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Confession by W. Gilmore Simms

W >> W. Gilmore Simms >> Confession









CHAPTER XXXVIII.

RENEWED AGONIES.





In that same moment my pangs were all renewed; my repose of mind
departed; once more my heart was on fire, my spirit filled with
vague doubts, grief, and commotion. The soft, sweet, preluding note
of the player had touched a chord in my soul as utterly different
from that which it expressed, as could by any possibility be
conceived. Heart and hope were instantly paralyzed. Fear and its
train, its haunting spectres of suspicion, took possession of the
undefended citadel, and established guard upon its deserted outposts.
I tottered to the window which I had left--I shrouded myself in the
folds of the curtain, and as the strains rose, renewed and regular,
I struggled to keep in my breath, listening eagerly, as if the
complaining instrument could actually give utterance to the cruel
mystery which I equally dreaded and desired to hear.

The air which was played was such as I had never heard before.
Indeed, it could scarcely be called an air. It was the most
capricious burden of mournfulness that had ever had its utterance
from wo. Fancy a mute--one bereft of the divine faculty of speech,
by human, not divine ministration. Fancy such a being endowed with
the loftiest desires, moved by the acutest sensibilities, having
already felt the pleasures of life, yet doomed to a denial of
utterance, denied the language of complaint, and striving, struggling
through the imperfect organs of his voice to give a name to the
agony which works within him. That flute seemed to me to moan, and
sob, and shiver, with some such painful mode of expression as would
be permitted to the "half made-up" mortal of whom I have spoken. Its
broken tones, striving and struggling, almost rising at times into
a shriek, seemed of all things to complain of its own voicelessness.

And yet it had its melody--melody, to me, of the most vexing power.
I should have called the strain a soliloquizing one. It certainly
did not seem addressed to any ears. It wanted the continuance
of apostrophe. It was capricious. Sometimes the burden fell off
suddenly--broken--wholly interrupted--as if the vents had been all
simultaneously and suddenly stopped. Anon, it rose again--soul-piercing
if not loud--so abruptly, and with an utterance so utterly gone
with wo, that you felt sure the poor heart must break with the next
breath that came from the laboring and inefficient lungs. A "dying
fall" succeeding, seemed to afford temporary relief. It seemed as
if tears must have fallen upon the instrument, Its language grew
more methodical, more subdued, but not less touching. I fancied,
I felt, that, entering into the soul of the musician, I could give
the very words to the sentiment which his instrument vainly strove
to speak. What else but despair and utter self-abandonment was
in that broken language? The full heart over-burdened, breaking,
to find a vent for the feelings which it had no longer power to
contain. And yet; content to break, breaking with a melancholy sort
of triumph which seemed to say--

"Such a death has its own sweetness; love sanctifies the pang to
its victim. It is a sort of martyrdom. He who loves truly, though
he loves hopelessly, has not utterly loved in vain. The devoted
heart finds a joy in the offering, though the Deity withholds his
acceptance--though a sudden gust from heaven scatters abroad the
rich fruits which the devotee has placed upon the despised and
dishonored altar."

Such, I fancied, was the proud language of that melancholy music.
Had I been other than I was--nay, had I listened to the burden under
other circumstances and in another place--I should most probably
have felt nothing but sympathy for the musician. As it was, I
can not describe my feelings. All my racking doubts and miseries
returned. The tone of triumph which the strain conveyed wrought
upon me like an indignity. It seemed to denote that "foregone
conclusion" which had been my cause of apprehension so long. Could
it be then that Julia was really guilty? Could she have given William
Edgerton so much encouragement that triumph and exultation should
still mingle with his farewell accents of despair? Ah! what
fantasies preyed upon my soul; haunted the smallest movements of
my mind; conjured up its spectres, and gave bitterness to its every
beverage! When I thought thus of Julia, I rose cautiously from my
seat, approached the bed where she was lying, and gazed steadily,
though with the wildest thrill of emotion, into her face. I verily
believe had she not been sleeping at that moment--sleeping beyond
question--she would have shared the fate of


"The gentle lady wedded to the Moor."


I was in the mood for desperate things.

But she slept--her cheek upon her arm--pale, but oh! how beautiful!
and looking, oh! how pure! Her breathing was as tranquil and regular
as that of an infant. I felt, while I gazed, that hers must be
the purity of an infant also. I turned from beholding her, as the
renewed notes of the musician once more ascended to the chamber.
I again took my seat at the window and concealed myself behind the
curtain. Here I had been concealed but a few moments, when I heard
a rustling in the branches of the tree. Meanwhile, the music again
ceased. I peered cautiously from behind the drapery, and fancied I
beheld a dark object in the tree. It might be one of its branches,
but I had not been struck by it before. I waited in breathless
watchfulness. I saw it move. Its shape was that of a man. An
exulting feeling of violence filled my breast. I rose stealthily,
went into the dressing-room, and took up one of my pistols which
lay on the toilet, and which I had that afternoon prepared with a
travelling charge.

"A brace of bullets," I muttered to myself, "will bring out another
sort of music from this rare bird."

With this murderous purpose I concealed myself once more behind the
curtain. The figure was sufficiently distinct for aim. The window
was not more than twelve or fourteen paces from the tree. My
nerves were now as steady as if I had been about to perform the
most ordinary action. What then prevented me? What stayed my arm?
A single thonght--a momentary recollection of an event which had
taken place in my boyhood. What a providence that it should have
occurred to me at that particular moment. The circumstance was
this.

When first sent to school I had been frequently taken at advantage
by a bigger boy. He had twice my strength--he took a strong dislike
for me--perhaps, because I was unwilling to pay him that deference,
which, as school-bully, he extorted from all others;--and he drubbed
me accordingly, whenever an opportunity occurred. My resistance
was vain, and only stimulated him to increased brutality. One day
he was lying upon the grass, beneath an oak which stood in the
centre of a common on which we usually played. It happened that I
drew near him unperceived. In approaching him I had no purpose of
assault or violence. But the circumstance of my nearing him without
being seen, suggested to my mind a sudden thought of revenging
all my previous injuries. I felt bitterness and hate enough, had I
possessed the strength, to have slain a dozen. I do not know that
I had any design to slay him--to revenge myself was certainly my
wish. Of death probably I had no idea. I looked about me for the
agent of my vengeance. A pile of old brick which had formed the
foundations of a dwelling which had stood on the spot, and which had
been burned, conveniently presented itself to my eye. I possessed
myself of as large a fragment as my little hand could grasp; I
secured a second as a dernier resort. Slowly and slily--I may add,
basely--I approached him from behind, levelled the brick at his
head, and saw the blood fly an instant after the contact. He was
stunned by the blow, staggered up, however, with his eyes blinded
by blood, and moved after me like a drunken man. I receded slowly,
lifting the remaining fragment which I held, intending, if he
approached me, to repeat the blow.

On a sudden he fell forward sprawling. Then I thought him dead,
and for the first time the dreadful consciousness of my crime in
its true character, came to my mind. I can not describe the agony
of fear and horror which filled my soul. He did not die, but he
was severely hurt.

The recollection of that event--of what I then suffered--came to
me involuntarily, as I was about to perform a second similar crime.
I shuddered with the recollection of the past, and shrunk, under
the equal force of shame and conscience, from the performance of a
deed which, otherwise, I should probably have committed in the brief
time which I employed for reflection. With a feeling of nervous
horror I put the weapon aside, and sinking once more into the chair
beside the window I bore with what fortitude I might, the renewal
of the accursed but touching strains that vexed me.

William Edgerton was a master of the flute. Often before, when
we were the best friends, had I listened with delight, while he
compelled it into discourse of music wild and somewhat incoherent
still: his present performance had now attained more continuousness
and character. It was still mournful, but its sorrows rose and
fell naturally, in compliance with the laws of art. I listened till
I could listen no longer. Human patience must have its limits. My
wife still slept. I descended the stairs, opened the door with as
much cautiousness as possible, and prepared to grapple the musician
and haul him into the light.

It might be Edgerton or not. I was morally sure it was. By grappling
with him, in such a situation, I should bring the affair to a final
issue, though it might not be a murderous one. But of that I did
not think; I went forward to do something; what that something was
to be, it was left for time and chance to determine. But, suddenly,
as I opened the door, the music ceased. Stepping into the yard, I
heard the sound as of a falling body. I naturally concluded that
he had heard the opening of the door, and had suffered himself to
drop down to the ground. I took for granted that he had descended
on the opposite side of the yard and within the enclosure of a
neighbor. I leaped the fence, hurried to the tree, traversed the
grounds, and found nobody. I returned, reached my own premises,
and found the gate open which opened upon the street. He had gone
then in that direction. I turned into this street, posted with
all speed to the corner of the square and met only the watchman.
I asked, but he had seen nobody. The street was perfectly quiet,
I returned, reascended to my chamber, found Julia now awake, and
evidently much agitated. She had arisen in my absence, and was only
about to re-enter the bed when I rushed up stairs.

What was I to think? What fear? I was too conscious of the
suspicious nature of my thoughts and fears to suffer myself to ask
any questions--and she, unhappily for both of us--she said nothing.
Had she but spoken--had she but uttered the natural inquiry--"Did
you hear that strange music, husband?"--how much easier had been
her extrication. But she was silent, and I was again let loose upon
a wide sea of fears and doubts and damnable apprehensions. Once
more, and now with a feeling which would not have made me forbear
the use of any weapon, however deadly, I re-examined my own enclosure,
but in vain. The horrible thought which possessed me was that he
had even penetrated the dwelling while I was seeking him in the
street; that they had met; and how was I to know the degree of
tenderness which had marked their meeting and sweetness to their
adieus!






CHAPTER XXXIX.

THE NEW HOME.





With these revived suspicions, half stifled, but still struggling
in my bosom, did I commence my journey for the West. My arrangements
were comprehensive, but simple. I had procured a second-hand
travelling carriage and fine pair of horses from an acquaintance,
at a very moderate price--a price which, I well knew, I should easily
get for them again on reaching my place of destination. I was my
own driver. I had no money to spare in purchasing what might be
dispensed with. A single trunk contained all the necessary luggage
of my wife and self. What was not absolutely needed by the wayside
was sent on by water. This included my books, desks, Julia's painting
materials, and such other articles of the household, as were of
cost and not bulky. I had previously written--as I may have stated
already--to my friend Kingsley. He was to procure me temporary
lodgings in the town of M---. I left much to his judgment and
experience. He had once before been in Alabama and having interests
there, had made himself familiar with everything in that region,
necessary to be known. I put myself very much in his hands. I
was too anxious to get away to urge any difficulties or make any
troublesome requisitions. He was simply to procure me an abiding-place
in some private family--if possible in the suburbs--until I should
be able to look about me. Economy was insisted upon. I had precious
little money to spare, and even the spoils of my one night's visit
to the gaming-house, were of no small help in sustaining me in
my determination to remove. I had not applied them previously.
I confess to a feeling of shame when I was compelled by necessity
at last to use them. I had saved something already from my professional
income, and I procured an advance on my furniture which was left for
sale. I had calculated my expenses in removing and for one year's
residence in M--, and was prepared, so far as poor human foresight
may prepare itself, to keep want from our doors at least for
that period. I trusted to good fortune, my own resources, and the
notorious fact that, at that day, there were few able lawyers in
M--, to secure me an early and valuable practice. I carried with
me letters from the best men in the community I had left. But I
carried with me what was of more value than any letters, even though
they be written in gold. I carried with me methodical habits and
an energy of character which would maintain my resolution, and
bear me through, to a safe conclusion, in any plan which I should
contemplate. Industry and perseverance are the giants that cast
down forests, drain swamps, level mountains, and create empires. I
flattered myself that with these I had other and crowning qualities
of intellect and culture. Perhaps it may be admitted that I had.
But of what avail were all when coupled with the blind heart?
Enough--I must not anticipate.

Filled with the exciting fancies engendered by the affair of the
last night, I commenced my journey. The day was a fine one; the
sun cheery and bright without being oppressive; and soon, gliding
through the broad avenues, lined with noblest trees, which conducted
us from the city to the forests, we had the pleasant carol of birds,
and the lively chirp of hopping insects.

I was always a lover of the woods; green shady dells, and winding
walks amidst crowding foliage. I cared little for mere flowers. A
garden was never a desire in my mind. I could be pleased to see and
to smell, but I had no passion for its objects. But the trees--the
big, venerable oaks, like patriarchs and priests; the lofty
and swaggering pines in their green helmets, like warriors of the
feudal ages--these were forms that I could worship. I may say, I
loved trees with a real passion. Flowers, and the taste for flowers
seemed to me always petty; but my instincts led me to behold a
sneaking and most impressive grandeur, in these old lords of the
forest, that had been the first, rising from the mighty mother
to attest the wondrous strength of her resources, and the teeming
glories of her womb.

Now, however, they did not fill my soul with earnest reachings,
as had ever been the case before. They soothed me somewhat, but
the eyes of my mind were turned within. They looked only at the
prostration of that miserable heart which was torturing itself with
vague, wild doubts--guessing and conjecturing with an agonizing
pain, and without the least hope of profit. I could not drive from
my thoughts, the vexing circumstances of the last night in the
city; and, for the first day of our journey, the hours moved with
oppressive slowness. Objects which I had formerly loved to contemplate
and always found sweet and refreshing, now gave me little pleasure
and exacted little of my attention; and I reached our stopping-place
for the night with a sense of weariness and stupor which no mere
fatigue of body, I well knew, could ever have occasioned.

But this could not last. The elasticity of my nature, joined with
the absence of that one person whom I had now learned to regard as
my evil genius, soon enabled me to shake off the oppressive doubts
and sadness which fettered and enfeebled me. Once more I began to
behold the forests with all the eyes of former delight and affection,
and I was conscious, after the progress of a day or two, of periods
in which I entirely lost sight of William Edgerton and all my
suspicions in the sweet warmth of a fresh and pleasing contemplation.

Something of this--nay, perhaps, the most of it, was due to my wife
herself. There was a change in her air and manner which sensibly
affected my heart. I had treated her coldly at first, but she had
not perceived it; at least she had not suffered it to influence
her conduct; and I was equally pleased and surprised to behold in
her language, looks, and deportment, a degree of life and buoyant
animation, which reminded me of the very champagne exuberance and
spirit of her youth. Her eyes flashed with a sense of freedom. Her
voice sounded with the silvery clearness of one, who, long pent up
in the limits of a dungeon, uses the first moment of escape into
the forests to delight himself with song. She seemed to have just
thrown off a miserable burden;--and, as for any grief--any sign of
regret at leaving home and tics from which she would not willingly
part--there was not the slightest appearance of any such feeling
in her mind, look, or manner. Kindly, considerately, and sweetly,
and with a cheery smile in her eyes, and a springing vigor in the
accents of her voice, she strove to enliven the way and to expel
the gloom which she soon perceived had fastened itself upon my soul.
Her own cares, if she had any, seemed to be very slight, and were
utterly lost in mine. She spoke of our new abiding-place with a
hearty confidence; that it would be at once a home of prosperity
and peace; and, altogether convinced me for the time that the
sacrifice must be comparatively very small, which she had made on
leaving her birth-place. I very soon wondered that I should have
fancied that William Edgerton was ever more to her than the friend
of her husband.

Our journey was slow but not tedious. Had our progress been only
half so rapid, I should have been satisfied. It was love alone
that my heart wanted. I craved for nothing but the just requital
of my own passion. I had no complaint, no affliction, when I could
persuade myself that I had not thrown away my affections upon the
ungrateful and undeserving. Assured now of the love of the beloved
one, all the intense devotion of my soul was re-awakened; and the
deepest shadows of the forest, gloomy and desolate as they were,
along the waste tracts of Georgia and Alabama--in that earlier
day--enlivened by the satisfied spirit within, seemed no more than
so many places of retreat, where security and peace, combining in
behalf of Love, had given him an exclusive sovereignty.

The rude countryman encountered us, and his face beamed with
cheerfulness and good humor. The song of the black softened the toils
of labor, in the unfinished clearings; and even the wild red man,
shooting suddenly from out the sylvan covert, wore in his visage
of habitual gravity, an air of resignation which took all harshness
from his uncouth features.

Such, under the tuition of well-satisfied hearts, was our mutual
experience of the long journey which we had taken when we reached
the end of it. This we did in perfect safety. We found our friend,
Kingsley, prepared for and awaiting us. He had procured us pleasant
apartments in a neat cottage in the suburbs, where we were almost
to ourselves. Our landlady was an ancient widow, without a family.
She occupied but a single apartment in her house, and left the
use of the rest to her lodgers. This was an arrangrment with which
I was particularly gratified. Her cottage lay half way up on the
side of a hill which was crowned with thick clumps of the noblest
trees. Long, winding, narrow foot-paths, carried us picturesquely
to the summit, where we had a bird's-eye view of the town below,
the river beyond--now darting out from the woods and now hiding
securely beneath their umbrage--and fair, smooth, lawn-looking
fields, which glowed at the proper season with the myriad green and
white pinnies of corn and cotton. At the foot of the cottage lay
a delightful shrubbery, which almost covered it up from sight. It
was altogether such a retreat as a hermit would desire. It reminded
me somewhat of the lovely spot which we had left. A pleasant walk
of a mile lay between it and the town where I proposed to practice,
and this furnished a necessity for a certain degree of exercise,
which, being unavoidable, was of the most valuable kind. Altogether,
Kingsley had executed his commission with a taste and diligence
which left me nothing to complain of.

He was delighted at my coming.

"You are nearer to me now," he said; "will be nearer at least when
I get to Texas; and I do not despair to see you making tracks after
me when I go there."

"But when go you?"

"Not soon. I am in some trouble here. I am pleading and being
impleaded. You are just come in season to take up the cudgels for
me. My landrights are disputed--my titles. You will have something
of a lawsuit to begin upon at your earliest leisure."

"Indeed! but what's the business?"

He gave me a statement of his affairs, placed his papers in my hands,
and I found myself, on inspecting them, engaged in a controversy
which was likely to give me the opportunity which I desired, of
appearing soon in cases of equal intricacy and interest. Kingsley
had some ten thousand dollars in land, the greater part of which
was involved in questions of title and pre-emption, presenting some
complex features, and likely to occasion bad blood among certain
trespassers whom it became our first duty to oust if possible. I
was associated with a spirited young lawyer of the place; a youth
of great natural talent, keen, quick intellect, much readiness of
resource, yet little experienee and less reading. Like the great
mass of our western men, however, he was a man to improve. He had
no self-conceit--did not delude himself with the idea that he knew
as much as his neighhor; and, consequently, was pretty certain to
increase in wisdom with increase of years. He had few prejudices
to get over, and though he knew his strength, he also knew his
weakness. He felt the instinct of natural talent, but he did not
deceive himself on the subject of his deficient knowledge. He was
willing to learn whenever he could find a teacher. His name was
Wharton. I took to him at once. He was an ardent, manly fellow--frank
as a boy--could laugh and weep in the same hour, and yet was as
firm in his principles, as if he could neither laugh nor weep. As
an acquaintance he was an acquisition.

Kingsley was delighted to see me, though somewhat wondering that
I should give up the practice at home, where I was doing so well,
to break ground in a region where I was utterly unknown. He gave
me little trouble, however, in accounting to him for this movement.
It was not difficult to persuade him--nay, he soon persuaded
himself--that something of my present course was due to his
own counsel and suggestion. To a man, like himself, to whom mere
transition was pleasure, it needed no argument to show that my
resolve was right.

"Who the d--l," he exclaimed, "would like always to be in the same
place? Such a person is a mere cipher. We establish an intellectual
superiority when we show ourselves superior to place. A genuine
man is always a citizen of the world. It is your vegetable man that
can not go far without grumbling, finding fault with all he sees,
talking of comforts and such small matters, and longing to get
home again. Such a man puts me in mind of every member of the cow
family that I ever knew. He is never at peace with himself or
the world, but always groaning and thrusting out his horns, until
he can get back to his old range, and revel in his native marsh,
joint-grass, and cane-tops. Englishmen are very much of this breed.
They go abroad, grumble as they go, and if they can not carry their
cane-tops with them, afflict the whole world with their lamentations.
I take it for granted, Clifford, that this step to Alabama, is
simply a step toward Texas. Your next will be to New Orleans, and
then, presto, we shall see you on the Sabine."

"I hope not," said my wife. "You have got us into such comfortable
quarters here, Mr. Kingsley, that I hope you will do nothing to
tempt my husband farther. Go farther and fare worse, you know. Let
well enough alone."

Letter: Gender roles in the Cinderella story

Doctors assure us that wherever you find an elderly, pompous old writer long past his prime you will find a bottle of scotch nearby. If only that were the case. Hilly hid mine after I fell up the stairs when I came home from the Garrick yesterday, and I've had to make do with a bottle of Blue Nun I found in the maid's parlour. Not that I am an alcoholic. Dipsomaniacs are a breed of the lower orders you meet on street corners: people like myself are bon viveurs who happen to like a drink. Or 12.

My primary observation is that drinking makes the daily grind of dealing with people so much easier. You drink a pint of whisky and become the life and soul of the party. You then start insulting people, before sweating heavily and wetting yourself involuntarily. You will usually find that everyone quickly avoids you, thereby relieving you of the need to make conversation. This is why I prefer to do much of my drinking at home. It saves so much time.

There are a great many drinks on the market - spirits, wines and beers - and I've probably drunk them all. Usually in some kind of combination with one another. Mixing cocktails is one of my favourite hobbies. Here's one I invented last week for my great sycophant, Christopher Hitchens.

The Hitch

One bottle of Babycham

One bottle of absinthe

Five shots of Angostura very bitters

Two tablespoons of bile

Two or three glasses of this tincture can give you a lifetime of self-satisfaction.

At some time you will probably be forced to invite people to your home and they may expect a drink. My advice is to offer them the cheapest tipple you can find; my local off-licence does a ghastly Mosel at 70p a bottle. I've never cared for even the best wines, and this should guarantee those poncing off you neither ask for top-ups nor stay long, thereby leaving you more money and time for the pub.

It is well known that only the very dullest of petit-bourgeois minds fail to over-imbibe on a daily basis, so I regard hangovers as a price worth paying for my brilliance. That said, I have found ways of coping with this metaphysical malaise. The first is to fuck someone; preferably somebody else's wife, but if your own is the only one around then she will do. The second is to read a book by that little shit Mart; it will either remind you you're not that bad a writer or give you some sleep.

The one downside to drinking is that it can make you fat. This is remedied by cutting out food entirely and drinking all spirits without mixers. My weight has gone down to 19st with this diet. There isn't much more to say, but as I'm being paid by the column I'd better repeat myself. And now that I'm dead, there's no harm in Bloomsbury repackaging the same material several times in the same collection.

I don't really like wine. Gin is for pansies, though a snifter with water doesn't go amiss. Liqueurs are best left to patent-shoed Wops. Or Americans. Champagne is an overrated girl's drink, though it can be drunk with any food; as such, it's a perfect breakfast drink because a scotch before 10am is very non-U.

I loathe pubs with loud music, but my utmost detestation is reserved for sanctimonious ex-topers. There's nothing worse than a man who doesn't drink. I once tried not drinking for several hours and my wives and mistresses said how dull it was that I was conscious and they were spared removing my soiled trousers from my bloated legs.

Whisky is my favourite tipple, though I recommend never giving it to a Welshman as it's wasted on someone with an IQ of less than 80. Have I mentioned that I'm partial to a Macallan? Gosh is that the time? Hilly's coming to change my IV drip before I fall unconscious again. The publisher can bloody well pad out the rest of the book with a pointless quiz without me.

Q: Who will buy this?

A: No one.

The digested read digested: The old pub bore.

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Jury clears judge of libelling mother
Sales of 'misery memoirs' fall after they boomed beyond all expectations since Dave Pelzer wrote A Child Called It

Constance Briscoe wins Ugly libel case

A judge who was sued for libel by her mother over allegations of childhood cruelty and neglect in her bestselling "misery memoir" won her case yesterday.

Constance Briscoe burst into tears at the high court in London as a jury unanimously cleared her and publishers Hodder & Stoughton over the claims in Ugly, which her mother Carmen Briscoe-Mitchell, 74, had alleged were a "piece of fiction".

During the 10-day trial, Briscoe, 51, who was one of the first black women judges in the UK, told the court her mother repeatedly beat her with a stick for bed-wetting and called her a "dirty little whore", a "potato-head" and "miss piss-a-bed".

She described trying to kill herself by drinking diluted bleach after failing to get taken into care, and told the jury she used a university grant to have plastic surgery to remove the "ugliness" her mother had taunted her over.

Briscoe, of Clapham, south London, also said that when she was nine, her mother had deliberately cut her on the inside of her arm with a knife in a row over the preparation of a chicken.

Ugly, published in 2006, has sold more than 400,000 copies in the UK. Briscoe and Hodder & Stoughton had denied libel and said the book was substantially true. Andrew Caldecott QC, for Briscoe, said the events occurred between 1964 and 1975.

Briscoe-Mitchell, from Southwark, south-east London, left court without making any immediate comment about her legal defeat. During the trial she had denied all the allegations of verbal and physical abuse and claimed she and her daughter had enjoyed a loving relationship within a happy family.

Her counsel, William Panton, told the jury Briscoe was "spinning a yarn", claiming his client had struggled to bring up her 11 children and had provided for them equally to the best of her ability.

Outside court, Briscoe told reporters she was "very happy" with the jury's verdict, which came after more than a day of deliberation.

"It is sad that my mother still feels the need to pursue me," she said. "Now I just want to get on with my career. I would like to thank all my readers who have sent me messages of support, including the very many children who provided helpful advice.

"I can quite understand why my family went into collective denial but whilst child abuse may be committed behind closed doors it should never be swept under the carpet."

Hodder & Stoughton said it was pleased with the verdict. "We are very proud to be Constance Briscoe's publisher," a statement said. "Her books Ugly and Beyond Ugly have touched hundreds of thousands of readers, many of them children. Sadly, as we know from the news over the past few weeks, child abuse is all too common and nothing and no one should ever stand in the way of the truth."

Asked during the trial why she wrote the book, Briscoe said: "I didn't believe for a split second that I owed my mother a bond of silence. I don't. I had a story to tell and that story really is that I, someone who from dirt poverty, from absolutely nowhere, with absolutely no assistance whatsoever, who faced adversity at every turn, could come through."

The court heard she had cleaned offices for two hours every day before school until her studies took her to Newcastle University, the criminal bar and, eventually, to become one of the country's few black women judges.

"I wanted to say to whoever read the book ... you can be whatever you want to be," Briscoe said. "You just have to believe in yourself ... you do not have to be posh or privileged to be at the Bar.

"You just need to believe in yourself and I truly, truly believe that my book has done an enormous amount of good."

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