralph and Abbot. On these I
showered—not openly, indeed, for I was crabbed
enough of temper, but in my secret heart—all the
affection such a parent could feel. But I showered
it in vain; the seeds of evil example and neglect
had taken root; the prospect of wealth had long
since turned brains untempered by education and
moral culture, and the parsimony of their parent
only drove them into profligacy of a more demoralizing
species; they were ruined in morals, in prospects,
and in reputation; and while yet upon the
threshold of manhood, they presented upon their
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brows the stamp of degradation and the warrant of
untimely graves.
The younger, Abbot, had evidently been a favourite
from his childhood up, his temper being
fierce and imperious, yet with an occasional dash
of amiableness, that showed what his disposition
might have been, if regulated by a careful and conscientious
parent. He possessed a fine figure, of
which he was vain; and being of a gay and convivial
turn, there was the stronger propensity to
dissipation, and greater fear of the consequences.
These were now lamentable enough; he was already
beyond redemption—a sot, and almost a madman.
The elder brother was a young man, to all appearance,
of a saturnine mood and staid habits; but
this was in appearance only. He was the associate
of the junior in all his scenes of frolic, and
an actor in others of which, perhaps, Abbot never
dreamed. A strong head and a spirit of craft enabled
him to conceal the effect of excesses which
sent his brother home reeling and raging with
drunkenness. I knew his habits well; and I knew
that, besides being in a fairer way to the grave—if
not to the gallows—he was a hypocrite of the
worst order; his gravity being put on to cover a
temper both fiery and malicious, and his apparent
correctness of habits being the mere cover to the
most scandalous irregularities. He was a creature
all of duplicity, and wo to the father who made
him such!
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The scene in the dying chamber of their father
they never forgot, though, perhaps, I might have
done so. It drove the younger from all attempts
at pretended regard or concealment of his profligacy,
and was, I believe, the cause of his final
ruin. He absconded, out of mere shame, for a
week, and then returned to put a bold or indifferent
face upon the matter, and to show himself as regardless
of respect as restraint.
The other, after concealing himself in like manner
for a few days, came to me, apparently in great
contrition of spirit, and almost persuaded me that
his brutal conduct on that eventful evening arose
rather from grief than joy. He had been so much
affected by my death, he assured me, as scarce to
know what he did when swallowing a glass of
brandy his brother gave him; that, he declared with
half a dozen tears, had set him crazy, and he knew
not what he had done—only he recollected something
about going to the chamber, where, he believed,
he had behaved very badly; for which he
begged my forgiveness, and hoped I would not
think his conduct was owing to any want of affecttion.
I had proof enough that the villain was telling
me falsehoods, and I knew that if either should, in
a moment of soberness and compunction, breathe
a single sigh over my death-bed, he was not the
one. In truth, they were both bad; both, perhaps,
irreclaimable; but while the conduct of Abbot
gave me most pain, that of Ralph filled me with
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constant terror. Nothing but the daily excitement
of speculation and gain could have made tolerable
an existence cursed by incessant griefs and forebodings.
It may be supposed that I frequently took the
young men to task for their excesses. I might as
well have scolded the winds for blowing, or the
waters for running. It is true that Ralph heard
me commonly with great patience, and sometimes
with apparent contrition; but at times a scowl came
over his dark features that frightened me into silence;
and once, giving way to his fierce temper,
he told me that if there was any thing amiss or disreputable
in his conduct, it was the consequence
of mine; that I, instead of granting him the means
for reasonable indulgence, and elevating him to the
station among honourable and worthy men to which
my wealth gave him a claim, and which he had a
right to expect of me, had kept him in a state of
need and vassalage intolerable to any one of his
age and spirit.
As for Abbot, this kind of recrimination was a
daily thing with him. I scarce ever saw him except
when inflamed with drink; and on such occasions
he was wont to demand money, which being
denied, he would give way to passion, and load me
with reproaches still more bitter of spirit and violent
of expression than those uttered by Ralph.
Nay, upon my charging him with being an abandoned
profligate and ruined man, he admitted the
fact, and swore that I was the author of his
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destruction; that my niggardliness had deprived him of
the opportunities that gave other young men professions
and independence; that I had brought him
up in idleness and ignorance, and, by still refusing
him his rights, was consigning him to infamy and
an early grave.
Such controversies between us were common,
and perhaps expedited the fate that was in store for
him, as well as his brother. I thought in my folly
to punish, and at the same time check his excesses,
by denying him all supplies of money, and by refusing
to pay a single debt he contracted. A deep
gloom suddenly invested him; he ceased to return
home intoxicated, but stalked into and out of the
house like a spectre, without bestowing any notice
upon me. The change frighted me; and, in alarm
lest the difficulties under which he might be placed
were driving him to desperation, I followed him to
his chamber, with almost the resolution to relieve
his wants, let them be what they might.
The absence of intoxication for several days in
succession had induced me to hope he had broken
through the accursed bondage of drink, were it only
from rage and shame. But I was fatally mistaken.
As I entered the apartment I saw him place upon
the table a large case-bottle of brandy, which he
had just taken from a buffet. He looked over his
shoulder as I stepped in, and, without regarding
me, proceeded to pour a large draught into a tumbler.
His hand was tremulous, and, indeed, shook
so much, that the liquor was spilt in the
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operation. I was shocked at the sight, and struck dumb;
seeing which he laughed, with what seemed to me
as much triumph as derision, and said, “You see!
This is the way we go it. Your health, father.
Come, help yourself; don't stand on ceremony.”
“I, Abbot!” said I, as he swallowed the vile potion;
“have you neither respect nor shame? I
never drank such poison in my life!”
“The more is the pity,” muttered the young
man, but rather as if speaking to himself than me;
“I should have had the sooner and freer swing of it.”
“You mean if it had killed me, as it is killing
you,” said I, pierced by the heartlessness of his
expression. “Oh, Abbot! a judgment will come
upon you yet!”
He stared me in the face, but without making a
reply. Then pushing a chair towards me, he sat
down himself, and deliberately filled his glass a
second time.
“Abbot! for Heaven's sake,” said I, wringing
my very hands in despair, “what will tempt you to
quit this horrid practice?”
“Nothing,” said he; “you have asked the question
a month too late. Look,” he continued, pointing
my attention again to his hand, shaking, as it
held the bottle, as if under the palsy of age; “do
you know what that means?”
“What does it mean?” said I, so confounded
by the sight and his stolid merriment (for he laughed
again while exposing the fruit of his degrading
habit) that I scarce knew what I said.
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“It means,” said he, “that death is coming, to
make equitable division betwixt Ralph and Alicia—
unless the devil, after all, should carry them off before
me; in which case you can build an hospital
with your money.”
He swallowed the draught, and then, leaning on
the table, buried his face between his hands.
The sarcasm was not lost upon me, and the idea
that he was about to become the victim of a passion
from which he might be wrested by a sacrifice on
my part, greatly excited my feelings.
“I will do any thing,” said I; “what shall I do
to save you? Oh, Abbot! can you not refrain from
this dreadful indulgence? What shall I do?”
He leaped upon his feet, and eyed me with a
look full of wildness.
“Pay my debts,” he cried; “pay my debts, and
make me independent; and I—I'll try.”
“And what,” said I, trembling with fear, “what
sum will pay your debts?”
“Twenty thousand—perhaps,” said he.
“Twenty thousand! what! twenty thousand
dollars!” cried I, lost in confusion.
“You won't, then?” said the reprobate.
“Not a cent!” cried I, in a fury. “How came
you to owe such a sum? Do you think I will believe
you? How could you incur such a debt?
What have you been doing?”
“Gambling, drinking, and so forth, and so forth,
twenty times over.”
He snatched up the bottle, and, locking it in the
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buffet, deposited the key in his pocket. Then
seizing upon his hat, and stepping to where I stood,
transfixed with grief and indignation, he said,—
“You won't take the bargain, then?”
“Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!” said I.
“Not even to save my life, father?”
“Not a dollar, not a dime, not a cent!” I reiterated,
incapable of saying another word.
“Farewell then,” said he, “and good luck to
you! It is a declaration of war, and now I'll keep
no terms with you.”
Then giving me a look that froze my blood, it
was so furiously hostile and vindictive, he struck
his hands together, rushed from the house, and I
saw him no more for nearly a fortnight. I saw him
no more, as I said; but coming home the following
evening from the club, I found my strong-box broken
open and rifled of the money that I left in it.
The sum was indeed but small, but the robbery
had been perpetrated by my own son; and the
reader, if he be a father, will judge what effect this
discovery produced upon my mind. In good truth,
I felt now that I was the most wretched of human
beings, and was reduced nearly to distraction.
But this blow was but a buffet with the hand, compared
with the thunder-bolt that fate was preparing
to launch against my bosom. I cursed my miserable
lot; yet it wanted one more stroke of misfortune
to sever the chain with which avarice still
bound me to my condition.
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CHAPTER V. The fate of the firstborn.
On the eleventh day after the flight of Abbot,
whom all my inquiries failed to discover, as I was
walking towards the exchange, torn by my domestic
woes, and by a threatened convulsion in stocks,
which concerned me very nearly, I met one of my
companions of the club, who, noting my disturbed
countenance, drew me aside, and told me he was
sorry I had got my foot into the fire; but the club
had last night taken the matter into consideration,
and agreed to stand by me, if it were possible.
All this was heathen Greek to me; and I told my
friend I was in no trouble I knew of, and wanted
no countenance from anybody.
“I am very glad to hear it,” said he; “but what
are you doing with so much paper in the market?
That's no good sign, you'll allow!”
I started aghast, and he proceeded to inform me
that he had himself seen two of my notes for considerable
amounts, and had heard of others; and,
finally, that he had just, parted with the president
(an intimate friend of his) of a bank not a furlong
off, who had asked divers questions as to the state
of my affairs, and admitted there was paper of mine
at that moment in the bank.
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I was seized with consternation, assured him all
such notes must be forgeries; and running with
him to the bank, demanded to see any paper they
had with my name to it. They produced two different
notes for large amounts, which I instantly
declared to be counterfeit; and then ran in search
of others.
The hubbub created by this declaration was
great, but the tumult in my mind was greater. A
horrid suspicion as to the author of the forgeries
entered my soul, and I became so deadly sick as to
be unable to prosecute the inquisition further. My
friend deposited me in a coach, and I was carried
to my home, but in a condition more dead than
alive. My suspicions were in a few hours dreadfully
confirmed by my friend, who returned with
the intelligence which he had acquired. The forger
was discovered and arrested—it was the elder
brother, Ralph Skinner.
Words cannot paint the agony with which I flew
to the magistrate's office, and beheld the unfortunate
youth in the hands of justice; but what was
my horror to discover the extent and multiplicity
of his frauds. The number of forgeries he had
committed in his parent's name was indeed enormous;
and it seems he had committed them with
the intention of flying; for many of his guilty gains
were found secreted on his person. But even after
so much had been recovered, the residue to be
refunded was appalling. The thought of making
restitution drove me almost to a phrensy, while the
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idea of seeing him carried to jail, to meet the doom
of a felon, was equally distracting. My misery
was read on my face; and some one present, perhaps
with a motive of humanity, cried out,
“Why persecute the young man? Here is his
father, who acknowledges the notes to be genuine.”
“Ah,” said the magistrate, “does he so? Why,
then we have had much foolish trouble for nothing.”
I looked at the amount of the forgeries, a list of
which some one put into my hands.
“It is false,” I cried; “I will not pay a cent!”
I cast my eyes upon Ralph. He reached over
a table behind which he stood, and waved his hand
to and fro, as if, had he been nigh enough, he would
have buffeted me on the face. His look was that
of a demon, and he spat the foam from his lips, as if
to testify the extremity of hatred.
“Let him go,” I cried; “I will pay it all!”
“You can undoubtedly do so, if you will,” said
the magistrate, who had marked the malice that
beamed from the visage of the young man; “but do
not dream that that will discharge the prisoner from
arrest, or from the necessity of answering the felony
of which he now stands accused, before a court
and jury. The extent of the forgeries, and the
temper displayed by the accused, are such, that he
must and shall abide the fruits of his delinquency.
He stands committed—officer, remove him.”
I heard no more; my brain spun round and
round, and I was again carried insensible to my
miserable dwelling.
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CHAPTER VI. The catastrophe of a tragedy often performed on the great stage of life.
It may be supposed that the misery now weighing
me to the earth was as much as could be imposed
upon me; but I was destined to find, and
that before the night was over, that misery is only
comparative, and that there is no affliction so positively
great that greater may not be experienced.
In the dead of the night, when my woes had at
last been drowned in slumber, I was roused by
feeling a hand pressing upon my bosom; and,
starting up, I saw, for there was a taper burning
on a table hard by, a man standing over me, holding
a pillow in his hand, which, the moment I
caught sight of him, he thrust into my face, and
there endeavoured to hold it, as if to suffocate me.
The horror of death endowed me with a strength
not my own, and the ruffian held the pillow with
a feeble and trembling arm. I dashed it aside,
leaped up in the bed, and beheld in the countenance
of the murderer the features of the long missing
and abandoned son, Abbot Skinner.
His face was white and chalky, with livid
stains around the eyes and mouth, the former of
which were staring out of their orbits in a manner
ghastly to behold, while his lips were drawn
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asunder and away from his teeth, as in the face of a
mummy. He looked as if horror-struck at the
act he was attempting; and yet there was something
devilish and determined in his air, that increased
my terror to ecstasy. I sprang from the
bed, threw myself on the floor, and, grasping his
knees, besought him to spare my life. There
seemed indeed occasion for all my supplications:
his bloated and altered visage, the neglected appearance
of his garments and person, and a thousand
other signs, showed that the whole period of
his absence had been passed in excessive toping,
and the murderous and unnatural act which he
meditated manifested to what a pitch of phrensy
he had brought himself by the indulgence.
As I grasped his knees, he put his hand into his
bosom, and drew out a poniard, a weapon I had
never before known him to carry; at the sight of
which I considered myself a dead man. But the
love of life still prevailing, I leaped up, and ran to
a corner of the room, where I mingled adjurations
and entreaties with loud screams for assistance.
He stood as if rooted to the spot for a moment;
then dropping his horrid weapon, he advanced a
few paces, clasped his hands together, fell upon
his knees, and burst into tears, and all the while
without having uttered a single word. But now,
my cries still continuing, he exclaimed, but with a
most wild and disturbed look—“Father, I won't
hurt you, and pray don't hurt me!”
By this time the housekeeper Barbara, having
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been alarmed by my outcries, came into the chamber;
and her presence relieving me of the immediate
fear of death, I gave vent to the horror that
his unnatural attempt on my life justly excited, and
thus made the woman acquainted with his baseness.
The poor old creature, who had always loved
him, was greatly affected, especially when, in reply
to my reproaches, he began to talk incoherently,
admitting the fact, one instant attempting to justify
it by preferring some strange and incoherent complaint,
and the next assuring me, in the most piteous
manner, that he would do me no harm. To
Barbara's upbraidings he replied with a like inconsistency;
and when she reproached him for meditating
violence at such a moment, while I was
mourning the baseness of his brother, he paid little
attention to what she said, seeming not only ignorant
of Ralph's delinquency, but apparently indifferent
to it.
For this reason I began to fear his brain was
touched; of which, indeed, I had soon the most
fatal proof; for Barbara, having led him to his
chamber, came back, assuring me that he was
going mad, that his mind was already in a ferment,
and, in a word, that that horrible distraction which
sooner or later overtakes the confirmed drinker, was
lighting the torch in his brain that could only go
out with life itself. A physician was sent for: our
fears were but too just, and before dawn the miserable
youth was raving distracted.
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The day that followed was one of distraction,
not only to the wretched Abbot, but to myself;
and I remember it as a confused dream. The
only thing that dwells on my recollection, apart
from the outcries in Abbot's chamber and the
tumult in my own heart, is, that some one who
owed me a sum of money, due that day, came and
paid it into my hands with great punctiliousness,
and that I received and wrote the acquittance for it
with as much accuracy as if nothing were the matter,
though my thoughts were far from the subject
before me.
At eleven o'clock at night a messenger came
to me from the prison, and his news was indeed
frightful. The wretched Ralph had just been discovered
with his throat cut from ear to ear, having
made way with himself in despair.
A few moments after I was summoned to the
death-bed of his brother.
I shall never forget the horror of that young
man's dissolution. He lay, at times, the picture
of terror, gazing upon the walls, along which, in
his imagination, crept myriads of loathsome reptiles,
with now some frightful monster, and now a
fire-lipped demon, stealing out of the shadows and
preparing to dart upon him as their prey. Now he
would whine and weep, as if asking forgiveness
for some act of wrong done to the being man is
most constant to wrong—the loving, the feeble, the
confiding; and anon, seized by a tempest of passion,
the cause of which could only be imagined,
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he would start up, fight, foam at the mouth, and fall
back in convulsions. Once he sat up in bed, and,
looking like a corpse, began to sing a bacchanalian
song; on another occasion, after lying for many
minutes in apparent stupefaction, he leaped out of
bed before he could be prevented, and, uttering a
yell that was heard in the street, endeavoured to
throw himself from the window.
But the last raving act of all was the most horrid.
He rose upon his knees with a strength that could
not be resisted, caught up his pillow, thrust it down
upon the bed with both hands, and there held it,
with a grim countenance and a chuckling laugh.
None understood the act but myself: no other
could read the devilish thoughts then at work in
his bosom. It was the scene enacted in the chamber
of his parent—he was repeating the deed of
murder—he was exulting, in imagination, over a
successful parricide.
In this thought he expired; for while still pressing
upon the pillow with a giant's strength, he
suddenly fell on his face, and when turned over
was a corpse. He gave but a single gasp, and was
no more.
The horror of the spectacle drove me from the
chamber, and I ran to my own to fall down and
die; when the blessed thought entered my mind,
that the wo on my spirit, the anguish, the distraction,
were but a dream—that my very existence,
as the miser and broken-hearted father, was a phantasm
rather than a reality, since it was a borrowed
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existence—and that it was in my power to exchange
it, as I had done other modes of being, for a better.
I was Sheppard Lee, not Abram Skinner; and this
was but a voluntary episode in my existence, which
I was at liberty to terminate.
The thought was rapture. I resolved to sally
out and fasten upon the first body I could find,
being certain I could be in none so miserable as I
had been in that I now inhabited. Nay, the idea
was so agreeable, the execution of it seemed to
promise such certain release from a load of wretchedness,
that I resolved to attempt it without even
waiting for morning.
I seized upon my hat and cloak, and, for fear I
might stumble into some poor man's body, as I had
done in the case of Dawkins's, I opened my strong-box,
and clapped into my pockets all the money it
contained, designing to take precautionary measures
to transfer it along with my spirit to the new
tenement. I seized upon the loaned money that
had been repaid that day, together with a small sum
that had been in the box before; and, had there been
a million in the coffer, I should have nabbed it all,
without much question of the right I actually possessed
in it. The whole sum was small, not exceeding
four hundred dollars, all being in bank-bills.
I should have been glad of more, but was too eager
to exchange my vile casing, with its miseries,
for a better, to think of waiting till bank-hours next
day.
Taking possession, therefore, of this sum, and
-- 024 -- p016-327
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a dozen silver spoons that had been left in pledge
a few days before, I hastened to put my plan into
execution. I slipped down stairs, let myself out of
the door as softly as if I had been an intruder, and
set out, in a night of February, to search for a new
body.
CHAPTER VII. In which it is shown that a man may be more useful after death than while living.
The reflection that I possessed the power (already
thrice successfully exercised) to transfer my
spirit, whenever I willed it, from one man's body
to another, and so get rid of any afflictions that
might beset me, was highly agreeable, and, under
the present circumstances, consolatory. But there
was one drawback to my satisfaction; and that was
a discovery which I now made, that men's bodies
were not to be had every day, at a moment's warning.
This was the more provoking, as I knew there
was no lack of them in the world, between eighty
and ninety thousand men, women, and children
having given up the ghost in the natural way that
very day, whose corses would be on the morrow
consigned to miserable holes in the earth, where
they could and would be of no service to any person
or persons whatever, the young doctors only
excepted.
-- 025 --
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And here I cannot help observing, that it is an
extremely absurd practice thus to dispose of—to
squander and throw away, as I may call it—the
hosts of human bodies that are annually falling
dead upon our hands; whereas, with the least management
in the world, they might be converted into
objects of great usefulness and value.
According to the computation of philosophers,
the population of the world may be reckoned in
round numbers at just one thousand millions; of
which number the annual mortality, at the low rate
of three in a hundred, is thirty millions—and that
without counting the extra million or two knocked
on the head in the wars. Let us see what benefit
might be derived from a judicious disposition of this
mountain of mortality—I say mountain, for it is
plain such a number of bodies heaped together
would make a Chimborazo. The great mass of
mankind might be made to subserve the purpose
for which nature designed them, namely—to enrich
the soil from which they draw their sustenance.
According to the economical Chinese method, each
of these bodies could be converted into five tons of
excellent manure; and the whole number would
therefore produce just one hundred and fifty millions
of tons; of which one hundred and fifty thousand,
being their due proportion, would fall to the
share of the United States of America, enabling
our farmers, in the course of ten or twelve years, to
double the value of their lands. This, therefore,
would be a highly profitable way of disposing of
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
the mass of mankind. Such a disposition of their
bodies would prove especially advantageous among
American cultivators in divers districts, as a remedy
against bad agriculture, and as the only means of
handing down their fields in good order to their descendants.
Such a disposition of bodies should be
made upon every field of victory, so that dead heroes
might be made to repair some of the mischiefs
inflicted by live ones. The English farmers, it is
well known, made good use of the bones left on
the field of Waterloo; and though they would have
done much better had they carried off the flesh
with them, they did enough to show that war may
be reckoned a good as well as an evil, and a great
battle looked upon as a public blessing. A similar
disposition (to continue the subject) of their mortal
flesh might be, with great propriety, required, in
this land, of all politicians and office-holders, from
the vice-president down to the county collector;
who, being all patriots, would doubtless consent to
a measure that would make them of some use to
their country. As for the president, we would have
him reserved for a nobler purpose; we would have
him boiled down to soap, according to the plan recommended
by the French chymists, to be used by
his successor in scouring the constitution and the
minds of the people.
In this manner, I repeat, the great bulk of human
bodies could be profitably appropriated; but other
methods should be taken with particular classes of
men, who might claim a more distinguished and
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
canonical disposition of their bodies. The rich and
tender would esteem it a cruelty to be disposed of
in the same way with the multitude. I would advise,
therefore, that their bodies should be converted
into adipocire, or spermaceti, to be made into
candles, to be burnt at the tops of the lamp-posts;
whereby those who never shone in life might scintillate
as the lights of the public for a week or two
after. Their bones might be made into rings and
whistles, for infant democrats to cut their teeth on.
The French and Italian philosophers, as I have
learned from the newspapers, have made sundry
strange, and, as I think, useful discoveries, in relation
to the practicability of converting the human
body into different mineral substances. One man
changes his neighbour's bones into fine glass; a
second turns the blood into iron; while a third,
more successful still, transforms the whole body
into stone. If these things be true, and I have no
reason to doubt them, seeing that I found them, as
I said before, in the newspapers, they offer us new
modes of appropriation, applicable to the bodies of
other interesting classes. Lovers might thus be
converted into jewels, which, although false, could
be worn with less fear of losing them than happens
with living inamoratos; or, in case of extreme grief
on the part of the survivers, into looking-glasses,
where the mourners would find a solace in the contemplation
of their own features. The second process,
namely, the conversion of blood into iron,
would be peculiarly applicable in the case of
-- 028 -- p016-331
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
soldiers too distinguished to be cast into corn-fields;
and, indeed, nothing could be more natural than
that those whose blood we buy with gold, should
pay us back our change in iron. The last discovery
could be turned to equal profit, and would do
away with the necessity of employing statuaries in
all cases where their services are now required.
But I would confine the process of petrifaction to
those in whom Nature had indicated its propriety by
beginning the process herself. None could with
greater justice claim to have their bodies turned
into stone, than those whose hearts were of the
same material; and I should propose, accordingly,
that such a transformation of bodies should be made
only in the case of tyrants, heroes, duns, and critics.
But this subject, though often reflected on, I
have had no leisure to digest properly. For which
reason, begging the reader's pardon for the digression,
I shall now leave it, and resume my story.
CHAPTER VIII. Sheppard Lee's search for a body. —An uncommon incident.
I was provoked, I say, to think there were so
many millions of dead bodies thrown away every
year, for which I, in the greatest of my difficulties,
should be none the better. Such was the extremity
to which I was reduced, that I should have
been content to change conditions with a beggar.
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
It was a night in February. The day had been
uncommonly fine, with a soft southern air puffing
through the streets; the frost was oozing from the
pavement, and the flags—I beg their pardon, the
bricks—were floating in the yellow mud, so that
one walked as if upon a foundation of puddings.
Such had been the state of things in the day; such
also as late as at nine o'clock P. M.
But it was now eleven; the wind had chopped
round to the northwest and northeast, and perhaps
some half a dozen other points beside, for it seemed
to blow in all directions, and the thermometer
was galloping downward towards zero. A savage
snow-storm had just set in, and with such sharp
and piercing gusts of wind, and such fierce rattling
of hail, that, had not my mind been in a ferment, I
should have hesitated to expose myself to its fury.
But I reflected that I was flying from wo and
terror; and the hope of diving into some body that
might introduce me to a life of sunshine, rendered
me insensible to the rigours of the tempest.
Having stumbled about in the snow for a while,
I began to inquire of myself whither I was going;
and the answer, or rather the want of an answer,
somewhat confounded me. Where was I to look for
a dead body, at such a time of night? It occurred
to me I had better refer to a newspaper, and see
what persons had lately died in town and were
yet unburied. I stepped accordingly into a barber's
shop, that happened to be open, and snatched
up an evening paper. The first paragraph I laid
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
my eyes on contained an account of the forgeries
of my son, Ralph Skinner. It was headed Unheard-of
Depravity, and it blazoned, in italics and
capitals, the crime, the unnatural crime of committing
frauds in the name of a father.
The shock with which I beheld the fatal publication
renewed my horror, and sharpened my desire
to end it. I threw down the paper, without
consulting the column of obituaries, and ran towards
the Hospital, where, it appeared to me, I
should certainly find one or more bodies which
the doctors had no longer occasion for. But my
visit was at a highly unseasonable hour, and the
porter, being knocked out of a comfortable nap, got
up in an ill humour. “Whose cow's dead now?”
I heard him grumble from his lodge—“I wonder
people can't break their necks by daylight!”
But my neck was not broken; and he listened to
my eager inquiry—“whether there were no dead
bodies in the house?”—with rage and indignation.
“I tell you what, mister,” said he, “we takes
no mad people in here, except they comes the
regular way,”
And with that he shut the door in my face, leaving
me to wonder at his want of civility.
But the air was growing more frigid every moment,
and the hour was waxing later and later. I
ran to the Alms-house, not doubting, as that was a
more democratic establishment, that I should be
there received with greater respect. But good-breeding
is not a whit more native to a leather shirt
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
than to a silk stocking. My Cerberus here was cut
from the same flint as the other; his civility had
been learned in the same school, and his English
studied from the same grammar.
“I tell you what, uncle Barebones,” said he,
without waiting to be questioned, “we takes no
paupers here, except they comes with an order.”
And so saying, he slapped to the door with an energy
that dislodged from the roof of his den a full
hundred weight or more of snow, which fell in my
face, and had wellnigh smothered me.
The case began to look desperate; but the difficulty
of finding what I wanted only rendered my
wits more active. I resolved to run to one of the
medical schools, make my way into its anatomical
repositories, and help myself to the best body I
could find; for, indeed, I was in such a rage of
desire to be released from my present tenement,
that I did not design to stand upon trifles.
I set out accordingly, with this object in view;
but fate willed I should seek my fortune in another
quarter.
The storm had by this time begun to rage with
uncommon violence; the winds were blowing like
so many buglers and trumpeters on a militia-day,
and the snow that had already fallen was whisked
up every moment from the ground, and driven back
again into the air, to mingle in contention with that
which was falling. The atmosphere was thickened,
or rather wholly displaced, by the whirling
particles, so that, in a short time, the
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
wayfarer could neither see nor breathe in the white
chaos around him. It was, in truth, a savage, inclement
night. The watchman betook him to his
box, to snooze away the hours in comfort; the
lamps went out, being of a spirit still more economical
than their founders, and thinking, with great
justice, that the streets which could do with them,
could do equally well without them; the dogs
were no longer heard yelping at the corners; and
the pigs—the only spectres of Philadelphia—that
run squeaking and gibbering up and down the
streets in the night, to vanish at early cock-crowing,
provided the hog-catchers are in commission,
were one by one retreating to their secret strongholds,
leaving the street to solitude, the snow-storm,
and me.
I plodded on as well as I could, and with such
effect, that, after a quarter hour's trudging, I knew
not well whither, I stopped at last, I knew as little
where. Instead of being in the heart of the city,
as I supposed, I found myself somewhere in the
suburbs, wedged fast in a snow-drift. One single
lamp, and one single wick of that single lamp, had
escaped the puffs of the tempest; it shone from
aloft, through the rack of snow, like a fire-fly in a
fog, dividing its faint beam betwixt my frozen visage
and a low open shed hard by, the only objects,
beside itself, that were visible.
I perceived that I was lost; and being more than
half dead with cold, I dragged myself into the shed,
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
to shelter me from the fury of the storm, and lament
the ill fate that attended my efforts.
As I stepped into the wretched hole, I stumbled
over a man lying coiled up on the ground, and so
exposed to the air that his legs were already heaped
over with snow. There was just light enough
to discern a black jug lying broken at his side, from
which arose the odour of corn-juice, but by no means
of the true Monongahela savour.
I was struck by the fellow's appearance; he had
evidently been lying there all the evening; the
stumble I had made over him did not disturb him
in the least, and my hand chancing to touch his face,
I found it could as marble. I perceived he was dead;
a discovery that filled me with uncommon joy; for
my eagerness to change my condition was such, that
I only saw in him a body to be taken possession of,
without reading in the broken jug, and the miserable
corner in which its victim had breathed his last,
the newer wretchedness and degradation upon
which I was rushing. Such is the short-sightedness
of discontent; such the folly of the man who
deems himself the unluckiest of his species.
With a trembling hand I thrust into the pockets
of the corse the money and the silver spoons I had
brought with me, being so far prudent that I was
resolved not to trust the transfer of such valuables
to my new body to accident. This being accomplished,
I uttered the wish that had thrice served my
turn before.
I wished, however, in vain; I muttered the
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
charm a dozen times over, but with no more effect
than if I had pronounced it to the lamp-post. The
body lay unmoved, and I remained unchanged.
I became horribly disconcerted; a fear seized
me that my good angel, if I had ever had one, had
deserted me; or that the devil, if it was from him
I derived my power of passing from body to body,
had suddenly left me in the lurch;—in a word, that
I had consumed all my privileges of transformation,
and was chained to the body of Abram Skinner
for life.
I beat my breast in despair, and then, changing
from that to wrath, I began to belabour the ribs of
the dead man with all the strength of my foot, as
if he were answerable for my disappointment.
Perhaps, indeed, the reader will think that he was;
for at the third kick the corpse became animated,
and to my astonishment rose upon its feet, saying,
in accents tolerably articulate, though somewhat
thick and tumultuous, “I say, Charlie, odd rabbit
it, none on your jokes now, and none on your takin
of folks up; 'cause how, folks is not half so drunk
as you suppose. And so good night, and let's have
no more words about it, and I'll consider you werry
much of a gentleman.”
With these words the corpse picked up that fragment
of the jug that had the handle to it, leaving
the others, as well as his hat, behind him; and
staggering out of the shed, he began to walk away.
I was petrified; he was stalking off with my money,
and a dozen of Mrs. Smith's silver spoons!
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
“You villain!” said I, running after him, “give
me back my property.”
“I'm a free man,” said the sot; “I'm no man's
property. And so, Charlie, don't go for to disturb
me, for I knows my way home as well as anybody.”
“But the four hundred dollars and the silver
spoons,” said I, seizing him by the shoulders, and
endeavouring to empty the pockets I had but a
moment before filled. “If you resist, you rogue,
I'll put you in jail.”
“I won't go to jail for no Charlie in the liberty,”
said the man of the jug, who to the last moment
seemed to have no other idea than that he had fallen
into the hands of a guardian of the night, and was
in danger of being introduced to warmer quarters
than those he was leaving. He spoke with the
indignation of a freeborn republican, who felt his
rights invaded, and was resolute to defend them;
and, lifting up the fragment of his jug, he suddenly
bestowed it upon my head with such good-will that
I was felled to the earth. He took advantage of
my downfall to decamp, carrying with him the
treasure with which I had so bountifully freighted
him. I pursued him as well as I could, calling
upon the watch for assistance, and shouting murder
and robbery at the top of my voice. But all was
in vain; the watch were asleep, or I had wandered
beyond their jurisdiction; and after a ten minutes'
chase I found myself more bewildered than before,
and the robber vanished with his plunder.
-- 036 -- p016-339
CHAPTER IX. In which the Author makes the acquaintance of a philanthropist.
I should have cursed my simplicity in mistaking
a drunkard for a dead man; but I had other evils
to distress me besides chagrin. I was lost in a
snow-storm, fainting with fatigue, shivering with
cold, and afar from assistance, there not being a
single house in sight. It was in vain that I sought
to recover my way; I plunged from one snow-bank
into another; and I believe I should have actually
perished, had not succour arrived at a moment when
I had given over all hopes of receiving it.
I had just sunk down into a huge drift on the
roadside, where I lay groaning, unable to extricate
myself, when a man driving by in a chair, hearing
my lamentations, drew up, and demanded, in a most
benevolent voice, what was the matter.
“Who art thou, friend?” said he, “and what are
thy distresses? If thou art in affliction, peradventure
there is one nigh at hand who will succour
thee.”
“I am,” said I, “the most miserable wretch on
the earth.”
“Heaven be praised!” said the stranger, with
great devoutness of accent; “for in that case I will
give thee help, and the night shall not pass away
in vain. Yea, verily, I will do my best to assist
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
thee; for it is both good and pleasant, a comeliness
to the eye and a refreshment to the spirit, to do
good deeds among those who are truly wretched.”
“And besides,” said I, “I am sticking fast in
the snow, and am perishing with cold.”
“Be of good heart, and hold still for a moment,
and I will come to thy assistance.”
And with that honest Broadbrim (for such I
knew by his speech he must be) descended from
the chair, and helped me out of the drift; all which
he accomplished with zeal and alacrity, showing
not more humanity, as I thought, than satisfaction
at finding such a legitimate object for its display.
He brushed the snow from my clothes, and perceiving
I was shivering with cold, for I had lost my
cloak some minutes before, he transferred one of
his own outer garments, of which, I believe, he had
two or three, to my shoulders, plying me all the
time with questions as to how I came into such a
difficulty, and what other griefs I might have to afflict
me, and assuring me I should have his assistance.
“Hast thou no house to cover thy nakedness?”
he cried; “verily, I will find thee a place wherein
thou shalt shelter thyself from snow and from cold.
Art thou suffering from lack of food? Verily, there
is a crust of bread and the leg of a chicken yet left
in my basket of cold bits, and thou shalt have them,
with something further hereafter. Hast thou no
family or friends? Verily, there are many humane
persons of my acquaintance who will, like
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
myself, consider themselves as thy brothers and
sisters. Art thou oppressed with years as well as
poverty? Verily, then thou hast a stronger claim
to pity, and it shall be accorded thee.”
He heaped question upon question, and assurance
upon assurance, with such haste and fervour,
that it was some minutes before I could speak. I
took advantage of his first pause to detail the latest,
and, at that moment, the most oppressive of my
griefs.
“I have been robbed,” I cried, “of four hundred
dollars, and a dozen silver spoons, by a rascal I
found lying drunk under a shed. But I'll have the
villain, if it costs me the half of his plunder, and—”
“Be not awroth with the poor man,” said my
deliverer. “It was a wickedness in him to rob
thee; but thou shouldst reflect how wickedness
comes of misery, and how misery of the inclemency
of the season. Be merciful to the wicked
man, as well as to the miserable; for thereby thou
showest mercy to him who is doubly miserable.
But how didst thou come by four hundred dollars
and a dozen silver spoons? Thou canst not be
so poor as to prove an object of charity?”
“No,” said I, “I am no beggar. But I won't be
robbed for nothing.”
“Verily, I say unto thee again, be not awroth
with the poor man. Thou shouldst reflect, if thou
wert robbed, how far thou wast thyself the cause
of the evil; for, having four hundred dollars about
thee, thou mightst have relieved the poor creature's
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
wants; in which case thou wouldst have prevented
both a loss and a crime—the one on thy part, the
other on his. Talk not, therefore, of persecuting
the poor man; hunt him up, if thou canst, administer
secretly to his wants, and give him virtuous
counsel; and then, peradventure, he will sin no
more.”
I was struck by the tone and maxims of my
deliverer; they expressed an ardour of benevolence,
an enthusiasm of philanthropy, such as I
had never dreamed of before. I could not see his
face, the night being so thick and tempestuous;
but there was a complacency, a bustling self-satisfaction
in his voice, that convinced me he was not
only a good, but a happy man. I regarded him
with as much envy as respect; and a comparison,
which I could not avoid mentally making, betwixt
his condition and my own, drew from me a loud
groan.
“Art thou hurt?” said the good Samaritan. “I
will help thee into my wheeled convenience here,
and take thee to thy home.”
“No,” said I, “I will never go near that wretched
house again.”
“What is it that makes it wretched?” said the
Quaker.
“You will know, if you are of Philadelphia,” I
replied, “when I tell you my name. I am the
miserable Abram Skinner.”
“What! Abram Skinner, the money-lender?”
said my friend, with a severe voice. “Friend
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
Abram, I have heard of thy domestic calamities,
and verily I have heard of those of many others,
who laid them all at thy doors, as the author and
cause thereof. Thou art indeed the most wretched
of men; but if thou thinkest so thyself, then is
there a hope thou mayst be yet restored to happiness.
Thou hast made money, but what good hast
thou done with it? thou hast accumulated thy hundreds,
and thy thousands, and thy tens of thousands—
but how many of thy fellow-creatures hast
thou given cause to rejoice in thy prosperity?
Truly, I have heard much said of thy wealth, and
thy avarice, friend Abram; but, verily, not a word
of thy kind-heartedness and charity: and know,
that goodness and charity are the only securities
against the ills, both sore and manifold, that spring
from groaning coffers. I say to thee, friend Abram,
hast thou ever given a dollar in alms to the poor,
or acquitted a single penny of obligation to the
hard-run of thy customers?”
My conscience smote me—not, however, that I
felt any great remorse for not having thrown away
my money in the way the Quaker meant: but his
words brought a new idea into my mind. It was
misery on the one hand, and the hope of arriving
at happiness on the other, which had spurred
me from transformation to transformation. Each
change had, however, been productive of greater
discontent than the other; and the woes with which
I was oppressed in my three borrowed bodies, had
been even greater than those that afflicted me
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
in my own proper original casing. It was plain
that I had not exercised a just discretion in the
selection of bodies, since I had taken those of men
whose modes of existence did not dispose to happiness.
What mode of existence then was most
likely to secure the content I sought? Such, I
inferred from the Quaker's discourse, as would call
into operation the love of goodness and of man—
such as would cause to be cultivated the kindly
virtues unknown to the selfish—such as would
lead to the practice of charity and general philanthropy.
I was grieved, therefore, that I had entered
so many bodies for nothing; my conscience
accused me of a blunder; and I longed to enter
upon an existence of virtue; not that I had any
great regard for virtue itself, but because I valued
my own happiness. Had my deliverer chanced to
break his neck while discoursing to me, I should
have reanimated his corse, to try my hand at benevolence.
As for being good and charitable in
the body I then occupied, I felt that it was impossible:
the impulse pointed to another existence.
The Quaker's indignation soon abated; he looked
upon my silence as the effect of remorse, and
the idea of converting me into an alms-giver and a
friend of the poor, like himself, took possession of
his imagination, and warmed his spirit. By such
a conversion his philanthropic desires would be
doubly gratified; it would make me happy, and, as
I was a rich man, some hundreds of others also.
He helped me into the chair, and driving slowly
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
towards the city, attempted the good work by describing
the misery so prevalent in the suburbs,
and dilating with uncommon enthusiasm upon the
delight with which every act of benevolence would
be recorded in my own bosom.
It seems that he was returning from a mission
of charity in one of the remotest districts, where
he had relieved the necessities of divers unhappy
wretches; and, he gave me to understand, it was
his purpose to make one more charitable visitation
before returning home, notwithstanding the
lateness of the hour and the fury of the tempest.
And this visit he felt the more urged to make, since
it would afford a practical illustration of his remarks,
and show how doubly charity was blessed,
both to the giver and receiver.
“Thou shalt see,” said he, “even with thine
own eyes, what power he that hath money hath
over the afflictions of his race—what power to dry
the tear of the mourning, and to check the wicked
deeds of the vicious. He that I will now relieve is
what thou didst foolishly call thyself—to wit, the
most miserable of men; for he is both a beggar
and a convicted felon, having but a few days since
been discharged from the penitentiary, where he
had served out his three years, for, I believe, the
third time in his life.”
“Surely,” said I, “he is then a reprobate entirely
unworthy pity.”
“On the contrary,” said the philanthropist, “he
is for that reason the more to be pitied, since all
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
regard him with distrust and abhorrence, and refuse
him the relief without which he must again become
a criminal: the very boys say to him, `Get
up, thou old jail-bird;' and men and women hoot
at him in the streets. Poverty made him a criminal,
and scorn has hardened his heart; yet is he a
man with a soul; and verily thou shalt see how
that soul can be melted by the breath of compassion.
In this little hovel we shall find him,” said
the Quaker, drawing up before a miserable frame
building, which was of a most lonely aspect, and in
a terrible state of dilapidation, the windows being
without shutters and glasses, and even the door
itself half torn from its hinges.
“It is a little tenement that belongeth to me,”
said my friend; “and here I told him he might
shelter him, until I could come in person and relieve
him. A negro-man whom I permitted to live
here for a while did very ungratefully, that is to say,
very thoughtlessly—destroy the window-shutters,
and other loose work, for fire-wood, I having forgotten
to supply him with that needful article,
and he, poor man, being too bashful to acquaint
me with his wants. Verily I do design to render it
more comfortable; but in these hard times one
cannot find more money than sufficeth to fill the
mouths of the hungry. Descend, friend Abram,
and let us enter. I see the poor man hath a fire
shining through the door; this will warm thy frozen
limbs, while the sound of his grateful acknowledgments
will do the same good office for thy
spirit.”
-- 044 -- p016-347
CHAPTER X. Containing an affecting adventure with a victim of the law.
My benevolent friend, leaving his horse standing
at the door, led the way into the hovel, the interior
of which was still more ruinous than the outside.
It consisted of but a single room below, with a garret
above. A meager fire, which furnished the
only light, was burning on the hearth, to supply
which the planks had been torn from the floor,
leaving the earth below almost bare. There was
not a single article of furniture visible, save an old
deal table without leaves, a broken chair, and a tattered
scrap of carpet lying near the fire, which
seemed to have served as both bed and blanket to
the wretched tenant.
“How is this?” said the Friend, in surprise.
“Verily I did direct my man Abel to carry divers
small comforts hither, which have vanished, as well
as the poor man, John Smith.”
John Smith, it seems, was the name of the beneficiary,
and that convinced me he was a rogue. I
ventured to hint to our common friend, that John
Smith, having disposed of those “small comforts”
he spoke of to the best advantage, was now engaged
seeking others in some of our neighbours'
houses; and that the wisest thing we could do in
such a case would be to take our departure.
-- 045 --
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“Verily,” said my deliverer, with suavity, “it is
not possible John can do the wicked things thou
thinkest of; for, first, it is but three days since he
left the penitentiary, and secondly, I sent him by
my helper and friend, Abel Snipe, sufficient eatables
to supply him a week; so that he could have
no inducement to do a wicked thing. Still it doth
surprise me that he is absent; nevertheless, we will
tarry a little while, lest peradventure he should return,
and be in trouble, with none to relieve him.
It wants yet ten minutes to midnight,” continued
the benevolent man, drawing out a handsome gold
watch, “and five of these at least we can devote
to the poor creature.”
I was about to remonstrate a second time, when
a step was heard approaching at a distance in the
street.
“Peradventure it is John himself,” said my
friend; “and peradventure it will be better thou
shouldst step aside into yonder dark corner for an
instant, that thou mayst witness, without restraining
by thy presence, the feelings of virtue that remain
in the spirit, even when tainted and hardened
by depravity.”
I crept away, as I was directed, to a corner,
where I might easily remain unobserved, the room
being illumined only by the fire, and that consisting
of little besides embers and ashes. From this
place I saw Mr. John Smith as he entered, which
he declined doing until after he had peeped suspiciously
into the apartment, and been summoned by
the voice of his benefactor.
-- 046 --
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He was as ill-looking a dog as I had ever laid
eyes on, and his appearance was in strange contrast
with that of his benevolent patron. The latter was
a tall and rawboned man of fifty, with an uncommonly
prepossessing visage; rather lantern-jawed,
perhaps, but handsome and good-natured. The
other was a slouch of a fellow, short of stature, but
full of fat and brawn, with bow legs, gibbon arms,
and a hang-dog visage. He sidled up to the fire
hesitatingly, and, indeed, with an air of shame and
humility; while the philanthropist, laying his watch
upon the table, extended his hand towards him.
“Be of good heart, friend John,” he said; “I
come, not to reproach thee for thy misdeeds, but to
counsel thee how thou shalt amend them, and restore
thyself again to the society of the virtuous.”
“'Es, sir,” grumbled John Smith, dodging his
head in humble acknowledgment, rubbing his hands
for warmth over the fire, and casting a sidelong
look at his benefactor. “Werry good of you, sir;
shall ever be beholden. Werry hard times for one
what's been in the penitentiary—takes away all
one's repurtation; and, Lord bless us, sir, a man's
but a ruined man when a man hasn't no repurtation.”
And with that worthy John drew his sleeve over
his nose, which convinced me he was not so much
of a rascal as I thought him.
“John, thou hast been but as a sinner and a foolish
man.”
“'Es, sir,” said John, with another rub of his
sleeve at his nose; “but hard times makes hard
-- 047 --
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work of a poor man. Always hoped to mend and
be wirtuous; but, Lord bless us, Mr. Longstraw
(beg pardon—can't think of making so free to say
friend to such a great gentleman), one can't be
wirtuous with nothing to live on.”
“Verily, thou speakest, in a measure, the truth,”
said my friend; “and I intend thou shalt now be
put in some way of earning an honest livelihood.”
“'Es, sir,” said John; “and sure I shall be werry
much beholden.”
But it is not my intention to record the conversation
of the worthy pair. I am writing a history
of myself, and not of other people; and I therefore
think it proper to pursue no discourses in which
I did not myself bear a part. It is sufficient to
say, that my deliverer said a thousand excellent
things in the way of counsel, which the other received
very well, and many indicative of a disposition
to be charitable, which Mr. John Smith received
still better; and in the end, to relieve the
pressing wants of the sufferer, which Mr. John
Smith feelingly represented, drew forth a pocketbook,
and took therefrom a silver dollar; at the
sight of which, I thought, Mr. John Smith looked
a little disappointed. Nay, it struck me that the
appearance of the pocketbook, ancient and illlooking
as it was, had captivated his imagination in
a greater degree than the coin. I had before observed
him steal several affectionate looks towards
the gold watch lying on the table, which now, however,
the sight of the well-thumbed wallet seemed
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
to have driven from his thoughts entirely. Nevertheless,
he received the silver dollar with many
thanks, and with still more the assurance that the
philanthropist would procure him employment on
the morrow; and Mr. Longstraw's eyes, as he turned
to beckon me from the corner, began to twinkle
with the delight of self-approbation.
I was myself beginning to feel a sentiment of
pleasure, and to picture to my mind the unfortunate
felon, converted, by a few words of counsel, and
still fewer dollars of charity, into an honest and
worthy member of society, when—oh horror of
horrors!—the repenting convict suddenly snatched
up a brand from the fire, and discharged it, with
a violence that would have felled an ox, full upon
the head of his patron.
The sparks flew from the brand over the whole
room, and my friend dropped upon the floor on his
face, followed by the striker, who, seizing upon his
cravat, twisted it tightly round the unfortunate man's
throat, thus completing by strangulation the murder
more than half accomplished by the below.
The whole affair was the work of an instant;
and had I possessed the will or courage to interfere,
I could not have done so in time to arrest the
mischief. But, in truth, I had not the power to
stir; horror and astonishment chained me to the
corner, where I stood as if transformed to stone,
unable even to vent my feelings in a cry. I was
seized with a terrible apprehension on my own account;
for I could not doubt that the wretch who
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
would thus murder a benefactor for a few dollars,
would have as little hesitation to despatch me, who
had witnessed the deed. I feared every moment
lest the villain should direct his eye to the corner
in which I stood, separated from him only a few
yards; but he was too busy with his horrid work to
regard me; and, terrified as I was, I looked on in
safety while my deliverer was murdered before my
eyes.
How long Mr. John Smith was at his dreadful
work I cannot say; but I saw him, after a while,
relax his grasp from his victim's throat, and fall to
rummaging his pockets. Then, leaping up, he
seized upon the watch, and clapped it into his bosom,
saying, with a most devilish chuckle and grin,
“Damn them 'ere old fellers what gives a man
a dollar, and preaches about wirtue! I reckon,
old Slabsides, there's none on your people will
hang me for the smash. Much beholden to you
for leaving the horse and chair; it makes all safer.”
With these words the wretch slipped out of the
hovel, and a moment after I heard the smothered
roll of the vehicle as it swept from the door.
-- 050 -- p016-353
CHAPTER XI. In which the plot thickens, and the tragedy grows deeper.
I supposed that Mr. John Smith had taken himself
away with as much speed as was consistent
with the strength of his horse and the safety of his
bones, and I recovered from the fears I had entertained
on my own account. I crept up to the philanthropist
to give him assistance, if such could be
now rendered. But it was too late; he was already
dead: Mr. John Smith had not taken his degrees
without proper study in his profession; and
I must say that his practice on the present occasion
did not go far to confirm me in the love of benevolence.
Nevertheless, the appearance of the defunct
threw my mind into a ferment. I had been hunting
a body, and now I had one before me; I had
come to believe that, if I wished for happiness, I
must get possession of one whose occupant had
previously been happy; and I had seen enough of
the deceased to know that he had been an uncommonly
comfortable and contented personage.
The end of all this was a resolution, which I instantly
made, to take advantage of the poor man's
misfortune, and convert his body to my own purposes.
I had seen him for the first time that night;
-- 051 --
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I did not remember ever to have heard his name
mentioned before; and I consequently knew nothing
of him beyond what I had just learned. Where
he lived, who were his connexions, what his property,
&c. &c., were all questions to which I was
to find answers thereafter. It appeared to me that
a philanthropist of his spirit and age (the latter of
which I judged to be about fifty) could not but be
very well known, and that all I should have to do,
after reanimating his body, would be to seek the
assistance of the first person I should find, and so
be conducted at once to the gentleman's house;
after which all would go well enough.
But, in truth, I took but little time for reflection;
or perhaps I should not have been in such a hurry
to attempt a transformation. A little prudence
might have led me to inquire into the consequences
of the change, inferred from the condition of
the body. Suppose his scull should prove to be
broken; who was to stand the woes of trepanning?
I do say, it would have been wiser had I thought
of that—but unluckily I did not: I was in too
great a hurry to think of any thing save the transformation
itself; and the result was, that I had a
lesson on the demerits of leaping before looking,
which I think will be of service to me for the remainder
of my life, as it might be to the reader,
could the reader be brought to believe that that experience
is good for any thing, which costs nothing.
My resolution was quickened by a step which I
heard approaching along the street. “It is a
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
watchman,” thought I to myself: “I will jump into the
body and run out for assistance.”
I turned to the defunct.
“Friend Longstraw,” said I, “or whatever your
name is, if you are really dead, I wish to occupy
your body.”
That moment I lost all consciousness. The
reader may infer the transfer of spirit was accomplished.
And so it was. I came to my senses a few moments
after, just in time to find myself tumbling
into a hole in the earth beneath the floor of the
hovel, with Mr. John Smith hard by, dragging to
the same depository the mortal frame I had just
deserted. I perceived at once the horrible dilemma
in which I was placed; I was on the point of
being buried, and, what was worse, of being buried
alive!
“I conjure and beseech thee, friend John Smith,”
I cried—but cried no more. The villain had just
reached the pit, dragging the body of the late Abram
Skinner. He was startled at my voice; but it only
quickened him in his labours. He snatched up the
corse and cast it down upon me as one would a
millstone; and the weight, though that was not
very considerable, and the shock together, jarred the
life more than half out of me.
“What! old Slabsides,” said he, “ar'n't you
past grumbling?”
With that, the bloody-minded miscreant seized
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
upon a fragment of plank, and began to belabour
me with all his strength.
I had entered the philanthropist's body only to be
murdered. I uttered a direful scream; but that was
only a waste of the breath which Mr. John Smith
was determined to waste for me. He redoubled
his blows with a vigour that showed he was in
earnest; nor did he cease until his work was completed.
In a word, he murdered me, and so effectually,
that it is a wonder I am alive to tell it.
He assassinated me, and even began to bury me,
by tumbling earth down from the floor; when, as
my good fate would have it, the scene was brought
to a climax by the sudden entrance of a watchman,
who, running up to the villain, served him the same
turn he had served me, by laying a leaded mace
over his head, and so knocking him out of his
senses.
It seems (for I scorn to keep the reader in suspense,
by indulging in mystery) that this faithful
fellow, having made a shorter nap than was warranted
by the state of the night, had taken a stroll
into the air, to look about him; that he had passed
the hovel, and, seeing the chair standing at the door,
had looked through a crack, and perceived Mr.
Longstraw, with whose person and benevolent character
he was acquainted, and myself—that is, my
late self—warming ourselves by the convict's fire;
and that, after pursuing his beat for a while, he was
about to return by another way, when, to his surprise,
he lighted upon the vehicle at more than a
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
square's distance from the house; and the horse
being tied to a post, it was evident he had not
strayed thither. This awaking a suspicion that
all was not right, he determined to pay a second
visit to the hovel; and was on the way thither
when I set up the scream mentioned before. Then
quickening his pace, he arrived in time to witness
the awful spectacle of Mr. John Smith thrusting
the two bodies into the pit; which operation the
courageous watchman brought to a close by knocking
the operator on the head, as I have related.
What had brought Mr. John Smith back again,
and why he should have troubled himself to conceal
the victim of his murderous cupidity, must be
conjectured, as well as the amazement with which,
doubtless, he found he had two bodies to bury instead
of one. He perhaps reflected, that the visit
of his patron was known to other persons; who,
upon finding his body, would readily conjecture
who was the murderer; and therefore judged it
proper to conceal the evidence of assassination, and
leave the fate of his benefactor in entire mystery.
As it happened, his return had wellnigh proved
fatal to me, and it was any thing but happy for
himself. It caused him to take up his lodgings for
a fourth time in the penitentiary; and there he is
sawing stone, I believe, to this day, unless pardoned
out by the Governor of Pennsylvania, according to
the practice among governors in general. The
visitation was, however, thus far advantageous to
me, that it caused me to be conducted to the
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
dwelling of Mr. Longstraw with all due expedition
and care; whereas, had it not happened, I
might have remained lying on the floor of my miserable
tenement until frozen to death; for the
night was uncommonly bitter.
As for my late body, it found its way to Abram
Skinner's mansion; whence, having been handsomely
coffined, it was carried to the grave, which,
but for me, it would have filled three months
before.
-- 056 -- p016-359
BOOK V. CONTAINING THE ADVENTURES OF A GOOD SAMARITAN.
CHAPTER I. The philanthropist's family.
If my first introduction to the life of the philanthropic
Zachariah Longstraw (for that was his
name) was attended with circumstances of fear
and danger, I did not thereby escape those other
evils, which, as I hinted before, might have been
anticipated, had I reflected a moment on the situation
of his body. It was covered with bruises from
head to foot, and there was scarce a sound bone
left in it; so that, as I may say, I had, in reanimating
it, only exchanged anguish of spirit for
anguish of body; and which of these is the more
intolerable, I never could satisfactorily determine.
Philosophers, indeed, contend for the superior
poignancy of the former; but I must confess a
leaning to the other side of the question. What
is the pain of a broken heart to that of the toothache?
The poets speak of vipers in the bosom;
what are they compared to a bug in the ear? Be
this, however, as it may, it is certain I had a
most dreadful time of it in Mr. Longstraw's body;
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
and it would have been much worse, had not the
blows I had received on the head kept me for a
long time in a delirium, and therefore in a measure
unconscious of my sufferings. The truth is, the
body which I so rashly entered was in such a
dilapidated condition, so bruised and mangled, that
it was next to an impossibility to restore its vital
powers; and it was more than two weeks, after
lying all that time in a state of insensibility, more
dead than alive, before I came to my senses, and
remembered what had befallen me; and it was not
until four more had elapsed that I was finally able
to leave my chamber, and snuff the early breezes
of spring.
As soon as I began to take notice of what was
passing about me, I perceived that I lay in a good,
though plainly-furnished chamber, and that, besides
the physicians and other persons who occasionally
bustled around me, there were two individuals so
constantly in attendance, and so careful and affectionate
in all their deportment, that I did not doubt
they were members of my new family. Indeed, I
had no sooner looked upon their faces, and heard
their voices, than I felt a glow of satisfaction within
my spirit; which convinced me they were my very
dear and faithful friends, and that I loved them
exceedingly.
They were both young men, the one perhaps of
twenty-five, the other six or seven years older.
Both were decked in Quaker garments, the elder
being uncommonly plain in his appearance,
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
wearing smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and a hat with a
brim full five inches wide, which he seldom laid
aside. These gave him a patriarchal appearance,
highly striking in one of his youth, which was
much increased by an uncommon air of gravity
and benevolence beaming from his somewhat
swarthy and hollow visage.
The younger had no such sanctimonious appearance.
There was a janty look even in the cut of
his straight coat; he had a handsome face, and
seemed conscious of it; he swung about the room
at times with a strut that excited his own admiration;
and any three moments out of five he might
be seen before the looking-glass, surveying his
teeth, inspecting the sweep of his shoulders, and
brushing up his hair with his fingers. His plain
coat was set at naught by a vest and trousers of
the most fashionable cut and pattern; he had a gold
guard-chain, worn abroad, and his watch, which, in
all likelihood, was gold also, was stuck in his vestpocket,
in the manner approved of by bucks and
men of the world, instead of being deposited, according
to the system of the wise, in a fob over the
epigastrium; and, to crown his list of vanities, he
had in his shirt a breastpin, which he took care to
keep constantly visible, containing jewels of seven
or eight different colours. It was manifest the
young gentleman, if a Quaker, as his coat showed
him to be, was quite a free one; and, indeed, the
first words I heard him utter (which were also the
first that I distinguished after rousing from my long
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
sleep of insensibility) set the matter beyond question.
I saw him peer into my face very curiously,
and directly heard him call out to his companion—
“I say, Snipe, by jingo, uncle Zack's beginning
to look like a man in his senses!”
These words imparted a sensation of pleasure to
my breast, but I felt impelled to censure the young
man for the freedom of his expressions. My
tongue, however, seemed to have lost its function;
and while I was vainly attempting to articulate
a reprimand, the other rushed up, and, giving me
an earnest stare, seized upon one of my hands,
which he fell to mumbling and munching in a highly
enthusiastic manner, crying out, with inexpressible
joy and fervour, “Blessed be the day! and does
thee open thee eyes again? Verily, this shall be
a day of rejoicing, and not to me only, the loving
Abel Snipe, but to thousands. Does thee feel better,
Zachariah, my friend and patron? Verily, the
poor man that has mourned for thee shall be now
as one that rejoices; for thee shall again speak to
him the words of tenderness, and open the hand of
alms-giving; yea, verily, and the afflicted shall
mourn no more!”
These words were even more agreeable than
those uttered by the junior; and I experienced a
feeling of displeasure when the latter suddenly cut
them short by exclaiming, “Come, Snipe, none of
thee confounded nonsense. I reckon uncle Zack
has had enough philanthropy for the season; and
don't thee go to humbug him into it any more.
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
Thee has made thee own fortune, and should be
content.”
“Verily, friend Jonathan,” said the fervent Abel
Snipe, addressing the junior, but still tugging at my
hand, “thee does not seem to rejoice at thee uncle's
recovery as thee should; but thee jokes and thee
jests sha'n't make my spirit rejoice the less.”
“Verily,” said Jonathan, “so it seems; but if
thee tugs at uncle Zack in that way, and talks so
loud, thee will do his business.”
“Verily,” said Abel—
“And verily,” said Jonathan, interrupting him,
“thee will say it is thee business to do his business;
which is very true—but not in the sense of
murder. So let us hold our tongues; and do thou,
uncle Zachariah,” he added, addressing me, “keep
thyself quiet, and take this dose of physic.”
It was unspeakable how much my spirit was
warmed within me by this friendly contest between
the two young men, and by their looks of affection.
I longed to embrace them both, but had not the
strength; and, indeed, it was three or four days
more before I felt myself able, or was allowed by
the physicians, to indulge in conversation.
At the expiration of that period I found myself
growing stronger; the twenty thousand different
pangs that had besieged my body, from the crown
of my head to the sole of my foot, whenever I
attempted to move, were less racking and poignant;
and, waking from a slumber that had been more
agreeable than usual, and finding no one near me
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
save the ever faithful Abel Snipe, I could no longer
resist the impulse to speak to him.
“Abel Snipe,” said I.
“Blessed be thee kind voice, that it speaks
again!” said Abel Snipe, devouring my hand as
before, and blubbering as he devoured.
“Thy name is Abel Snipe?” said I.
“Verily and surely, it is Abel Snipe, and no other,”
said he; “I hope thee don't forget me?”
“Why, really,” said I, “I can't exactly say,
friend Abel, seeing that there has a confusion come
over my brain. But art thou certain I am no longer
Abram Skinner?”
At this question Abel Snipe's eyes jumped half
out of his head, and they regarded me with wo and
horror. I saw he thought my wits were unsettled,
and I hastened to remove the impression.
“Don't be alarmed, friend Abel; but, of a verity,
I think I was killed and buried.”
“Yea,” said Abel; “yea, verily, the vile, ungrateful,
malicious John Smith did smite thee over
the head with a club, so that the bone was broken,
and thee was as one that was dead; but oh! the
villain! we have him fast in jail; and oh! the unnatural
rascal! we'll hang him!”
“Verily,” said I, feeling uncommon concern at
the idea, “we will do no such wicked deed; but
we will admonish the poor man of the wickedness
of his ways, and, relieving his wants, discharge
him from bondage.”
“Yea,” said Abel Snipe, with an air of
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
contrition; “so will we do, as becometh the merciful man
and Christian. But, verily, the flesh did quarrel
with the spirit, and the old Adam cried out to me,
`Blood for blood,' and the thing that is flesh
said, `Vengeance on the wicked man that smote
the friend of the afflicted!' But now thy goodness
reproves me, and teaches me better things: wherefore
I say, be not hard with the miserable man, for
such is the wicked, and such is John Smith; who
is now mourning over his foolish acts in the county
prison. Yea, verily, we will be exceeding lenient,”—
and so forth, and so forth.
I do not think it needful to repeat all the wise
and humane things said by Abel Snipe: they convinced
me he was the most benevolent of beings,
and warmed a similar spirit that was now burning in
my breast, and which burnt on until it became at last
a general conflagration of philanthropy. Yea, the
transformation was complete; I found within me,
on the sudden, a raging desire to augment the
happiness of my fellow-creatures; and wondered
that I had ever experienced any other passion.
The generous Abel discoursed to me of the thousands
I—that is, my prototype, the true Zachariah—
had rescued from want and affliction, and of the
thousands whom I was yet to relieve. My brain
took fire at the thought, and I exulted in a sense
of my virtue; I perceived, in imagination, the tear
of distress chased away by that of gratitude; I
heard the sob of sorrow succeeded by the sigh of
happiness, and the prayer of beseeching changed
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
to the prayer of praise and thanksgiving. A gentle
warmth flowed from my bosom through the uttermost
bounds of my frame, and I felt that I was a
happy man; yea, reader, yea, and verily, I was at
last happy. My only affliction was, that the battered
condition of my body prevented my sallying
out at once, and practising the noble art of charity.
The tears sprang into my eyes when Abel recounted
the numbers of the miserable who had
besieged my doors during my two weeks of insensibility,
crying for assistance.
“Why didst thou not relieve them, Abel Snipe?”
I exclaimed.
“Verily,” said Abel, turning his eyes to heaven
with a look of fervent rapture, “I did relieve the
sorrowing and destitute even to the uttermost
penny that was in my pocket. Blessed be the deed,
for I have not now a cent that I can call my own.
As for thine, Zachariah, it became me not to dispense
it, without thy spoken authority; the more
especially as thy nephew, Jonathan, did hint, and
vehemently insist, that thou hadst bestowed too
much already for thy good, and his.”
These words filled me with concern and displeasure.
“Surely,” said I, “the young man Jonathan is
not averse to deeds of charity?”
“Verily,” said Abel, clasping his hands, and
looking as if he would have wept, “the excellent
and beloved youth doth value money more than
the good which money may produce; and of that
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good he esteemeth chiefly the portion that falleth
to his own lot. Of a surety, I do fear he hath an
eagerness and hankering, a fleshly appetite and an
exceeding strong desire, after the things of the
world. He delighteth in the vanity of fine clothes,
and his discourse is of women and the charms
thereof. He hath bought the picture of a French
dancing-woman, and hung it in his chamber, swearing
(for he hath a contempt for affirmation) that it
is a good likeness of the maiden Ellen Wild; and
yesterday I did perceive him squeaking at a heathenish
wind-instrument, called a flute, and thereupon
he did avow an intention to try his hand at
that more paganish thing of strings, called a fiddle;
and, oh! what grieved me above all, and caused
the spirit within me to cry `avaunt! and get thee
away, Jonathan,' he did offer me a ticket, of the
cost of one dollar, to procure me admission into
the place of sin and vanity, called the theatre,
swearing `by jingo' and `by gemini' there was
`great fun there,' and offering to lend me a coat,
hat, and trousers, so that the wicked should not
know me. Yea, verily, the young man is as a
young lion that roameth up and down—as a sheep
that wandereth from the pinfold into the forbidden
meadows—and as for charity, peradventure thee
will not believe me, but he averred, `the only
charity he believed in was that which began at
home.' ”
These confessions of the faithful Abel in relation
to the young man Jonathan, caused my spirit to
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wax sorrowful within me. But it is fitting, before
pursuing such conversations further, that I should
inform the reader who the faithful Abel and the
young man Jonathan were.
The latter, as Abel himself informed me, was
my—or, if the reader will, my prototype's—nephew,
the only, and now orphan, son of a sister, who
had married, as the phrase is, “out of meeting,”
and, dying destitute, left her boy to the
charge of the benevolent Zachariah, who, being
himself childless, adopted him as his son and heir,
and had treated him as such, from his childhood
up. The great wish of Zachariah was to make
the adopted son a philanthropist, like himself; in
which, however, he was destined to disappointment;
for Jonathan was of a wild and worldly turn,
fond of frolic and amusement, and extremely averse
to squander in works of charity the possessions he
designed applying in future years to his own benefit.
Nevertheless, he was greatly beloved by his
uncle; and I, who was imbued with that uncle's
spirit, and destined to love and abhor what he had
loved and abhorred, whether I would or not, soon
began to regard him as one of the two apples of
my eyes.
-- 066 -- p016-369
CHAPTER II. Some account of the worthy Abel Snipe.
The faithful Abel Snipe, it seems (his history
was told me by Jonathan), was a man whom Zachariah,
some years before, while playing the Howard
in a neighbouring sovereignty, had found plunged
in deep distress, and making shoes in the penitentiary.
To this condition he had been reduced
by sheer goodness; for, being an amateur in that
virtuous art of which Zachariah was a professor,
and having no means of his own to relieve the
woes of the wretched, he had borrowed from the
hoards of his employers (the president and directors
of a certain stock-company, in whose office he
had a petty appointment), and thus, perforce, made
charitable an institution that was chartered to be
uncharitable. He committed the fault, however,
of borrowing without the previous ceremony of
asking—either because he was of so innocent a
temper as to think such a proceeding unnecessary,
or because he knew beforehand that the request
would not be granted; and the consequence was,
that the president and directors, as aforesaid, did
very mercilessly hand him over to the prosecuting
attorney, the prosecuting attorney to a grand jury,
the grand jury to a petit jury, the petit jury to a
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penitentiary, and the penitentiary to the devil—or
such, at least, would have been the ending of the
unfortunate amateur, had not the philanthropist,
who always ordered his shoes, for charity's sake,
at the prison, been struck with the uncommon excellence
of a pair constructed by Abel's hands.
He sought out the faithful maker (for sure a man
must be faithful to make a good pair of shoes in a
penitentiary), was melted by his tale of wo, even
as the wax through which Abel was then drawing a
bunch of ends was melted by the breath thereof;
and shedding tears to find the poor creature's virtue
so shabbily rewarded, ran to the prosecutors with
a petition, which he induced them to sign, transmitted
it to the governor, with a most eloquent essay
on the divine character of mercy, and, in less
than a week, walked Abel Snipe out of prison, a
pardoned man.
The charity of the professor did not end with
Abel's liberation. Enraptured with the fervour of
his gratitude, touched by the artlessness of his
character, and moved by the destitution to which a
pardon in the winter-time exposed him, he carried
him to his own land and house, fed, clothed, and
employed him upon a new pair of shoes; and, discovering
that he had talents for a nobler business,
advanced him in time to the rank of accountant,
or secretary, collector of rents, dispenser of secret
charities, and, in general, factotum and fiduciary
at large. Such a servant was needed by the humane
Zachariah; his philanthropy left him no
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time to attend to his own affairs, and his nephew
Jonathan had fallen in love, and become incompetent
to their management.
Never was experiment more happy for subject
and object: Abel Snipe was made an honest and
useful man; and Zachariah Longstraw obtained a
friend and servant without price. The gratitude of
Abel was equal to his ability; humility, fidelity, and
religion, were the least of his virtues—he became a
philanthropist, like his master. He managed his
affairs with such skill, that Zachariah had always
pennies at hand for the unfortunate; which, it
seems, had not always happened before; and, what
was equally charming, the zealous Abel dived into
every lane, alley, and gutter, to discover new objects
of charity for his patron. To crown all, he
felt moved in the spirit to profess the faith so
greatly adorned by his protector; and, after due
preparation and probation, appeared in the garb of
peace and humility, and even went so far as to
hold forth once at meeting.
In a word, Abel Snipe was a jewel of the first
water, who supplied the place of the idle Jonathan
in all matters of business, and almost in the affections
of his kinsman. If not equally beloved, he
was more highly esteemed; and his shining worth
consoled the philanthropist for many of the derelictions
of his nephew. He became the confidant,
the coadjutor, and the adviser of Zachariah; and
Zachariah never found occasion to lament the be
nevolence that had redounded so much to his own
advantage.
-- 069 -- p016-372
CHAPTER III. In which the young man Jonathan argues several cases of conscience, which are recommended to be brought before Yearly Meeting.
My nephew Jonathan had no great love for poor
Abel; and he did not tell me his story without passing
sundry sarcasms on him, as well as myself, for
bestowing so much confidence on the poor unfortunate
man. I rebuked the youth for his freedom
and uncharitableness, and remembering what Abel
had told me of his own idle and trifling course of
life, I felt impelled by the new spirit of virtue that
possessed me to take him to task; which I did in
the following manner; and it is wondrous how
completely and how soon (for I was yet lying on
my back, groaning with my unhealed wounds and
bruises) my spirit assumed and acted upon all that
was peculiar in the nature of Zachariah Longstraw.
“Nevvy Jonathan,” said I, “the uncharitableness
of thy spirit afflicts me. Trouble not thyself to
censure the worthy Abel Snipe; but think how
thou shalt amend thine own crying faults. It has
been said to me, Jonathan, my son, and verily I
fear it is true, that thou squeakest upon flutes, and
that thou makest profane noises with fiddles; and,
furthermore, that thou runnest after, and dost buy,
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the vanity of pictures, and triest thy hand at painting
the same.”
“I do,” said Jonathan; “and I find nothing
against them in the Scripture.”
“Verily,” said I, “but dost thou find nothing
against them in thine own spirit?”
“Not a whit,” said Jonathan; “my heart says
love them, and my head approves the counsel.
Where's the harm in these things? I know thee
don't say they are in themselves sinful.”
“Verily, no,” said I; “but they are indirectly
so; for, being wholly useless, the time bestowed
upon them is time lost and wasted; and that, nevvy
Jonathan, I think thee will allow to be sinful.”
“Not I,” said Jonathan, stoutly; “I don't believe
the wasting of time to be any such heinous
matter as thee supposes; had it been so, man
would not have been made to waste a third of his
existence in slumber. But granting this, for the
sake of argument, I deny thy premises, uncle
Zachariah. The time bestowed upon these things
is not wasted. Heaven has given to nine men out
of ten a capacity to enjoy both music and painting;
it has done more—it has set an example of
both before our eyes, and thus laid the foundation
of the divine arts in Nature. What is the world
around us but a great concert-hall, echoing with
the music of bird and beast, of wind, water, and
foliage? what but a great gallery of pictures, painted
by the hand of Providence? Nature is a painter—
Nature is a musician; and her sons can do
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nothing better than follow her example. But were
Nature neither, it is not the less evident that these
arts are lawful and sinless. They can be proved
so, uncle Zachariah, upon thine own system of philanthropy;
for they add to the happiness of our existence,
and they do so without corrupting our
morals or injuring our neighbours. I say, uncle,”
quoth Jonathan, who had pronounced this defence
with much enthusiasm, and now concluded with a
grin of triumph, “I have thee there dead as a herring!”
“Verily,” said I, more pleased than offended at
the young man's ingenuity, for my spirit yearned
over him the more at every word, “thee has a talent
for argument, which I would thee would cultivate;
for then thee could get into the Assembly,
and finally, perhaps, into Congress, and do much
good to thy fellow-men, by reforming divers crying
abuses.”
“Verily,” said he, “the first thing I should reform
would be thy philanthropy.”
“Don't be funny, nevvy,” said I, “for I have not
done with thee. Thee was dancing last night, in
the house of the vain man Ebenezer Wild.”
“I was,” said Jonathan; “I was shaking my
legs; and I can't see the harm of it, for the flies
do the same thing all day long.”
“Verily, thee should remember that a reasonable
being, that hath a brain, should rather exercise that
than his heels.”
“I grant thee,” said Jonathan; “but thee knows
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brains are not so abundant as heels; and thee should
expect the mass of people to conduct according to
their endowments.”
“Jonathan,” said I, “if thee thinks to make me
laugh, thee is mistaken. Of a verity I will not be
rigid with thee; but, verily, I must speak to thee
of what I hold thy faults. Thou hast a vain and
eager hankering after the society of giddy women.”
“I have!” said Jonathan, with great fervour.
“Heaven made women to be loved, and I love
them—especially Ellen Wild!”
“Sure,” said I, “I have heard that name?”
“Sure,” said Jonathan, “it would be odd if thee
had not; for thee knows her well—thine old friend
Ebenezer's daughter.”
“A giddy girl, Jonathan, I fear me; a giddy girl!”
“As giddy as the dev—that is, as giddy as a
goose,” said Jonathan.
“What!” said I; “thee meant something worse!
Verily, I have heard thee uses bad language, Jonathan.”
“By jingo!” said the youth, indignantly, “there
is no end to the slanders people will say of one. I
use bad language? By jingo!”
“Why, thee is at it now,” said I; “let thy yea
be yea, and thy nay nay; for all beyond is profanity
or folly. But thee will allow, Jonathan, that
when thee is among the people of the world, thee
uses the language thereof, forgetting the language
of simplicity and sobriety, which would best become
thy lips?”
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“Ay; there I plead guilty, and with good reason
too,” said Jonathan. “When I was a boy, thee
had thoughts of making me a merchant, and thee
compelled me to study French and German. Now,
when I meet a Frenchman or a German unacquainted
with the English tongue, in what language
does thee suppose I address him?”
“Why, French or German, to be sure.”
“Verily, I do,” said the youth; “and when I
get among the people of the world, I speak to
them in the language of the world; for, poor ignorant
creatures, they don't understand Quaker.
Moreover, uncle, does thee know Ellen Wild is of
opinion we Friends don't speak good grammar?
Now she and I spent a whole hour the other evening,
trying to parse `thee is,' `thee does,' `thee
loves,' and so on, and we could not work them according
to Murray. I say, uncle, does thee know
of any command in Scripture to speak bad grammar?”
“No,” said I; “but it is not forbidden; and the
phrases mentioned, thou knowest, have crept into
our speech as corruptions, and are only used for
conversational purposes.”
“Truly,” said Jonathan, “and the language of
the world is used for conversational purposes also.
I say, uncle Zachariah, that now's a clincher!”
“I won't quarrel with thee on this account, Jonathan.
But how comes it thou wert seen in that
wicked place, the theatre?”
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“By jingo!” said he, “Snipe has been blabbing
there too!”
“What!” said I, “does thou strive to conceal
it?”
“Yea,” said Jonathan; “for when we do our
good deeds, we should do them in secret. Uncle
Zachariah, I went to the theatre in charity.”
“Thee did,” said I, charmed more than I can express
at the thought of the young man's virtue.
“Yes, uncle,” said the youth; “and great need
have the actors of charity; for a poorer set of fellows
I think I never saw got together.” And here
the rogue fell a laughing in my face: “And so
thee need not distress thyself; for I sha'n't go there
again until they get a better company. But, uncle
Zachariah, thee has exhorted me enough for one
time, and it is my turn now. So do thou be conformable,
and answer my questions; for, I can tell
thee, I have a fault to find with thee. According
to thine own system of philanthropy, it is thy duty
to make thy fellow-creatures happy. Now I ask
thee whether thou dost not think it thy duty to
make me, thy loving nephew, happy, as well as a
stranger?”
“Verily,” said I, “I do.”
“Why then,” said Jonathan, “there is a short
way of doing it. Uncle Zachariah, I want to be
married. Ellen and I have talked the matter over,
and she says she'll have me. Now, uncle, thee did
once talk of giving me a counting-house, and ten
or twenty thousand dollars, as the case might be, to
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begin a commission business; and Mr. Wild talked
of doing as much in the way of dowry to Ellen.
And now I say, uncle Zachariah, as the shipwrecked
sailor did when he prayed among the breakers,
if thee means to help me, now's the time.”
“What!” said I, “have I so much property?”
“Thee is joking,” said the youth; “there is a
rich man, and thee knows thee can afford it. But
thee must do it soon, or it may be too late; for, I
can tell thee, folks begin to talk of thy philanthropy,
and say thou art finging away so much money
that presently thou wilt have nothing left to give
me. Mr. Wild is of this mind, and he has hinted
some things to me very plainly. In a word, uncle,
if thee does not permit me to marry Ellen soon, he
will break the match. And so, if thee will make
me a happy man—”
“I will,” said I, with uncommon fervour; “thee
shall marry the maiden, and I will straightway see
what I can do for thee. Verily, what is wealth
but the dross of the earth, unless used to purchase
happiness for those that are worthy.”
At these words Jonathan leaped for joy, seized
my hand and kissed it, vowed I was “his dear old
dad, for all I was only his uncle,” and ran from the
room—doubtless to impart the happy tidings to his
mistress.
-- 076 -- p016-379
CHAPTER IV. Containing little or nothing save apostrophes, exhortations, and quarrels.
How happy was I, to think I had conferred happiness
upon another! how agreeable my sensations!
how delightful the approbation of my own heart!
How much I rejoiced that my soul had at last found
a habitation equal to its wishes! an abode of peace!
a dwelling of content! “If I am Zachariah Longstraw,”
said I to myself, “I will show myself worthy
of the name; I will spend his money in the
great cause of philanthropy; I will make the afflicted
smile; I will win the blessings of the poor;
I will do more good than even Zachariah Longstraw
himself: yea, of a surety, I will devote myself
to a life of virtue!”
While I was making these virtuous resolutions,
the faithful Abel Snipe came to my bedside, and told
me there were divers suffering creatures, widows
with nine small children, widowers with fourteen,
sick old women, and starving old men, in great
need of relief; and so affecting was the picture he
drew of their griefs, that the tears rolled from my
eyes, and I bade him, if there was any money he
could honestly lay his hands on, carry comfort to
them all.
“Verily,” said he, “I have just collected the
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quarter's rent of the house in Market-street; and
it will be enough, and more.”
“Relieve the poor afflicted creatures, then.. And
hark thee, Abel Snipe, does thee consider me a
rich man? If so, let me know where I can find
twenty thousand dollars to set up the young man
Jonathan in business, and marry him to the maiden
Ellen Wild.”
“Alas!” said Abel Snipe; “of a verity, the
young man is in a hurry; and alas! for, of a verity,
if thee takes away at this time such a great
sum from thee possessions, thee will cut off the
right hand of thee charity.”
And thereupon the benevolent creature, after
showing me, which it was easy to do, that, with the
mere revenue of the sum demanded, if kept in our
own hands, we could carry smiles and rejoicing into
at least a hundred families every year, exhorted
me not to forget that I was the friend of the afflicted,
nor to faint in the good work of philanthropy.
Jonathan was a very young man, he said—only
twenty-five—happy in his youth, happy in his affections,
happy in the certain prospect he enjoyed
of sooner or later arriving at the fullest felicity.
Why should he not then consent, like us, to forego
for a while his selfish desires, contribute his portion
to the wants of the poor, and, by labouring a
few years in their cause, approve himself worthy
of fortune? How much better that he should endure
a fancied ill, than that a hundred afflicted
families should be given up to actual want? He
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contended that the young man's request was untimely
and selfish, and that I would only harden
his heart, while breaking a thousand others, if I
granted it. In short, he said so many things, and
painted so many affecting pictures of the miseries
of my fellow-creatures, and the beauties of charity,
that my mind was quite changed on the subject,
and I perceived it was my duty to resist the young
man's wishes.
This change, on the morrow (being the first day
that I was able to sit up), I explained to Jonathan,
exhorting him, with a feeling enthusiasm, to tear
all narrow, selfish feelings from his heart, and
embark with me, like a virtuous youth, in the great
enterprise of philanthropy. He fell into a passion,
told me my philanthropy was a fudge, and Abel
Snipe a rogue and hypocrite; vowed I had a greater
regard for knaves and paupers than for my own
flesh and blood, and was flinging away my money
only to encourage vice and beggary. It was in
vain I sought to pacify the indignant youth. An
evil spirit seized upon him. He did nothing
for three days but scold, reproach, and complain.
He abused the faithful Abel to his face, calling him
a fox, viper, cormorant, harpy, and I know not
what beside; all which Abel endured with patience
and resignation, for he was of a meek and
humble spirit. Nay, not content with this, he proceeded
on the third day to greater lengths, and did
very intemperately fall upon the said Abel Snipe,
tweaking him by the nose and ears, until the poor
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man yelled with pain—and even endeavoured to
kick him out of the house; after which, being censured
for the same, and I siding with Abel, as justice
demanded, in the controversy, his resentment
grew to such a pitch that he left the house, declaring
he would live with me no longer, but leave
me to ruin myself at my leisure.
This was an occurrence that caused me much
pain, for verily I had an exceeding great love for the
young man, and I perceived that he was treating
me with ingratitude. I was, however, greatly
comforted by the increased zeal and affection of
the ever-faithful Abel; who, coming to me with
tears in his eyes, declared that he could not bear
the thought of being a cause of dissension between
me and my nephew, and therefore besought
me that I would discard him from my presence,
when I could again live happily with my Jonathan.
I resisted, while duly appreciating the good
man's friendship; and, fortunately, there needed
no such sacrifice on my part; for, on the eleventh
day, Jonathan returned of his own accord, and,
confessing his folly, and entreating Abel's forgiveness,
as well as mine, was restored again to favour.
His return itself was grateful to my feelings; but
the reader may judge how great was my rapture,
when Jonathan avowed a change in his sentiments
on the subject of philanthropy, and declared that
the spirit at last moved him to think of his suffering
fellow-creatures. He entreated to be conducted
to the abodes of affliction, and there the
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conversion was completed. He became a changed
man, and in a few days was almost as zealous an
alms-giver as myself. I took him to my arms, and
said—
“Now, Jonathan, thee is a man in whom I no
longer fear the seductions of the flesh. Thee shall
marry the maid Ellen, and be set up in business.”
“Nay,” said Jonathan; “not so. I am yet but
as a youth in years, and the time sufficeth for all
things. Let not the whirl of business and the joy
of the honey-moon disturb the virtue that is yet
young and frail in my bosom. Of a verity, Ellen
Wild will wait till the fall; and if she don't, and
my heart should be broken, verily I shall then be
better enabled to sympathize with the wretched.”
Such was the lofty, though new-born virtue of
my Jonathan!
But of that, as well as our works of benevolence,
I shall speak in the following chapters.
CHAPTER V. Which is short and moral, and can therefore be skipped.
I have already said that the mere presence of
the philanthropic feeling, now infused into my
spirit, filled me with happiness, even while I lay
upon my back, aching with wounds and bruises.
It may be inferred, therefore, that my soul was
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ecstasy itself, when, restored at last to health and
strength, I stalked into the air, dispensing charity
with both hands.
Of a verity, it was—at least, for a time; and I
will say, that, during the first month of my new
existence, I experienced a thousand agreeable sensations,
such as had never occurred to me in my
whole life before. And here let me observe, that,
if what I have to add shall show that there are
offsets of inconvenience and tribulation even to
the satisfaction of the benevolent, I do not design
to throw any discredit on the virtue of benevolence
itself; which I truly regard as one of the divinest
of endowments, angelic in its nature, and blessed
in its effects, when practised with discretion; and
amiable, if not lovely, even in its folly. I believe,
indeed, that if Heaven looks with peculiar indulgence
on the errors of any man, it is in the case of
him who has the softest judgment for the errors,
and the readiest reparation for the miseries, of his
fellows. What I wish to be understood is, that
man is an unthankful animal, and of such rare
inconsistency of temper, that he seldom foregoes
an opportunity to punish the virtue which he so
loudly applauds.
I was now a philanthropist, and I will say (which
I think I may do without shame, the merit being
less attributable to me than to that worthy deceased
personage whose body I inhabited), that a truer,
purer, or more zealous one never walked the earth.
I should fill a book as big as a family Bible, were I
-- 082 -- p016-385
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to record all the good things I did or attempted, while
a tenant in Zachariah Longstraw's body. All my
feelings and desires were swallowed up in one great
passion of philanthropy; universal benevolence
was the maxim I engraved upon my heart; I had
no thought but to relieve the distresses, meliorate
the condition, and advance the happiness of my species.
My generosity extended equally to individuals
and communities; I toiled alike in the service
of the beggar and the million, putting bread into the
mouth of the one, and infusing moral principles into
the breasts of the others. In a word, I was, as I
have called myself already, a philanthropist; and
if my virtue was somewhat excessive in degree, it
proceeded from the sincerest promptings of spirit.
CHAPTER VI. An inconvenience of being in another man's body, when called upon to give evidence as to one's own exit.
It may be supposed that the treatment I (for, of
a verity, I myself came in for some share of the
hard usage that killed the true Zachariah) had received
from the base and brutal John Smith, must
have cooled my regard for him, if it did not affect
my feelings of philanthropy in general. I confess
that I did regard that personage with sentiments of
disgust and indignation; but, nevertheless, I was
very loath to appear against him when summoned
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(as I was, soon after leaving my sick-bed) to give
evidence on the charges preferred against him.
These were two in number, and afforded matter for
as many separate endictments. In the first—and,
verily, I was startled when I heard it—John Smith
was charged with the murder of Abram Skinner;
in the second, with an assault, with intent to kill,
upon myself—that is, my second self, Zachariah
Longstraw—and also with robbery.
Now, if the reader will reflect a moment upon
the relation in which I stood to these charges, he
will allow that the necessity of testifying on them
reduced me to a quandary. In the first place, I
knew very well that Mr. John Smith, rogue and assassin
as he was, had not killed Abram Skinner, but
that I had finished that unhappy gentleman myself;
and I knew also, in the second, that my admitting
this fact would, without doing Mr. John Smith any
good, produce a decided inconvenience to myself:—
not that there was any fear I should be arraigned
for murder, but because nobody would believe me.
I remembered how my telling the truth to my
friend John Darling, the deputy attorney, in regard
to my first transformation, had caused him to believe
me mad; and I foresaw that telling the truth
on the present occasion would reduce me to the
same predicament, and perhaps the Friends' mad-house
into the bargain.
There was the same difficulty in relation to the
second charge, accompanied by another still greater;
for, whereas John Smith was there only
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accused of assault with intent to kill, he had in reality
committed a murder; which if I had affirmed, as
I must have done had I affirmed any thing at all, I
should have been a living contradiction of my own
testimony, and thus considered madder than ever.
The truth is, I was in a dilemma, out of which
the truth could not extract me; and the more I
thought the matter over, the greater was my embarrassment.
A feeling of integrity within me
(for Zachariah Longstraw was a man of conscience)
urged me to speak the truth; while common sense
showed me how much worse than useless truth
would be in such an extraordinary conjuncture.
I received a visit from the prosecuting attorney,
who very naturally expected a clear and satisfactory
account of Mr. John Smith's doings on the night
of the murder; and the difficulty I had with him
(that is, the attorney) gave me a foretaste of what
I was to expect when summoned into the witness's
box in court. I remember that the gentleman, after
plying me with many questions, to which he got
that sort of replies invidiously termed “Quaker answers,”
flew into a huff, and threatened me with
what would be the consequence if I should prove
backward in court. And, sure enough, his prediction
was verified; for, not giving a straight answer
to any one question when the trial came on, I received
divers reprimands from the court, and was
finally committed for a contempt to prison; where
I lay two or three days, until called into court again
to give evidence on the second endictment, Mr.
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John Smith having been found not guilty on the
first. This was owing in part, I presume, to the
testimony of several surgeons, who deposed that
there were no marks of violence upon Abram Skinner's
body; although the evidence of the watchman,
who had seen him alive through the window,
and afterward found John Smith burying his dead
body in the same hole with myself, went rather
hard with him. I say the acquittal was perhaps
owing in part to the testimony of the surgeons;
though much of it might be attributed to the marvellous
humanity that reigns in the criminal courts
of the city of Brotherly Love, to the great benefit
and encouragement of that proscribed and injured
class of men, namely—murderers.
I made little better work of the second attempt
at witnessing; but, as I have matters of much
greater importance to demand my attention, and
the reader can easily infer what I did and what I
did not affirm, I must beg to despatch the second
trial by relating that I was packed off a second
time to prison for contempt, but that the evidence
of the watchman, and my late wounds and bruises,
were esteemed sufficient to secure the prisoner's
conviction; and accordingly John Smith was convicted,
and accommodated with lodgings in the
penitentiary for the fourth time.
My own incarceration was of no long duration.
My contumacy, as it was called, was considered
extraordinary; but it was generally thought to be
owing to a mistaken humanity, and a perverted,
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Quixotic conscientiousness, such as are common
enough among persons of the persuasion I then belonged
to. This, and perhaps the circumstance
that I was yet in feeble health (for the trial, as I
said, took place soon after I left my bed), caused
me to be treated with lenity; and in a few days I
was liberated.
All this, I beg the reader to understand, happened
before the reconciliation with my nephew Jonathan,
and, of course, before I had well begun my
career of philanthropy. Of that career, of some of
my deeds of goodness, and of the consequences
they produced, I shall now speak.
CHAPTER VII. The sorrows of a philanthropist.
My benevolence was of a two-fold character, being
both theoretic and practical. In the latter
sense, is to be regarded the relief which I granted
with my own hands to such suffering persons as I
could lay them on; and there was no way in which
I did not personally relieve some one wretch or
other. By the former, I understand a thousand
schemes which I devised and framed, to enlist the
sympathies of communities, and so relieve the afflicted
in a mass; besides a thousand others which
were designed to bestow upon the poor and vicious
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that virtuous knowledge and those virtuous principles,
which are better than alms of gold and silver.
I instituted some half a dozen charitable societies,
to supply fuel, clothing, food, and employment to
the suffering poor; as well as others to exhort them
to economy, industry, prudence, fortitude, and so
forth. I formed societies even among themselves,
classing divers isolated creatures into bands, who
wrought in common, and disposed of their wares,
either in a shop kept for the purpose, or at fairs.
I established schools to keep the children of the
poor out of mischief, and one in particular I supported
solely from my own, that is to say, Zachariah
Longstraw's pocket.
I bestowed much of my regards upon the poor
wretches in prison, doing all that I was permitted
to effect a reformation in their habits and feelings;
and I took uncommon pains to scatter light and
sentiments of a civilized character among the worthy
representatives of the Green Island, who make
up so large a portion of our suffering population.
And let it not be supposed that I neglected that
other class of poor creatures, called negroes, whom,
although allowed the name, and most of the privileges
of freemen, their white brethren refuse to
take to their bosoms, merely because they have
black faces, woolly heads, and an ill savour of
body. For myself, verily, if they were not comely
in my sight, nor agreeable to my nostrils, I said,
“Heaven hath made them so;” and although my
nephew Jonathan insisted that Heaven had done the
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same thing with other animals, and that, upon my
principles, men should be as affectionate with pigs
and badgers as they were with cats and lap-dogs, I
perceived that they were my brethern, and that it became
me to conquer the prejudices lying only in my
eyes and nostrils. I girded my loins to the work,
and verily, I prevailed over the weakness of the old
Adam. Of a verity, I was the African's friend.
But, oh! the wickedness of the world, and the
ingratitude thereof! The heart of man is even as
the soil of the earth, which, the more it is stirred
up by cultivation, the more barren and worthless it
becomes. It is as the fields of the Ancient Dominion,
where, if a man soweth barley and corn, he
shall reap a harvest of Jamestown weed, poke-berries,
and scrub pines. It is as the bulldog that one
feedeth with beef and other wholesome viands, who,
the moment he has done his dinner, snaps, for his
dessert, at the feeder's heel. It is as the tender
flowers, which, in the winter-time, a man taketh
from the cold, to warm, by night, in his chamber,
and which smother him with foul air before morning.
Verily, it was my lot to find, even as my
nephew Jonathan had once foolishly contended,
that even philanthropy is not secure from the sting
of unthankfulness—that benevolence is, in one
sense, the great parent of ingratitude—since it begets
it. For a period of full seven months (for so
long did I remain in Zachariah's body, after recoving
my health), I laboured to do good to my fellows,
and, verily, I laboured with might and main,
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Yet, had I toiled with the same energy to injure
and oppress, I almost doubt whether I should have
been rewarded with more manifold outpourings of
wrath and fury. Verily, as I said before, the world
is a wicked world, and I begin to doubt whether
man can make it better.
One of the first mishaps that befell me was of
the following nature. Stepping one morning into
the mayor's office, which was a favourite haunt
with me, seeing that misery doth there greatly
abound, I fell upon a man whom the magistrate was
about to commit to jail, for being drunk and beating
his wife and children, he being unable to pay the
fine imposed upon him, and to find surety for his
future good behaviour.
The spirit stirred within me as I beheld the contrite
looks of the culprit, and I said to myself—
“While he lies in jail, his poor wife and his infants
may perish with hunger.” I paid the fine, and,
though the mayor did very broadly hint to me that
a little punishment would do the man good, and his
wife too, seeing that he was a barbarous fellow, I
offered myself for his security, and thus sent him
back to his rejoicing family. I said to myself—
“This very night will I witness the happiness I
have created.” I went accordingly to the man's
house, where I found the wicked fellow raving with
drink, and beating his wife as before, his children
screaming with terror, and the neighbours crying
out for a constable. I did but say a word of reprehension
to him, when the brutish ingrate, leaving
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his rib, fell foul of myself, mauling me cruelly;
and I believe he would have beaten me to death,
had I not been rescued by the timely appearance
of a constable. “Thee sees the end of thy humanity!”
said the mayor, when I entered his office
the next morning, that my black eye and bruised
visage might testify against the ungrateful man;
“thee will not object to my committing the fellow
now?”
“Nay,” said I; “it is drunkenness that has
made the poor man mad. Therefore lock him up
in prison until his madness hath departed.”
“I will,” said the mayor; “and thee will have
the goodness to pay over to the clerk the hundred
dollars in which thee bound thyself that the rascal
should keep the peace.”
“Verily,” said I, “it is not just I should pay the
money; for the beating was upon my own body.”
“Truly,” said the mayor, “and so it was; and
therefore it is the harder that thee should have to
pay it. But pay it thee must, the man having broken
the peace as much in beating thee, as if it had
been any other citizen of the commonwealth.”
And so much satisfaction I had for befriending
the sot; the charity, which did more harm than
good even to the man's poor family, since it exposed
them a second time to his fury, costing me,
without counting the fine paid on the first day, a
sore beating and one hundred dollars.
My next misadventure was the being cheated in
a very aggravated way by a poor man to whom I
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loaned money, without exacting bond or voucher,
the same being loaned to re-establish him in a gainful
business, which had been interrupted by an unfortunate
accident. For, having prospered in his
business, and I requiring that he should now repay
the money, that I might devote it to the service of
others, he very impudently averred that he had
never had any thing of me, except advice and a
good word of recommendation here and there;
swore that he never paid away or received a cent
without giving or taking a receipt; defied me to
prove my claim; and concluded his baseness by
threatening to kick me out of his workshop.
These instances of ingratitude were followed by
others of a still deeper die, and so numerous, that
I can mention only a few of them.
Walking one day to that infant school which I
had established, to keep children out of mischief
while their hard-working parents were at their daily
labours, I perceived the urchins standing at the
door, pelting the passers-by with mud. Reproving
them for this misconduct, the graceless vagabonds
did speedily turn their battery upon myself; and,
not content to plaster and bespatter me with mudballs
from head to foot, they fell upon me, and, being
very numerous, did actually roll me about in a
gutter, where was a deep slough, so that I had nearly
perished with suffocation, being sorely bruised
into the bargain. To crown all, having expelled
from my school the ringleaders in this marvellous
outbreaking of precocious ingratitude, I was visited
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by their parents, all of them abusing me for my tyrannical
usage of their children (although, of a truth,
the tyranny was all on the side of the juveniles),
and impudently demanding that I should pay them
for their boys' time, at the rate of twenty-five cents
a week each, for as many weeks as I had had them
at school. Of a surety, some people are very unreasonable.
It was also my misfortune to offend divers tailors
and shopkeepers, by benevolently taking part
in the efforts of their poor unfortunate needle-women
to obtain better wages; and one day, in
the streets, these angry men did hustle me, and
tear a tail from my coat. But I consoled myself
for this violence, by thinking of the gratitude of
the poor creatures I was defending; when, making
my way, the following evening, to their place of
assembly, I was set upon by the whole crew, for
that I did hint, that, as their difficulties did chiefly
proceed from their numbers, there being more
hands at the business of sewing than were required,
they would greatly benefit themselves, and the
community too, by going, two thirds of them at
least, into service, there being ever a great want of
domestics in our respectable families. I say, I
did but hint this reasonable and undeniable truth,
together with a friendly remark upon the exposed
state of their morals, when there arose such a
storm among them as was never perhaps witnessed
by any other human being. “Hear the old hunks!”
said one: “he wants to make niggur servants of
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us! us, that is freeborn American girls!”—“Yes,
ladies!” said another, “and he is insinivating we
are no better nor we should be!”—“Turn the old
rip out!” said a third; and “Turn him out!” cried
the other three hundred and fifty there present.
Of a verity, they did assail me with both tongue
and nail, testifying such vigour of spirit and strength
of arm, that, were I a philanthropist now, which I
fortunately am not, and were I moved to consult
their interests as before, I should endeavour to form
them into a regiment of soldiers, not doubting that
they would, at any moment, prevail over twice
their numbers of male fighting men. Of a verity,
I say, they did violently pull me about, thrusting
me at last from the apartment: and their ingratitude
was a sore wound to my spirit.
CHAPTER VIII. The same subject continued.
Another evil that befell me about the same
time, was equally afflicting. A negro-man that
had fled from bondage in a neighbouring state,
being sharply hunted, and about to be captured by
the person that called him his property, I carried
him to my house, and there concealed him for
three days and mights, until his master had departed;
“For,” said I, “of a surety, slavery is a bitter
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pill, and one that cures neither the rheumatism nor
the ague; and, therefore, why should my brother
Pompey be compelled to swallow it?” My brother
Pompey, having eaten, drunk, and slept at my expense
for the three days mentioned, disappeared
on the morning of the fourth before daylight, carrying
with him twenty-seven pounds of silver, in
spoons, teapots, and other vessels, the three watches
belonging to myself, my nephew, and Abel Snipe,
as well as Jonathan's best coat and trousers. Verily,
I was confounded at the fellow's ingratitude,
and the loss of my valuables, all of which, however,
though broken up, it was my good fortune to
recover, together with the three watches. The thief
himself, being taken, was clapped into jail for a
while, and then surrendered to his master, and carried
back to bondage; and this stirring up the
choler of the free Africans in town, they did naught
but cry out upon me as the author of his misfortune,
surrounding my house with a mob, and proceeding
to the length of even burning it down. At
least, the house taking fire, and manifestly by the
act of an incendiary, it was charged by my friends
upon these raging foolish people, though I was
never able to prove it upon any one in particular.
As my good fortune would have it, Abel Snipe had
taken out a policy of ensurance, so that I recovered
the money from the company; but not without
going to law, the company averring that my humanity
rendered me careless.
I caused another dwelling to be built; and, in
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building it, received another strong and inconvenient
proof, not merely of man's ingratitude, but of
his natural hostility to the charity which benefits
his neighbours. I bought my marble out of the
prison, in order to encourage industry among the
prisoners, and thus lighten the load of taxation on
the community at large. This being known, the
marble-cutters fell into wrath, denounced me as
the friend of villany and the enemy of honest
industry; and being joined by the shoemakers,
who had put me down in their character-book
as a patron to none but prison-workmen, and by
divers other mechanics that had some grudge of
the same kind, they seized upon me, as I stood
surveying my rising mansion, and bedaubed me
from head to foot with thick whitewash, painting in
great black letters, on the broad of my back, the following
words, namely—“The Rogue's Friend;”
which caused me, after I had escaped from their
hands, to be hooted at by boys and men along the
street, and to be bitten by a great cur-dog, that
was amazed at my appearance.
Another misfortune, still more distressing, befell
me one day, as I walked among the western suburbs,
seeking whom I might relieve. I espied a
company of men surrounding a ring, made with
stakes and ropes, in which two wretched creatures
were stripping off their garments, with the intention
to do battle upon one another with their fists. These
were gentlemen of the fancy, as it is called; though
imagination can paint nothing of a more grossly
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animal and brutish character, afar from all that is fanciful,
than that very class that calls itself of the fancy.
I was shocked that the poor creatures should, in
their ignorance, agree to maul and beat one another,
for the amusement of a mob; and I was concerned
that a mob, containing so many rational beings,
should be willing to harry on two such silly fellows
to harm each other for their pastime. I stepped
among them, therefore, and addressed them, exhorting
them to peace and harmony; and this producing
but little effect on them, I upbraided them
with breaking the laws, both human and divine, and
assured them I would go hunt up the police, to
prevent the mischief they meditated. Alas! how
ungratefully they used me! There was a man at a
distance who was heating a great pot of tar, to pay
the bottom of a canal-boat; and just a moment
before, a carter had stopped to look on the affray,
leaving on the roadside his cart, on which, among
other articles of domestic furniture, was an old
feather-bed, lying on the top of all. The devil had
surely brought these things upon the ground, that
his sinful children, the gentlemen of the fancy,
might be at no loss how to testify their hatred of
humanity. The very combatants themselves were
the first to seize me, and cry out, “Tar and feather
the old Bother'em! Douse down the bed, and dab
the pot off the fire.” And “Daub him well!” they
cried, all the while that their wretched companions,
drowning the cries I made for assistance,
with savage yells of rage and merriment, covered
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me from head to foot with the nasty pitch, and then,
tearing the bed to pieces, emptied its contents over
my reeking body. Then, having feathered me all
over, and so transformed me that I looked more
like an ostrich than a human being, they tied me
to a post, where I was forced to remain, looking
upon the fight that immediately ensued between
the champions. A horrid sight it was; but I was
so devoured with shame and indignation, that I
should have cared little had they dashed each
other's brains out. So much I endured for exhorting
men to live together in peace and amity.
The very beasts seemed to conspire to treat me
with ingratitude. My first effort in their cause
was an attempt I made one day, on the tow-path
near the Water-Works, to protect a poor brokendown
barge-horse, which the driver was cruelly
beating. My interference cost me a dip in the
basin, the man, who was both savage and strong,
pitching me in headlong, and (what I deemed still
more provoking) a kick from the horse, who let fly
at me with his heels, merely because mine, as they
were tripped into the air, came in contact with his
hind-quarters; so that I was both lamed and half
drowned for my charity.
In the same way, I was scratched half to death,
and much more savagely than I had been before by
the needle-women, by a cat that I took out of a
dog's mouth,—without counting upon a nip that I
had from the cur also. And, to end this small catalogue
of animal ingratitude, I may say, that,
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within a fortnight after, I was served in the same way
by a rat that I strove to liberate from the fangs of
my own gray tabby; for, while Tabby was clawing
at my fingers, the rat took me by the thumb;
and between them I was near perishing with lockjaw,
the weather being uncommonly hot, and the
time midsummer.
There were a thousand other mischances of a
like nature which befell me, but which I have not
leisure to describe, nor even to enumerate. Some
few of them, however, I think proper to record;
but, to save space, I will clap them into a short
list, along with those already mentioned, where
they may be examined at a glance, and where, in
that glance, the reader may perceive what are sometimes
the rewards of philanthropy.
Beaten by a drunkard whom I had taken out
of prison, and bailed to keep the peace.
Mulcted out of $100 surety-money, because
my gentleman broke the peace by beating me.
Driven, and almost kicked, out of a man's
workshop, because I asked payment of a loan made
without bond or voucher.
My nose pulled by a merchant to whom I
had (out of charity to the latter, who was unfortunate)
recommended a customer, who swindled him.
Rolled in the mud by the boys of my own
charity-school, whom I had exhorted not to daub
the passers-by.
Abused by their parents for not paying them
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25 cents per week for the time I had the boys at
school.
Hustled by tailors, slop-shopkeepers, and
others, for taking part with the needle-women in a
strike.
Scolded, scratched, and tumbled down
stairs by the needle-women, for advising them to
go into domestic service, and take care of their
morals.
Robbed by a fugitive slave whom I had concealed
three days and nights in my house from his
master.
House burnt down by the free blacks (or
so it was suspected) for putting the thief as aforesaid
into jail, so that his master got him.
Whitewashed and libelled on my own
back by the stonecutters, for buying wrought marble
out of the prison.
Tarred and feathered by a gang of the fancy,
whom I exhorted at the ring to peace and
amity.
Scalded at my own house (which I had
converted, at a season of suffering, into a gratis
soup-house), and with my own soup, by a beggar,
because there was too little meat and too much
salt in it.
Soused in the canal by a boat-driver, for
rebuking his cruelty to an old barge-horse.
Kicked by the horse for taking his part.
Scratched by a cat, for taking her out of
a dog's mouth: item, bitten by the dog.
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Bitten by a rat, which I rescued from a
cat: item, scratched by the cat.
Gored by a cow for helping her calf out
of the mire: item, the calf splashed me all over
with mud.
Beaten about the ears with a half-skinned
eel, by a fishwoman, whom I reproved for skinning
it alive.
Such were some of the unhappy circumstances
that rewarded a seven months' life of philanthropy.
But there were others to follow still more discouraging
and afflicting.
CHAPTER IX. Containing a difficulty.
It is a common belief among those who are
more religious than wise, that a man never catches
a cold going to church of a wet Sunday, or being
baptized in midwinter. I am myself of opinion,
the belief of such good people to the contrary notwithstanding,
that many devout persons, by wading
to church in the slush, or washing out their sins in
snow-water, have gone to heaven much sooner than
they expected. In the same way, and on the same
principle of distrusting all miraculous interposition
of Heaven in cases where human reason is
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sufficient for our protection, I have my doubts in the
truth of another maxim of great acceptation in the
world,—namely, “that a man never grows poor by
giving.” I believe, indeed, that the charity of a
discreet and truly conscientious man never injures
his fortune, but may, in many instances, actually
tend to its increase; since the love of benevolence
may stimulate him to new labours of acquisition,
that he may have the greater means of doing good.
But I am also of opinion, and I think it may be
demonstrated by a good accountant, that a man
who has a revenue of a thousand a year, and
bestows fifteen hundred in charity, will, in due
course of time, find himself as poor as his pensioners.
When a man hath a goose with golden eggs,
whatever he may do with the eggs, he should take
great care of the goose.
The reader may infer from these remarks, that
my philanthropy was as little profitable to my pocket
as it proved to my person; and such indeed was
the truth. I am of opinion I should myself, in a
very few years, have consumed the whole estate of
Zachariah Longstraw, ample as it was, in works of
charity. How much faster it went with my
nephew and my friend Abel to assist me, may be
imagined. My nephew became a very dragon of
charity, and dispensed my money upon such objects
of pity as he could find (for he soon began to practise
the profession upon what Abel called his own
hook), with a zeal little short of fury; so that, to supply
his demands, I was sometimes obliged even to
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stint myself. Had Abel Snipe been equally profuse,
there is no saying how soon I might have found
myself at the end of my estate. But Abel Snipe
was a jewel; his charity was great, but his conscientiousness
was greater; he had ever a watchful
eye to my good; and his solicitude to husband
and improve my means kept his benevolence within
the bounds of discretion.
But, notwithstanding all his care, Abel perceived
that our philanthropy was beginning to eat holes
into my possessions; and coming to me one day
with a long face, he assured me, that, unless some
means were devised to increase my income, we
should soon find ourselves driven to resort to the
capital.
“Verily, and of a truth,” said I, not a whit
frighted at this communication, “and why should
that chill us in the good work, Abel Snipe? Of a
surety, all that I possess, is it not the property of
the poor?”
“Verily,” said Abel, “verily and yea; but if we
betake us to the capital, verily, it will happen that
sooner or later it shall be consumed, and nothing
left to us wherewithal to befriend the afflicted. I
say to thee, Zachariah, thy wealth is, as thou sayest,
the property of the poor; and it becomes thee,
as a true and faithful servant thereof, to see that it
be not wasted, but, on the contrary, husbanded with
care and foresight, and put out to profit, so that the
single talent may become two, and peradventure
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three; whereby the poor, as aforesaid, shall be
twice, and, it may be, thrice benefited.”
“Thou speakest the words of sense and seriousness,”
said I, struck by the new view of the case.
“But how shall this happy object be effected?
What shall we do, Abel Snipe, to make the one
talent three, and thereby increase our means of
doing good?”
“Thee nephew Jonathan,” said Abel Snipe, with
a look of devout joy, “is now a changed man, a
man of seriousness and virtue, a scorner of vain
things, and a giver of alms—a man whom we can
trust. I say to thee, Zachariah, thee shall establish
thee nephew in a gainful business, and he shall
make money; thee shall give him what is thee
property for his capital, remaining theeself but as a
sleeping partner: and thus it shall happen that thee
capital shall be turned over three times a year,
producing, on each occasion, dividends three times
as great as now accrue from thy investments: and
thus, Zachariah (and verily it is pleasant to think
upon), where thee now has a thousand dollars of
revenue, thee shall then have nine; and where thee
now relieves nine afflicted persons, thee shall there-upon
relieve nine times nine, which is eighty-one.”
I need not assure the reader that this proposition
of Abel's fastened mightily upon my imagination,
and that I was eager to embrace it; and Jonathan
coming in at the moment, I repeated the conversation
to him, assuring him that, if he thought himself
able, with Abel's assistance, to undertake such
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a business, he should have my money to begin
upon instanter, and marry the maiden Ellen into
the bargain.
“Nay, verily,” said Jonathan, “I will not marry,
and I will not do this thing whereof thee speaks.
Uncle Zachariah, thee may think me light of mind
thus to speak of Ellen Wild, who is much lighter;
but, of a surety, I find the spirit moves me to regard
her as one not to be regarded any longer. In
the matter of the money-making, I say, let Abel
Snipe be thy merchant, or whatsoever it may be
thee has determined on; for Abel Snipe is a good
business man, and he knows how to make money.
He shall have my advice and assistance, as far as
may be in my power. But, truly, my thoughts
now run in the paths of the unfortunate; and thither
let my footsteps follow also.”
To this proposal the faithful Abel, with tears in
his eyes (for he was moved that Jonathan should
express such confidence in him at last), demurred,
averring that it would be better, and more seemly,
for Jonathan himself to undertake the affair, he,
Abel Snipe, giving help and counsel, according to
his humble ability. Jonathan objected as before,
and again declared that Abel, and Abel alone, was,
as he expressed it, “the man for my money.” In
short, the two young men, now the best friends in
the world, contested the matter, each arguing so
warmly in favour of the other, that it was plain the
thing could never be determined without my casting
vote, which I, seeing that Jonathan was
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positive, and bent upon a life of virtue, gave in Abel's
favour, and it was resolved accordingly that Abel
should be made the money-maker.
CHAPTER X. In what manner Mr. Zachariah Longstraw determined to improve his fortune.
And now, the question occurring to me, I demanded
into what kind of business we should enter.
“That,” said Jonathan, “is a question more easily
made than answered, seeing that there are so
many ways of making money in this wicked world,
that an honest man can scarce tell which to choose
among them;” and then proceeded with great gravity
to indicate divers callings, which he pronounced
the most gainful in the world, and all or any of
which, he thought, Abel could easily turn his
hand to.
The first he advised was quackery—the making
and vending of nostrums to cure all manner of diseases,
including corns and the toothache; which
was a business that had the merit of requiring no
previous study or education, a tinker or cobbler being
just as fit to follow it as a man that had read
Paracelsus; and which, besides, as was evident
from the speed with which its professors in general
stepped from the kitchen-pot to the carriage, was
the quickest way of making a fortune that could be
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imagined. I should have thought the young man
was joking (for he had that vice in him to the last),
had it not been for the fervour with which he pointed
out the advantages of the vocation. A great
recommendation, he averred, was, that it required
no capital beyond a few hundred dollars, to be laid
out in bottles and logwood, or some other colouring
material. Pump-water, he said, was cheap; and
as for the other sovereign ingredient, it was furnished
by the buyer himself. “Yes!” said Jonathan,
“faith is furnished by the buyer, who pays us
for the privilege of swallowing it; we sell men
their own conceits, bottled up with green, red, and
brown water; and thereby we make them their own
doctors. Who then can say the calling of the
quack is not honest—nay, even philanthropic? He
is a public benefactor—a friend even of physicians;
for he frees them from the painful necessity of killing,
by making men their own executioners.”
And thus he went on until I cut him short by
averring, that the whole business was little better
than wholesale cheating and murder. He then
recommended we should make Abel a tailor, solemnly
declaring that, next to quackery, tailoring,
which was a quackery of another sort, was the
most profitable trade that could be followed; the
mere gain from cabbaging, considering that an ingenious
tailor got at least one inch of cloth out of
every armhole, without counting the nails cribbed
from other parts of a coat, being immense, and his
profits, seeing that he lost nothing by a bad
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customer that he did not charge to a good one, as certain
and immutable as the laws of the Medes and
Persians.
In short, my nephew Jonathan was in the mood
for expatiating on the merits of all money-making
vocations; in which I should follow him, were I
not urged by the exigencies arising from limited
time and space to adhere to my story. He made
divers recommendations, none of which I thought
of weight; and upon Abel, who had heard him
with gravity and attention, I was at last forced to
call for advice and assistance. It was his opinion,
and he advised accordingly, that all the money I
could raise should be thrown into the stock-market,
where, being applied to purchase and sale in the
usual way, he had no doubt it could be made to
yield a revenue of at least twenty per cent., and
perhaps twice as much; and this proposal, strange
as it may seem to the reader, after the experience
Abram Skinner had given me in such matters, I
did, after sundry doubts and hesitations, finally
agree to.
“Verily,” said I, “this is a gainful business,
friend Abel; but, of a surety, neither honest nor
humane, seeing that it is practised at the expense
of the ignorant, and often the needy.”
“Verily, no,” said Abel Snipe, with fervour; “it
shall be at the expense of the rich and niggardly—
the man that is a miser and uncharitable—the broker
and the gambler—the bull and the bear. Our
dealings shall not be with the poor and ignorant
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man that dabbleth in stocks; but him will we charitably
pluck from the grasp of the covetous, and
thus protect, while drawing from the covetous man
those alms of benevolence which he would never
himself apply to the use of the afflicted.”
“Verily,” said I, pleased with the idea, “if we
can make the covetous man charitable, it will be a
good thing; and if we can protect the foolish ignorant
person from his grasp, it will be still better.
But, of a surety, Abel Snipe, this business will be
as gambling?”
“Yea, and verily,” said Abel Snipe, “it is as
gambling when a gambler follows it; but in the
hands of an honest man it is an honest profession.
Is not money, bagged up in stocks and other investments,
as merchandise? and, as merchandise,
shall it not be lawfully bought and sold?”
“And moreover,” said Jonathan, with equal earnestness,
“if it be no better than cheating and
swindling, this same buying and selling, are we not
embarking in it out of charity? Verily, uncle
Zachariah, in such a case as this, the end sanctifies
the means. Behold what is the crying evil arising
from money that is chartered in stocks, whether it
be in banks, rail-roads, loans, or otherwise. This
is money that is not taxed for charitable purposes;
it is money appropriated solely to the purposes of
gain. Why is it that a private man should be taxed
to support the poor, and a bank, that has greater
facilities for making money, be not taxed for the
purpose at all? Verily, uncle Zachariah, we will
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do what the commonwealth should be doing; we
will impose a tax upon the gains of chartered
money, and distribute the proceeds among the
needy.”
To make short work of the matter, I will not
pursue our debate further, but merely state that I
was soon brought to consider Abel Snipe's scheme
the best, honestest, and most philanthropic in the
world, and to agree that he should open an office
as a stock-broker, turning a penny or two in that
way, while making much more by buying and selling
on his own account. To this I was brought,
in a great measure, by the representations and arguments
of Jonathan, among which I esteem as
still worthy of consideration that which stands above
expressed in his own words. I am still of opinion
that a tax, and a round one, should be imposed upon
the profits of all banks and other money-making
corporations, the same to be specifically appropriated
to hospitals, and other charitable foundations,
and perhaps also to public schools. In this way
evil might be made productive of good, and our avarice
rendered the parent of benevolence and knowledge.
Of a verity, my philanthropy is not yet got
out of me!
The aforementioned arrangement was made at
an early period of my new existence, that is to say,
at the close of spring; and the faithful Abel soon
began to render a good account of his stewardship,
by handing me over divers handsome sums of
money, the profits of his speculations, which
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Jonathan and myself disbursed with rival enthusiasm.
The experiment was continued in a prosperous
manner until the month of September, when there
happened a catastrophe not less unexpected than
calamitous.
CHAPTER XI. In which a catastrophe begins.
The various mischances and afflictions, as narrated
in the preceding chapter, which rewarded my
virtue, had begun to affect my mind with sundry
pangs of melancholy and misgiving. I perceived
that the world was ungrateful, and I had my doubts
whether it was a whit the better for my goodness.
These doubts and this persuasion were confirmed
by the experience of each succeeding day; and by
the month of September as aforesaid, I found myself
becoming just as miserable a man as I had
ever been before, and perhaps more so, being pierced
not merely with the ingratitude of those I had
befriended, but convinced that the unworthiness of
man was a thing man was determined to persevere
in.
It was at the moment of my greatest distress,
that the catastrophe alluded to before happened;
and this was nothing less than the sudden bankruptcy
of Abel Snipe, whereby I was reduced in a
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moment from affluence to destitution; and what
made the calamity still more painful, was a conviction
forced upon me by my own reflections, as well
as the representations of others, that the failure
could not have happened without a fraudulent design
on the part of the fiduciary. It is true, this
worthy gentleman was the first to inform me of his
mishap, which he did with tears in his eyes, and
with divers outbreaks of self-accusation and despair;
he declared that his imprudence had ruined
me, his benefactor, and implored me, his benefactor,
to knock him on the head with a poker I had
begun to embrace in my agitation; but how he
had effected such a catastrophe I could not bring
him clearly to explain. The only answers I could
get from him were, “Speculation, speculation—bad
speculation!—ruined my benefactor! might as
well have murdered thee!” and so on; and having
given vent to some dozen or more of such frantic
interjections, he ran out of the house.
Enter Jonathan the very next moment. The
sight of him renewed my grief; he, poor youth,
was ruined as well as myself, yet not wholly; for,
as good luck would have it, I had, a week or two
before, after long cogitation on the subject, resolved
to marry him to the maid Ellen Wild, and so secure
his happiness more certainly than, it appeared
to me, it could be secured by a life of philanthropy.
To effect this desirable purpose I bestowed
upon him the only property which I had not thought
fit to put into Abel Snipe's hands, being the new
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house I was then building, promising also to add a
sum of money, as soon as it could be conveniently
withdrawn from the concern. He received the
gift and the promise with much joy and gratitude,
but betrayed surprising indifference on the score of
matrimony, saying that he was in no great hurry,
and in fact giving me to understand that there was
a difference between him and the maiden.
“Jonathan,” said I, as soon as I saw him, “thee
is a ruined young man. Abel has broken.”
“All to smash!” said Jonathan; “I know all
about it. Horrible pickle we're in. But I say,
uncle, if thee can borrow twenty thousand dollars,
we can save friend Abel yet.”
“Does thee say so?” said I; “is it true?”
“Verily,” said Jonathan, “I have looked over
the demands, and twenty thousand dollars by nine
o'clock to-morrow will make all straight. But
where will thee get twenty thousand dollars?”
“Where?” said I, fairly dancing for joy. “It
was but two days since that thy friend Ebenezer
Wild did offer me exactly the sum of twenty
thousand dollars for the new house as it stood, not
knowing I had conveyed it to thee, until I told him
the same, as a reason why I could not take such a
handsome offer.”
“Well,” said Jonathan, opening his eyes, “what
then?”
“Surely,” said I, “if he would give twenty
thousand then, he will give twenty thousand now.
And so, Jonathan—”
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“And so,” said Jonathan, “thee wants me to
sell the house, does thee? and give thee back the
money? Uncle Zachariah, thee should be a little
more reasonable. Thee must remember that the
house is mine; and as it seems to be all I am ever
to get, why, uncle, thee must excuse me, but—I
have no notion of parting with it.”
If Jonathan had picked up the poker and served
me the turn Abel Snipe had so piteously entreated
me to serve him—that is, knocked me on the
head, I could not have been more shocked and
horror-struck than I was by these words.
“What, Jonathan,” said I, “does thee refuse to
save me from ruin—me, who have been a father to
thee, and given thee all that thou hast?”
“No,” said Jonathan, coolly, “I am not so bad
as that; but as this house is all I have, I can't
think of running too much risk with it. Suppose
thee borrows that twenty thousand dollars that
Ebenezer Wild has so handy: he is thy friend as
well as mine. Or suppose thee tries some of thy
other friends. Thee has often loaned to them, and
not often borrowed. Sure thee has many friends
who can spare money better than I can.”
“Oh, thou ungrateful young man!” said I.
“Don't go to call me hard names,” said the perfidious
and unfeeling youth; “for, if thee comes to
that, uncle Zachariah, I can tell thee, thee is the
ungrateful man—though not a young one. Haven't
I been as a son to thee for eighteen long years?
haven't I humoured all thy foolish old notions, even
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to the point of giving alms, talking about virtue
and philanthropy, and so on? haven't I given up
Ellen Wild to please thee? And hasn't thee, after
all my pains, choused me out of the portion I had
a right to expect of thee, except a poor beggarly
unfinished house, only worth twenty thousand dollars?
Yes, thee has, uncle Zachariah, thee can't
deny it. Don't thee talk to me of ingratitude.”
“Thou art a viper,” said I.
“If I am,” said Jonathan in a huff, “I won't stay
to be trodden on.”
And with that, the heartless creature, tossing up
his head like an emperor, stalked out of the house,
leaving me petrified by the enormity of his baseness.
CHAPTER XII. In which the catastrophe is continued.
I was, indeed, so shocked, so overwhelmed, by
ingratitude coming from such a quarter, that it was
some time before I could recover myself sufficiently
to think of the steps necessary to be taken for my
preservation. I remembered, however, that he,
even he, my thrice unfeeling nephew, had recommended
me to borrow of my friends what would
be enough to retrieve my affairs from ruin. I ran
from the house, not doubting that I could easily
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raise the sum. Fifty paces distant was my new
house—that is, Jonathan's. My old friend Ebenezer,
the father of the maid Ellen, was standing
before it, looking up to the carpenters, who were
nailing the shingles on the roof.
“Ebenezer,” said I, “thee is my friend—does
thee know I am on the brink of ruin?”
“Very sorry,” said Ebenezer—“all the town-talk;
looked for nothing better. Perhaps thee will
sell the house—pho! I forgot; thee gave it to
Jonathan.”
“Ebenezer Wild,” said I, “if thee is my friend,
lend me that twenty thousand dollars. It will
save me from ruin.”
“Really, Mr. Longstraw,” said Ebenezer Wild,
(who was no Quaker, though his father had been
before him), “I am surprised a reasonable man
should make such a request. I have told you twenty
times you would ruin yourself by your cursed
philanthropy—can't consent to be ruined with you.
Pity you, Mr. Longstraw—awfully swindled;
wonder you could trust such a knave as Abel Snipe—
sorry to hear matters look so black for Jonathan—
thought better of him—quite unnatural to be defrauded
by one's own flesh and blood.”
What Ebenezer meant by his concluding remarks
I did not, at that moment, understand. But
I comprehended them well enough when I had run
to five or six other friends, rich men like him, all
of whom treated my request to borrow with as little
respect, while all wound up their commonplace
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condolings by assuring me, first, that Abel Snipe
had swindled me; and, secondly, that there was
much reason to believe my nephew Jonathan had
done the same thing.
Reader, this is a very wicked world we live in.
My philanthropy did not make me, as philanthropy
often does, selfish with my friends. I felt as
much pleasure in obliging one who happened to be
in a difficulty, with a loan of any sum within my
reach, as in relieving actual distress. Of twelve
different persons whom I now sought in my dilemma,
I had in this manner, at different times, obliged
no less than eleven; of not one of whom could I
now borrow a dollar. Every man pitied my misfortune,
every one inveighed with becoming severity
against the villany of those by whom I was
ruined, but every one was astonished that a reasonable
man like me should expect another reasonable
man to part with his money. In short, it was evident
that my friends loved borrowing better than
lending; and I left the door of the twelfth with the
agreeable conviction on my spirit, that human nature
was of the nature of a stone, I being the only
man of the thousand million in the world that had
actually a heart in my bosom.
This consideration was racking enough; but it
made a small part of my distress. Every man had
charged my friend, honest Abel Snipe, with having
swindled me, as Ebenezer Wild had charged before;
and every one, in like manner, swore that my
nephew Jonathan had borne a part in the nefarious
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transaction. This seemed to me incredible enough;
but when I remembered Jonathan's late behaviour,
his unexpected defection, his hard, unfeeling, nay,
his treacherous selfishness, I felt prepared to believe
almost any wickedness that might be said of
him.
I ran to Abel's office, resolved to sift the affair to
the bottom. The work was already done to my
hands; I found the office full of people, some of
whom were officers of the police, who had seized
upon books and papers, and (awful to be said!) the
body of Abel Snipe; and all raging with vociferation
and confusion, except the latter worthy, who
looked as if astounded out of his senses. “It's a
clear case of swindling,” cried a dozen voices as I
entered, “a design to defraud—fraud from beginning
to end; flagrant, scandalous, scoundrelly swindling—
nay, worse than swindling—it is a conspiracy!
Jonathan has confessed it—been going on this
three months;—Jonathan has confessed it!”
Jonathan had confessed it! confessed what?
Why, confessed, as every one gave me to understand,
and confessed in the hands of justice (for it
seems he had been arrested), that he and Abel
Snipe had entered into a conspiracy to defraud me
of my property, which had been carried on from
the moment that the latter was established in business,
and was now completed by a long-designed
bankruptcy.
Let the reader imagine my feelings at this disclosure
of ingratitude and villany so monstrous.
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My best friend—a man whom I had wrested from
the extremity of poverty and disgrace, and my only
relative—a youth whom I had adopted and reared
as my son, who was my heir at law, and the living
partner, as I may say, in all my possessions—had
leagued together feloniously to deprive me of what
I never denied them the privilege to share,—to rob,
to fleece, to reduce me to beggary.
Words cannot paint my grief. I crept away
from the scene of confusion, ashamed of my manhood,
ashamed even of my philanthropy. I reached
the door of my house; it was just dusk; a poor
man standing at the door implored my charity for a
miserable creature, as he called himself. “Go to
the devil!” said I.
“You are Zachariah Longstraw?” said another
man, tapping me on the shoulder. “I am,” said I,
supposing he was a beggar like the other; “and
you may go to the devil too.”
“Very much obliged to you,” said the man;
“but you're my prisoner; and so come along, if
you please.” And with that he took me by the
arm, and began to march me down the street.
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CHAPTER XIII. The dénouement of the drama.
Why I was arrested, and at whose instance, I
knew not; I was too downcast and spirit-broken to
inquire. I had, doubtless, divers small debts due
to persons with whom I was accustomed to deal;
and it seemed to me natural enough, as all men
were ungrateful rascals, that all such persons, now
that I was known to be penniless, should fall upon
me without shame or mercy, demanding their dues.
I say I thought such a consummation was natural
enough, and I asked no questions of my captor. I
let my head drop upon my bosom, and, without resisting
or remonstrating, and looking neither to the
right nor the left, suffered him to conduct me whither
he would.
Our progress was rapid, our journey short; in a
few moments I found myself led into a house, and
ushered into a lighted apartment.
I looked up, to see into what alderman's hands
I had fallen. The reader may judge of my surprise,
amounting almost to consternation, when I
beheld myself in an elegant saloon, brilliantly lighted,
and surrounded by a dozen or more gayly-dressed
people of both sexes, among whom was my
friend Ebenezer Wild, and two or three others
whose countenances seemed familiar, but whom, in
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my surprise and confusion, I did not immediately
recognise.
A maiden, beautiful as the morning, and smiling
as if her little heart was dancing out of her eyes,
ran from the throng, and seized me by the hands,
crying,—
“Now, uncle Zachariah, thee shall pay me what
thee owes me, or be turned over to some other
creditor!”
I looked upon her in astonishment, and began to
fancy I was in a dream.
“What!” said my friend Ebenezer, “don't you
know my little Ellen?” And thereupon he added
other expressions, but what they were I retain no
remembrance of, my wits being utterly amazed and
confounded.
To make my confusion still greater, the door
suddenly opened, and in rushed my nephew Jonathan,
dressed, like a dandy of the first water, in a
blue cloth coat with shining buttons, white trousers,
and satin waistcoat, and exclaiming “Bravo!” and
“Victoria!” as if a very demon of joy and exultation
possessed him. As soon as he beheld me he
ran forward, snatched one of my hands from the
maiden, and, dropping on his knees, cried, with a
comical look of contrition,—
“Forgive me all my sins, uncle Zachariah, and
I'll behave better for the future.”
“Oh thou ungrateful wretch!” said I, “how
canst thou look me in the face, having ruined me?”
“Don't say so!” cried Ellen Wild; “you don't
know how Jonathan has saved you.”
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“The deuse he don't!” said Jonathan, jumping
up; “why then we've got the play all wrong. I
say, uncle, don't look so solemn and wrathful. You
are no more ruined than I am, and you are out of
the clutches of the harpy!”
“Haven't I been swindled?” said I.
“Unutterably!” said Jonathan; “but, as the
swindler has been swindled also, there's no great
harm done. Uncle Zachariah, a'n't you satisfied
Abel Snipe is a rascal?”
“I am,” said I; “but what shall I say of thee?”
“That I have broken the spell the villain cast
over your senses,” said Jonathan, “and so saved
you from the ruin your confidence invited him to
attempt. Uncle Zachariah, you think I am as bad
as Abel. Now listen to my story. I knew that
Abel Snipe was a rogue and hypocrite, but could
not make you believe it; I saw that he was daily
fleecing you of sums of money under pretence of
giving to the poor; that he was artfully goading
and inflaming your benevolence into a passion, nay,
into a monomania (for, uncle, everybody said you
were mad), for his own base purposes; and that,
sooner or later, he would strip you of every thing.
This I could not make you believe; I resolved you
should see it. I turned hypocrite myself, and began
to fleece you ten times harder than Abel. The
rogue was alarmed; he perceived I was ousting
him from his employment—that I had greater facilities
for cheating (having more of your affection)
than himself. His alarm, added to another feeling
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which you shall hear all about, brought him into
the trap from which cautiousness at first secured
him. I convinced him I was as great a rogue as
himself, and he then agreed with me—yes, uncle,
formally agreed—to join in a plan to strip you of
fortune. We arranged the whole scheme from beginning
to end—the business, the speculations, the
bankruptcy. Abel was to play Sir Smash—his
reputation could stand it. The sums received from
you were to be handed over to me, and accounted
for as lost in bad speculations; to make which appear
straight, his books were filled with fictitious
sales and purchases, very ingeniously got up. After
the grand crash we were to make a division of
the plunder, he being content, honest man, to receive
one fourth, of which he considered himself
secure enough as long as I had any value for good
name or fear of the penitentiary. Now you may
wonder how such a cautious rogue could be so easily
gulled. Here stands the fairy,” said Jonathan,
pointing to the maid Ellen, “who dazzled the eyes
of his wisdom. Yes, uncle, would you believe it?
the impudent, the audacious fellow had the vanity
to think he had found favour in her eyes, at a time
when I had lost favour in those of her father. You
must know we had a coolness—that is, father Wild
and I; it was about you—that confounded philanthropy—
but we'll say nothing of that. I used to
communicate with Ellen by letter, and Abel was
often my Ganymede. Now, you must know, Ellen
is a coquette—'
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“Fy, Jonathan!” said the damsel; “it was all
that vicious Abel's presumption and folly. Because
I was glad to see him, and treated him well, just
because he brought me letters—oh, the monster!
I soon saw what was running in his head!”
“Yes,” said Jonathan, “Ellen's a much smarter
girl than people suppose her.”
“Oh! you great Quaker bear!” said the maiden.
“Well,” continued Jonathan, “she boasted her
conquest, and then I saw I had the ogre by the
nose. It was this put me upon turning swindler;
I had a talk with father Wild, who approved my
plan, and Ellen agreed to cultivate Abel's good
opinion as far as a smile or two. We affected to
quarrel; I began to coquet with another, abusing
poor Ellen to Abel as hard as I could, until he was
persuaded the breach between us was incurable.
Ellen gave him a smile—her papa became condescending.
In a word, the rascal thought nothing
was wanting to make him the happiest man in the
world, save the one full fourth of his patron's estate,
and as much more as he could cheat me of.
Here was the rock upon which Abel split, and split
he has; he is now safe. The moment matters
came to a crisis, which was this afternoon, I ran to
a magistrate—my friend Jones there” (pointing to
an elderly gentleman who had entered with him),
“and made confession of our roguery; deposed the
whole matter; accused myself and Abel of conspiracy
to defraud, and so forth, and so forth; and
was admitted to the honourable privileges of
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evidence for the commonwealth, and allowed to walk
about on bail, while my rascally colleague takes up
his lodgings in prison. There's the whole story;
I have exposed Snipe's rogueries, and secured his
conviction; and, what is equally agreeable, I have
saved your property. Here, uncle—you called me
a viper—I only wanted to make you believe I could
be ungrateful, as well as others. By-the-way, that
was a plan of father Wild's, to have your friends
refuse to assist you; they were let into the secret,
and I recommended you to apply to them. Here,
uncle, you'll see what a viper I am,” he continued,
a little impetuously; “here are the deeds for the
house; here is a roll of bank-notes I cheated you
of, to play the philanthropist; you will be surprised
at the amount, but I did spend some, I confess, for
there are wretches who deserve our charity. And
here, and here, and here you have the property out
of which Abel and I conspired to cheat you—at
least, the chief part of it; the rest we will soon get
possession of, having laid the villain in limbo.
Here, uncle Zachariah, take them, and be as philanthropic
as you please; we have no fear of you,
now your familiar is tied up; take your property,
and much good may it do you. As for me, I am
content to take Ellen—that is, if you have no objection.”
This was a turn of circumstances that confounded
me more than ever; and, verily, I knew not
whether I was standing on my head or feet. I
stood staring Jonathan in the face, without saying
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a word, until the youth was seized with the idea
that the surprise of the thing had turned my wits;
at which, being alarmed, he took me again by the
hand, and said, with the tears in his eyes,—
“Oh, my dear uncle! do consider it is nothing
more than a joke, and that I never meant to offend
thee.”
“No,” said I, “thee did not. Therefore thee
shall have it all, and thee shall marry the maiden.”
And with that, being seized with uncommon
generosity, or perhaps not well knowing what I
did, I put into his hands the conveyance of the
house, the bank-bills, and other papers which he had
given me but a moment before, and turned to leave
the house.
“Stay, uncle—I am just going to be married,”
said he; and “Stay, Zachariah!” said a dozen others;
when some one suddenly calling out, “Let
him go; he is afraid of being turned out of meeting
if he witnesses the ceremony,” I was suffered
to obey the impulses of the spirit within me, and
walk out of the house; which I did without exactly
knowing what I was doing.
To tell the honest truth—as, indeed, I have been
trying to do all along—I was in a kind of maze and
bewilderment of mind, which the first shock of ruin
had produced, and which Jonathan's story rather
increased than diminished. The effect of this was
divided in my brain with the impression of the various
proofs of ingratitude and baseness to which
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the day had given birth, the latter, however, being
greatly preponderant. Of one feeling only I had
entire consciousness, and that was a hearty disgust
of philanthropy, coupled with a sense of shame at
having been so basely cheated as I seemed to have
been on all sides. I had been cheated out of my
senses, as the saying is; and the only cure for me
was to be cheated into them again; which was not
an agreeable reflection, the whole affair being a reproach
on my good sense.
On the whole, I felt very melancholy and lugubrious,
and began to have my thoughts of leaving
Zachariah Longstraw's body at the first convenient
opportunity. The great difficulty was, however,
to find a tenement in which I might promise
myself content, the disappointment I had experienced
in my present adventure having filled me
with doubts as to the reality of any human happiness.
“At least,” said I to myself “I will henceforth
look before I leap. I will cast mine eyes
about me, I will gird up my loins and look abroad
into the human family, and peradventure I shall
find some man whose body is worth reanimating.
Yea, verily, I will next time be certain I am not
putting my soul, as the pickpocket did his hand,
into a sack of fish-hooks.”
With this resolution on my mind I walked
towards my house, and was just about to pass the
door, when an adventure befell me which knocked
the aforesaid resolution entirely on the head. But
before I relate it my conscience impels me to
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make one remark, which I beg the reader, if he
be a man of fortune and blood, to peruse, without
excusing himself on the score of its dulness.
CHAPTER XIV. A remark, in which the Author appears as a politician, and abuses both parties.
There are other persons besides Zachariah the
philanthropist, who have experienced the ingratitude
of the poor; and, truth to say, if we can believe
the accounts of those who profess to have the
best means of judging, there is more of it among
that class of beings in the United States than in
any other Christian land. If it be so, let not the
reader wonder at its existence. It springs, like
a thousand other evils of a worse, because of a
political complexion, from that constitution of society
which, notwithstanding its being in opposition
to all the interests of the land and the character of
our institutions, is founded in, and perpetuated by,
the folly of the richer classes. It lies, not in the
natural enmity supposed to exist between the rich
and the poor, but in the unnatural hatred provoked
in the bosoms of the one by the offensive pride and
arrogance of the other. The poor man in America
feels himself, in a political view, as he really
is, the equal of the millionaire; but this very consciousness
of equality adds double bitterness to the
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sense of actual inferiority, which the richer and
more fortunate usually do their best, as far as
manners and deportment are concerned, to keep
alive. Why should the folly of a feudal aristocracy
prevail under the shadow of a purely democratic
government? It is to the stupid pride, the
insensate effort at pomp and ostentation, the unconcealed
contempt of labour, the determination, manifested
in a thousand ways, and always as unfeelingly
as absurdly, to keep the “base mechanical”
aware of the gulf between him and his betters—in
a word, to the puerile vanity and stolid pride of the
genteel and refined, that we owe the exasperation
of those classes in whose hands lie the reins of
power, and who will use them for good or bad purposes,
according as they are kept in a good or bad
humour. It is to these things we trace, besides the
general demoralization ever resulting from passions
long encouraged, besides the unwilling and unthankful
reception of benefits coming from the hands of
the detested, all those political evils which demagoguism,
agrarianism, mobocracism, and all other
isms of a vulgar stamp, have brought upon the land.
There is pride in the poor, as well as the rich:
the wise man and the patriot will take care not to
offend it.
Reader, if thou art a rich man, and despisest
thy neighbour, remember that he has a thousand
friends of his class where thou hast one of thine,
and that he can beat thee at the elections. If thou
art a gentleman, remember that thy cobbler is
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another, or thinks himself so—which is all the
same thing in America. At all events, remember
this—namely, that the poor man will find no fault
with thy wealth, if thou findest none with his poverty.
CHAPTER XV. An uncommon adventure that befell the Author.
I said that, just as I arrived at the door of my dwelling,
an adventure befell me; and truly, it was such
an extraordinary one as has happened to no other
individual in the land since the days of the unfortunate
William Morgan. As I passed towards the
door, a man whose countenance I could not see, for
it was more than two hours after nightfall, and who
seemed to have been lying in wait on the stoop,
suddenly started up, exclaiming, in accents highly
nasal, and somewhat dolorous,
“Well! I guess, if there's no offence, there's no
mistake. I rather estimate that you're Mr. Zachariah
Longstraw?”
“Well, friend! and what is that thy business?”
said I, in no amiable tone.
“Well, not above more than's partickilar,” said
the stranger; “but I've heern tell much on your
goodness, and I'm in rather a bit of the darnedest
pickle jist now, with a sick wife and nine small
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children, the oldest only six years old, that ever you
heerd tell on. And so, I rather estimated—”
“Thee may estimate theeself to the devil,” said
I. “How can the oldest child of nine be only six
years old?”
“Oh, darn it,” said the fellow, “there was three
on 'em twins. But if you'll jest step round to my
wife, she'll tell you all about it. Always heern you
was a great andyfist, or what-d'-ye-call-it.”
“Then thee has heard a great lie,” said I, “and
so thee may go about thee business, for I'll give
thee nothing.”
“Well now, do tell!” said the man, with a tone
of surprise that conveyed a part of the emotion to
myself, particularly when, by way of pointing his
discourse with the broadest note of admiration, he
suddenly clapped a foot to my heels, and laid me
sprawling on the broad of my back.
My astonishment and wrath may well be imagined;
but they were nothing to the terror that beset
me, when, recovering a little from the stunning
effects of the fall, I opened my mouth to cry aloud,
and found it instantly stuffed full of handkerchiefs,
or some such soft material, which the pretended
beggar took that opportunity to gag me with. The
next moment I felt myself whipped up from the
ground and borne aloft, like a corpse, on the shoulders
of two men, who trudged along at a rapid pace,
and apparently with the greatest unconcern possible;
for some of the people in the street hearing
my groans, which were the only sounds I could
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make, and demanding what was the matter, were
answered by my cool captors, “Oh, nothing more
than's partickilar—only a poor mad gentleman that
broke hospital; guess he won't do it again. Raving
mad, and hollers a gag out. I say, Sam, hold fast
to his legs, and don't let him jump; for I rather
estimate, if he gets loose, he'll kill some on these
here people.”
The villain! I had begun to hope my moans and
struggles, which I made for the purpose as loud
and furious as I could, having no other way of
calling for help, would cause some of the persons
collected to arrest the rogues, and inquire into the
matter a little more closely; but no sooner had the
villain expressed his fears of the mischief I might
do, than all inquiries ceased, and a horrible scraping
and rattling of feet told me that assistance and
curiosity had scampered off together.
In three minutes more I found myself clapped
into a little covered, or rather boxed wagon, such
as is used by travelling tinmen, and held fast by
one of the rogues, while the other seized upon the
reins, and whipping up a little nag that was geared
to it, we began to roll through the streets at a round
gait, and with such a rattle of wheels and pattypans,
that there was little hope of making myself
heard, had I possessed the voice even of an oysterman.
My companion took this opportunity to secure
my wrists in a pair of wooden handcuffs, and
to lock my feet in a sort of stocks, secured against
the side of the wagon. Then, overhauling the
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handkerchiefs, and arranging them more to his
liking, though not a whit more to mine, he opened
his mouth and spoke, saying,
“Now, uncle Longlegs, I estimate we'll be comfortable.
So keep easy; or, if you will grunt, just
grunt in tune, and see what sort of a bass you'll
make to Old Hundred.”
With that the rascal, after pitching his voice so
as to accommodate mine as much as possible, began
to sing a song; of which all that I recollect is,
that it related the joys of a travelling tinman—
tricks, rogueries, and all;—that it began somewhat
in the following fashion;—
“When I was a driving along Down East,
I met old Deacon Dobbs on his beast;
The beast was fat, and the man was thin—
`I'll cheat Deacon Dobbs,' says I, `to the skin,—' ”
that it was as long and soporific as a state constitution,
or a governor's message—that it was actually
sung to a psalm-tune, or something like it—
and that, during the eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth,
and half of the fourteenth stanza, the little wagon
rolled leisurely over a long and hollow-sounding
bridge, which I had no doubt was one of the
wooden Rialtos of the Schuylkill—having passed
which, the driver whipped up, and away we went
at a speed of at least six miles an hour.
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CHAPTER XVI. In which Sheppard Lee takes a journey, and discovers the secret object of his captors.
Verily, reader, the thing was to me as an
amazement and a marvel, and the wonder thereof
filled my spirit with anguish and perturbation.
But if I was dismayed at my seizure and abduction,
at my involuntary journey, prolonged through the
space of a whole night, how much greater was my
alarm to find it continued for five days and nights
longer, during which I was never allowed to speak
or breathe the fresh air, except when my captors
halted to rest and eat, which they did at irregular
intervals, and always in solitary places among
woods and thickets. It was in vain that I demanded
by what authority they treated me with
such violence, what purpose they had in view, and
whither they were conducting me. The rogues
assured me they were very honest fellows, who
made their living according to law, and had no
design to harm me; and as to what they designed
doing with me, that, they said, I should know all
in good time; recommending me, in the meanwhile,
to take things patiently. I studied their
appearance well. They were common-looking
personages, with a vulgar shrewdness of visage,
and would have been readily taken for Yankee
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pedlers of the nutmeg and side-saddle order—that
is, of the inferior branch of that adventurous class—
as indeed they were. There was nothing of the
cut-throat about them whatever, and I soon ceased
to feel any apprehension of their doing me a personal
injury. But what did the villains mean?
what was their object in carrying me off? what
did they design doing with me? To these questions,
which I asked myself and them in vain, I
had, on the sixth day of my captivity, an answer;
and verily it was one that filled me with horror and
astonishment. Oh! the wickedness of man! the
covetousness, the depravity, the audacity! the enterprise
and originality thereof!
During the first three days of my captivity, my
roguish captors had taken great pains to conceal
me from, and to prevent any noises I might make
from being heard by, any persons they met on the
road. On the fourth day they relaxed somewhat
from their severity; on the fifth they unbound my
arms; and on the sixth they even removed the
gag from my mouth, assuring me, however, that
it should be replaced if I attempted any outcries,
and giving me, moreover, to understand, that I was
now in a land where outcries would be of no service
to me whatever; and, indeed, I had soon the
most mournful proof that, in this particular, they
spoke nothing but the truth.
The evening before, I heard, while passing by a
farmhouse, a great sawing of fiddles and strumming
of banjoes, with a shuffling of feet, as of
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people engaged in a dance, while a voice, which I
knew, by its undoubted Congo tang, could be none
but a negro's, sang, in concert with the fiddles,—
“Ole Vaginnee! nebber ti—ah!
Kick'm up, Juba, a leetle high—ah,—”
or something to that effect. And, while I was
marvelling what could make a negro in Pennsylvania
chant the praises of Virginia, having rolled
a little further on, I heard, far in the distance,
while our little nag stopped to drink from a brook,
the sound of many voices, which I knew also were
those of negroes. They were labourers husking
corn in the light of the moon, and singing as they
laboured; and, verily, there was something uncommonly
agreeable in the tones, now swelling, now
dying in the distance, as many or fewer voices
joined in the song. There was a pleasing wildness
in the music; but it was to me still more
enchanting, as showing the light-heartedness of the
singers. “Verily,” said I, forgetting my woes in
a sudden impulse of philanthropy, “the negro that
is free is a happy being”—not doubting that I was
still in Pennsylvania.
But oh, how grievously this conceit was dispersed
on the following morning! I was roused
out of sleep by the sound of voices and clanking of
chains, and looking from the door of my prison,
which my conductors had left open to give me air,
I spied, just at the tail of the cart, a long train of
negroes, men, women, and children, of whom some
of the males were chained together, the children
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riding for the most part in covered wagons, while
two white men on horseback, armed with great
whips and pistols, rode before and behind, keeping
the whole procession in order.
“What!” said I, filled with virtuous indignation,
and thrusting my head from the cart so as to
address the foremost rider, “what does thee mean,
friend? Are these people slaves or freemen? and
why dost thou conduct them thus in chains through
the free state of Pennsylvania?”
“Pennsylvanee!” cried the man, with a stare;
“I reckon we're fifty miles south of Mason's and
Dixon's, and fast enough in old Virginnee.”
“Virginia!” said I, seized with dismay. Before
I could add any thing farther, one of my captors,
jumping from the front of the cart, where he had
been riding with the other, clapped to the door of
the box, swearing at me for an old fool, who could
not keep myself out of mischief.
“Hillo, stranger!” I heard the horseman cry to
my jailer, “what white man's that you've got locked
up thaw?”
“Oh, darn it,” was the answer, “it's an old fellow
of the north, jist as mad as the dickens.”
“Friend!” cried I from my prison, seized with a
sudden hope of escape, “the man tells thee a fib.
If thee is an honest man and a lover of the law, I
charge thee to give me help; for these men are villains,
who have dragged me from my home contrary
to law, and now have me fastened up by the
legs.”
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“I say, strange-aw! by hooky!” cried the horseman,
in very emphatic tones, addressing himself to
my captor, as I saw through a crack, while his
companion rode up to his assistance, “what's the
meaning of all this he-aw? What aw you doing,
toting a white man off in this style, like a wild baw?”
What a “wild baw” was I could not conveniently
comprehend; but I saw that I had lighted
on a friend, who had the power to deliver me from
thraldom.
“My name,” said I, “is Zachariah Longstraw,
and I can reward thee for thy trouble.”
“You hear him!” said my jailer, with all imaginable
coolness. “Well now, darn it, if I must
tell, it is Zachariah Longstraw, the famous Zachariah
Longstraw. You understand!” And here
he nodded and winked at the questioner with great
significancy; but, as it appeared, all in vain.
“Never heard of the man in my life,” said my
friend, “and I've followed niggur-driving ever since
I could hold a two-year-old bo' pig.”
“What!” cried my jailer, “never heard of Zachariah
Longstraw, the famous abolitionist?”
“Abolitionist!” cried the two horsemen together,
and they cried it with a yell that made my hair
stand on end. “Can't say ever heard the name,
but reckon he's one of them 'aw New-Yorkers and
Yankees what sends 'cendiary things down he-aw!
I say, strange-aw! is it a true, right up-and-down,
no-mistake abolitionist?”
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“Darn it, I think you'd say so, if you had ever
read the papers.”
“Jist open the box then, and if I don't take the
scalp off him, call me a black man!”
You won't do no sitch thing, meaning no offence,”
said my jailer. “Didn't go to the expense
to fetch him so far for nothing; and don't mean him
for the Virginnee market. Bound down to Louisianee,
stranger; that's the best market for abolitionists;
seen a public advertisement offering fifty
thousand dollars for fellers not half so bad. I
rather estimate we'll get full price for our venture.”
With that my jailers whipped up, and succeeded
in putting a proper distance betwixt them and that
ferocious person who had such a desire to rob me
of my scalp.
CHAPTER XVII. Containing other secrets, but not so important.
Reader, if thou art an abolitionist (and, verily, I
hope thou art not), thou wilt conceive the mingled
wo and astonishment with which I listened to these
words of the chief kidnapper—whose Christian
name, by-the-way, was Joshua, though as for his
surname, I must confess I never heard it—and appreciate,
even to the cold creeping of the flesh, the
terrible situation in which I was placed. I was an
abolitionist—or, at least, my captors chose so to
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consider me, and they were now carrying me down
south, to sell me on speculation. For this they
had kidnapped me! for this they had fastened me
up by the legs like a “wild baw!” for this—but it
is vain to accumulate phrases expressive of their
villany and my distresses. What mattered it to
my captors if, after all, I was no abolitionist? (for,
of a verity, though opposed in principle to the
whole institution of slavery, my mind had been so
fully occupied with other philanthropic considerations
that I had had no time to play the liberator)—
it was all one to my captors. The genius which
could convert a hemlock-knot into a shoulder of
bacon, a bundle of elder twigs into good Havana
cigars, and bags of carpet-rags into Bologna sausages,
could be at no fault when the demand was
only to transform a peaceable follower of George
Fox into a roaring lion of abolition. I felt that
they had got me into a quandary more dreadful than
any that had ever before afflicted my spirit. I
knew we were already far south of Mason's and
Dixon's.
The moment my vile kidnappers slackened their
speed a little, having ridden hard to escape the negro-drivers,
I called a parley, in the course of which
two circumstances were brought to light, which
greatly increased the afflictions of my spirit. I
began by remonstrating with the villains upon the
wickedness, cruelty, and injustice of their proceedings;
to which Joshua made answer, that “times
was hard—that a poor man was put to a hard shift
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to get a living—that, for his part, he was an honest
man who turned his hand to any honest matter—
that he knew what was lawful, and what was not—
that he was agin all abolition, which was anti-constitutional,
and clear for keeping the peace betwixt
the North and South”—and twenty other
things of a like nature, of which the most important
was, a declaration that the good people of some
parish or other in Louisiana had offered a reward
of fifty thousand dollars for either of two individuals
whose names I have forgotten, though they were
very famous abolitionists, and although Joshua, to
settle the matter at once, showed me their names
in the advertisement, which he had cut from a
newspaper.
“Friend,” said I, “I don't see that these foolish
people have offered any reward for me.”
“Well, darn it, I know it,” said Joshua; “but I
rather estimate they'll give half price for you; and
that will pay us right smart for the venture. For,
you see, what they want is an abolitionist, and I
rather estimate they're not over and above partickilar
as to who he may be. Now I have heern tell
of a heap of incendiary papers you sent down south
to free the niggurs—”
“I never did any such thing!”
“Oh, well,” said Joshua, “it's all one; them
there sugar-growing fellers will think so; and so it's
all right. And there's them runaway niggurs you
Phil'delphy Quakers are always hiding away from
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their masters. I rather estimate we'll make a
good venture out of you.”
“What!” said I, “will you sell my life for
money?”
“No,” said the vile Joshua, “it's a mere trade
in flesh and blood—wouldn't take a man's life on
no consideration.”
“Friend, thee shall have money if thee will permit
me to escape.”
“Well,” said Joshua, with an indifferent drawl,
“I estimate not. Abel Snipe told me you was
cleaned out as clear as a gourd-shell.”
“Abel Snipe!” said I; “is thee a friend of that
villain, Abel Snipe?”
“A sorter,” said Joshua; “or rather Sam is.
Him and Abel was friends together at Sing—”
“Oh, blast your jaw,” said Sam, speaking for almost
the first time on the whole journey, for he had
been, until then, uncommonly glum and taciturn;
“where's the difference where it was? Says Abel
Snipe to me, says he, `If you want's an abolitionist,
there's my old friend Zachariah; he's your true
go.' And so, d'ye see, that's what made us snap
you; for we was thinking of snapping another.”
“Oh, the wretch! the base, ungrateful, hypocritical
wretch!”
“Come, blast it,” said Sam, “don't abuse a man's
friends.”
“Fellow,” said I, “hast thou no human feeling
in that breast of thine? Wilt thou sell me to violent
men and madmen, who will wrongfully take my life?
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Think what thou doest! Hast thou no conscience?
Thou art selling a fellow-being! Hast thou no fear
of death and judgment? of the devil and the world
of torment?”
“Oh, hold your gab,” said the ruffian. “As
for selling fellow-critters, why, that was once a
reggelar business of mine; for, d'ye see, I was a
body-snatcher. And I reckon I was more skeared
once snapping up a dead body, than ever I shall
be lifting a live one. You must know, I was
snatching for the doctors, over there in Jarsey; for,
d'ye see, I'm a Jarseyman myself: I reckon it was
some fourteen months ago: it was summer. What
the devil-be-cursed the doctor wanted with a
body in summer, I don't know; but it was none on
my business. So we, went, me and Tim Stokes,
and the doctor, to an old burying-ground where they
had just earthed a youngster that the doctor said
would suit him. Well, d'ye see, when we came to
the grave, up jumps a blasted devil, as big as a cow,
or it might ha' been a ghost, and set up a cry. So
we takes to our heels. But the doctor said 'twas
a man's cry, and no ghost's. And so, d'ye see,
blast it, we was for going back again, after having
a confab; when what should we do but find a poor
devil of a feller lying dead by a hole under a
beech-tree. The doctor said he would do better
nor the other; and so, blast it, d'ye see, we nabbed
him.”
“Of a surety,” said I, eagerly, “it was the
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beech-tree at the Owl-roost! and that was the
body of poor Sheppard Lee!”
“Well, they did call him summat of that like;
and they made a great fuss about him in the papers.
But I'm hanged if I wasn't skeared after
that out of all body-snatching.”
“Friend,” said I, “can thee tell me what the
doctor did with that body?”
“Why, cut him up, blast him, and made a rawhead-and-bloody-bones
of him. The doctor was
so cussed partickilar, he wouldn't let us even knock
the teeth out; though that was no great loss, for
Jarseymen hasn't no great shakes in the tooth way.”
Alas! what an ending for poor Sheppard Lee!
His body subjected to the knife of an anatomist,
his bones scraped, boiled, bleached, hung together
on wires, and set up in a museum, while his spirit
was wandering about from body to body, enduring
more afflictions in each than it had ever mourned
even in that unlucky original dwelling it was so
glad to leave! I am not of a sentimental turn, and
I cannot say that, as Zachariah Longstraw, I felt
any peculiar sorrow for the woes of Sheppard Lee.
Nevertheless, I did not hear this account of the
brutal way in which his body had been stolen and
anatomized, without some touch of indignation and
grief; which, perhaps, I should have expressed,
had not there arisen, before the brutal Samuel had
quite finished his remarks on Jerseymen's teeth, an
occasion to exercise those feelings on my own immediate
behalf.
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This was produced by the vile Joshua, who had
then the reins, telling a brace of horsemen whom
we met that he had “the great abolitionist, the celebrated
Zachariah Longstraw, in his cart,” and was
carrying him to be Lynched in Louisiana; a confession
that threw the strangers into transports of
satisfaction, one of them swearing he would accompany
my captors to the Mississippi, or to the
end of the earth, for the mere purpose of seeing
me get my deservings.
CHAPTER XVIII. In which the Author approaches a climax in his adventures.
And now arose a train of incidents, by which I
was taught three things, namely—first, the manner
in which my merchants designed giving a value to
their merchandise not inherent and intrinsic to it
(for, of a truth, my abolition principles, as I said
before, had never been carried to the point of notoriety,
or even notice); secondly, the love with
which a southron regards those pious philanthropists
who will have him good and virtuous against
his own will; and, thirdly, the religious respect for
law and order which is so prominent a feature in
the American character.
To make me valuable, it was necessary I should
be made famous; and this was easily
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accomplished in a land where men make up their opinions for
themselves, according as they are instructed. It
was only necessary to assure some half dozen or
more independent sovereigns that I was famous, to
ensure their making me so. And this my kidnappers
did. They told everybody they met that they
had secured Zachariah Longstraw, the famous abolitionist,
the very life and soul of northern incendiarism,
whom they were carrying to Louisiana, to
be Lynched according to law; and as the circumstance
would, of course, get into every patriotic
newspaper along the way, it was certain I should
be made famous enough before I got there, and
they thus enjoy the advantage of advertising their
commodity without paying a cent to the printer.
It was astonishing (and to none more than myself)
to witness the suddenness with which I was
exalted from obscurity to distinction, and the readiness
with which every living soul, upon being told
my name, character, and reputation, remembered
all about me and my misdeeds. “Yes,” cried
one worthy personage, shaking at me a fist minus
two fingers and a half, “I have heerd of him often
enough: he lives in New-York, and he sells sendary
pictures, packed up between the soles of niggur
shoes.”—“Yes!” cried another, who had but one
eye, “I have read all about him: he lives in Boston,
keeps a niggur school, and prints sendary
papers, a hundred thousand at a time, to set niggurs
insurrecting.” In short, they remembered not
only all that the unworthy Joshua told them to my
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disparagement, but a thousand things that the
imagination of one suggested to the credulity of
another. It was in vain that I endeavoured to say
any thing in denial or defence; ridicule and revilement,
threats and execrations, were my only answers.
It was clear, that by the time we reached
the Mississippi, I should be the most important
personage in America; and that, if my value as an
article of merchandise was to be determined by
the distinction I won on the road, my friends,
Joshua and Samuel, would make their fortunes by
the speculation. But it was not my fate to travel
beyond the bounds of the Ancient Dominion.
It happened, that on this day an election was
held in the district through which we were travelling,
to return a representative to Congress, in lieu
of one who had fought his way into the shoes of a
chargé. All the world—that is, all the district—was
therefore in arms; and men and boys, Americans
and Irishmen, were making their way to the polls
as fast and comfortably as two-mile-an-hour hardtrotting
horses could carry them; and thither also,
as it appeared, or in that direction, we were ourselves
bending our course. As we advanced, therefore,
we found ourselves gliding into a current of
human bodies—honest republicans, moving onward
to the polls, all of whom were ready to add their
approval to my claims, or those the kidnappers
made for me, to the honour of Lynchdom. The
word was passed from one to another, that the
Yankee cart contained the famous abolitionist,
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Zachariah Longstraw; they pressed around to look
at and revile me, to discourse with the kidnappers
on my demerits, and to express their delight that
such a renowned member of the incendiary gang,
as they called that class of conscientious people,
should at last be on the road to justice.
And thus I was rolled along, attended by sundry
groups, which grew fast into crowds, consisting of
persons who rejoiced over my capture, and painted
to my ears, in words uncommonly rough and ferocious,
the fate that awaited me when arrived at my
place of destination.
That place, as it chanced, was nearer than I
either expected or desired. As the crowd thickened,
the sounds of wrath and triumph increased, becoming
more terrible to my auditories. A new
idea came into the minds of the sovereigns. A villain,
seven feet and a half high, mounted on a horse
just half that altitude, who had a great knife-scar
across his nose and cheek, and a dozen similar
seams on his hands, rode up to the cart, and giving
me a diabolical look, cried out “Whaw! what aw
the use of carrying the crittur so faw? I say, Vawginnee
is the place for Lynching, atter all. I say,
gentlemen and Vawginians! I go for Lynching
right off-hand. Old Vawginnee for evvaw!”
Loud and terrible was the roar of voices with
which the throng testified their approbation of the
barbarian's proposal. It was agreed I ought to be,
and should be, Lynched on the spot. The kidnappers
appealed to the justice of “Virginians,”
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requesting them not to invade “the sacred rights of
private property,”—“they could not think of giving
up their prisoner for nothing; they meant him
solely for the Louisiana market.” But things were
coming to a crisis, and that my conductors perceived.
They whipped up to escape the throng; but
in vain. The further they went, the more they
became involved in the crowd, having now arrived
at the village where the favourite candidate was
stumping among his constituents, and promising
them worlds of reform, retrenchment, and public
virtue, provided they would send him to Congress.
I could hear from my box (my friend Joshua having
taken care to lock me up at the first sign of danger),
as we entered the village, the distant cries of
“Hampden Jones for ever!” mingled with those
nearer ones of my persecutors, “Lynch the abolitionist!”
and the loudly-expressed remonstrances
of my friends against invasion of their rights, coupled
with threats to have the law of any one who
robbed them of their property.
But threats and appeals were alike wasted on the
independent freemen of that district. Joined by
the voters and others already assembled at the polls,
who, at the cry of “Lynch the abolitionist!” had
deserted their orator, to join in the nobler sport of
Lynching, they increased in wrath and enthusiasm;
and, stopping the cart and breaking open my prison-house,
they dragged me into the light of day,
one man calling for a pistol, another a knife, a third
a rope, and a fourth a cord of good dry wood and
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a coal of fire, to “burn the villain alive.” Such a
horrible clamour never before afflicted my ears or
soul. I saw that, abolitionist or not, it was all over
with me; and so saw honest Joshua and Samuel,
whose only solace for this unlucky interruption to
their speculation, was a call some one generously
made to take up a subscription for their benefit,
seeing that it was “beneath the dignity of the chivalry
of Virginia to cheat even a Yankee of what
was justly his due.”
CHAPTER XIX. Containing a specimen of eloquence, with some account of the dangers of Lynchdom.
At this moment the orator and candidate of the
day, stalking up in high dudgeon to find what superior
attraction had robbed him of his audience,
laid eyes upon me. I thought I had seen him before;
and verily I had. He was that identical gentleman,
the master of the fugitive slave whom I
had concealed in my house in Philadelphia, and
then clapped into prison for robbing me, whence
his master recovered him. There was no mistaking
the gentleman: He was a young man of
twenty-six or seven, six feet high and one foot
wide, long-limbed, with small feet and huge hands,
a great shock of Indian-looking hair, vast, solemn
black eyes, a mouth wide and square, and a brow
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that might have suited a patriarch, it was so wide,
and lofty, and wrinkled. He was evidently a man
destined to shake the walls of the Capitol, and
cause stenographers to groan; the Tully shone in
his eye, the Demosthenes moved on his lip—there
was genius even in the shape of his nose.
“I recollect the man,” said he, with a voice that
might have come from the bowels of a double-bass,
it was so deep, rolling, and sonorous; “he hid my
boy Pompey. His name is Longshanks; he is a
Quaker, a philanthropist—an abolitionist!”
“Hampden Jones for ever!” cried the delighted
sovereigns. “We'll hang him” (meaning me, however,
and not the orator) “over the poll-window,
and then vote for Hampden Jones, the friend of the
law, the friend of the constitution, the friend of the
south!”
“Stay, friends,” said Hampden Jones, and his
voice stilled the tumult; “I have a word to say on
the subject of abolition.”
“Hampden Jones for ever!” cried the republicans;
and Hampden Jones stepped up on the head
of a barrel, and stretched forth his right arm. He
stretched forth his left also, and then, clinching both
fists, and pursing his brows together until the balls
beneath them looked like rolling grape-shot, he
said,—
“Gentlemen—fellow-freemen of Virginia! The
bulwarks of a nation's liberties are the virtues of
her children. Compared with these, what is
wealth? what is grandeur? what even are power
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and glory? These—riches and greatness, power
and renown—are the possessions of the Old World;
yet what have they availed her? Look around that
ancient hemisphere, and tell me where among its
blood-stained battle-fields! where under its polluted
palaces! where in its haunts of the despot and
the slave! you can find the love of liberty, the love
of law, the love of order, the love of justice, that
give permanence to the institutions they adorn, and,
like the laurel crown of the Cesars, guard from the
thunderbolt the temples they bind in the wreath of
honour? Look for them in the Old World, but
look in vain. The mighty Colossus of Christendom,
once vital with virtue, lifts its decrepit bulk
beyond the verge of the Atlantic, a vast and mournful
monument of decay! Age and the shocks of
the elements, the wash of the tempest and the lightning-stroke,
have ploughed its marble forehead with
wrinkles; mosses hang from its brows, and the
dust of its own ruin—dust animated only by insects
and reptiles, the offspring of corruption—moulders
over its buried feet! The virtues that once distinguished—
that almost deified—the immortal Colossus,
have fled from the old, to find their home in
the New World. I look for them only in the bosoms
of Americans!”
Here the orator, who had pronounced this sublime
exordium with prodigious earnestness and effect,
paused, while the welkin rung with the shouts
of rapture its complimentary close was so well fitted
to inspire. As for me, I felt a doleful
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skepticism as to the justness of the compliment, having
the very best reason to distrust that love of liberty,
law, order, and justice, which was about to consign
me to ropes and flames, without asking the permission
of a judge and jury. Moreover, I could not
exactly see how Mr. Hampden Jones's remarks
on the old and new world had any thing to do with
the subject of abolition, which he had risen to discuss;
and, indeed, this difficulty seemed to have
beset others as well as myself, several crying out
with great enthusiasm, “Let's have something on
abolition; and then to the Lynching!” while others
exclaimed, “Let's have the Lynching first, and
the speech afterward.”
“Abolition, my fellow-citizens!” said the orator,
“it is my intention to address you on the subject of
abolition. But first let me apply what I have already
said. I have said, and I repeat, that the love
of liberty, of law, of order, of justice, belongs peculiarly
to the free sons of America. Let me counsel,
let me advise, let me entreat you, to have this noble
truth in remembrance on this present occasion.
Beware lest, in what you now intend to do, you give
occasion to the enemies of freedom to doubt your
virtue, to suspect the reality of your love of law,
order, and justice, to stigmatize you as friends only
of riot and outrage.”
These words filled me with joyful astonishment.
I began to believe the youthful Tully was about to
interfere in my favour, to rebuke the violence of his
adherents, and so save them from the sin of
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bloodguiltiness. So also thought the indignant sovereigns
themselves; and many, elevating their voices,
demanded furiously, “if he meant to protect the
bloody abolitionist?”
“By no means,” said Mr. Hampden Jones, with
great emphasis; “what I have to advise is, that if
we are to do execution upon the wretch, we shall
proceed about it in an orderly and dignified way,
resolve ourselves into a great and solemn tribunal,
and so adjudge him to death with a regularity and
decorum which shall excite the admiration and win
the approbation of the whole world.”
“Hampden Jones for ever!” cried the sovereigns;
and so it appeared that all the benefit I was to derive
from his interference, was only to be despatched
in an orderly manner.
CHAPTER XX. In which Sheppard Lee reaches the darkest period of his existence.
Seeing this, I became horribly frightened—indeed,
so much so, that I was incapable of observing
properly what ensued. I have a faint recollection
that Mr. Hampden Jones resumed his discourse
and harangued those who would listen, on the subject
he had promised to discuss; and I remember
that his auditors echoed every tenth word with
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tremendous shouts. But what I remember better
than all was, a spectacle that soon attracted my
attention, being nothing less than the apparition of
five or six stout negroes climbing up a tree hard
by, dragging a rope after them, and tying it round
a branch; all which they executed with uncommon
spirit and zeal, shaking their fists at me all the
time, and calling me a “cussed bobolitionist.”
What was to become of me now? Had I entered
the body of the most generous and humane
of men only to be hanged? A cold sweat broke
over me; my knees knocked together. The men
who held me, held me faster. My judges, the
members of the great and solemn tribunal, began to
decide upon my fate with the regularity and decorum
(advised by their orator) which were to win the
approbation and admiration of the whole world—
that is to say, by each man marching up to the orator's
barrel, where stood a committee appointed
to receive the votes, pronouncing his name, and
voting to “hang the incendiary.”
All this while, I believe, I was endeavouring to
say something in my defence; but I have not the
slightest recollection of what it was. Matters
were coming—I may say had come—to a crisis,
and my life hung upon a thread; when suddenly a
negro, who had been among the most active and
zealous of the volunteers on the tree, fell from a
high branch to the ground, and besides breaking
his own neck, as I understood by the cry that was
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set up, crushed two or three white men that stood
below.
This produced a great hubbub, and those who
had stationed themselves about me as guards ran
forward to see what mischief had been done. As
they ran one way, I betook me to my heels and ran
another. I rushed into the nearest house; but, being
instantly pursued and ousted, I fled into a garden,
from which I was as quickly chased by men
and dogs, the first screaming, and the second howling
and barking, so that the uproar they made was
inexpressible.
Fear lent me wings; but I was surrounded;
and run whithersoever I might, I always found myself
brought up by some party or other presenting
itself in front. The exercise, while it inflamed my
own terrors, only exasperated the rage of my persecutors;
and I was persuaded they would tear me
to pieces the moment they caught me. Judge of
my feelings, then, when I found myself hemmed in
on all sides in a little field on the skirts of the village,
with a party close at my elbow, on which I
had stumbled without seeing it until roused by its
cries.
I looked up and saw that it consisted of about a
dozen negroes, who were carrying the body of their
companion, the unlucky volunteer who had broken
his neck falling from the tree; but which body they
now threw upon the ground, and with loud screams
of “He-ah, mossa John!” and “He-ah, mossa
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Dickey!” began to scamper after me with all their
might.
There was but one resource left me, and that let
the reader determine hereafter of how deplorable
a character. I made a successful dodge, followed
by a dash right through the screaming Africans,
who perhaps hesitated to lay a rough hand on one
of my colour, and, reaching the body of their companion,
cried, half to myself and half to the insensible
clay, “It is better to be a slave than a dead
man; and the scourge, whatever romantic persons
may say to the contrary, is preferable, at any time,
to the halter. If thou art dead, my sable brother,
yield my spirit a refuge in thy useless body!”
That was the last I remember of the adventure,
for I had no sooner uttered the words than I fell
into a trance.
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BOOK VI. CONTAINING A HISTORY AND A MORAL.
CHAPTER I. In which Sheppard Lee finds every thing black about him.
When I opened my eyes I found that I was lying
in a hovel, very mean of appearance, yet with
a certain neatness and cleanliness about it that prevented
it from looking squalid. It is true that the
floor, which was of planks, was somewhat awry
and dilapidated; that the little window, which, with
the door, furnished, or was meant to furnish, its
only light, was rather bountifully bedecked with
old hats and scraps of brown paper; and that the
walls of ill-plastered logs displayed divers gleaming
chinks, and vistas through them of the sunny
prospects without. Nevertheless, the place did not
look amiss for a poor man, and, in my experience
as a philanthropist, I had seen hundreds much more
miserable.
An old woman sat at the fireplace, nodding over
a stew, the fumes of which were both savoury and
agreeable. The old woman was, however, as black
as the outside of her stew-pan—in other words, a
negress; and this circumstance striking upon the
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chords of association, I began to remember what
had lately befallen me. A terrible suspicion flashed
into my mind. Had I not—but before I could
ask myself the question, my hand, which I had
raised to scratch my head, came into contact with a
mop of elastic wool, such as never grew upon the
scalp of a white man. I started up in bed and
looked at my hands and arms; they were of the
hue of ebony—or, to speak more strictly, of smoked
mahogany. I saw a fragment of looking-glass
hanging on the wall within my reach. I snatched
it down, and took a survey of my physiognomy.
Miserable me! my face was as black as my arms—
and, indeed, somewhat more so—presenting a
sable globe, broken only by two red lips of immense
magnitude, and a brace of eyes as white and as
wide as plain China saucers, or peeled turnips.
“Whaw dah!” cried the old woman, roused by
the noise I made; “whaw dat, you nigga Tom?
what you doin' dah? Lorra bless us! if a nigga
break a neck, can't a nigga hold-a still?”
Alas! and had my fate brought me to this grievous
pass? Was there no other situation in life
sufficiently wretched, but that I must take up my
lot in the body of a miserable negro slave? How
idle had been all my past discontent! how foolish
the persuasion I had indulged five different times,
that I was, on each occasion, the most unhappy of
men! I had forgotten the state of the bondman,
the condition of the expatriated African. Now I
was at last to learn in reality what it was to be
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the victim of fortune, what to be the exemplar of
wretchedness, the true repository of all the griefs
that can afflict a human being. Already I felt, in
imagination, the blow of the task-master on my
back, the fetter on my limb, the iron in my soul;
and when the old woman made a step towards me,
perhaps to discover why I made no reply to her
questions, I was so prepossessed with the idea of
whips and lashes, that I made a dodge under the
bedclothes, as if to escape a thwack.
“Golly matty! is de nigga mad?” cried the
Jezebel. “I say, you nigga Tom, what you doin'?
How you neck feel now?”
“My neck?” thought I, recollecting that it had
been broken, and wondering in what way it had
been mended. I clapped my hands to it; it was
very stiff and sore: while I felt at it, the old woman
told me some great doctor had twisted a great
“kink” out of it; but I bestowed little notice on
what she said. My mind ran upon other matters;
I could think of nothing but cowhides and
cat-o'nine-tails, that were to welcome me to bondage.
“Aunty,” said I—why I addressed the old lady
thus I know not; but I have observed that negroes
always address their seniors by the titles of uncle
and aunt, and I suppose the instinct was on me—
“am I a slave?”
“What a fool nigga to ax a question!” said
she. “What you gwying to be, den, but old Massa
Jodge's nigga-boy Tom? What you git up
faw, ha?” —(I was making an attempt to rise)—
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“Massa docta say you stay a-bed. What you git
up faw, ha?”
“I intend to run away,” said I; and truly that
was the notion then uppermost in my mind; and it
is very likely I should have made a bolt for the
door that moment, had I not discovered an uncommon
weakness in my lower limbs, which prevented
my getting out of bed.
“Whaw! what a fool!” cried the beldam, regarding
me with surprise and contempt; “what
you do when you run away, ha? Who'll hab you?
who'll feed you? who'll take care of you? who'll
own a good-fo'-nothin' runaway nigga, I say, ha?
Kick him 'bout h'yah, kick him 'bout dah, poor
despise nigga wid no massa, jist as despise as any
free nigga! You run away, ha? what den?”
continued my sable monitress, warming into eloquence
as she spoke: “take up constable, clap him
in jail, salt him down cowskin. Dat all? No!
sell him low price, send Mississippi—what den?
Work in de cotton-field, pull at de cane. Dat all?
No! cussed overseer wid a long whip—cut h'yah,
cut dah, cut high, cut low—whip all day, cuff all
night—take all de skin off—oh! dey do whip to
de debbil in de Mississippi!” And as the old lady
concluded, to give more effect to her expressions,
she fell to rubbing her back and dodging her head
from side to side, until I had the liveliest idea in
the world of that very castigation of which I stood
in such horror.
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CHAPTER II. In which Sheppard Lee is introduced to his master.
Just at this moment, to make my anguish more
complete, in stepped a tall and dignified person,
bearing a huge walking-stick; with which I was
so certain he would proceed to maul me, that I
made a second dive under the bedclothes, loudly
beseeching him for mercy.
To my surprise, however, instead of beating me,
he spoke to the old woman, whom he called aunt
Phœbe (and who, in return, entitled him Massa
Jodge), asked “if I was not light-headed?” said that
“it was a great pity I had so hard a time of it,” that
“I was very much hurt,” that “he would be sorry to
lose me,” and so on; and, in fine, expressed what
he said in accents so humane and gentle, that I
was encouraged to steal a peep at him; seeing
which he sat down on a stool, felt my pulse, and
giving me quite a good-natured look, asked me “if
I felt in much pain?”
I was astonished that he should treat me thus, if
my master. But, surveying him more intently, I
perceived there was little in his appearance to justify
any fears of cruelty. He was an aged man,
with a head of silver that gave him an uncommonly
venerable air; and, though his visage was grave,
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it expressed a native good-humour and amiableness.
My terrors fled before his soothing accents and
benevolent looks; but being still confused, I was
unable to reply in proper terms to his questions;
so that when he asked me, as he soon did, what I
meant by crying for mercy, I made answer, “Oh
Lord, sir, I was afraid you was going to beat me!”
at which he laughed, and said “my conscience
was growing tenderer than common;” adding, that
“there was no doubt I deserved a trouncing, as
did every other boy on his estate; for a set of
greater scoundrels than his was not to be found in
all Virginia; and if they had their deserts, they
would get a round dozen apiece every day.”
He then began to ask me particularly about my
ailments; and I judged from his questions and
certain occasional remarks which he let fall, that I
had been lying insensible for several days, that my
neck had been put out of place, or dislocated, and
reduced again by some practitioner of uncommon
skill. And here, lest the reader should think such
a circumstance improbable, I beg leave to say that
I have lately seen an account of a similar operation
performed by an English surgeon on the neck
of a fox-hunting squire; and as the story appeared
in the newspapers, there can be no doubt of its
truth.
While the gentleman—my master—was thus
asking me of my pains, and betraying an interest
in my welfare that softened my heart towards him,
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there came into the hovel a young lady of a very
sweet countenance, followed by two or three younger
girls and a little boy, all of whom seemed glad
to see me, the little boy in particular, shaking me
by the hand, while his youthful sisters (for all were
my master's children) began to drag from a basket
and display before my eyes the legs of a roasted
chicken, a little tart, a jelly, and divers other dainty
viands, which they had brought with them, as they
said, “for poor sick Tom,” and insisted upon seeing
him eat on the spot. As for the young lady,
the eldest sister, she smiled on them and on me
(for I was not backward to accept and dispose of
the savoury gifts), but told me I must not be imprudent,
nor eat too much, and I would soon be
well. “What!” thought I, “does a slave ever eat
too much?”
It is astonishing what a revolution was effected
in my feelings by the gentle deportment of my
master, and the kindly act of his children. I looked
upon them and myself with entirely new eyes;
I felt a sort of affection for them steal through my
spirit, and I wondered why I had ever thought of
them with fear. I took a particular liking to the
little boy, who, by-the-by, was a namesake of
mine, he being Massa Tommy, and I plain Tom,
and I had an unaccountable longing come over me
to take him on my back and go galloping on allfours
over the grass at the door. I had no more
thoughts of running away to avoid the dreadful
lash, and the shame of bonds; and, my master and
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his children presently leaving the hovel, having
first charged me to keep myself quiet and easy, I
fell sound asleep, and dreamed I lay a whole day
on my back on a clay-bank, eating johnny-cake
and fried bacon.
CHAPTER III. An old woman's cure for a disease extremely prevalent both in the coloured and uncoloured creation.
The next day I was visited again by my master,
and by other members of his family whom I had
not seen before, and of whom I shall say nothing
now, having occasion to mention them hereafter.
The children brought me “goodies” as before, and
little Tommy told me to “make haste and get well,
for there were none of the other `boys' ”—meaning
negroes—“who knew how to gallop the cock-horse
half so well as I.” In short, I was treated
like a human being, and fed like a king, and began
to grow wondrous content with my situation. The
doctor also came, and having fingered about my
neck for a while, declared my case to be the most
marvellous one ever known, and concluded by telling
me I was well enough to get up, and that I
might do so whenever I chose.
Now this was a matter of which I was as well
satisfied as he could be, being quite certain I never
was better in my life; but I felt amazing delight in
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lolling a-bed, doing nothing except feeding on the
good things with which my master's children so
liberally supplied me; and, I believe; had they left
the matter to be decided by my own will, I should
have been lying on that bed, luxuriating in happy
laziness, to this day. It is certain I fabricated
falsehoods without number, for the mere purpose
of keeping my bed; for whenever my master, who
came to inquire about me at least once a day, ventured
to hint I was well enough to get up if I
would but choose to think so, I felt myself unaccountably
impelled to declare, with sighs and
groans, that I could scarce move a limb, and that I
suffered endless pangs; all which was false, for I
was strong as a horse, and without any pain whatever.
“Well, well,” my venerable master used to say,
“I know you are cheating me, you rascal. But
that's the way with you all. A negro will be a negro;
and, sure, I have the laziest set of scoundrels
on my estate that ever ate up a good-natured master.”
Unhappily, for so I then thought it, old aunt
Phœbe, who had been appointed to nurse me, and
who was very conscientious about her master's interest
in all cases where her own was not involved,
was by no means so easily imposed upon as the
old gentleman; and on the seventh day after I
opened my eyes, she dispelled a pleasing revery in
which I was indulging, by bidding me arise and
begone. I began to plead my pains: “Can't play
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'possum with me!” said she; “good-for-nothin'
nigga, not worth you cawn!” and, not deigning to
employ any other argument, she took a broomstick
to me, and fairly beat me out of the hovel. I
thought it was very odd I should get my first beating
of a fellow-slave, and I was somewhat incensed
at the old woman for her cruelty; but by-and-by,
when I had taken a seat in the sunshine, snuffed
the fresh autumn air, and looked about me a little,
I fell into a better humour with her, and—if that
were possible—with myself.
CHAPTER IV. Some account of Ridgewood Hill, and the Author's occupations.
My master's lands lay on and near the Potomac,
and his house was built on a hill, which bore his
own name, and gave name also to the estate—that
is, Ridgewood Hill. It overlooked that wide and
beautiful river, being separated from it only by a
lawn, which in the centre was hollow, and ran down
to the river in a ravine, while its flanks or extremities,
sloping but gently in their whole course, suddenly
fell down to the shore in wooded bluffs, that
looked very bold and romantic from the water. In
the hollow of the lawn was a little brook, that rose
from a spring further up the hill, and found its way
to the river through the ravine, where it made many
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pretty little pools and cascades among the bushes;
while a creek, that was wide but shallow, swept in
from the river above, and went winding away among
the hills behind.
My master's house was ancient, and, I must say,
not in so good repair as it might have been; but
there were so many beautiful trees about it that one
would not think of its defects, the more especially
as it appeared only the more venerable for them.
It looked handsome enough from the river; and
even from the negro-huts, which were nearer the
creek, it had an agreeable appearance; particularly
when the children were playing together on the
lawn, which they did, and sometimes white and
black together, nearly all day long. They were
thus engaged in their sports when aunt Phœbe
drove me from the hovel; and I remember how
soon my indignation at the unceremonious ejection
was pacified by looking on the happy creatures,
thus enjoying themselves on the grass, while my
master and his eldest daughter sat on the porch,.regarding
them with smiles.
How greatly I had changed within a few short
days! Instead of being moved by the sight of
juvenile independence and happiness to think of
my own bitter state of servitude, I was filled with
a foolish glee; and little Tommy running up to
me with shouts of joy, down I dropped on my
hands and knees, and taking him on my back,
began to trot, and gallop, and rear, and curvet over
the lawn, to the infinite gratification of himself, his
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little sisters, and the children of my own colour,
all of whom rewarded my efforts of horseship with
screams of approbation. Now the reader will be
surprised to hear it, but I, Tom the slave (I never
remember to have heard myself called any thing
but Tom), enjoyed this foolish sport just as much
as Tommy the rider, to whom I felt, I think, some
such feelings of affection—I know not how I got
them, but feel them I did—as a father experiences
while playing the courser to his own child. Nay,
I was thrown into such good-humour, and felt so
content with myself, that when my master came to
me, and bade me “take care lest I should hurt
myself by my exertions,” I told him, in the fervour
of my heart, I was doing very well, and that I was
as strong as ever I had been; which caused him
to laugh, and say I was growing marvellous honest
of a sudden.
About this time the field-hands returned from
their daily labour, and, having despatched their
evening meal, they came, the women and children
with them, under the trees before the door, with
banjoes, fiddles, and clacking-bones (that is, a sort
of castanets made of the ribs of an ox), and began
to sing and dance, as was their custom always
every fair evening; for my master greatly delighted,
as he said, to see the poor devils enjoy themselves;
in which the poor devils were ever ready
to oblige him. They had no sooner begun the
diversion, than I was seized with an unaccountable
desire to join them, which I did, dancing with all
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my might, and singing and clapping my hands,
the merriest and happiest of them all. And this
sort of amusement, I may as well now inform the
reader, we were in the habit of repeating so long
as the mildness of the weather permitted.
CHAPTER V. In which the Author further describes his situation, and philosophizes on the state of slavery.
Having thus shown myself to be perfectly cured
of my broken neck, it followed that, as a slave, I
was now compelled to go into the fields and labour.
This I did, at first, very reluctantly; but by-and-by
I discovered there was but little toil expected
of me, or indeed of any other bondman; for the
overseer was a good-natured man like his employer,
and lazy like ourselves. I do not know how it
may be with the slaves on other estates; but I must
confess that, so far as mere labour went, there was
less done by, and less looked for from, my master's
hands, than I have ever known to be the case with
the white labourers of New-Jersey. My master
owned extensive tracts of land, from which, although
now greatly empoverished and almost exhausted,
he might have drawn a princely revenue,
had he exacted of his slaves the degree of labour
always demanded of able-bodied hirelings in a free
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state. But such was not the custom of Virginia,
or such, at least, was not the custom of my master.
He was of a happy, easy temper, neglectful of his
interest, and though often—nay, I may say incessantly—
grumbling at the flagrant laziness of all
who called him master, and at the yearly depreciation
of his lands, he was content enough if the gains
of the year counterbalanced the expenses; and as
but a slight degree of toil was required to effect this
happy object, it was commonly rendered, and without
repugnance, on the part of his slaves. His
great consolation, and he was always pronouncing
it to himself and to us, was, “that his hands were
the greatest set of scoundrels in the world,”—
which, if unutterable laziness be scoundrelism, was
true. He was pretty generally beloved by them;
which, I suppose, was because he was so good-natured;
though many used to tell me they loved
him because he was their “right-born master,”—
that is, put over them by birth, and not by purchase;
for he lived upon the land occupied by his
fathers before him, and his slaves were the descendants
of those who had served them.
The reader, who has seen with what horror and
fear I began the life of a slave, may ask if, after I
found myself restored to health and strength, I
sought no opportunity to give my master the slip,
and make a bold push for freedom. I did not; a
change had come over the spirit of my dream: I
found myself, for the first time in my life, content,
or very nearly so, with my condition, free from
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cares, far removed from disquiet, and, if not actually
in love with my lot, so far from being dissatisfied,
that I had not the least desire to exchange it
for another.
Methinks I see the reader throw up his hands at
this, crying, “What! content with slavery!” I assure
him, now I ponder the matter over, that I am
as much surprised as himself, and that I consider
my being content with a state of bondage a very
singular and unaccountable circumstance. Nevertheless,
such was the fact. I was no longer Sheppard
Lee, Zachariah Longstraw, nor anybody else,
except simply Tom, Thomas, or Tommy, the slave.
I forgot that I once had been a freeman, or, to speak
more strictly, I did not remember it, the act of remembering
involving an effort of mind which it
did not comport with my new habits of laziness and
indifference to make, though perhaps I might have
done so, had I chosen. I had ceased to remember
all my previous states of existence. I could not have
been an African had I troubled myself with thoughts
of any thing but the present.
Perhaps this defect of memory will account for
my being satisfied with my new condition. I had
no recollection of the sweets of liberty to compare
and contrast with the disgusts of servitude. Perhaps
my mind was stupified—sunk beneath the ordinary
level of the human understanding, and therefore
incapable of realizing the evils of my condition.
Or, perhaps, after all, considering the
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circumstances of my lot with reference to those of my mind
and nature, such evils did not in reality exist.
The reader may settle the difficulty for himself,
which he can do when he has read a little more of
my history. In the meanwhile, the fact is true: I
was satisfied with my lot—I was satisfied even with
myself. The first time I looked at my new face I
was shocked at what I considered its ugliness.
But having peeped at it a dozen times or more, my
ideas began to alter, and, by-and-by, I thought it
quite beautiful. I used to look at myself in aunt
Phœbe's glass by the hour, and I well remember
the satisfaction with which I listened to the following
rebuke of my vanity from her, namely, “All you
pritty young niggurs with handsome faces is good
for nothin, not wuth so much as you cawn!” In
short, I was something of a coxcomb; and nothing
could equal the pride and happiness of my heart,
when, of a Sabbath morning, dressed in one of my
master's old coats well brushed up, a bran-new
rabbit-fur hat, the gift of little Tommy, a ruffled
shirt, and a white neckcloth, with a pair of leather
gloves swinging in one hand, and a peeled beechen
wand by way of cane in the other, I went stalking
over the fields to church in the little village, near to
which my master resided.
I say again, I cannot account for my being so
contented with bondage. It may be, however, that
there is nothing necessarily adverse to happiness
in slavery itself, unaccompanied by other evils; and
that when the slave is ground by no oppression and
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goaded by no cruelty, he is not apt to repine or
moralize upon his condition, nor to seek for those
torments of sentiment which imagination associates
with the idea of slavery in the abstract.
Of one thing, at least, I can be very certain. I
never had so easy and idle a time of it in my whole
life. My little master Tommy had grown very
fond of me. It is strange anybody should be fond
of a slave; but it is true. It appears I was what
they call a mere field-hand, that is, a labourer, and
quite unfit for domestic service. Nevertheless, to
please Tommy, I was taken from the tobacco-fields,
and, without being appointed to any peculiar duty
about the house, was allowed to do what I pleased,
provided I made myself sufficiently agreeable to
young master. So I made him tops, kites, wind-mills,
corn-stalk fiddles, and little shingle ships with
paper sails, gave him a trot every now and then on
my back, and had, in return, a due share of his oranges
and gingerbread.
In this way my time passed along more agreeably
than I can describe. My little master, it is
true, used to fall into a passion and thump me
now and then; but that I held to be prime fun;
particularly as,—provided I chose to blubber a little,
and pretend to be hurt,—the little rogue would relent,
and give me all the goodies he could beg,
borrow, or steal, to “make up with me,” as he
called it.
Little Tommy and his sisters, four in number,
were the children of my master by a second wife,
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who had died two years before. The oldest was
the young lady of whom I have already spoken, and
she was, I believe, not above seventeen. Her
name was Isabella, and she was uncommonly handsome.
A young gentleman of the neighbourhood,
named Andrews, was paying court to her. Indeed,
she had a great many admirers, and there was much
company came to see her.
My master's oldest son, the only child left by
his first wife, lived on a plantation beyond the
creek, being already married, and having children.
His name was George, like his father, and the
slaves used to distinguish them as “Massa Cunnel
Jodge,” and “Massa Maja Jodge;” for all the gentlemen
in those parts were either colonels or majors.
The major's seat being at so short a distance, and
the plantation he cultivated a part of the colonel's
great estate of Ridgewood Hill, we used to regard
him as belonging still to our master's family, and
the slaves on both plantations considered themselves
as forming but a single community. Nevertheless,
we of the south side had a sort of contempt
for those of the north; for “Massa Maja,” though a
good master, was by no means so easy as his father.
He exacted more work; and when he rode
into the fields on our side, as he often did, he used
to swear at us for lazy loons, and declare he would,
some day or other turn over a new leaf with us.
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CHAPTER VI. Recollections of slavery.
I must again repeat what I have said, namely,
that I was contented with my servile condition, and
that I was so far from looking back with regret to
my past life of freedom, that I ceased at last to remember
it altogether. I was troubled with no
sense of degradation, afflicted with no consciousness
of oppression; and instead of looking upon
my master as a tyrant who had robbed me of my
rights, I regarded him as a great and powerful
friend, whose protection and kindness I was bound
to requite with a loyal affection, and with so much
of the labour of my hands as was necessary to my
own subsistence. What would have been my feelings
had my master been really a cruel and tyrannical
man, I will not pretend to say; but doubtless
they would have been the opposite of those I have
confessed.
The above remarks apply equally to my fellowbondmen,
of whom there were, young and old, and
men and women together, more than a hundred
on the two estates. The exact number I never
knew; but I remember there were above twenty
able-bodied men, or “full hands,” as they were called,
when all were mustered together. There were
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many, especially among the women, who were
great grumblers; but that was their nature: such
a thing as serious discontent was, I am persuaded,
entirely unknown. The labours of the plantation
were light, the indulgences granted frequent and
many. There was scarce a slave on the estate
who, if he laboured at all, did not labour more for
himself than his master; for all had their little lots
or gardens, the produce of which was entirely their
own, and which they were free to sell to whomsoever
they listed. And hard merchants they were
sometimes, even to my master, when he would buy
of them, as he often did. I remember one day
seeing old aunt Phœbe, to whom he had sent to
buy some chickens, fall into a passion and refuse
to let the messenger have any, because her master
had forgotten to send the money. “Go tell old
Massa Jodge,” said she, with great ire, “I no old
fool to be cheated out of my money; and I don't
vally his promise to pay not dat!”—snapping her
fingers—“he owe me two ninepence already!”
And the old gentleman was compelled to send her
the cash before she complied with his wishes.
The truth is, my master was, in some respects,
a greater slave than his bondmen; and all the tyranny
I ever witnessed on the estate was exercised
by them, and at his expense; for there was a general
conspiracy on the part of all to cheat him, as
far as was practicable, out of their services, while
they were, all the time, great sticklers for their
own rights and privileges. He was, as I have said
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before, universally beloved; but his good-nature
was abused a thousand times a day.
There existed no substantial causes for dissatisfaction;
and there was therefore the best reason for
content. Singing and dancing were more practised
than hard work. In a word, my master's slaves
were an idle, worthless set, but as happy as the day
was long. I may say the same of myself; I certainly
was a very merry and joyous personage, and
my companions, who envied me for being the favourite
of young master, used to call me Giggling
Tom.
But there is an end to the mirth of the slave, as
well as the joy of the master. A cloud at last
came betwixt me and the sun; a new thought
awoke in my bosom, bringing with it a revolution
of feeling, which extended to the breasts of all my
companions. It was but a small cause to produce
such great effects; but an ounce of gunpowder
may be made to blow up an army, and a drop of
venom from the lip of a dog may cause the destruction
of a whole herd.
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CHAPTER VII. A scene on the banks of the Potomac, with the humours of an African improvisatore.
Beneath the bluff, and at the mouth of the
creek which divided the two plantations, was a
wharf or landing, where our fishing-boats (for we
had a good fishery hard by) used to discharge their
cargoes, and where, also, small shallops, coming
with supplies to the plantation, put out their freight.
Here, one day, some seven or eight of the hands
were engaged removing a cargo of timber, which
had just been discharged by a small vessel; my
master having bought it for the express purpose of
repairing the negro-houses, and building a new one
for a fellow that was to be married; for it seems,
his crops of corn and tobacco had turned out unusually
well, and when that happened the slaves
were the first who received the benefit.
Hither I strolled, having nothing better to do, to
take a position on the side of the bluff, where I
could both bask in the sunshine, which was very
agreeable (for it was now the end of October,
though fine weather), and overlook the hands working—
which was still more agreeable; for I had uncommon
satisfaction to look at others labouring
while I myself was doing nothing.
Having selected a place to my liking, I lay down
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on the warm clay, enjoying myself, while the others
intermitted their labour to abuse me, crying,
“Cuss' lazy nigga, gigglin' Tom dah! why you no
come down work?” having employed themselves
at which for a time, they resumed their labours;
and I, turning over on my back and taking a twig
that grew nigh betwixt my teeth, began to think to
myself what an agreeable thing it was to be a slave
and have nothing to do.
By-and-by, hearing a great chattering and laughing
among the men below, I looked down and beheld
one of them diverting himself with a ludicrous
sport, frequently practised by slaves to whom the
lash is unknown. He was frisking and dodging
about pretty much as aunt Phœbe had done when
endeavouring to show me how the whip was handled
in Mississippi; and, like her, he rubbed his
back, now here, now there, now with the right,
now with the left hand; now ducking to the earth,
now jumping into the air, as though some lusty
overseer were plying him, whip in hand, with all
his might. The wonder of the thing was, however,
that Governor (for that was the fellow's name) had
in his hand a pamphlet, or sheet of printed paper,
the contents of which he was endeavouring both to
convey to his companions and to illustrate by those
ridiculous antics. The contents of the paper were
varied, for varied also was the representation.
“Dah you go, nigga!” he cried, leaping as if
from a blow; “slap on'e leg, hit right on'e shin!
yah, yah, yah—chah, chah, ch-ch-ch-ch-ah! chah,
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chah, massa!—oh de dam overseeah! dat de way
he whip a nigga!” Then pausing a moment and
turning a leaf of the book, he fell to leaping again,
crying—“What dat? dat you, Rose? what you
been doin? stealin' sugah?
“Jump! you nigga gal!
Hab a hard massa!
So much you git for stealin' sugah!
So much for lickin' lassa!
“Dem hard massa, licky de gals!
“Ole Vaginnee, nebber ti-ah!
what 'e debbil's de use ob floggin' like fia-ah!”
Then came another scene. “Yah, yah, yah!—
what dat? Massa Maja kickin' de pawson! I say,
whaw Pawson Jim? you Jim pawson, he-ah you
git'em!” And then another—“Lorra-gorry, what
he-ah? He-ah a nigga tied up in a gum—
“Oh! de possum up de gum-tree,
'Coony in de hollow:
Two white men whip a nigga,
How de nigga holla!
“Jump, nigga, jump! yah, yah, yah! did you ebber
see de debbil? jump, nigga, jump! two white
men whip a nigga? gib a nigga fay-ah play!
When de white man comes to sticky, sticky,
Lorra-gorr! he licky, licky!
“Gib a nigga fay-ah play!”
And so he went on, describing and acting what
he affected to read, to the infinite delight of his
companions, who, ceasing their work, crowded
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round him, to snatch a peep at the paper, which, I
observed, no one got a good look at without jumping
back immediately, rubbing his sides, and
launching into other antics, in rivalry with Governor.
CHAPTER VIII. The Author descends among the slaves, and suddenly becomes a man of figure, and an interpreter of new doctrines.
I wasmoved with curiosity to know what they
had laid their hands on, and I descended the bank
to solve the mystery. The paper had passed from
the hands of Governor to those of a fellow named
Jim, or Parson Jim, as we usually called him; for
he was fond of praying and preaching, which he
had been allowed to do until detected in a piece
of roguery a few weeks before by Master Major,
who, besides putting a check on his clerical propensities
for the future, saluted him with two or
three kicks well laid on, on the spot. It was to
this personage and his punishment that Governor
alluded, when he cried, “What he-ah? Massa
Maja kickin' de pawson!” as mentioned above.
Although a great rogue, he was a prime favourite
among the negroes, who had a great respect for his
learning; for he could read print, and was even
thought to have some idea of writing. This fellow
was employed, on the present occasion, at the
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ox-cart; and, as it is no part of a slave's system to
do the work of others, he had been sitting apart
singing a psalm, while the others were loading his
cart; and apart he had remained, until a call was
made upon him to explain so much of the paper,
being the printed portion, as Governor could not.
The paper, it is here proper to observe, had been
found by Governor among the boards and scantling;
though how it got there no one knew, nor was it
ever discovered. It was a pamphlet, or magazine,
I know not which (and the name I have unfortunately
forgotten), containing, besides a deal of
strange matter about slavery, some half a dozen or
more wood-cuts, representing negroes in chains,
under the lash, exposed in the market for sale, and
I know not what other situations; and it was these
which had afforded the delighted Governor so much
matter for mimicry and merriment. There was
one cut on the first page, serving as a frontispiece;
it represented a negro kneeling in chains,
and raising his fettered hands in beseeching to a
white man, who was lashing him with a whip.
Beneath it was a legend, which being, or being
deemed, explanatory of the picture, and at the same
time the initial sentence of the book, Parson Jim
was essaying to read: and thus it was he proceeded:—
“T-h-e, the—dat's de; f-a-t-e, fat—de fat; o-f,
ob—de fat ob; t-h-e, de—de fat ob de; s-l-a-v-e,
slave—de fat ob de slave. My gorry, what's dat?
Brederen, I can't say as how I misprehends dat.”
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“Yah, yah, yah!” roared Governor; “plain as
de nose on you face. De fat ob de slave—what
he mean, heh? Why, gorry, you dumb nigga, he
mean—massa, dah, is whippin de fat out ob de
nigger! Dem hard massa dat-ah, heh? Whip de
fat out!
“Lorra-gorry, massa, don't like you whippy:
Don't sell Gubbe'nor down a Mississippi!”
“Let me read it,” said I.
“You read, you nigga! whar you larn to read?”
cried my friends. It was a question I could not
well answer; for, as I said before, the memory of
my past existence had quite faded from my mind:
nevertheless, I had a feeling in me as if I could
read; and taking the book from the parson, I succeeded
in deciphering the legend—“The Fate of
the Slave.”
“Whaw dat?” said Governor; “de chain and
de cowhide? Does de book say dat's de luck for
nigga? Don't b'leeb 'm; dem lie: Massa Cunnel
nebber lick a nigga in 'm life!”
The reading of that little sentence seemed, I
know not why, to have cast a sudden damper on
the spirits of all present. Until that moment, there
had been much shouting, laughing, and mimicking
of the pains of men undergoing flagellation. Every
picture had been examined, commented on, and
illustrated with glee; it associated only the idea
of some idle vagabond or other winning his deserts.
A new face, a new interpretation was given to the
matter by the words I had read. The chain and
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[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
scourge appeared no longer as the punishment of
an individual; they were to be regarded as the
doom of the race. The laughing and mimicry
ceased, and I beheld around me nothing but blank
faces. It was manifest, however, that the feeling
was rather indignation than anxiety; and that my
friends looked upon the ominous words as a libel
upon their masters and themselves.
“What for book say dat?” cried Governor, who,
from being the merriest, had now become the angriest
of all; “who ebber hear of chain a nigga,
escept nigga runaway, or nigga gwyin' down gin'
will to Mississippi? Who ebber hear of lash a
nigga, escept nigga sassbox, nigga thief, nigga
drunk, nigga break hoss' leg?”
“Brudders,” said Parson Jim, “this here is a
thing what is 'portant to hear on; for, blessed be
Gorra-matty, there is white men what writes books
what is friends of the Vaginnee niggur.”
“All cuss' bobbolitionist!” said Governor, with
sovereign contempt—“don't b'leeb in 'm. Who
says chain nigga in Vaginnee? who says cowhide
nigga in Vaginnee? De fate ob de slave! Cuss'
lie! An't I slave, hah? Who chains Gubbe'nor?
who licks Gubbe'nor? Little book big lie!”
And “little book big lie!” echoed all, in extreme
wrath. The parson took things more coolly. He
rolled his eyes, hitched up his collar, stroked his
chin, and suggesting the propriety of reading a
little farther, proposed that “brudder Tom, who
had an uncommon good hidear of that ar sort of
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print, should hunt out the root of the matter;” and
lamented that “it was a sort of print he could not
well get along with without his spectacles.”
CHAPTER IX. What it was the negroes had discovered among the scantling.
Thus called upon, I made a second essay, and
succeeded, though not without pain, in deciphering
enough of the text to give me a notion of the object
for which the tract had been written. It was entitled
“An Address to the Owners of Slaves,” and
could not, therefore, be classed among those “incendiary
publications” which certain over-zealous
philanthropists are accused of sending among slaves
themselves, to inflame them into insurrection and
murder. No such imputation could be cast upon
the writer. His object was of a more humane and
Christian character; it was to convince the master
he was a robber and villain, and, by this pleasing
mode of argument, induce him to liberate his bond-men.
The only ill consequence that might be produced
was, that the book might, provided it fell
into their hands, convince the bondmen of the same
thing; but that was a result for which the writer
was not responsible—he addressed himself only to
the master. It began with the following pithy questions
and answers—or something very like them—
for I cannot pretend to recollect them to the letter.
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“Why scourgest thou this man? and why dost
thou hold him in bonds? Is he a murderer? a
house-burner? a ravisher? a blasphemer? a thief?
No. What then is the crime for which thou art
punishing him so bitterly? He is a negro, and my
slave.”
Then followed a demand “how he became, and
by what right the master claimed him as a slave;”
to which the master replied, “By right of purchase,”
exhibiting, at the same time, a bill of sale.
At this the querist expressed great indignation, and
calling the master a robber, cheat, and usurper,
bade him show, as the only title a Christian would
sanction, “a bill of sale signed by the negro's Maker!”
who alone had the right to dispose of man's
liberty; and he concluded the paragraph by averring,
“that the claim was fraudulent; that the slave
was unjustly, treacherously, unrighteously held in
bonds; and that he was, or of right should be, as
free as the master himself.”
Here I paused for breath; my companions looked
at me with eyes staring out of their heads. Astonishment,
suspicion, and fear were depicted in
their countenances. A new idea had entered their
brains. All opened their mouths, but Governor was
the only one who could speak, and he stuttered and
stammered in his eagerness so much that I could
scarcely understand him.
“Wh-wh-wh-wh-what dat!” he cried; “hab a
right to fr-fr-fr-freedom, 'case Gorra-matty no
s-s-s-sell me? Why den, wh-wh-wh-who's slave?
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Gorra-matty no trade in niggurs! I say, you Pawson
Jim, wh-wh-wh-what you say dat doctrine?”
The parson was dumb-founded. The difficulty
was solved by an old negro, who rolled his quid of
tobacco and his eyes together, and said,
“Whaw de debbil's de difference? Massa
Cunnel no buy us; we born him slave, ebbery
nigga he-ah!”
Unluckily, the very next paragraph was opened
by the quotation from the Declaration of Independence,
that “all men were born free and equal,”
which was asserted to be true of all men, negroes
as well as others; from which it followed that the
master's claim to the slave born in thraldom was as
fraudulent as in the case of one obtained by purchase.
“Whaw dat?” said Governor; “Decoration of
Independence say dat? Gen'ral Jodge Washington,
him make dat; and Gen'ral Tommie Jefferson,
him put hand to it! `All men born free and equal.'
A nigga is a man! who says no to dat? How
come Massa Cunnel to be massa den?”
That question had never before been asked on
Ridgewood Hill. But all now asked it, and all, for
the first time in their lives, began to think of their
master as a foe and usurper. The strangely-expressed
idea in the pamphlet, namely—that none
but their Maker could rightfully sell them to bond-age,
and that other in relation to natural freedom
and equality, had captivated their imaginations, and
made an impression on their minds not readily to
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be forgotten. Black looks passed from one to another,
and angry expressions were uttered; and I
know not where the excitement that was fast awaking
would have ended, had not our master himself
suddenly made his appearance descending the bluff.
For the first time in their lives, the slaves beheld
his approach with terror; and all, darting upon the
timber, began to labour with a zeal and bustling
eagerness which they had never shown before.
But, first, the pamphlet was snatched out of my
hands, and concealed in a hollow of the bank.
Our uncommon industry (for even Parson Jim and
myself were seized with a fit of zeal, and gave our
labour with the rest) somewhat surprised the venerable
old man. But as the timber was destined to
contribute to our own comforts, he attributed it to
a selfish motive, and chiding us good-humouredly
and with a laugh, said, “That's the way with you,
you rogues; you can work well enough when it is
for yourselves.”
“Dat's all de tanks we gits!” muttered Governor,
hard by. “Wonder if we ha'n't a better
right to work than Massa Jodge to make us?”
-- 189 -- p016-492
CHAPTER X. The effect of the pamphlet on its reader and hearers.
We had seen the last day of content on Ridgewood
Hill. That little scrap of paper, thrown
among us perhaps by accident, or, as I have sometimes
thought, dropped by the fiend of darkness
himself, had conjured up a thousand of his imps,
who, one after another, took up their dwelling in
our breasts, until their name was Legion. My
fellow-slaves cared little now for singing and dancing.
Their only desire, in the intervals of labour,
was to assemble together below the bluff, and dive
deeper into the mysteries of the pamphlet; and as I
was the only one who could explain them, and was
ready enough to do so, I often neglected my little
friend Tommy to preside over their convocations.
Nor were these meetings confined to the original
finders of the precious document. The news
had been whispered from man to man, and the sensation
spread over the whole estate, so that those
who lived with the major were as eager to escape
from their labours and listen to the new revelation
as ourselves. Nay, so great was the curiosity
among them, that many who could not come when
I was present to expound the secrets of the book,
would betake themselves to the bluff, to indulge a
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look at it, and guess out its contents as they could
from the pictures. And by-and-by, the news having
spread to a distance, we had visiters also from
the gangs of other plantations.
It was perhaps a week or more before the composition
was read through and understood by us
all; and in that time it had wrought a revolution
in our feelings as surprising as it was fearful. And
now, lest the reader should doubt that the great effects
I am about to record should have really arisen
from so slight a cause as a little book, I think it
proper to tell him more fully than I have done what
that little book contained.
It was, as I have said, an address to the owners of
slaves, and its object purported to be to awaken their
minds to the cruelty, injustice, and wickedness of
slavery. This was sought to be effected, in the first
place, by numerous cuts, representing all the cruelties
and indignities that negro slaves had suffered,
or could suffer, either in reality, or in the imaginations
of the philanthropists. Some of these were
horrible, many shocking, and all disgusting; and
some of them, I think, were copied out of Fox's
Book of Martyrs, though of that I am not certain.
The moral turpitude and illegality of the institution
were shown, or attempted to be shown, now by
arguments that were handled like daggers and
broad-axes, and now by savage denunciations of
the enslaver and oppressor, who were proved to be
murderers, blasphemers, tyrants, devils, and I know
not what beside. The vengeance of Heaven was
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invoked upon their heads, coupled with predictions
of the retribution that would sooner or later
fall upon them, these being borne out by monitory
allusions to the servile wars of Rome, Syria, Egypt,
Sicily, St. Domingo, &c. &c. It was threatened
that Heaven would repeat the plagues of Egypt in
America, to punish the task-masters of the Ethiopian,
as it had punished those of the Israelite, and
that, in addition, the horrors of Hayti would be
enacted a second time, and within our own borders.
It was contended that the negro was, in organic
and mental structure, the white man's equal, if not
his superior, and that there was a peculiar injustice
in subjecting to bondage his race, which had been
(or so the writer averred), in the earlier days of the
world, the sole possessors of knowledge and civilization;
and there were many triumphant references
to Hannibal, Queen Sheba, Cleopatra, and the
Pharaohs, all of whom were proved to have been
woolly-headed, and as bright in spirit as they were
black in visage. In short, the book was full of
strange things, and, among others, of insurrection
and murder; though it is but charitable to suppose
that the writer did not know it.
There was scarce a word in it that did not contribute
to increase the evil spirit which its first
paragraph had excited among my companions. It
taught them to look on themselves as the victims
of avarice, the play-things of cruelty, the foot-balls
of oppression, the most injured people in the world:
and the original greatness of their race, which was
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an idea they received with uncommon pleasure,
and its reviving grandeur in the liberated Hayti,
convinced them they possessed the power to redress
their wrongs, and raise themselves into a
mighty nation.
With the sense of injury came a thirst for revenge.
My companions began to talk of violence
and dream of blood. A week before there was not
one of them who would not have risked his life to
save his master's; the scene was now changed—
my master walked daily, though without knowing
it, among volcanoes; all looked upon him askant,
and muttered curses as he passed. A kinder-hearted
man and easier master never lived; and it
may seem incredible that he should be hated without
any real cause. Imaginary causes are, however,
always the most efficacious in exciting jealousy
and hatred, In affairs of the affections, slaves
and the members of political factions are equally
unreasonable. The only difference in the effect is,
that the one cannot, while the other can, and does,
change his masters when his whim changes.
That fatal book infected my own spirit as deeply
as it did those of the others, and made me as sour
and discontented as they. I began to have sentimental
notions about liberty and equality, the dignity
of man, the nobleness of freedom, and so-forth;
and a stupid ambition, a vague notion that I was
born to be a king or president, or some such great
personage, filled my imagination, and made me a
willing listener to, and sharer in, the schemes of
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violence and desperation which my fellow-slaves
soon began to frame. It is wonderful, that among
the many thoughts that now crowded my brain, no
memory of my original condition arose to teach me
the folly of my desires. But, and I repeat it again,
the past was dead with me; I lived only for the
present.
A little incident that soon befell me will show the
reader how completely my feelings were identified
with my condition, and how deeply the lessons of
that unlucky pamphlet had sunk into my spirit.
My little playmate, master Tommy, who was not
above six years old, being of an irascible temper,
sometimes quarrelled with me; on which occasions,
as I mentioned before, he used to beat me;
a liberty I rather encouraged than otherwise, since
I gained by it—though my master strictly forbade
the youth to take it. Now, as soon as my head began
to fill with the direful and magnificent conceptions
of a malecontent and conspirator, I waxed
weary of child's play and master Tommy, who,
falling into a passion with me for that reason, proceeded,
on a certain occasion, to pommel my ribs
with a fist about equal in weight to the paw of a
gadfly. I was incensed, I may say enraged, at the
poor child, and repaid the violence by shaking him
almost to death. Indeed, I felt for a while as if I
could have killed him; and I know not whether I
might not have done it (for the devil had on the
sudden got into my spirit), had not his father discovered
what I was doing, and run to his assistance.
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I then pretended that I had shaken him in sport,
and thus escaped a drubbing, of which I was at
first in danger. The threat of this, however, sank
deeply into my mind, and I ever after felt a deep
hatred of both father and son. This may well be
called a blind malice, for neither had given me any
real cause for it.
CHAPTER XI. The hatching of a conspiracy.
In the meanwhile the devil was doing his work
among the others, and disaffection grew into wrath
and fury, that were not so perfectly concealed but
that my master, or rather his eldest son, who was
of a more observant disposition, began to suspect
that mischief was brewing; and in a short time it
was reported among us that our master had marked
some of us as being dangerous, and was resolved
to sell us to a Mississippi trader who was then in
the county. This was reported by a spy, a house-servant,
who professed to have overheard the conversation,
and who reported, besides, that our master
and his son were furbishing up their fire-arms,
and laying in terrible supply of balls and powder.
Now whether this account was true or not I
never knew, and I suppose I never shall until I am
in my grave. It was enough, however, to drive us
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to a phrensy, those in particular who had been indicated
as the intended victims of the Mississippi trader;
and the more especially, as those men had
wives and children, from whom they were told they
were to be parted. One of these was the blacksmith
of the estate, who, being a resolute and fierce-tempered
fellow, instantly began to convert all the
old horseshoes and iron hoops about his shop into
a kind of blades or spear-heads, which we fastened
upon poles, and hid away in secret places.
There were among us three or four men who had
muskets, with which they used to shoot wild fowl
on the river, there being great abundance at this
season. These weapons were also put into requisition;
besides which we stored away butcherknives
and bludgeons, old scythe-blades and sickles
beaten straight, until we could boast quite an armory.
And here I may observe, that the faster
these weapons increased upon our hands, the more
deadly became our resolutions, the more fierce and
malignant our desires; until, having at last what
we thought a sufficiency for our purpose, we gave
a loose to our passions, and determined upon a plan
of proceedings that may well be called infernal.
I believe that when we began to collect these
offensive weapons we had but vague ideas of mischief,
thinking rather of defending ourselves from
some meditated outrage on the part of our master,
than of beginning an assault upon him ourselves.
But now, the armory being complete, and several
cunning fellows, who had been spying out among
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the surrounding plantations, bringing us word that
the gangs (so they sometimes call the whole number
of hands on a farm) of most of them were ready
to strike with us for freedom; another having
brought us word that a great outbreaking had already
taken place south of James river, which,
however, was not true; a third reminding us that
we were more numerous than our masters; and a
fourth bidding us remember that the negroes had
once, as the little book told us, been the masters of
all the white men in the world, and might be again;
I say, these things being represented to us, as we
were handling our arms and thinking what execution
we could do with them, we shook hands together,
and kissing the little pamphlet (for which
we had conceived a high regard), as we had seen
white men kiss the book in courts of law, we swore
we would exterminate all the white men in Virginia,
beginning with our master and his family.
CHAPTER XII. How the spoils of victory were intended to be divided.
The chief men in the conspiracy were, by all
consent, the fellow called Governor, of whom I have
said so much before; Parson Jim, who, although
a little in the background at first, had soon taken
a foremost stand, and was, indeed, the first to
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propose murder; myself,—not that I was really very
active or fiery in the matter, but because I had become
prominent as the reader of the little book;
Cesar, the blacksmith; and a fellow named Zip,
or Scipio, who was the chief fiddler and banjo-player,
and had been therefore in great favour with
the family, until he lost it by some misconduct.
The parson having uttered the diabolical proposal
I mentioned before, and seeing it well received,
got up to make a speech to inflame our courage.
There was in his oration a good deal of preaching,
with a considerable sprinkling of scraps from the
Bible, such as he had picked up in the course of
his clerical career. What he chiefly harped on was
that greatness of the negro nation spoken of before,
and he discoursed so energetically of the great
kings and generals, “the great Faroes and Cannibals,”
as he called them, who had distinguished the
race in olden time, that all became ambitious to
figure with similar dignity in story.
“What you speak faw, pawson?” said Governor,
interrupting him, and looking round with the air of
a lord; “I be king, hah? and hab my sarvants to
wait on me!”
“What you say dah, Gub'nor?” cried Zip the
fiddler, with equal spirit: “You be king, I be president.”
“I be emp'ror, like dat ah nigga in High-ty!”
said another.
“I be constable!” cried a fourth.
“You be cuss'! you no go for de best man!”
-- 198 --
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cried Governor, in a heat: “I be constable myself,
and I lick any nigga I like! Who say me no, hah?
I smash him brain out—dem nigga!” Governor
was a tyrant already, and all began to be more or
less afraid of him. “I'll be de great man, and I
shall hab my choice ob de women: what you say
dat? I sall hab Missa Isabella faw my wife! Who
say me no dah?”
“Berry well!” cried Scipio: “I hab Missa
Edie”—that is, Miss Edith, the next in age, who
was, however, not yet thirteen, and therefore but a
poor little child.
“Brudder Zip,” said Jim the parson, “I speak
fust dah! The labourer is wordy ob his hiah—I
shall put my hand to de plough, and I shall hab
Missa Edie for my wife. Arter me, if you please,
brudder Zip!”
“Hold you jaw, Zip,” said King Governor to
the fiddler, who was ready to knock the parson
down. “You shall hab Massa Maja's wife, and
you shall cut his head off fust. As faw de oder
niggas he-ah, what faw use ob quar'lin? We shall
have wifes enough when we kills white massas;
gorry! we shall hab pick!”
And thus my companions apportioned among
themselves, in prospective, the wives and daughters
of their intended victims; and thus, doubtless,
they would have apportioned them in reality, had
the bloody enterprise been allowed the success its
projectors anticipated. I remember that my blood
suddenly froze within my veins when the
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conspiracy had reached this point; and the idea of seeing
those innocent, helpless maidens made the prey of
brutal murderers, was so shocking to my spirit that
I lost speech, and could scarce support myself on
my feet.
While I stood thus confused among them, the
conspirators determined upon a plan of action by
which, as far as I understood it, the houses of my
master and his son, the two being previously murdered,
were to be set on fire at the same moment,
on the following night, and at the sight of the
flames the slaves on several neighbouring plantations
were to fall upon their masters in like manner:
after which, the gangs from all the burnt
estates were to meet at a common rendezvous,
and march in a body against the neighbouring village,
the sacking of which they joyously looked
forward to as the first step in a career of conquest
and triumph—in other words, of murder and rapine.
Who would have thought that a little book, framed
by a philanthropist, for the humane purpose of
turning his neighbour from the error of his way,
should have lighted a torch in his dwelling only to
be quenched by blood! I am myself a witness that
the pamphlet was not one of those incendiary publications
of which so much is said, as being designed
for the eyes of slaves themselves, to exasperate
them to revolt. By no means; it was addressed
to the master, and of course was only designed for
him. Why the pictures were put in it, however, I
cannot imagine, since it may be supposed the master
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could understand the argument and exhortation of
the writer well enough without them. Perhaps
they were intended to divert his children.
The book, however, whatever may have been
the object for which it was written, had the effect
to make a hundred men, who were previously contented
with their lot in life, and perhaps as happy
as any other men ordained to a life of labour, the
victims of dissatisfaction and range, the enemies of
those they had once loved, and, in fine, the contrivers
and authors of their own destruction.
CHAPTER XIII. The attack of the insurgents upon the mansion at Ridgewood Hill.
I said, that when the conspiracy reached the
crisis mentioned before, I was suddenly seized with
terror. I began to think with what kindness I had
been treated by those I had leagued to destroy;
and the baseness and ingratitude of the whole design
struck me with such force, that I was two or
three times on the point of going to my master,
and revealing it to him while he had yet the power
to escape. But my fears of him and of my
fellow-ruffians deterred me. I thought he looked
fierce and stern; and as for my companions, I conceited
that they were watching me, dogging my every
step, prepared to kill me the moment I
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attempted to play them false. It was unfortunate that my
rudeness to Master Tommy had caused me to be
banished the house; for although my master did
not beat me, he was persuaded my violence in that
case was not altogether jocose, and therefore punished
me by sending me to the fields. Hence I
had no opportunity to see him in private, unless I
had sought it, which would have exposed me to observation.
The night came, and it came to me bringing
such gloom and horror, that my agitation was observed
by Governor and others, who railed at me
for a coward, and threatened to take my life if I
did not behave more like a man. This only increased
my alarm; and, truly, my disorder of mind
became so great, that I was in a species of stupid
distraction when the moment for action arrived;
for which reason I retain but a confused recollection
of the first events, and cannot therefore give a
clear relation of them.
I remember that there was some confusion produced
by an unexpected act on the part of our master,
who, it was generally supposed, designed crossing
the creek to visit the major, having ordered
his carriage and the ferry-boat to be got ready, and it
was resolved to kill him while crossing the creek
on his return; after which we were to fire a volley
of guns, as a signal to the major's gang, and then
assault and burn our master's dwelling. Instead of
departing, however, when the night came, he remained
at home, shut up with the overseer and
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young Mr. Andrews, his daughter's lover; and it
was reported that they had barred up the doors and
windows, and were sitting at a table covered with
loaded pistols; thus making it manifest that they
suspected our intentions, and were resolved to defend
themselves to the last.
For my part, I have never believed that our master
suspected his danger at all; he perceived, indeed,
that an ill spirit had got among his people,
but neither he nor any of his family really believed
that mischief was intended. Had they done so,
he would undoubtedly have procured assistance,
or at least removed his children. The windows
were barred indeed, and perhaps earlier than usual,
which may have been accidental; and as for the
fire-arms on the table, I believe they were only
fowling-pieces, which my master, Mr. Andrews,
and the overseer, who was a great fowler, and
therefore much favoured by my master, who was
a veteran sportsman, were getting ready to shoot
wild ducks with in the morning.
My companions, however, were persuaded that
our victims were on their guard; and the hour
drawing nigh at which they had appointed to strike
the first blow, and give the signal to the neighbouring
gangs, they were at a loss, not knowing
what to do; for they were afraid to attack the
house while three resolute men, armed with pistols,
stood ready to receive them. In this conjuncture
it was proposed by Governor, who, from
having been a fellow notorious for nothing save
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monkey tricks and waggery, was now become a
devil incarnate, he was so bold, cunning, and eager
for blood, to fire the pile of timber where it stood
near the quarters, or negro-huts; the burning of
which would serve the double purpose of drawing
our intended victims from the house, and giving
the signal to the neighbouring estates.
The proposal was instantly adopted, and in a
few moments the pile of dry resinous wood was in
a flame, burning with prodigious violence, and
casting a bright light over the whole mansion, the
lawn, and even the neighbouring river. At the
same moment, and just as we were about to raise
the treacherous alarm, we heard a sudden firing of
guns and shouting beyond the creek at the major's
house, which made us suppose the negroes there
had anticipated us in the rising.
Emulous not to be outdone, our own party now
set up a horrid alarm of “Fire!” accompanied
with screams and yells that might have roused the
dead, and ran to the mansion door, as if to demand
assistance of their master.
Never shall I forget the scene that ensued. I
stood rooted to the ground, not twenty steps from
the house, when the door was thrown open, and
my master rushed out, followed by Andrews and
the overseer. They had scarce put foot on the
porch before six or seven guns, being all that the
conspirators could muster, and which the owners
held in readiness, were discharged at them, and
then they were set upon by others with the spears,
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The light of the fire illuminated the porch, so that
objects were plainly distinguishable; yet so violent
was the rush of assailants, so wild the tumult, so
brief the contest, that I can scarce say I really witnessed
the particulars of the tragedy. I beheld,
indeed, my master's gray hairs, for he was of towering
stature, floating an instant over the heads of the
assailants; but the next moment they had vanished;
and I saw but a single white man struggling
in the hall against a mass of foes, and crying out to
Miss Isabella by name, “to escape with the children.”
Vain counsel, vain sacrifice of safety to
humanity; the faithful overseer (for it was he who
made this heroic effort to save his master's children,
his master and young Andrews lying dead
or mortally wounded on the porch) was cut down
on the spot, and the shrieks of the children as they
fled, some into the open air by a back door, and
others to the upper chambers, and the savage yells
of triumph with which they were pursued, told
how vainly he had devoted himself to save them.
CHAPTER XIV. The tragical occurrences that followed.
While I stood thus observing the horrors I had
been instrumental in provoking, as incapable of
putting a stop to as of assisting in them, I saw two
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of the children, little Tommy and his youngest
sister, Lucy, a girl of seven or eight years, running
wildly over the lawn, several of my ruffian companions
pursuing them. The girl was snatched
up by old aunt Phæbe, who, with other women,
had come among us, wringing her hands, and beseeching
us not to kill their young misses, and was
thus saved. As for the boy, he caught sight of me,
and sprang into my arms, entreating me “not to let
them kill him, and he would never hurt me again
in all his life, and would give me all his money.”
Poor child! I would have defended him at that
moment with my life, for my heart bled for what
had already been done; but he was snatched out
of my hands, and I saw no more of him. I heard
afterward, however, that he was not hurt, having
been saved by the women, who had protected in
like manner his two little sisters, Jane and Lucy.
As for the others, that is, Isabella and Edith, I witnessed
their fate with my own eyes; and it was
the suddenness and horror of it that, by unmanning
me entirely, prevented my giving aid to the boy
when he was torn from my arms.
The fire had by this time spread from the timber
to an adjacent cabin, and a light equal to that of
noon, though red as blood itself, was shed over the
whole mansion, on the roof of which was a little
cupola, or observatory, open to the weather, where
was room for five or six persons to sit together, and
enjoy the prospect of the river and surrounding
hills; and on either side of this cupola was a
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platform, though without a balustrade, on which was
space for as many more.
The observatory being strongly illuminated by
the flames, and my eyes being turned thitherward
by a furious yell which was suddenly set up around
me, I beheld my master's daughter Isabella rush
into it,—that is, into the observatory,—from the
staircase below, hotly pursued, as was evident from
what followed. She bore in her arms, or rather
dragged after her, for the child was in a swoon, her
sister Edith, who was but small of stature and
light; and as she reached this forlorn place of refuge,
she threw down the trapdoor that covered its
entrance, and endeavoured to keep it down with
her foot. There was something inexpressibly fearful
in her appearance, independent of the dreadfulness
of her situation, separated only by a narrow
plank from ruffians maddened by rage and carnage,
from whom death itself was a boon too merciful to
be expected, and from whom she was to guard not
only herself, but the feeble, unconscious being
hanging on her neck. Her hair was all dishevelled,
her dress torn and disordered, and her face as
white as snow; yet there was a wild energy and
fierceness breathing from every feature, and she
looked like a lioness defending to the last her
young from the hunters, from whom she yet knows
there is no escape.
The trapdoor shook under her foot, and was at
last thrown violently up; and up, with screams of
triumph, darted the infuriated Governor, followed
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by Jim and others, to grasp their prey. Their
prey had fled: without uttering a word or scream,
she sprang from the cupola to the platform at its
side, and then, with a fearlessness only derived from
desperation, and still bearing her insensible sister,
she stepped upon the roof, which was high and
steep, and ran along it to its extremity.
Even the ferocious Governor was for a moment
daunted at the boldness of the act, and afraid to
follow; until the parson—well worthy he of the
name!—set him the example by leaping on the
shingles, and pursuing the unhappy girl to her last
refuge. He approached—he stretched forth his
arm to seize her; but he was not destined to lay
an impure touch on the devoted and heroic creature.
I saw her lay her lips once on those of the
poor Edith—the next instant the frail figure of the
little sister was hurled from her arms, to be dashed
to pieces on the stones below. In another, the
hapless Isabella herself had followed her, having
thrown herself headlong from the height, to escape
by death a fate otherwise inevitable.
Of what followed I have but a faint and disordered
recollection. I remember that the fall of the
two maidens caused loud cries of horror from the
men, and of lamentation from the women; and I
remember, also, that these were renewed almost
immediately after, but mingled with the sound of
fire-arms discharged by a party of foes, and the
voices of white men (among which I distinguished
that of my master's son, the major) calling upon
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one another to “give no quarter to the miscreants.”
A party of armed horsemen had in fact ridden
among us, and were now dealing death on all hands
from pistols and sabres. From one of the latter
weapons I myself received a severe cut, and was
at the same time struck down by the hoofs of a horse,
and left insensible.
CHAPTER XV. The results of the insurrection, with a truly strange and fatal catastrophe that befell the Author.
When I recovered my senses I found myself a
prisoner, bound hand and foot, and lying, with six
or seven of my late companions, in a cart, in which,
groaning with pain, for most of us were wounded,
and anticipating a direful end to our dreams of conquest
and revenge, we were trundled to the village,
and there deposited in the county jail, to repent at
leisure the rashness and enormity of our enterprise.
The power of that little pamphlet, of which I
have said so much, to produce an effect for which
we must charitably suppose it was not intended,
was shown in the numbers of wretches by whom
the prison was crowded; for it had been used to
inflame the passions of the negroes on several different
estates, all of whom had agreed to rise in
insurrection, although, as it providentially happened
the revolt extended to the length of murder only
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on Ridgewood Hill. The conspiracy was detected—
I believe confessed by a slave—on a plantation
adjacent to that of my master's son; who, being
informed of it, and assisted by a party that brought
the news, proceeded to seize the ringleaders in his
own gang, some of whom, attempting to make their
escape, were fired on; and this was the cause of
the volley which we had heard, and supposed was
fired by our fellow-conspirators beyond the creek.
The major then crossed over to his father's estate,
but too late to avert the tragedy which I have related.
His father, his eldest sister, and her lover
were already dead; as for the younger, Edith, she
was taken up alive, but cruelly mangled, and she
expired in a few hours. The faithful and devoted
overseer, I have the happiness to believe, ultimately
escaped with his life; for, although covered with
wounds, and at first reported dead, he revived sufficiently
to make deposition to the facts of the assault
and murder, as far as he was cognizant of
them, and I heard he was expected to recover.
Of those who perished, the father, the children,
and the gallant friend, there was not one who was
not, a fortnight before, respected and beloved by
those who slew them; and at their death-hour they
were as guiltless of wrong, and as deserving of affection
and gratitude, as they ever had been. How,
therefore, they came to be hated, and why they
were killed, I am unable to divine. All that I
know is, that we who loved them read a book which
fell in our way, and from that moment knew them
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only as enemies—objects on whom we had a right
to glut our fiercest passions.
As for ourselves—my deluded companions, at
least—their fate can be easily imagined. Some
were killed at the scene of murder; among others
the chief leader, Governor, who was shot on the
roof of the house. Parson Jim was wounded on
the same place, and, rolling from the roof, was horribly
crushed by the fall, but lingered in unspeakable
agonies for several days, and then died. Scipio,
the fiddler, was taken alive, tried, condemned, and
executed, with many others whose participation in
the crime left them no hope of mercy.
With these, I was myself put upon trial and
adjudged to death; for although it was made apparent
that I had not lifted my hand against any one,
it was proved that I was more than privy to the
plot—that I had been instrumental in fomenting it;
and the known favour with which I had been treated,
added the double die of ingratitude to my
offence. I was therefore condemned, and bade to
expect no mercy; nor did I expect it; for the fatal
day appointed for the execution having arrived, a
rope was put round my neck, and I was led to the
gibbet.
And now I am about to relate what will greatly
surprise the reader—I was not only found guilty
and condemned—I was hanged! Escape was impossible,
and I perceived it. The anguish of my
mind—for in anguish it may be supposed I looked
forward to my fate—was increased by the
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consciousness—so long slumbering—that flashed on
it, as I was driven to the fatal tree, that I was, in
reality, not Tom the slave, but Sheppard Lee the
freeman, and that I possessed a power of evading
the halter, or any other inconvenience, provided
I were allowed but one opportunity to exercise
it. But where was I now to look for a dead
body? It is true, there were bodies enough by-and-by,
when my accomplices were tucked up around
me; but what advantage could I derive from entering
any one of them, since my fate must be
equally certain to be hanged?
My distress, I repeat, was uncommonly great,
and in the midst of it I was executed; which put
an end to the quandary.
CHAPTER XVI. In which it is related what became of the Author after being hanged.
Here, it would seem, that my history should
find its natural close; but I hope to convince the
world that a man may live to record his own death
and burial. I say burial; for, from all I have
heard, I judge that I was buried as well as hanged,
and that I lay in the earth in a coarse deal coffin,
from two o'clock in the afternoon of a November
day, until nine at night; when certain young
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doctors of the village, who were desirous to show
their skill in anatomy, came to the place of execution,
and dug up the three best bodies, of which, as
my good luck would have it, my own was one—
Zip the fiddler's being another, while the third was
that of a young fellow named Sam, notorious for
nothing so much as a great passion he had for
butting with his head against brick walls, or even
stone ones, provided they were smooth enough.
The young anatomists, previous to hacking us,
resolved to try some galvanic experiments on us,
having procured a battery for that purpose; and
they invited a dozen or more respectable gentlemen
to be present, and witness the effects of that
extraordinary fluid, galvanism, on our lifeless bodies.
The first essayed was that of the unfortunate
Scipio, who, being well charged, began, to the admiration
of all present, to raise first one arm, and
then the other, then to twist the fingers of his left
hand in a peculiar way, as if turning a screw, inclining
his head the while towards his left shoulder,
and then to saw the air, sweeping his right hand to
and fro across his breast, with great briskness and
energy, the fingers of his left titillating at the air
all the while, so as to present the lively spectacle
of a man playing the fiddle; and, indeed, it was
judged, so natural was every motion, that had the
party been provided with a fiddle and bow to put
into his hands, they would have played such a jig
as would have set all present dancing.
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The next experiment tried was upon the body of
Sam, whose muscles were speedily excited to exercise
themselves in the way to which they had
been most accustomed, though not in one so agreeable
to the chief operator; for, in this case, the
lifeless corse suddenly lifting up its head, bestowed
it, with a jerk of propulsion equal in force to the
but of a battering-ram, full against the stomach of
the operator, whereby he was tumbled head over
heels, and all the breath beaten out of his body.
The reader may suppose, as it was proved to be
the virtue of galvanism to set the dead muscles
doing those acts to which the living ones had been
longest habituated, that I, upon being charged,
could do nothing less than throw myself upon my
hands and knees, and go galloping about the table,
as I had been used to do over the lawn, when master
Tommy was mounted upon my back.
Such, however, was not the fact. The first
thing I did upon feeling the magical fluid penetrate
my nerves, was to open my eyes and snap
them twice or thrice; the second to utter a horrible
groan, which greatly disconcerted the spectators;
and the third to start bolt upright on my feet, and
ask them “what the devil they were after?” In a
word, I was suddenly resuscitated, and to the great
horror of all present, doctors and lookers-on, who,
fetching a yell, that caused me to think I had got
among condemned spirits in purgatory, fled from the
room, exclaiming that I “was the devil, and no niggur!”
What was particularly lamentable, though I
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was far from so esteeming it, one of them, a young
gentleman who had come to the exhibition out of
curiosity, being invited by one of the doctors, was so
overcome with terror, that before he reached the
door of the room he fell down in a fit, and being
neglected by the others, none of whom stopped to
give him help, expired on the spot.
As for me, the cause of all the alarm, I believe I
was ten times more frightened than any of the
spectators, especially when I came to recollect that
I had just been hanged, and that I would, in all
probability, be hanged again, unless I now succeeded
in making my escape. As for the cause of my
resuscitation, and the events that accompanied it, I
was then entirely ignorant of them; and, indeed, I
must confess I learned them afterward out of the
newspapers. I knew, however, that I had been
hanged, and that I had been, by some extraordinary
means or other, brought to life again; and I
perceived that if I did not make my escape without
delay, I should certainly be recaptured by the returning
doctors.
I ran towards the door, and then, for the first
time, beheld that unfortunate spectator who had
fallen dead, as I mentioned before, and lay upon
the floor with his face turned up. I recollected
him on the instant, as being a young gentleman
whom I had once or twice seen at my late master's
house. All that I knew of him was, that his
name was Megrim, that he was reputed to be
very wealthy, and a great genius, or, as some said,
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eccentric, and that he was admired by the ladies,
and, doubtless, because he was a genius.
As I looked him in the face, I heard in the distance
the uproar of voices, which had succeeded
the flight of the doctors, suddenly burst out afresh,
with the sound of returning footsteps; and a loud
bully-like voice, which I thought very much like
that of the under-turnkey at the prison—a man
whom I had learned to fear—cried out, “Let me see
your devil; for may I be cussed up hill and down
hill if I ever seed a bigger one than myself.”
Horrible as was the voice, I was not dismayed.
I saw at my feet a city of refuge, into which my
enemies could not pursue me. My escape was
within my own power.
“Master,” said I, touching my head (for I had
no hat) to the corpse, “if it is all the same to you,
I beg you'll let me take possession of your body.”
As I pronounced the words the translation was
effected, and that so rapidly, that just as I drew my
first breath in the body of Mr. Megrim, it was
knocked out of me by the fall of my old one, which—
I not having taken the precaution to stand a little
to one side—fell down like a thunderbolt upon me,
bruising me very considerably about the precordia.
In this state, being half suffocated, and somewhat
frightened, I was picked up and carried away by
my new friends, and put to bed, where, having
swallowed an anodyne, I fell directly sound asleep.
And here, before proceeding farther, I will say,
that the doctors and their friends were greatly
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surprised to discover my late body lying dead, having
expected to find it as animated as when they left it.
But by-and-by, having reflected that the galvanism,
or artificial life, infused into its nerves had been
naturally exhausted at last, whereupon it as naturally
followed that the body should return to its
lifeless condition, they began to aver that the most
surprising part of the business was, that it had kept
me alive so long, and enabled me, after groaning
and speaking as I had actually done, to walk so far
from the table on which I had been lying.
On the whole, the phenomenon was considered
curious and wonderful; and an account of it having
been drawn up by the doctors, and headed “Extraordinary
Case of the Effects of Galvanism on a
Dead Body,” it was printed for the benefit of scientific
men throughout the world, in a medical journal,
where, I doubt not, it may be found at this day.
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BOOK VII. WHICH IS INTENDED AS A PENDANT TO BOOK I. , AND CONTAINS THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN OF FORTUNE.
CHAPTER I. Containing an inkling of the life and habits of Mr. Arthur Megrim.
Having been carried from the scene of my late
transformation, as I mentioned before, physicked,
put to bed, and allowed to sleep off my troubles, I
awoke late on the following morning, feeling very
comfortable, notwithstanding the bruises on my ribs,
and with an uncommonly agreeable, though lazy
sense of the enjoyment of lying a-bed. Indeed,
this was my only feeling. I woke to a consciousness,
though a vague one, of the change in my condition;
and this, together with what I saw around
me, when I had succeeded, after some effort, in getting
my eyes a little opened, it may be supposed,
would have filled me with surprise, and excited in
me a great curiosity to inquire into matters relating
to Mr. Arthur Megrim.
Such, however, was not the case. I looked upon
the elegantly-adorned chamber in which I lay, and
the sumptuous robes of my bed, with as much
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indifference as if I had been accustomed to them all
my life; and as for the happy destiny that now
seemed opening upon me, I scarce thought on it
at all.
Nor can I say that I felt in any way elated at my
fortunate escape from the hangman and the anatomists.
I remembered that affair with a drowsy indifference,
as being a matter of no further consequence
to me; and as for Mr. Arthur Megrim's
friends and kinsmen, his interests and relations in
life, I thought to myself, with a yawn, “I shall
know them all in good time.”
I was content to take things as they might come,
and eschew labours of mind as well as efforts of
body. Curiosity, I felt, was a tumultuous passion,
and I therefore resolved to avoid it. In this mood
I turned over on the other side, and took a second
nap.
From this I was roused, after a time, by some
one tugging at my shoulder, who proved, upon examination,
to be a very elegant-looking mulatto-boy—
that is, a boy of twenty-five years or thereabouts—
who signified, in language as genteel as his person,
that it was exactly half past eleven o'clock,
and therefore time for me to get up.
“Augh—well!” said I, taking about thirty seconds
to gape out each word, it seemed such tiresome
work to articulate; “what do you want?”
“Want you to get up, sah. Missie Ann says it
does you no good to sleep so long.”
“Augh—who is Missie Ann?”
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“Lar bless us,” said the gentleman, turning up
the white of his eye, “Missie Ann is massa's sister!”
“Who is massa?”
“You, massa—Massa Arthur!”
“Augh—well; and who are you?”
“'Paminondas, massa. Coat very nicely brushed;
very fine day; will do you good, sah, to get up
and taste the air. Regular Indian summer, sah.”
“You may go to the devil.”
“Yes, sah.”
With that I turned over for another nap, which
I should undoubtedly have taken, had I not been
interrupted, just as I was falling asleep, by the entrance
of a lady of a somewhat starched and venerable
appearance, though not more than six or
seven years older than myself, I being perhaps
twenty-five or six.
“A'n't you ashamed of yourself, Arthur!” said
she. “Do tell me—do you intend to lie a-bed for
ever?”
“Augh—pshaw!” said I. “Pray, madam, be so
good as to inform me who you are, and—augh—
what you want in my chamber?”
“Come,” said the lady, “don't be ridiculous,
and fall into any of your hyppoes again. Don't
pretend you don't know your own sister, Ann
Megrim.”
“I won't,” said I; “but—augh—sister, if you
have no objection, I should like—augh—to sleep
till dinner is ready.”
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“Dinner!” screamed my sister, Ann Megrim;
“don't suppose you will ever be able to eat a dinner
again. You know the doctor says it is your hard
eating and your laziness together that have destroyed
your digestive apparatus; and that, if you
don't adhere to the bran bread and hickory ashes
tea, you'll never be cured in the world.”
“What!” said I, “am I sick?”
“Undoubtedly,” said my sister Ann; “your
digestive apparatus is all destroyed, and your
nerves too. Did not you faint last night when
they were galvanizing the bodies? Have you not
lost all muscular power, so that you do nothing but
lie on a bed or sofa all day long? Oh, really,
brother Arthur Megrim, I am ashamed of you. A
man like you—a young man and a rich man, a
man of family and genius, a gentleman and a
scholar, a man who might make himself governor
of the state, or president of the nation, or any
thing—yet to be nothing at all except the laziest
man in Virginia, a man with no digestive apparatus,
a poor nervous hyppo—oh, it is too bad! Do
get up and stir yourself. Mount your horse, or go
out in the carriage. Exercise, you know, is the
only thing to restore strength to the digestive apparatus.”
“Sister Ann,” said I, “the more you speak
of my digestive apparatus, the more—augh—the
more I am convinced you don't know what you
are talking about. I am resolved to get up and
eat my dinner—”
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“Of bran bread and hickory ashes,” said my
sister.
“Of canvass-back ducks and terapins,” said I.
At which Miss Ann Megrim expressed terror and
aversion, and endeavoured to convince me that such
indulgence would be punished by a horrible indigestion,
as had been the case a thousand times
before.
But cogent as were her arguments, I had, or felt,
one still stronger on my side, being a savage appetite,
which was waking within that very digestive
apparatus she held in such disesteem, and which
became the more eager the more she besought me
to resist it.
The discussion was so far advantageous that it
set me wide awake; and by-and-by, the zealous
Epaminondas having made his second appearance,
I succeeded, with his assistance, in getting on my
clothes and descending to the dining-room, where,
to the great horror and grief of my affectionate
relative, I demolished two ducks and a half (being
the true canvass-backs, or white-backs, as they call
them in that country), and a full grown tortoise, of
the genus emys, and species palustris. And in
this operation, I may say, I found the first excitement
of pleasure which I had yet known in my
new body, and displayed an energy of application
of which I did not before know that I was capable.
Nor am I certain that any ill consequences followed
the meal. I felt, indeed, a strong propensity to
throw myself on a sofa and recruit after the labours
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of eating; but this Miss Megrim resisted, insisting
I should get into my carriage (for it seems I had
one, and a very handsome one too), and drive
about to avoid a surfeit.
In this I consented to gratify her wishes, whereby
I gratified one of my own; for I fell sound
asleep within five minutes after starting, and so
remained until the excursion was over.
Then, being as hungry as ever, and not knowing
what else to do, I picked my teeth over a newspaper,
and nodded at a novel until supper was got
ready, which (disregarding Miss Megrim's exhortations,
as before) I attacked with the good-will I had
carried to my dinner, eating on this occasion two
terapins and a half and one whole duck, of the
genus anas, and species vallisneria.*
The only ill consequences were, that I dreamed
of the devil and his imps all night, and that I awoke
in a crusty humour next morning.
CHAPTER II. The happy condition in which Sheppard Lee is at last placed.
If there be among my readers any person so
discontented with his lot that he would be glad to
exchange conditions with another, I think, had
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he been acquainted with Mr. Arthur Megrim, he
would have desired an exchange with him above
all other persons in the world; for Mr. Megrim
possessed all those requisites which are thought to
ensure happiness to a human being. He was young,
rich, and independent; of a good family (he boasted
the chivalrous blood of the Megrims); of a
sound body, and serene temper; and with no appetite
for those excesses which ruin the reputation,
while they debase the minds and destroy the peace
of youth. His years, as I have mentioned already,
were twenty-five or six; his revenues were far
above his wants, and enabled him to support his
town-house, which was the most elegant one in the
village, where he lived remote from the care and
trouble of his plantations; and as for independence,
that was manifestly complete, he being a bachelor,
and the sole surviver of his family, excepting only
his sister, Miss Ann Megrim, who managed his
household, and thus took from his mind the only
care that could otherwise have disturbed it.
What then in the whole world had Mr. Megrim
to trouble him? Nothing on earth—and for that
reason, to speak paradoxically, he was more
troubled than any one else on earth. Labour, pain,
and care—the evils which men are so apt to censure
Providence for entailing upon the race—I have
had experience enough to know, are essential to
the true enjoyment of life, serving, like salt, pepper,
mustard, and other condiments and spices, which
are, by themselves, ungrateful to the palate, to give
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a relish to the dish that is insipid and cloying
without them. Who enjoys health—who is so
sensible of the rapture of being well, as he who
has just been relieved from sickness? Who can
appreciate the delightful luxury of repose so well
as the labourer released from his daily toil? Who,
in fine, tastes of the bliss of happiness like him
who is introduced to it after a probation of suffering?
The surest way to cure a boy of a love of
cakes and comfils, is to put him apprentice to a
confectioner. The truth is, that the sweets of life,
enjoyed by themselves, are just as disgusting as
the bitters, and can only be properly relished when
alternated or mingled with the latter.
But as this is philosophy, and the reader will
skip it, I will pursue the subject no further, but
jump at once from the principle to the practical illustration,
as seen in my history while a resident in
the body of Mr. Arthur Megrim.
I was, on the sudden, a rich young man, with
nothing on earth to trouble me. I had lands and
houses, rich plantations, a nation or two of negroes,
herds of sheep and cattle, with mills, fisheries, and
some half dozen or more gold-mines, which last—
and it may be considered, out of Virginia, a wondrous
evidence of my wealth—were decidedly the
least valuable of all my possessions. With all
these things I was made acquainted by my sister
Ann, or otherwise, it is highly probable, I should
have known nothing about them; for during the
whole period of my seventh existence, I confined
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myself to my property in the village, not having
the least curiosity to visit my plantations, which, as
everybody told me, were in good hands.
In the village itself I had every thing about me
to secure happiness—a fine house, abundance of
servants, the whole under the management of the
best of housekeepers, my sister Ann, with horses
and carriages—for which, however, I cared but little,
thinking it laborious to ride, and as tedious to be
driven—and, above all, friends without number,
who treated me with a respect amounting to veneration
(for, it must be remembered, I was the richest
man in the county), and with a degree of affection
little short of idolatry; but whom, however, I
thought very troublesome, tiresome people, seeing
that they visited me too often, and wearied me to
death with long conversations about every thing.
Among them all, there was but one for whom I
felt any friendship; and he was a young doctor
named Tibbikens, for whom my sister Ann had a
great respect, and who had been retained by her to
assist in taking care of my digestive apparatus—
that same digestive apparatus of mine being a hobby
on which my sister lavished more thought and
anxiety than I believe she did upon her own soul—
not meaning to reflect upon her religion, however,
for she was a member of the Presbyterian
church, and quite devout about the time of communion.
The cause of her solicitude, as she gave
me frequent opportunity to know by her allusion to
the fact, was her having been once afflicted in her
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own person with a disorder of the digestive apparatus,
which it had been the good fortune of Doctor
Tibbikens to cure by a regimen of bran bread and
hickory ashes water; and hence her affection for
the doctor and the remedy. I liked the doctor myself
because he had the same solicitude about my
health, without troubling me with advice except
when I asked it, or finding much fault when I did
not follow it; because his conversation was agreeable,
except when he was in a scientific humour,
and did not require any efforts on my part to keep
it up; because he liked terapins and white-backs
as well as myself, and was of opinion they were
wholesome, provided one ate them in moderation;
and, in fine, because he took pains to help me to
amusement, and was of great assistance in dissipating
somewhat of that tedium which was the first
evil with which I was afflicted in the body of Mr.
Arthur Megrim. I believe the doctor had a strong
fancy for my sister; but she used to declare she
could never think of marrying, and thus being
drawn from what she felt to be the chief duty of
her existence, namely—the care of my digestive
apparatus.
-- 227 -- p016-530
CHAPTER III. The employments of a young gentleman of fortune.
And now, having mentioned tedium of existence
as being an evil to which I soon felt myself subject,
I will say that it was one I found more oppressive
than the reader can readily imagine. I had
nothing in the world to do, and, as it happened, my
disposition did not lead me to seek any thing. I
was, in a word, the very man my sister had so reproachfully
called me in our first conversation—
that is, the laziest man in all Virginia; and, upon
reflection, I can think of no person in the world
who would bear a comparison with me in that particular,
except myself. “None but himself can be
his parallel,” as somebody or other says, I don't
know who, a sentiment that is supposed to be absurd,
inasmuch as it involves an impossibility, but
which becomes good sense when applied to me.
In my original condition, in the body in which I
was first introduced to life, I certainly had a great
aversion to all troublesome employments, whether
of business or amusement, being supposed by many
persons to be then what as many considered me
now—to wit, the laziest man in my state. Whether
I was lazier as Sheppard Lee the Jerseyman or
Arthur Megrim the Virginian, I am not able to say.
In both cases indolence was at the bottom of all
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my troubles. There was this difference, however,
between the two conditions, that whereas I had felt
in one the evils of laziness to a poor man, I was
now to discover in the other what were its evils to
a man of fortune.
My chief employments in the body of Mr. Arthur
Megrim were eating and sleeping; and I certainly
should have done nothing else, had I been
allowed to follow my own humours. Eating and
sleeping, therefore, consumed the greater portion
of my time; but it could not consume all; nor
could the residue be filled up by the occasional excursions
in my curricle, and the still more unfrequent
strolls through the village, into which I was
driven by my affectionate sister, or cajoled by her
coadjutor, the doctor, in their zealous care of my
digestive apparatus. As for visits and visitations,
I abhorred them all, whether they related to the
bustling young gentlemen of the neighbourhood, or
the loquacious ladies, old and young, who cultivated
the friendship of my sister.
Employ myself, however, as I might, there always
remained a portion of each day which I could
not get rid of, either in bed or at the table. On
such occasions I was devoured by ennui, and thought
that even existence was an infliction—that it was
hard work to live. According to my sister's account,
I was a scholar and a genius; in which case
I ought to have found employment enough of an
intellectual nature, either in books or the reflections
of my own mind. I certainly had a very large and
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fine library in my house, and there was scarce a
week passed by in which I did not receive a huge
bundle of the newest publications from a book-seller,
who had long had it in charge thus to supply
me. Of these I usually read the title-pages, and
then turned them over to my sister, or, which was
more common, lent them to my neighbours, who,
male and female together, came flocking to borrow
the day after, and sometimes the day before, the
arrival of each package, taking good care to rob
me of those that were most interesting. The truth
is, if I ever had had the power of reading, I had
now lost it. Books only set me nodding.
As for exercising my mind in reflections of its
own, that was even more laborious than reading;
and I contracted a dislike to it, particularly as my
mind wore itself out every night in dreaming, that
being a result of the goodly suppers I used to eat.
It is true, that I one day fell into a sudden ferment,
and being inspired, actually seized upon pen and
paper, and wrote a poem in blank verse, forty lines
long, with which I was so pleased that I read it to
Tibbikens and my sister, both of whom were in
raptures with it, the former carrying it off to the
editor of the village paper, who printed it with such
a eulogium upon its merits, as made me believe
Byron was a fool to me, while all the young ladies
immediately paid my sister Ann a visit, that they
might tell me how they admired the beautiful piece,
and lament that I wrote so seldom. I forget what
the poem was about; but I remember I was so
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delighted with the praise bestowed on it, that I resolved
to write another, which, however, I did not
do, having unfortunately begun it in rhyme, which
was difficult, and my fit of inspiration and energy
having left me before I got through with my next
dinner. It was my writing verses, I suppose, that
caused me to be called a genius; but it seems I
was too lazy to be inspired more than once or twice
a year.
I relapsed into ennui, and, truly, I became more
tired of it before it was done with me, than was
ever a labourer of his hod or mattock.
CHAPTER IV. Some account of the inconveniences of having a digestive apparatus.
But ennui was not the worst of the evils that
clouded my happy lot. Some touches of that diabolical
disorder, the curse of the rich man, which,
as my sister so often gave me to know, had threatened
the peace of Mr. Arthur Megrim several times
before, now began to assail my own serenity, and
threw gall and ratsbane over my dinners. I had
slighted her warnings, and despised her advice, and
now I was to pay the price of indiscretion. In a
word, that very digestive apparatus, on which she
read me a lecture at least thrice a day, began to
grumble, refuse to do duty, and strike; though,
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unlike the industrious artisans, who were in all quarters
setting it the example, it struck, not for high
wages, of which it had had a surfeit, but for low
ones, in which, however, its master was scarce able
to oblige it, having an uncommonly good appetite
most of the time; and even when he had not, not
well knowing how to dispose of his time unless at
the table.
My faithful sister, who had been so constant to
predict, was the first to detect the coming evil, and,
step by step, she pointed it out to my unwilling
observation.
“Arthur,” said she, one morning as we sat at
breakfast, “your eyelid is winking.”
“Augh—” said I, “yes; it is winking.”
“It is a sign,” said she, “your digestive apparatus
is getting out of order!”
“Augh!” said I, “hang the digestive apparatus!”
for I was tired of hearing it mentioned.
“Arthur,” said she, the next day, “you are beginning
to look yellow and bilious!”
“Yes,” said I; on which she declared that “the
alkalis of my biliary fluids”—she had studied the
whole theory and nomenclature of dyspepsy out
of a book the doctor lent her—“were beginning to
fail to coalesce, in the natural chymical way, with
the acids of the chymous mass; and that no better
argument could be desired to prove that my digestive
apparatus was getting out of order.” And she
concluded by recommending me to regulate my diet,
and fall back upon bran bread and hickory ashes.
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In short, my dear sister assailed me with a pertinacity
equal to the disease itself, so that I came,
in a short time, to consider her as one of its worst
symptoms.
To add to my woes, Dr. Tibbikens began to go
over to her opinion, to talk of my digestive apparatus,
and to drop hints in relation to bran bread and
hickory ashes, which would decidedly have robbed
him of my friendship, had I not at last found myself
unable to do without him.
To make a long story short, I will omit a detailed
history of my tribulations during the winter,
and skip at once to the following spring; at the
opening of which I found myself, young, rich, and
independent as I was, the bond-slave and victim of
a malady to which the woes of age and penury are as
the sting of moschetoes to the teeth of raging tigers.
Reader, I have, in the course of this history, related
to thee many miseries which it was my lot, on
different occasions, to encounter, and some of them
of a truly cruel and insupportable character. Could
I, however, give thee a just conception of the ills I
was now doomed to suffer, which, of a certainty, I
cannot do, unless thou art at this moment the victim
of a similar infliction, I am convinced thou
wouldst agree with me, that I had now stumbled
upon a grief that concentrated in itself all others
of which human nature is capable.
Dost thou know what it is to have thy stomach
stuffed, like an ostrich's, with old iron hoops and
brickbats—or feeling as if it were? to have it now
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drowned in vinegar, now scorched as with hot potatoes?
thy head filled with achings, dizziness, and
streaks of lightning? thy heart transformed into
the heels of a hornpipe-dancer, and plying thy ribs,
lungs, and diaphragm with the energy of an artiste
in the last agony?
If thou dost, then thou wilt know that bodily distress,
of which the above miseries form but a small
portion, is the least of the evils of dyspepsy—that
its most horrible symptoms develop themselves in
the mind. What care those devils, falsely called
blue (for they are as black as midnight, or the bile
which engenders them), for the youth, the wealth,
the independence, the gentility of a man whose digestive
apparatus is out of order? The less cause
he may have in reality to be dissatisfied with his
lot, the more cause they will find him; the greater
and more legitimate his claims to be a happy man,
the more fierce and determined their efforts to make
him a miserable one.
The serenity of my mind gave way before the
attacks of these monsters; sleeping and waking,
by day and by night, they assailed me with equal
pertinacity and fury. If I slept, it was only to be
tormented by demon and caco-demon—to be ridden
double by incubus and succuba, under whose bestriding
limbs I felt like a Shetland pony carrying
two elephants. My dreams, indeed, so varied and
terrific were the images with which they afflicted
me, I can compare to nothing but the horrors or last
delirium of a toper. Hanging, drowning, and
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tumbling down church-steeples were the common and
least frightful of the fancies that crowded my sleeping
brain: now I was blown up in a steamboat, or
run over by a railroad car; now I was sticking fast
in a burning chimney, scorching and smothering,
and now, head downwards, in a hollow tree, with
a bear below snapping at my nose; now I was
plastered up in a thick wall, with masons hard at
work running the superstructure up higher, and now
I was enclosed in a huge apple-dumpling, boiling
in a pot over a hot fire. One while I was crushed
by a boa constrictor; another, perishing by inches
in the mouth of a Bengal tiger; and, again, I was
in the hands of Dr. Tibbikens and his scientific
coadjutors of the village, who were dissecting me
alive. In short, there was no end to the torments
I endured in slumber, and nothing could equal
them except those that beset me while awake.
A miserable melancholy seized upon my spirits,
in which those very qualifications which everybody
envied me the possession of were regarded
with disgust, as serving only the purpose of adding
to my tortures. What cared I for youth, when it
opened only a longer vista of living wretchedness?
What to me was the wealth which I could not
enjoy? which had been given me only to tantalize?
And as for independence, the idea was a mockery;
the servitude of a galley-slave was freedom, unlimited
license, compared with my subjection to dyspepsy,
and—for the truth must be confessed—the
doctor; to whom I was at last obliged to submit,
nolens volens.
-- 235 -- p016-538
CHAPTER V. The same subject continued, with an account of several surprising transformations.
Whether Dr. Tibbikens treated me secundum
artem or not, I cannot say; but true it is,
that instead of getting better, I grew gradually
worse, until my melancholy became a confirmed
hypochondriasis, and fancies gloomy and dire, wild
and strange, seized upon my brain, and conjured
up new afflictions.
Getting up early one morning, I found, to my
horror, that I had been, in my sleep, converted
into a coffee-pot; a transformation which I thought
so much more extraordinary than any other I had
ever undergone, that I sent for my sister Ann, and
imparted to her the singular secret.
“Oh!” said she, bursting into tears, “it is all on
account of your unfortunate digestive apparatus.
But, oh! brother Arthur, don't let such notions
get into your head. A coffee-pot, indeed! that's
too ridiculous!”
I was quite incensed at her skepticism, but still
more so at the conduct of Dr. Tibbikens, who,
being sent for, hearing of my misfortune, and seeing
me stand in the middle of the floor, with my
left arm akimbo, like a crooked handle, and the
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right stretched out in the manner of a spout, seized
me by the shoulders and marched me towards a
great hickory fire that was blazing on the hearth.
“What do you mean, Tibbikens?” said I.
“To warm you,” said he: “I like my coffee
hot; and so I intend to boil you over again on that
very fire!”
At these words I started, trembled, and awoke
as from a dream, assuring him I had made a great
mistake, and was no more of a coffee-pot than he
was; an assurance that doubtless prevented my
undergoing an ordeal which I was neither saint
nor fire-king enough to endure with impunity.
Indeed, I was quite ashamed of having permitted
such a delusion to enter my brain.
The next day, however, a still more afflicting
change came over me; for having tried to read a
book, in which I was interrupted by a great dog
barking in the street, I was seized with a rage of a
most unaccountable nature, and falling on my hands
and feet, I responded to the animal's cries, and
barked in like manner, being quite certain that I
was as much of a dog as he. Nay, my servant
Epaminondas coming in, I seized him by the leg
and would have worried him, had he not run roaring
out of the chamber; and my sister Ann coming
to the door, I flew at her with such ferocity that
she was fain to escape down stairs. The doctor
was again sent for, and popping suddenly into the
chamber, he rushed upon me with a great horsewhip
he had snatched up along the way, and fell
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[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
to belabouring me without mercy, crying out all
the while, “Get out, you rascal, get out!”
“Villain!” said I, jumping on my hind legs, and
dancing about to avoid his lashes, “what do you
mean?”
“To whip you down stairs, you cur!” said he,
flourishing his weapon again.
On which I assured him as earnestly as I could
that “I was no cur whatever;” and indeed I was
quite cured of the fancy.
My next conceit was (the morning being cold,
and my fire having gone out), that I was an icicle;
which fancy was dispelled by the doctor saluting
me with a bucket of water, on pretence of melting
me; and I was doubtless melted all the sooner for
being drenched in water exactly at the freezing-point.
After this I experienced divers other transformations,
being now a chicken, now a loaded cannon,
now a clock, now a hamper of crockery-ware, and
a thousand things besides; all which conceits the
doctor cured without much difficulty, and with as
little consideration for the roughness of his remedies.
Being a chicken, he attempted to wring my
neck, calling me a dunghill rooster, fit only for the
pot; he discharged the cannon from my fancies by
clapping a red-hot poker to my nose; and the
crate of crockery he broke to pieces by casting it
on the floor, to the infinite injury of my bones.
The clock at first gave him some trouble, until,
pronouncing it to have a screw out of order, he
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[figure description] Page 238.[end figure description]
seized upon one of my front teeth with a pair of
pincers, and by a single wrench dissipated the delusion
for ever.
CHAPTER VI. An account of the woes of an Emperor of France, which have never before appeared in history.
In short (for I do not design particularizing my
transformations further), there was no conceit entered
my brain which Dr. Tibbikens did not cure
by a conceit; until, one morning, by some mysterious
revelation, the nature and means of which can
only be guessed at, I found that I had been elected
the Emperor of France, and announced my intention
to set sail for my government immediately, in
the first ship of the line which the American executive
could put at my disposal.
This fancy quite disconcerted Dr. Tibbikens, and
I heard him say to my sister, “He is a gone case
now,—quite mad, I assure you;” which expression
so much offended me, that I ordered him from my
presence, and told him that, were it not for my respect
for the American government, whose subject
he was, I would have his head for his impertinence.
But wo betide the day! the doctor returned to
me in less than an hour, bringing with him every
physician in the village, who, having looked at me
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a moment, went into another apartment, where they
argued hotly together for another hour. At the expiration
of this they returned, led by Tibbikens,
who, to my great satisfaction, now fell on his
knees, and “begged my imperial majesty's pardon
for presuming to request that I would allow myself
to be dressed in my imperial majesty's robe of
state;” which robe of state, although I was surprised
at its plainness (for it was of a coarse linen
texture, without gold lace or jewels, and of a very
strange shape—closed in front and open in the
rear), I immediately consented to put on, so
pleased was I with the homage of the doctor.
If I was surprised at the appearance of the imperial
garment, much more was I astonished when,
having slipped my arms into its sleeves, I found
them,—that is, my arms,—suddenly pinioned,
buried, sewed up, as it were, among the folds of
the robe, so that, when it was tied behind me, as it
immediately was, I was as well secured as when I
was tied up for execution on a former occasion.
Alas! the disappointment to my pride! I understood
the whole matter in a moment: my imperial
robe of state was nothing less nor more than a
strait waistcoat, constructed upon the spur of the
moment, but still on scientific principles.
And now, being entirely at the mercy of the deceitful
Tibbikens, I was seized upon with a strong
hand, my head shaved and thrust into a sack of
pounded ice, from which it was not taken until after
a six days' congelation, and then only to be
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transferred to a nightcap of Spanish flies, exceedingly
comfortable on the first application, but which, within
a few hours, I had every reason to pronounce
the most execrable covering in existence. And
what made it still more intolerable, I never complained
of it that Tibbikens did not assure me “it
was the imperial coronet of France,” and then exclaim,
in the words of some old play, “Uneasy lies
the head that wears a crown.”
And then I was physicked and starved, phlebotomized,
soused in cold water and scalded in hot,
rubbed down with rough blanket cloths and hair-brushes
as stiff as wool-cards, scorched with mustard
plasters, bombarded by an electrical machine, and
in general attacked by every weapon of art which
the zeal of my tormentors could bring into play
against me.
In this way, if I was not cured of my disease, I
was, at least, brought into subjection. I ceased
complaining, which I did at first, and with becoming
indignation, of the traitorous and sacrilegious
violence done to my anointed body, for such I at
first considered it. The arguments of my persecutors,
however, to prove the contrary, were irresistible,
being chiefly syllogisms, of which the
major proposition was calomel and jalap, the minor
mustard plasters and blisters, and the conclusion
cold water, phlebotomy, and flax-seed tea. The
same arguments, varied categorically according to
circumstances, convinced me that if my imperial
elevation, or the notion thereof, was not sheer
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insanity on my own part, my doctors thought so--
which was the same thing in effect; and I therefore
took good care, when bewailing my hard fate, not
to charge it, as I at first did, to the democratic
wrath and jealousy of my tormentors.
CHAPTER VII. In which Sheppard Lee is convinced that all is not gold which glistens.
This conversion of mine to their own opinion—
or, if the reader will so have it, my return to rationality—
had a favourable effect on my doctors.
They removed (very circumspectly indeed) the
strait jacket from my arms; and then, seeing I
made no attempt to tear them to pieces, but was,
on the contrary, very quiet and submissive, and
that, instead of claiming to be Charlemagne the
Second of France, I was content to be Mr. Arthur
Megrim, of Virginia, they were so well satisfied of
the cure they had effected, that they agreed to free
me of their company, and so left me in the sole
charge of Tibbikens and my affectionate sister.
In this manner I was cured of hypochondriasis;
for although I felt, ever and anon, a strong propensity
to confess myself a joint-stool, a Greek demigod,
or some such other fanciful creature, I retained
so lively a recollection of the penalties I had already
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paid for indulging in such vagaries, that I put a
curb on my imagination, and resolved for the future
to be nothing but plain Mr. Megrim, a gentleman
with a disordered digestive apparatus.
I was cured of my hypochondriasis—I may say,
also, of my dyspepsy—being kept by Tibbikens
and my sister in such a starved condition, that it
was impossible I should ever more complain of indigestion.
But I was not yet cured of my melancholy;
nothing but canvass-backs and terapins
could cure that—and these, alas! were never more
to bless my lips. Tibbikens had pronounced their
fate, and with them, mine: thenceforth and for ever
my diet was to be looked for in those—next to my
digestive apparatus—chief favourites of my sister,
bran bread and hickory ashes; my stomach, he
solemnly assured me, would never be able to sustain
any thing else.
I say, therefore, I was melancholy; and great
reason had I to be so, condemned to live a life of
ascetic denial, with the means in my hand to purchase
all the luxuries in the world, and, which was
worse, an eternal desire to enjoy them.
To banish this melancholy—alas! never to be
banished—and perhaps to give me a little appetite
for my bran bread and ashes, for which I never
could contract a relish, the friendly Tibbikens
again seduced me into the open air and my carriage,
and carried me about to different places in
which he thought I might find amusement. In this
way he had conducted my prototype, the true
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[figure description] Page 243.[end figure description]
Arthur Megrim, before me, whenever indolence and
the luxuries of the table brought him too near to
dyspepsy; and it was this uncommon kindness of
the physician, in dragging the unfortunate gentleman
to witness the galvanic experiments on the
bodies of the executed felons, which had helped
him so suddenly out of his own. Dr. Tibbikens
was not, indeed, very choice whither he carried
me, lugging me along with equal alacrity to a horse-race,
a barbacue, or to the bed-sides of his patients.
All his efforts, however, were vain. The memory
of what I had suffered, with the anticipation
of what I was yet to endure, with, doubtless, the
addition of the ills for the time being, preyed upon
my spirit. I followed him mechanically, and in a
sort of torpor, incapable of enjoying myself, incapable
almost of noting what passed before me. I
was tired of the life of the young and affluent Mr.
Megrim, and I should have been glad to exchange
his body for some one's else: but, unluckily, my
mind was so weighed down with indolence, melancholy,
and stupefaction, that I really did not
think of so natural a means of ending my troubles.
In this condition, greatly to the concern of my
friendly physician, I remained until towards the
end of March, when an incident happened which
gave an impulse to my spirit greater than it had
ever before experienced.
-- 244 -- p016-547
CHAPTER VIII. In which the Author stumbles upon an old acquaintance.
The doctor being accustomed to lead or drive
me whithersoever he would, and I, half the time,
following without question, I found myself led one
day to a house in the town, where was a remarkable
exhibition, or show, as our people called it,
which had for two days kept the whole village in
an uproar. So great, however, was the abstraction
and indifference of my mind to all objects, ordinary
and extraordinary alike, that I had paid not
the least attention to the accounts of the matter
which my sister and other persons, and especially
the faithful Epaminondas, had, during these two
days, poured into my ears. Hence, when I entered
the exhibition-room I was ignorant of its nature,
and, indeed, indifferent as to making myself better
acquainted with it.
Tibbikens, however, appeared to be unusually
delighted, and saying, “Now, Megrim, my lad,
you shall see a wonderful proof of the strides that
science is making,” led me through a crowd of the
villagers, old and young, and male and female,
who were present, up to a large table, where, truly
enough, in glass cases placed upon the same, was
a spectacle quite remarkable; though I must
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confess it did not make so strong an impression upon
me as Tibbikens expected.
It consisted of an infinite variety of fragments
from the bodies of animals and human beings, imitations,
as I supposed at first, in wax, or some
other suitable substance, and done to the life;
but Tibbikens assured me they were real specimens,
taken from animal bodies, and converted by
scientific processes, known only to the exhibiter,
into the substances we now saw; some being stony
and harder than flint, some again only a little indurated,
while others retained their natural softness,
elasticity, and other peculiarities of texture. There
were a dozen or more human feet, as many hands,
three heads (one of which was a woman's with
long hair, and another a child's), a calf's head, a
dog's leg, the ear of a pig, the nose of a horse, an
ox's liver and heart, a rat, a snake, and a catfish,
and dozens of other things that I cannot now remember,
all of which were surprisingly natural to
behold, especially the head of the woman with the
long hair, which looked as if it had just been cut
off—or rather not cut off at all, for there was no
appearance of death about it whatever, the lips
and cheeks being quite ruddy, and the eyes open
and bright, though fixed.
“So much for science!” said Tibbikens. “Look
at that boy's head! it don't look so well as the others;
but who would believe it was solid stone?
Sir, it is stone, and silicious stone too; for last
night I did myself knock fire out of its nose with
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the back of my knife; and that's the cause of the
nick there on the nostril. Well now, there's the
man's head; its texture is ligneous, or, to speak
more strictly, imperfectly carbonaceous, though the
doctor calls it calcareous. But the wonder of all
is the woman's head; look at that! That, sir, is
neither silicious nor carbonaceous, but fleshy—I
say, sir, fleshy. It remains in its natural condition;
the skin is soft and resilient; you see the naturalness
of the colour, of the lips, and, above all, of
the eyes. And yet, sir, that head, that flesh is indestructible,
unless, indeed, by fire, and strong acids
or alkalis. It is embalmed, sir! embalmed according
to the new process of this doctor with the
unpronounceable Dutch name; and I can tell you,
sir, that the man is a chymist such as was never
heard of before. Davy, Lavoisier, Berzelius—sir,
I presume to say they are fools to him, and will be
as soon forgotten as their stupid, uncivilized system.
How little they knew of the true science of
chymistry! They stopped short at the elements—
our doctor here converts one element into another!”
Tibbikens spoke with an air of consequence and
some little oratorical emphasis, for he was surrounded
by spectators, who listened to what he said
with reverence. As for me, the little interest excited
in my bosom by the novelty of the exhibition
had begun to wear away, and I was sinking again
into apathy—the faster, perhaps, for the doctor's
conversation, of which I had a sufficiency every
day—and I suppose I should, in a few moments,
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have lost all consciousness of what was going on
around me, when suddenly a buzz began, and a
murmuring of voices, saying, “Here comes the
doctor! now we shall have the grand show!” At
the same moment a grinding organ began its lugubrious
grunting and squeaking, and the master of
the exhibition, stalking up to the table, and making
his patrons a sweeping semicircular bow, cried, in
a rumbling bass voice, and in accents strongly foreigh,—
“Zhentlemens and leddees—I peg you will excuse
me for keep you waiting. Vat you see here,
zhentlemens and leddees, is very strange—pieces
of de poddies human and animal, shanged py a
process of philosophie very astonish, misty, and
unknown to de multitude; some hard shtone, some
shtone not so hard, and some not shtone at all. But
I shall show you de representation vich is de triumph
of art, de vonder of science, de excellence
of philosophie! For, zhentlemens and leddees, I
am no mountepank and showmans, put a man of de
science, a friend of de species human, and a zhentleman
of de medical profession; and vat I make
dese tings for is not for show, nor for pastime, nor
for de money, but for de utilitie of de vorld.”
“Surely,” thought I to myself, “I have heard
that voice before!”
I looked into the man's face as soon as the spectators
had cleared away a little—for I was too indifferent
to put myself to any trouble—and I said
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to myself—nay, I said aloud to Tibbikens, “Surely
I have seen that man before!”
“Where?” said Tibbikens.
“In Jersey,” I replied, hastily; for I could not
forget the tall frame, the hollow jaws, the solemn
eyes, and the ever-grinning mouth of Feuerteufel,
the German doctor, who had made himself so famous
in my native village, and who was one of the
last persons I remembered to have seen upon that
day when I bade farewell to my original body.
“Come,” said Tibbikens, looking alarmed at my
last words, “you don't pretend to say you were ever
out of Virginia in your whole life!”
“Augh—oh!” said I, recollecting myself; “I
wonder what I was talking about? What—augh—
what is the man's name?”
“Feuerteufel,” said Tibbikens.
CHAPTER IX. Containing an account of the wonderful discoveries of the German doctor.
I was not then mistaken! It was Feuerteufel
himself, only he had learned a little more English.
This was the first and only one of my original acquaintances
whom I had laid eyes on since my departure
from New-Jersey, nearly two years before.
I felt some interest, therefore, in the man, but it
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was accompanied with a feeling of dislike, and even
apprehension. The truth is, I never liked the German
doctor, though why I never could tell. But
what was he doing—what could be his object going
about the country with petrified legs, arms, and
heads? I had scarce asked myself the question
before it was answered by the gentleman himself,
who had been speaking, though I know not what,
all the time I was talking with Tibbikens, and
while I was cogitating afterward.
He had worked himself into a fit of eloquence,
warming with enthusiasm as he dwelt upon the
grandeur and usefulness of his discovery. He
made antic gestures with hands, head, and shoulders;
he rolled and snapped his eyes in the most
extraordinary manner in the world; and as for his
mouth, there is no describing the grimaces and contortions
which it made over every particularly bright
idea or felicitous word.
“Zhentlemens!” said he, “I have discover de
great art to preserve de human poddie; I can
make him shtone, I can make him plaster-Paree,
I can make him shuse as he is, dat is flesh—put
flesh vat is never corrupt. Very well! vat shall I
do mit de great discoaver? Mit de first I shall
preserve de poddies of de great men—de kings,
and de shenerals, and de poets, and de oder great
men; and you shall see how mosh petter it is tan
de statues marple. How mosh petter to have de
great man as de great man look in de flesh, mit his
eyes shining, his skin and his colour all de pure
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natural! How mosh petter dat dan de imitation!
Suppose you have de painter who take de looking-glass;
and when you look in him, glue down de reflection
dare for ever!—de natural colour, de natural
drawing, de light and de shade? How mosh
petter dat dan de picture in dirty oil and ochre! (I
tell you, py-the-py, zhentlemens, I do study dat
art, and I hopes some day to make de grand discoaver—
to put you reflection on de proper substance,
like de looking-glass, dat shall hold on to
de colours, and hold'em on for ever!) Vell, zhentlemens,
I do de same ting mit de statue; I take
de nature as I find him—de shape, de colour, de
lips, de eyes, de hair, de all—and I do, py my process,
make him indestructeeble, and not to alter for
ever. Here is de little poy's head dat I have done
in dat style. Dat is de art! dat is de art of making
de shtone mummee! It shall pe de most costly,
de most expense, and derefore only for de great,
great men—de shenerals of war, de preshidents,
and de mens in Congress vat makes de pig speech.
Vell! den I shall make de oder style—de process
to turn de poddie into plaster-Paree—vat I call de
plaster mummee. Dat is not so dear; dat is de
art for de great men vat is not so great as de oders—
for de leetle great men—de goavernors, de editors
of de paper, and de mens vat you give de grand
dinners to. Vell! den I shall make de oder style—
de style for de zhentlemens and leddees in zheneral,
vat vill not go to rot in de ground like de horse
and de dog—de style of de flesh unshange—vat I
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call de flesh and plood mummee, shuse like dis
woman head mit de long hair. Dis is de sheep
plan; it vill cost no more dan de price of de funeral.
It vill be done in tree days. De poddie is
made incorruptible, proof against de water, vat you
call water-proof. It is de process for de peoples in
zheneral; and I do hopes to see de day ven it shall
pe in universal adopt by all, and no more poddies
put into de earth to rot, and to make de pad health
for de peoples dat live. It is de shtyle for de unwholesome
countrees. Zhentlemens, you have
know dat de Egyptians did make all dare friends
mummee. Why for dey do dat? Very good reason.
De land upon de Nile vas unwholesome, and
de purrying of de poddies made it vorse. There
vas no wood dere to purn de poddies. Vell den,
dey did soak dem in de petrolium, de naptha, and
oder substance antiseptique, and hide dem in de catacomb
and de pyramid. Dere vas no decay, no
corruption to poison de air; it vas vise plan!
“Now, zhentlemens, I have devise my plan for
de benefit of America, vich is de most unwholesome
land in de earth, full of de exhalation and de
miasm, de effluvium from de decay animal and vegetable.
You shall adopt my plan for embalm your
friends, and you no have no more pad air for de fevers,
de bilious, de agues, and de plack vomit.
Zhentlemens, I have shuse complete my great secret;
it vas de study of my whole life; I have
shuse succeed. I have de full and complete specimens
of de process for make de sheep mummee,
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de mummee of flesh and plood, de plan for de men
in zheneral, vich do always love to pe sheep. I
have start carry dem to de great city New-Orleans;
and if de peoples do adopt him dere, dey shall have
no more complain of de great sickness vat kills de
peoples; for dere shall be no more rot of man's
flesh in de swampy ground. Here you see de oxheart,
de catfish, de bullfrog, de six hands and feet,
all done into flesh and plood mummee. Here is
de woman's head. It has been done dis tree year.
But you shall see de grand specimen, de complete
figure, de grown man turn into de mummee, and
look more natural dan de life. Dat is de triumph
of mine art! It was my first grand specimen, done
dere is now two year almost, and it did cost me
mosh expense and money, and some leetle danger.
Now you shall say de specimen is perfect, or you
shall have my head; it is vat I value apove my life—
de complete! de grand! de peautiful!—But you
shall see!”
CHAPTER X. Containing a more wonderful discovery on the part of Sheppard Lee, with perhaps the most surprising adventure that ever befell him.
Having thus completed his lecture, or oration,
of which I must confess I had begun to grow tired,
the German doctor suddenly stepped to a great
round box, like a watchman's box, that stood at the
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further end of the room, and unlocking the folding
leaves of which it was composed, swung them
round with a jerk, exhibiting an inner case, evidently
of glass, but entirely covered over with a
thick curtain. This he proceeded to remove, by
tugging at a string which hoisted it to the ceiling;
and as it ascended there was disclosed to the eyes
of the wondering spectators a human figure within
the case, clad loosely in a sort of Roman garment,
and for all the world looking entirely like a living
being, except that the eyes were fixed in a set unnatural
stare, and the attitude was a little stiff and
awkward.
A murmur, with twenty or more faint shrieks
from the females present, attested the admiration
with which the spectators caught sight of this wonderful
triumph of skill and science; but I—heavens
and earth! what were my feelings, what was my
astonishment, when I beheld in that lifeless mummy
my own lost body! the mortal tenement in which
I had first drawn the breath, and experienced the
woes, of life! the body of Sheppard Lee the Jerseyman!
This, then, was its fate—not to be anatomized
and degraded into a skeleton, as the vile
Samuel the kidnapper had told me, but converted
into a mummy by a new process, for the especial
benefit of science and the world; and Dr. Feuerteufel,
the man for whom I had always cherished
an instinctive dislike and horror, was the worthy
personage who had stolen it, what time I had myself
interrupted his designs upon the body of the
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farmer's boy, in the old graveyard near the Owlroost!
I looked upon my face—that is, the face of the
mummy—and a thousand recollections of my original
home and condition burst upon my mind;
the tears started into my eyes with them. What
had I gained by forsaking the lot to which Providence
had assigned me? In a moment, the woes of
Higginson, of Dawkins, Skinner, Longstraw, Tom
the slave, and Megrim the dyspeptic, rushed over
my memory, contrasted with those lesser ones of
Sheppard Lee, which I had so falsely considered as
rendering me the most miserable man in the world.
What other notions may have crowded my brain,
what feeling may have entered my bosom, I am
now unable to describe. The sight of my body
thus restored to me, and in the midst of my sorrow
and affliction, inviting me, as it were, back to my
proper home, threw me into an indescribable ferment.
I stretched out my arms, I uttered a cry,
and then rushing forward, to the astonishment of all
present, I struck my foot against the glass case
with a fury that shivered it to atoms—or, at least,
the portion of it serving as a door, which, being
dislodged by the violence of the blow, fell upon
the floor and was dashed to pieces. The next instant,
disregarding the cries of surprise and fear
which the act occasioned, I seized upon the cold
and rigid hand of the mummy, murmuring, “Let
me live again in my own body, and never—no!
never more in another's!”
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Happiness of happiness! although, while I uttered
the words, a boding fear was on my mind,
lest the long period the body had lain inanimate,
and more especially the mummifying process to
which it had been subjected, might have rendered
it unfit for further habitation, I had scarce breathed
the wish before I found myself in that very
body, descending from the box which had so long
been its prison, and stepping over the mortal frame
of Mr. Arthur Megrim, now lying dead on the
floor.
Indescribable was the terror produced among the
spectators by this double catastrophe—the death
of their townsman, and the revival of the mummy.
The women fell down in fits, and the men took to
their heels; and a little boy, who was frightened
into a paroxysm of devotion, dropped on his knees,
and began fervently to exclaim,
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
In short, the agitation was truly inexpressible,
and fear distracted all. But on no countenance was
this passion (mingled with a due degree of amazement)
more strikingly depicted than on that of the
German doctor, who, thus compelled to witness the
object of a thousand cares, the greatest and most
perfect result of his wonderful discovery, slipping
off its pedestal and out of his hands, as by a stroke
of enchantment, stared upon me with eyes, nose,
and mouth, speechless, rooted to the floor, and
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apparently converted into a mummy himself. As I
stepped past him, however, hurrying to the door,
with a vague idea that the sooner I reached it the
better, his lips were unlocked, and his feelings found
vent in a horrible exclamation—“Der tyfel!” which
I believe means the devil—“Der tyfel! I have empalm
him too well!”
Then making a dart at me, he cried, in tones of
distraction, “Stop my mummy! mine gott! which
has cost me so much expense!—stop my mummy!”
I saw that he designed seizing me, and being
myself as much overcome with fear as the others,
I made a bolt for the door, knocking down my
friend Tibbikens and half a dozen other retreating
spectators as I left it, darted into the air, and in a
moment was flying out of the village on the wings
of the wind.
I had a double cause for terror; for, first, before
I had got twenty steps from the exhibition-room
(for my Roman garments were in the way of my
legs, and I did not run so fast as I managed to do
afterward), I heard certain furious voices cry from
the room—“It is all a cheat! the mummy was a
living man! let us Lynch him and the doctor!”
and, secondly, I could also hear, close at my heels,
the voice of the doctor himself, who had escaped
close behind me, eagerly vociferating, “Stop my
mummy, and I will pay twenty dollare! stop my
mummy!”—by both which noises it was made apparent
that I was in danger of being Lynched, or
subjected to a second process of mummification.
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Nerved therefore by my fears, I gathered the
skirts of my toga about my arms, and fled with
all my might, blessing my stars that I had at last
recovered that mortal tenement, which, with all its
troubles, I was now convinced was the best for my
purposes in the whole world.
-- 258 -- p016-561
BOOK VIII. CONTAINING THE CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY.
CHAPTER I. Sheppard Lee flies from the German doctor, and finds himself again in New-Jersey.
The faster I fled, the faster it seemed to me I
was followed by the German doctor, who, I have
always believed, was driven crazy by the sudden
loss of his beloved mummy, and who, I had therefore
the greatest reason to fear, would, if he succeeded
in retaking me, be content with nothing
short of clapping me again into his glass case,
were it even a needful preliminary, as, in truth, it
must have been, to kill and embalm me over again.
And indeed I think the reader will allow, that the
fact of his following me three days and three nights,
still calling me a mummy, charging everybody he
met to stop me, and persisting to claim me as his
property, even after I had got among my own
friends, was a proof not only of insanity, but of
a desperate determination to rob me of life and
liberty.
Of this determination on his part I was myself
so strongly persuaded, and, in consequence, so
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overcome by terror, that I am inclined to think I
was for a time nearly as mad as himself; and I
fled from before him with a speed which the
reader can only conceive when I tell him, that I
ran from the scene of my transformation on the
banks of the Potomac to my native village in New-Jersey,
a distance which I estimate at full one
hundred and eighty miles, in the short space of
three days and three nights, during which period I
rested but once, and that on the second night,
when, being very faint and weary, I lay down on
the earth and slept two hours.
This may be justly esteemed a truly wonderful
exploit, and it exceeds that of the great Daniel
Boone of Kentucky, of whom it is related that he
ran before a band of wild Indians the same distance,
or thereabouts, in four days' time; but it must be
remembered that I was fleeing from a raging madman,
whose speed was so nearly equal to my own,
that if I chanced but to flag a little in my exertions
at any time, I was sure to see him make his appearance
on the rear, or to hear his voice screaming
on the winds to “stop his mummy.” Indeed,
I ran with such haste, that I took no note of the
road upon which I travelled, and to this day I am
ignorant how I succeeded in passing the three great
rivers, the Potomac, the Chesapeake, and the Delaware,
which lay in my route, and which I must
have crossed in some way or other. And, for the
same reason, I am ignorant in what manner I sustained
existence during those three days, having not
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the slightest recollection of eating a single meal
on the whole journey.
All that I can remember of the journey is, that I
ran I knew not whither, but with an instinctive
turning of my face towards the north; that I was
closely followed by the German doctor; and that,
about sundown on the third day, I found myself, to
my unspeakable joy, rushing through the Owl-roost
swamp, across the meadow, and by that identical
beech-tree where I had first lost my body, in full
view of my own house. The sight of that once
happy home of my childhood filled me with rapture.
I rushed towards it, hailed by a shout from
old Jim Jumble, my negro-man, backed by another
from his wife Dinah, that might have waked the
dead, they were so loud and uproarious, and found
myself in the arms of my dear, but long-neglected
sister Prudence, who, with her husband Alderwood,
and her three young children, was standing on the
porch.
Then, being wholly overcome by exhaustion of
body and mind, and having endured such fatigues
and sufferings from hunger and thirst, without
speaking of terror, as have seldom oppressed a poor
feeble human being, I fell into a swoon, from which
I awoke only to be assailed by a violent fever and
delirium, the direct consequences of my superhuman
exertions, that kept me a-bed, in a condition
between life and death, for more than two weeks.
During all this period I recollect being tormented
by the hateful visage of the German doctor,
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who, having followed me like a bloodhound, daily
forced himself into my chamber, claimed me as his
property, and would doubtless have carried me off,
had it not been for my sister, my brother-in-law,
and the faithful Jim Jumble, the first of whom
watched at my bed-side like an angel, while the two
others opposed themselves to the enemy, and drove
him from the room. His persecutions, indeed, affected
me to a degree I cannot express, and were
the cause that, at the end of the two weeks as above
mentioned, I suddenly fell into a lethargy or trance,
the crisis of my disease, in which I lay two days,
and then awoke in my full senses, free from fever,
and convalescent.
How great was my satisfaction then to behold
myself surrounded by my friends, and in my own
house; how much greater to know I was no longer
to be persecuted by the odious German doctor,
who, my brother-in-law gave me to understand, in
reply to my anxious questions, had not only given
over all designs on my person, but had actually
departed from the neighbourhood, and from the
State of New-Jersey, satisfied, doubtless, that I
was a living man, and no longer a mummy.
-- 262 -- p016-565
CHAPTER II. What had happened at Watermelon Hill during the Author's absence.
This intelligence was balm to my spirit and
medicine to my body; and the consequence was,
that I recovered so rapidly as to be able to leave
my bed in less than a week, and receive the visits
and congratulations of many old friends, who seemed
really glad of my return and recovery, though I
have no doubt they were moved as much by curiosity
to learn where I had been, and what adventures
had befallen me during the long period of
my exile; in which, however, I did not think it
advisable to gratify them.
And now it was that I discovered that many
changes, personally interesting to myself, had happened
during my absence. When I first got upon
my porch and looked about me, I almost doubted
whether I was really on the forty-acre. My house
had been carefully reparied, both within and without;
a new and substantial stable, with other outbuildings,
had been erected; new fences had been
put up around my fields and orchards; cattle were
lowing on my meadows, and horses whinnying in
the stable, to be let loose with them upon the early
grass. In a word, the forty-acre now looked
more prosperous and flourishing than it had ever
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before looked mean and empoverished: it looked
almost as well as it had done in the days of my
father.
“How was all this change brought about?” I
demanded of my brother-in-law, who, with my sister,
had accompanied, or, indeed, rather led me to
the porch.
“By the magic of money, industry, and a little
common sense,” said Alderwood, who, although a
plain and bluff man, was a sensible one, and a
most excellent farmer. “You must know, my
dear Sheppard,” said he, “that, when we found
you were so far gone—”
“How,” said I, in surprise, “how did you know
I had gone far? I thought the general opinion was
that I was murdered.”
“Oh, yes,” said my sister, nodding at her husband;
“it was just as you say.”
With that Alderwood smiled, and nodded back
again, saying,
“Prue is right. When we discovered your
condition—that is, when we found you had been
murdered, as you say, and that there was no one to
look to the poor forty-acre except the sheriff and
the mortgagee, it was agreed between your sister
and myself that I should take the matter in hand;
for we were loath the property should go into the
possession of strangers. Besides, Prudence insisted
upon being near you—”
“That is,” said Prudence, “near to where we
supposed the murderers must have concealed your
body.”
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“Exactly so,” said Alderwood. “For this reason
I left my own farm in the hands of my young
brother Robert, came down hither, bag and baggage,
applied a little of my loose cash (for I believe
I have been somewhat more prosperous than
you) to stopping the mouth of your mortgagee,
building fences, banking meadows, spreading marl,
and so on; and the consequence is, that we are
getting the forty-acre into good condition again,
so that, in a few years, it will pay the debts, and
perhaps begin to make the fortune of its owner.”
I grasped my brother-in-law's hand. I was
moved by his kindness; and remembering how,
after quarrelling with him, as related in the first
book of this history, I had refused a reconciliation,
and rejected his offers of assistance, his friendship
and generosity appeared still more worthy of my
gratitude.
“Poh!” said he, interrupting my thanks and
professions of regard, but looking well pleased that
I should be disposed to make them, “I was persuaded
you would come to some day—that is, I
mean, come back.”
“That is,” said Prudence, “we always had a
notion you were not really dead, and that we should
see you again, some time, alive and happy.”
“I trust,” said I, “you will long see me so; for I
am now a changed, I hope, a wiser man—disposed
to make the best of the lot to which Heaven has assigned
me, and to sigh no longer with envy at the
supposed superior advantages of others. I think,
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brother Alderwood, I shall now be contented with
my condition, humble and even toilsome as it may
be. I have seen enough of the miseries of my
fellows—those even whom I most envied—during
the two years of my absence, to teach me that
every man has his share of them; that there is
nothing peculiarly wretched in my own lot, and
that I can be happy or not, just as I may choose
to make myself. For this reason, I shall now bid
adieu to indolence and discontent, the vile mother
and viler daughter together, and do as my father did
before me, that is, cultivate these few acres which
my folly has left me, with my own hands; nor
will I rest from my labours until I have discharged
every claim against it, your own, my dear Alderwood,
first of all; though I am sensible I can never
repay the debt of kindness I owe you.”
“And this is really your intention?” demanded
Alderwood, looking prodigiously gratified. “Your
possessions are now limited, indeed; yet you have
enough, with a little industry and care, to render
you independent for life. And if you will really
apply yourself to the farm—”
“I will,” said I. “If labour and perseverance
can do it, I will attain the independence you speak
of; I will remove every encumbrance on the forty-acre,
and then trust to pass such a life as modest
wishes and a contented temper can secure me.”
“You may begin to pass it immediately, then,”
said Alderwood, “for the forty-acre is already clear
of every encumbrance. Yes,” he continued,
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seeing me look surprised, “I tell you nothing but the
truth. Aikin Jones, your old friend and overseer—”
“He is a villain!” said I, “and he defrauded
me.”
“So it is pretty commonly supposed; but, as
we have no legal proof of his dishonesty, the less
we say of it the better. He has gone to settle his
accounts at a tribunal where craft and policy can
avail him nothing. He died eight months ago, and
they say who know best, in great agony and fear of
spirit. Now, whether he was moved by old feelings
of friendship, or was struck with remorse at seeing
the condition to which he had reduced you—”
“What condition?” said I.
“Oh,” said my sister, “the ruin of your affairs;
nothing more.” And Alderwood nodded his head
by way of assent to the explanation.
“In short,” said he, “Mr. Aikin Jones, whatever
may have been his motive, thought fit to bequeath
you a legacy—”
“What!” said I; “how could he leave a legacy
to a man universally considered dead?”
“Oh,” said my sister, “he never would believe
that. There were a good many people had their
doubts on that subject.”
“Yes,” said Alderwood; “and Mr. Aikin Jones
was one of them. And so, finding himself dying,
and being seized perhaps with compunction for the
wrongs he had done you, he left you a legacy,—no
great matter, indeed, considering how much of your
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estate he died possessed of. It sufficed, however,
to pay off your mortgage, principal and interest, and
to improve and stock the forty-acre just as you now
see it. So you see, my dear Sheppard, you are
not so badly off as you supposed. Your farm is
small, yet your father drew from it a fortune; and
I believe a good farmer might do the same thing a
second time. But you are not very learned in agricultural
matters. I will remain with you a while—
at least until your health is re-established—and
be your teacher. When you find yourself competent
to the management of the farm I will bid you
farewell, assured that you will lead a happier life
than you ever knew before.”
This intelligence with regard to my little homestead
was highly agreeable to me; nor was I less
pleased with my brother-in-law's resolution to remain
with me for a time, while I acquired a knowledge
of agriculture, and confirmed myself in new
habits of industrious and active application.
CHAPTER III. Containing the substance of a singular debate betwixt the Author and his brother, with a philosophic defence of the Author's credibility.
And now, having arrived at the close of my adventurous
career, I have but a few additions to
make to my story before concluding it entirely.
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I took an early opportunity to impart to my
brother-in-law a faithful account of my adventures,
as well as a resolution which I had already formed
to commit them to writing, and publish them for
the benefit of the world; for I was persuaded they
contained a moral which might prove of service to
many persons, who, like myself, had fallen into the
error of supposing they were assigned to a harsher
lot than their fellows.
This resolution Alderwood opposed with all his
might, being concerned lest such an enterprise as
writing a book should divert my mind from the labours
of the farm, and, indeed, seduce me again
into habits of idleness. Besides, he was afraid the
strangeness of my adventures would cause them to
be received with incredulity, whereby I might suffer
in reputation, and be looked upon only as a
dreamer and teller of falsehoods. His chief reasons,
however, I doubt not, were the two first mentioned;
for he was anxious I should now think of
nothing but my farm. His dislike to my design
was, in truth, so great, that, having exhausted all
the arguments he could muster in the vain design
to overcome it, he had resort to a new mode of opposition,
an expedient highly ingenious, but not a
little ridiculous. He endeavoured to shake my
own faith in my story!—to convince me that I had
imagined all I have related, and that, in a word, I
had never encountered any adventures at all. I
protest I am diverted to this day when I think of
the mingled anxiety and address which he
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displayed on the occasion. He assured me, and that quite
plumply, that during the whole two years (to speak
strictly, it was only twenty months) of my wanderings,
I had never once been off the forty-acre farm;
that I had never been in any body besides my own;
and that the whole source of the notion on my part
lay in a hallucination of mind which had suddenly
attacked me, filling me with ridiculous conceits of
various transformations, such as never had happened,
and never could happen, to any human being.
And this absurd account he persisted in as long as
he could with any decency, giving me repeated
hints that my mother had died insane, and that it
was not therefore strange I should have been a
little odd once in my life. I showed him the place
where I had been digging under the beech-tree
(where, by-the-way, I was weak enough afterward
to make Jim Jumble sink a pit twelve feet deep, to
satisfy myself that Captain Kid's money really did
not lie there); which place, however, he averred
was as great a proof of the truth of his story as of
mine: “For,” said he, “none but a madman would
dig for Captain Kid's money.” I led him to the
willow-bushes, and the old worm fence in the
marsh, where I had found Squire Higginson's body;
which he allowed I might have done, but protested
that other persons had found it also; and that instead
of going home alive in Squire Higginson's
barouche, it had been carried to Philadelphia in a
coffin; and as for Higginson's being clapped into
prison for my murder, it was I, he said who had
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been confined on suspicion of having been concerned
in his, until, as he said, it was found that I
was out of my wits, and that Higginson had died
of an apoplexy.
I then referred to a circumstance that had happened
during my late sickness, as affording the
fullest confirmation of my story. The circumstance
was this. While still lying tormented with fever,
but at a moment when my mind was sound and lucid,
Jim Jumble put a newspaper into my hand, in
which, by a singular coincidence, appeared an account
of my late transformation in Virginia, with
an allusion to the fate of Zachariah Longstraw, by
which I learned, for the first time, what had become
of his body after I left it. From the article,
which, strangely, and yet naturally enough, was
headed “Outrageous Humbug, and Fatal Consequence
thereof,” it seemed to be universally believed
that Dr. Feuerteufel's mummy was no mummy
at all, but a living man, as I myself had heard it
called in the village, with whom he had leagued in
a conspiracy to hoax and swindle the good people
of the south out of their money; and that the imposture
had been detected by Mr. Arthur Megrim,
who, proceeding to force the glass box, was knocked
down by the pretended dead man, and so unfortunately
killed, the mummy and his accomplice, the
doctor, making their escape in the confusion. The
editor of the paper, after noticing a second account,
by which it was asserted that the unfortunate Megrim,
though overturned by the pretended mummy
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in his flight, had received no injury from him, but,
on the contrary, had died of sheer fright and horror,
being of a nervous, hypochondriacal turn, and acknowledging
that this account was more probable,
inveighed warmly against the villany and audacity
of the swindlers; who, he said, were more legitimate
objects on whom to wreak the vengeance of
Lynchdom than the people of that district had found
in Zachariah Longstraw, the philanthropist. And
here the editor reminded his readers of the fate of
that excellent and distinguished individual, who had
died in the Lynchers' hands the preceding autumn,
against the ringleaders of whom his nephew, Mr.
Jonathan Truelove, had so vainly attempted to establish
legal proceedings.
To this account, I say, I referred as containing
an argument of my truth not to be resisted; but,
unfortunately, the paper had by some means or other
vanished, and Alderwood said my story went for
nothing without it. That paper, I have always
thought, he had himself got possession of and secreted.
But had I even retained and shown it to
him, I doubt whether it would have affected him
in the least; for he was one of those skeptical men
who believed a thing none the sooner for finding it
in a newspaper.
In a word, there is no expressing the obstinacy
of my brother in rejecting my story, nor the adroitness
with which he met such proofs as I could give
him of the truth of it. The last instance of it
which I shall relate was his taking the part of the
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German doctor, Feuerteufel, who, he declared, had
not only never made a mummy of me, but had not
laid claim to me as his property, though he himself
(that is, my brother-in-law) had been present at
least a dozen times when the German doctor did so
in my sick-chamber, from which Alderwood was so
instrumental in expelling him. He even insisted
that this man, having made a second and last visit
to our village to hunt plants and reptiles, had been
employed (and at his own instance too) to cure me
of that very malady he so ridiculously would have
me believe I had been afflicted with, and that it
was to him, under Heaven, I owed my restoration
to health. Nay, he even went the length of showing
me what he called the doctor's bill; and, true
enough, it was a bill, with a receipt in full upon it;
but the amount being prodigiously great, I saw at
once into the whole affair, which was nothing less
than a masked contract betwixt my brother-in-law
and the doctor, whereby the latter secretly covenanted,
in consideration of the large sum received
from the former, to persecute me no longer with his
claims, and perhaps to leave the country altogether.
Besides all this, my brother attacked me by demanding
by what means it was that I had transferred
my spirit so often, and so easily, from one
body to another. And this being a question on
which the reader may require satisfaction as well
as my brother, I must allow that it presents a difficulty,
and a very great one. All that I can say
to this is, first, that I did transfer my spirit from
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body to body, and no less than seven different
times; secondly, that these seven translations of
spirit indicated in me the possession of a peculiar
power to make them; and thirdly, that the existence
of such a peculiar power, however wonderful
it may appear, is not beyond the bounds of philosophic
probability.
No man can be so ignorant or skeptical as to deny,
that there are several different faculties of a most
marvellous nature, with which a few individuals in
the world are mysteriously endowed, while the
great mass of men are entirely without them; and
to the number of these supernatural endowments
there is scarce a year passes by without adding a
new one. What can be, or ought to be, considered
a more surprising faculty than that of ventriloquism,—
the art of throwing the voice into places
and things afar from the operator, of taking, as it
were, the lungs, glottis, &c. from his body, and clapping
them into a chest, log, stone wall, or other inanimate
substance, or into the body of another?
and how few are there in the world who possess
the power of doing so! One man thumps his chin
with his fingers, and draws from it pure and agreeable
musical tones, and another whistles a melody
in parts; while men in general might thump and
whistle till their teeth fell out without producing any
music worth listening to. What can be more wonderful
than the faculty recently developed by the
advocates and practitioners of a new system of medicine,
who, by shaking a bottle in a peculiar way,
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give to its contents a medical virtue which did not
exist before, and which another man,—the patient,
for example,—might shake till doomsday without
imparting?*
The Natural Bonesetter is one instance of the
possession of a faculty both rare and astonishing,
and so is any old woman who can pow-wow the
fire out of a burn. Not to multiply inferior instances,
however, I will ask the reader if any
faculty can be deemed more incredible than that
of the magnetizer, who, by flourishing his digits
about your body, now cures your rheumatism, and
now sets you sound asleep—unless it be that of the
magnetized slumberer, who reads a sealed letter
laid on his epigastrium, sees through millstones
and men's bodies, and renders oraculous responses
to any question that may be proposed him, even
though it be upon subjects of which, while awake,
he is entirely ignorant.
In fine, granting all these things to be true (and
who shall dare to doubt them), why should it not
be granted that an individual should possess the
power of transferring his spirit from body to body
at will—a power but little more extraordinary (if
indeed it be more extraordinary) than the other
faculties which are admitted to have actual
-- 275 -- p016-578
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existence? To me it seems that the thing is natural
enough, though still, I grant, extremely wonderful.
Many persons are thought to possess the ventriloquial,
and even the magnetic power, without being
conscious of the endowment, accident having been
in all cases the cause of their being made acquainted
with its existence. In the same way, it
is not improbable that other persons besides myself
may possess the faculty of reanimating dead
bodies, without suspecting it; for I can scarce believe
the faculty should be confined entirely to
myself.
CHAPTER IV. Being the last chapter of all.
I never could succeed in convincing my brother-in-law
of the truth of my relation—or rather—
for I have always thought his incredulity was assumed
for the purpose mentioned—I never could
overcome his opposition to the design I formed of
writing and committing it to the press. For this
reason I ceased talking of it more, and even affected
to believe the foolish story he had told me
of my having conceived my adventures in a mere
fit of delirium. This I did not so much out of
compliment to him, as from a desire to have him
believe I would let nothing divert me from the
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business of my farm, which, indeed, I immediately
addressed myself to in such good earnest as secured
his hearty approval and zealous congratulations.
In secret, however, and in the intervals of toil, I
employed myself recording my adventures, while
their impression was still strong on my memory;
and now, having happily brought them to a conclusion,
I commit them to the world, confident that,
if they surprise nobody else, they will cause some
astonishment to my brother Alderwood.
It is now some time since I have been deprived
of his and my sister's company at Watermelon
Hill, they having retired to their own farm as soon
as my brother was well convinced I was capable
of managing my own affairs. My only society
now consists of honest Jim Jumble, his wife
Dinah, and my sister's oldest son, Sheppard Lee
Alderwood (for he was named after me), a lad of
fourteen years, but uncommonly shrewd and sensible,
for whom I have contracted a strong affection,
and to whom, if I should die unmarried, as is quite
probable, I design bequeathing my little patrimony.
Jim Jumble is as independent and saucy as ever,
but I can bear with his humours, he is so faithful,
industrious, and, as I may add, so happy to see
his master once more prospering in the world.
He and Dinah are singing all day long.
My estate is small, and it may be that it will
never increase. I am, however, content with it;
and content is the secret of all enjoyment. I am
not ashamed to labour in my fields. On the
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contrary, I have learned to be grateful to Providence
that it ordained me to a lot of toil, wherein I find
the truest source of health, self-approbation, and
happiness. My only trouble is an occasional stiffness
and sluggishness of joints and muscles, which
Jim Jumble tells me is “all owing to my being
naturally a lazy man,” but which I myself suppose
was caused by my remaining so long a mummy.
To counterbalance this evil, however, I find in
myself an astonishing hardiness of constitution,
particularly in resisting quinsies, catarrhs, and defluxions
on the breast, to which I was formerly
very liable; and this immunity I know not how to
account for, unless by supposing that my body was
hardened by the process of mummifying, and that
it still continues to be water-proof.
At all events—be my body what it may, hardy
or frail, stiff or supple, I am satisfied with it, and
shall never again seek to exchange it for another.
THE END.
