"I'll note you in my book of memory."--SHAKESPEARE.
From early childhood I had been subject to a peculiar malady. I say
malady for want of a better and truer word, for my condition had never
been one of physical or mental suffering. According to my father's
opinion, an attack of brain fever had caused me, when five years old, to
lose my memory for a time--not indeed my memory entirely, but my ability
to recall the events and the mental impressions of a recent period. The
physicians had agreed that the trouble would pass away, but it had been
repeated more than once. At the age of ten, when occurred the first
attack which I remember, I was at school in my native New England
village. One very cold day I was running home after school, when my foot
slipped on a frozen pool. My head struck the ice, but I felt no great
pain, and was almost at once on my feet. I was bewildered with what I
saw around me. Seemingly I had just risen from my seat at the breakfast
table to find myself in the open air, in solitude, in clothing too
heavy, with hands and feet too large, and with a July world suddenly
changed to midwinter. As it happened, my father was near, and took me
home. When the physicians came, they asked me many questions which I
could not understand.
Next morning my father sat by my bed and questioned mo again. He
inquired about my studies, about my classmates, about my teacher, about
the school games. Many of his questions seemed strange to me, and I
answered them in such words that he soon knew there was an interval of
more than six months in my consciousness. He then tried to learn whether
there remained in my mind any effect of my studies during the past
term. The result was surprising. He found that as to actual knowledge my
mind retained the power developed by its exercise,--without, however,
holding all details of fact,--but that, in everything not positive, my
experience seemed to have been utterly lost. I knew my multiplication
table thoroughly; I had acquired it in the interval now forgotten. I
could write correctly, and my ability to read was not lessened. But when
questions concerning historical events, either general or local, were
asked, my answers proved that I had lost everything that I had learned
for the six months past. I showed but little knowledge of new games on
the playground, and utter forgetfulness of the reasons for and against
the Mexican War which was now going on, and in which, on the previous
day, I had felt the eager interest of a healthy boy.
Moreover my brain reproduced the most striking events of my last period
of normal memory with indistinct and inaccurate images, while the time
preceding that period was as nothing to me. My little sister had died
when I was six years old; I did not know that she had ever lived; her
name, even, was strange to me.
After a few days I was allowed to rise from bed, to which, in my own
opinion, there had never been necessity for keeping me. I was not,
however, permitted to go out of doors. The result of the doctors'
deliberations was a strict injunction upon my father to take me to the
South every winter, a decision due, perhaps, to the fact that my father
had landed interests in South Carolina. At any rate, my father soon took
me to Charleston, where I was again put to school. Doubtless I was thus
relieved of much annoyance, as my new schoolmates received me without
showing the curiosity which would have irritated me in my own village.
More than five months passed before my memory entirely returned to me.
The change was gradual. One day, at the morning recess, a group of boys
were talking about the Mexican War. The Palmetto regiment had
distinguished itself in battle. I heard a big boy say, "Yes, your Uncle
Pierce is all right, and his regiment is the best in the army." I felt a
glow of pride at this praise of my people--as I supposed it to be. More
talk followed, however, in which it became clear that the boys were not
speaking of Franklin Pierce and his New Hampshire men, and I was
greatly puzzled.
A few days afterward the city was in mourning; Colonel Pierce M. Butler,
the brave commander of the South Carolina regiment, had fallen on the
field of Churubusco.
Now, I cannot explain, even to myself, what relation had been disturbed
by this event, but I know that from this time I began to collect,
vaguely at first, the incidents of my whole former life; so that, when
my father sent for me at the summer vacation, I had entirely recovered
my lost memory. I even knew everything that had happened in the recent
interval, so that my consciousness held an uninterrupted chain of all
past events of importance. And now I realized with wonder one of the
marvellous compensations of nature. My brain reproduced form, size,
colour--any quality of a material thing seen in the hiatus, so vividly
that the actual object seemed present to my senses, while I could feel
dimly, what I now know more thoroughly, that my memory during the
interval had operated weakly, if at all, on matters speculative, so
called--questions of doubtful import, questions of a kind upon which
there might well be more than one opinion, being as nothing to my mind.
Although I have truly said that I cannot explain how it was that my mind
began its recovery, yet I cannot reason away the belief that the first
step was an act of sensitive pride--the realization that it made some
difference to me whether the New Hampshire regiment or the Palmetto
regiment acquired the greater glory.
My father continued to send me each winter to Charleston, and my summers
were spent at home. By the time I was fifteen he became dissatisfied
with my progress, and decided that I should return to the South for the
winter of 1853-4. and that if there should be no recurrence of my mental
peculiarity he would thereafter put me in the hands of a private tutor
who should prepare me for college.
* * * * *
For fully five years I had had no lapse of memory and my health was
sound. At the school I took delight in athletic sports, and gained a
reputation among the Charleston boys for being an expert especially in
climbing. My studies, while not neglected, were, nevertheless,
considered by me as secondary matters; I suppose that the anxiety shown
by my father for my health influenced me somewhat; moreover, I had a
natural bent toward bodily rather than mental exercise.
The feature most attractive to me in school work was the debating class.
As a sort of _ex-officio_ president of this club, was one of our tutors,
whom none of the boys seemed greatly to like. He was called Professor
Khayme--pronounced Ki-me. Sometimes the principal addressed him as
Doctor. He certainly was a very learned and intelligent man; for
although the boys had him in dislike, there were yet many evidences of
the respect he commanded from better judges than schoolboys. He seemed,
at various times, of different ages. He might be anywhere between thirty
and fifty. He was small of stature, being not more than five feet tall,
and was exceedingly quick and energetic in his movements, while his
countenance and attitude, no matter what was going on, expressed always
complete self-control, if not indifference. He was dark--almost as dark
as an Indian. His face was narrow, but the breadth and height of his
forehead were almost a deformity. He had no beard, and yet I feel sure
that he never used a razor. I rarely saw him off duty without a peculiar
black pipe in his mouth, which he smoked in an unusual way, emitting the
smoke at very long intervals. It was a standing jest with my irreverent
schoolmates that "Old Ky" owed his fine, rich colour to smoking through
his skin. Ingram Hall said that the carved Hindoo idol which decorated
the professor's pipe was the very image of "Old Ky" himself.
Our debating class sometimes prepared oratorical displays to which were
admitted a favoured few of the general public. To my dying day I shall
remember one of these occasions. The debate, so celebrated, between the
great Carolinian Hayne and our own Webster was the feature of the
entertainment. Behind the curtain sat Professor Khayme, prompter and
general manager. A boy with mighty lungs and violent gesticulation
recited an abridgment of Hayne's speech, beginning:--
"If there be one State in the Union, Mr. President, and I say
it not in a boastful spirit, that may challenge comparison
with any other for a uniform, zealous, ardent, and
uncalculating devotion to the Union, that State is South
Carolina."
Great applause followed. These were times of sectional compromise. I
also applauded. We were under the falsely quieting influence of
Douglas's Kansas-Nebraska Bill. There was effort for harmony between the
sections. The majority of thinking people considered true patriotism to
concist in patience and charity each to each. Mrs. Beecher Stowe's
"Uncle Tom's Cabin" had appeared, but few Southerners had read it or
would read it. I also applauded.
Professor Khayme now came forward on the rostrum, and announced that the
next part of the programme would be "'Webster's Reply to Hayne,' to be
recited"--and here the professor paused--"by Master Jones Berwick."
I was thunderstruck. No intimation of any kind had been given me that I
was to be called on. I decided at once to refuse to attempt an
impossibility. As I rose to explain and to make excuses, the boys all
over the hall cried, "Berwick! Berwick!" and clapped loudly. Then the
professor said, in a low and musical voice,--and his voice was by far
his greatest apparent attraction,--that Master Berwick had not been
originally selected to recite, but that the young orator chosen the duty
had been called away unexpectedly, and that it was well known that
Master Berwick, being a compatriot of the great Webster, and being not
only thoroughly competent to declaim the abridged form of the speech in
question, but also in politics thoroughly at one with the famous orator,
could serve with facility in the stead of the absentee, and would
certainly sustain the reputation of the club.
How I hated that man! Yet I could see, as I caught his eye, I know not
what of encouragement. I had often heard the speech recited, but not
recently, and I could not see my way through.
I stumbled somehow to the back of the curtain. The Doctor said to me, in
a tone I had never heard before. "Be brave, my boy: I pledge you my word
as a gentleman that you shall succeed. Come to this light." Then he
seemed to be brushing my hair back with a few soft finger-touches, and I
remembered no more until I found myself on the rostrum listening to a
perfect din of applause that covered the close of my speech. If there
were any fire-eaters in the audience, they were Carolina aristocrats an
knew how to be polite, even to a fault.
I could not understand my success: I had vague inward inclination that
it was not mine alone. My identity seemed to have departed for the time.
I felt that some wonderful change had been wrought in me, and, youngster
though I was, I was amazed to think what might be the possibilities
of the mind.
* * * * *
For some time after this incident I tried to avoid Doctor Khayme, but as
he had charge of our rhetoric and French, as well as oratory, it was
impossible that we should not meet. In class he was reserved and
confined himself strictly to his duties, never by tone or look varying
his prescribed relation to the class; yet, though his outward gravity
and seeming indifference, I sometimes felt that he influenced me by a
power which no other man exerted over me.
One afternoon, returning from school to my quarters, I had just crossed
Meeting Street when I felt a light hand on my shoulder, and, turning, I
saw Doctor Khayme.
"Allow me to walk with you?" he asked.
He did not wait for an answer, but continued at once: "I have from your
father a letter in relation to your health. He says that he is uneasy
about you."
"I was never better in my life, sir," said I; "he has no reason to be
worried."
"I shall be glad to be able to relieve his mind," said the Doctor.
Now, I had wit enough to observe that the Doctor had not said "I am
glad," but "I shall be glad," and I asked, "Do _you_ think I am wrong
in health?"
"Not seriously," he replied; "but I think it will be well for you to see
the letter, and if you will be so good as to accompany me to my lodging,
I will show it to you."
Dr. Khayme's "lodging" proved to be a small cottage on one of the side
streets. There was a miniature garden in front: vines clambered over the
porch and were trained so that they almost hid the windows. An old
woman, who seemed to be housekeeper, cook, and everything that a general
servant may be, opened to his knock.
"I never carry a key," said the Doctor, seemingly in response to my
thought.
I was led into a bright room in the back of the house. The windows
looked on the sunset. The floor was bare, except in front of the grate,
where was spread the skin of some strange animal. For the rest, there
was nothing remarkable about the apartment. An old bookcase in a corner
seemed packed to bursting with dusty volumes in antique covers, A
writing-table, littered and piled with papers, was in the middle of the
room, and there were a few easy-chairs, into one of which the Doctor
motioned me.
Excusing himself a moment, he went to the mantel, took
down a pipe with a long stem, and began to stuff the bowl with
tobacco which I saw was very black; while he was doing so, I recognized
on the pipe the carven image of an idol.
"Yes," he said; "I see no good in changing."