PART SECOND.And in this quiet scene, the child grew up,To know not inequalities of lot,Of any rank dissevering man from man.Once from the splendid coach, the city dameAnd her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.As Ellen gazed upon the little oneWhose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleamThat morning threw upon her much loved waves,And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringeIn full luxuriance, she came forth and stoodWith such a guileless, and admiring love,That tenderness was won. And then they strolledO'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,Have you such waters, and such trees besideYour home far off? The little languid eyeGazed vacantly on all the beauty there,And then, as one who had not heard the words,And least of all could give forth a responseTo nature's loving call, even as it passedTo her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice,And from her kindled soul,—she turned again,Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew,And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream.Just for a brief space, down there seemed to fallA veil between the two—a veil like night.All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tidesOf soul, forever dashing on the cliffsOn which mind's ocean-great forever beatTheir swell of thunder, here could find no heightThat could reverberate. And yet her heartWas all too noble, high, serenely pure,Too Christ-taught ever thus to stand apart.The tender gentleness, the laughing eye,The soul responsive to the moment's joy,The power to love, the softening sympathyWith every bird or squirrel that appeared,Or rabbit, scarce afraid, with wondering eye,The love of parents, her sweet talk of friends,And above all, a heart to beat so trueTo all that One in heaven had said to her,Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgotWherein they differed: And their souls then chimedAs sounds of bells, blended in summer's wind.So, as if sunbeams faltering on the bank,The cloud departing, creep o'er all the green,Her brightening interest rested on the child.And when they parted at the bridge of logs,Though the child's dress was gorgeous, and the pompOf city livery from the chariot shone,While the soft tear was in our Ellen's eye,There still dwelt all unknown in her sweet mind,All free from pride, the deep inspiring wish,That she could raise this merry-hearted oneAbove herself: and then there came the thought,Unconscious, causing sorrows—higher aims—That the one gone was poor, and she was rich.There was a loneliness, and so she soughtHer mother; whose companionship was peace:Who ever won her to her wonted rest.There is a poetry in many heartsWhich only blends with thought through tenderness:It never comes as light within the mindCreating forms of beauty for itself.It has an eye, and ear for all the worldCan have of beauty. You will see it bendOver the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave.It knows of every human tie below,The vast significance. Unto its GodIt renders homage, giving incense cloudsTo waft its adorations. By the cross,It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!"It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clueIs most apparent to the common mind.Its sayings fall like ancient memories;We so accept them. Natures such as theseAre often common-place, until the heartIs touched, and then the tones from gates of heaven.Such are the blessed to brighten human life—To give a glory to our earth-born thoughts—To teach us how to act our deeds as kings,Which we might else perform as weary slaves.They give us wings, not sandals, for the roadFull of dry dust. And such the mother was.So as we tell you of the child, there needsNo voice to say, and such the woman was.One day she sought her father in the field,Just before sunset, ready for his home.And as they reached the rocks along the shore,Where the road turns, to meet the deep ravine,Nigh unto Farley, a faint cry for helpRang in their ears. It was a manly voiceGrieving through pain. They turned aside, and foundA stranger, who had fallen, as he leaptFrom out his boat. His fallen gun and dressProclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand,And in their dwelling he found friends, and care.Days past. His mother came, and soon she foundHe spake to Ellen, Ellen unto him;As they spake not to others. And it seemed,Such a perpetual reference in his talk,As if he had not now a single thought,Which had not been compared with thought of hers.At first her pride was moved. And while she stoodIrresolute, the spell was fixed: as whenThe power of spring thaws winter to itself.She knew her son was worthy: and she knewHere, in the wide-world must he seek a wife.And in due time she was his fair-haired wife.They had a rural home across the stream.Their lights at night answered the cheerful lightOf her paternal home. Their winter's firesMingled their gleam upon the dark night wave,Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voiceWas wafted o'er the waters, as she sang:And loving hearers blessed her in their hearts.Oh! what a joy, when in her arms they placedHer son—ah doomed to be her only born!Her cup of happiness seemed now so full.And then the Father, knowing all to come,Gave her more grace, and so she loved him more,And had no Idol. But, as days rolled onSuch sorrow came, I scarce can tell the tale.She saw her husband's manly strength all gone.There was a withering tree, in the spring time,Which on the lawn, seemed struggling to assumeThe Autumn's hues amid the world's full green.He faintly smiled, and said, "So do I fade."Soon it was dead. He lingered slowly on.Hopes came: hopes faded. From the early world'Tis the same story. It was well for her,In this her sorrow, she had learned to weepIn days of bliss, as she had read the pageWhich tells of Jesus bearing his own cross.His mother came, but Ellen was repelledBy the stern brow of one who met the shockAnd would not quail. That hard and iron willWas so unlikeherfirmness. She was oneWho had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong.The parting time drew near. And then as oneWho asked as one gives law. "This little boyShould dwell with me. Thereby shall he attainAll discipline to form the noble man.Even as I made his Father what he was,So will I now, again, care for the child.Let him with me. And he shall often comeAnd visit you. This surely will be wise."We need not say that Ellen too was firm.A mother's love! In all the world a power,To educate as this! Could any wealthOf other learning recompense this loss!Would this stern woman ripen in his heartFruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy?"When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly sendWith thanks, the child to all this proffered care."But now—to send him now! Why at the thoughtA darkness gathered over all the world.From all things came a voice, "All, all alone,The husband is not—the child far away."There was strange meaning in the angry eye;A strange defiance, and an unknown threat,Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained.A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked,No flush was on her face—her voice the same.Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen heldThe child with firmer grasp, when she was gone.Then she had sorrow that they thus should part;For she felt all the reverence death made due,And also mourned rejection of her love.As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse,She crossed the river on the bridge of logs,To reach her parents. Under the bright starsThe Neshamony, and its hurried waves,Rising and falling all around her path.No peace in all the Heavens that she could seeWas like her peace. "I suffer here," she said,"But suffering, I shall learn more love for all."She had returned. Her footsteps died away,Her parents stood yet in the open air,Where they had parted with her for the night.Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry.It was her cry. Oh agony to hear!It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to makeThe wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it.Parents and others rushed there with affright,In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone.Each wood around, and every forest roadGleamed all the night with torches. But no cheerRose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.One traveler said, that on a distant roadHe met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed,And heard, in passing, cries of a young child.In vain they follow. Hopeless they return.Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devisedBy that poor mother to regain her child!Her parents tried, as if for life and deathTo give her aid: and saw that she must die:For patience such as hers was all too grandTo linger long on earth. She day by dayTrod her old haunts. But never did she seeThe Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lipsMoved with perpetual prayer. And when she leanedOn those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest,She was as quiet as in days, when sheWas but an infant. When they spoke of hopeShe smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope.It was indeed simplicity to one,Just on the threshold where His people pass,And where, forever, they have more than hope.All saw that she attained a mystic life,That was not of the earth. What might she hadTo love the sorrowing! By the dying bedShe seemed as if she had not known a pang,Her voice so peaceful. Little children roundGazed sorrowful: and in their confused thoughtDeemed that the anguish of her little childWeeping its mother, was her dying pain;And thought how desolate fond hearts would beIf they were gone, as was her little one.One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail,In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief,Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine,And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her,So that she fed on food come down from Heaven.The others moved. But she was in her place.The Pastor came, and found that she was dead.Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day!Oh how they thanked God for her good release!And so she went to her eternal rest.But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form,Oft in the night, along the river shore—Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more.And men will say, in firmness of belief,That when the Inn was closed, and no man dweltIn its forsaken walls, a light was seenIn Ellen's room. And then they also say,That pure while flowers which never grew before,Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks.My children say, that if you hear the owlAlong her pathway, you may hasten onSure that her spirit will not meet you there.But should you hear a bird of plaintive song,Break the night's stillness, then go far aroundBy field and wood—for you may see her formAlong the shore she gladdened with her life—A shore of many sorrows at the last.
PART SECOND.
And in this quiet scene, the child grew up,To know not inequalities of lot,Of any rank dissevering man from man.Once from the splendid coach, the city dameAnd her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.
As Ellen gazed upon the little oneWhose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleamThat morning threw upon her much loved waves,And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringeIn full luxuriance, she came forth and stoodWith such a guileless, and admiring love,That tenderness was won. And then they strolledO'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,Have you such waters, and such trees besideYour home far off? The little languid eyeGazed vacantly on all the beauty there,And then, as one who had not heard the words,And least of all could give forth a responseTo nature's loving call, even as it passedTo her, through Ellen's eyes, and Ellen's voice,And from her kindled soul,—she turned again,Absorbed in the small wagon which they drew,And to the stones they skimmed upon the stream.
Just for a brief space, down there seemed to fallA veil between the two—a veil like night.All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tidesOf soul, forever dashing on the cliffsOn which mind's ocean-great forever beatTheir swell of thunder, here could find no heightThat could reverberate. And yet her heartWas all too noble, high, serenely pure,Too Christ-taught ever thus to stand apart.
The tender gentleness, the laughing eye,The soul responsive to the moment's joy,The power to love, the softening sympathyWith every bird or squirrel that appeared,Or rabbit, scarce afraid, with wondering eye,The love of parents, her sweet talk of friends,And above all, a heart to beat so trueTo all that One in heaven had said to her,Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgotWherein they differed: And their souls then chimedAs sounds of bells, blended in summer's wind.So, as if sunbeams faltering on the bank,The cloud departing, creep o'er all the green,Her brightening interest rested on the child.
And when they parted at the bridge of logs,Though the child's dress was gorgeous, and the pompOf city livery from the chariot shone,While the soft tear was in our Ellen's eye,There still dwelt all unknown in her sweet mind,All free from pride, the deep inspiring wish,That she could raise this merry-hearted oneAbove herself: and then there came the thought,Unconscious, causing sorrows—higher aims—That the one gone was poor, and she was rich.
There was a loneliness, and so she soughtHer mother; whose companionship was peace:Who ever won her to her wonted rest.
There is a poetry in many heartsWhich only blends with thought through tenderness:It never comes as light within the mindCreating forms of beauty for itself.It has an eye, and ear for all the worldCan have of beauty. You will see it bendOver the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave.It knows of every human tie below,The vast significance. Unto its GodIt renders homage, giving incense cloudsTo waft its adorations. By the cross,It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!"It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clueIs most apparent to the common mind.Its sayings fall like ancient memories;We so accept them. Natures such as theseAre often common-place, until the heartIs touched, and then the tones from gates of heaven.Such are the blessed to brighten human life—To give a glory to our earth-born thoughts—To teach us how to act our deeds as kings,Which we might else perform as weary slaves.They give us wings, not sandals, for the roadFull of dry dust. And such the mother was.So as we tell you of the child, there needsNo voice to say, and such the woman was.
One day she sought her father in the field,Just before sunset, ready for his home.And as they reached the rocks along the shore,Where the road turns, to meet the deep ravine,Nigh unto Farley, a faint cry for helpRang in their ears. It was a manly voiceGrieving through pain. They turned aside, and foundA stranger, who had fallen, as he leaptFrom out his boat. His fallen gun and dressProclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand,And in their dwelling he found friends, and care.
Days past. His mother came, and soon she foundHe spake to Ellen, Ellen unto him;As they spake not to others. And it seemed,Such a perpetual reference in his talk,As if he had not now a single thought,Which had not been compared with thought of hers.
At first her pride was moved. And while she stoodIrresolute, the spell was fixed: as whenThe power of spring thaws winter to itself.She knew her son was worthy: and she knewHere, in the wide-world must he seek a wife.And in due time she was his fair-haired wife.
They had a rural home across the stream.Their lights at night answered the cheerful lightOf her paternal home. Their winter's firesMingled their gleam upon the dark night wave,Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voiceWas wafted o'er the waters, as she sang:And loving hearers blessed her in their hearts.
Oh! what a joy, when in her arms they placedHer son—ah doomed to be her only born!Her cup of happiness seemed now so full.And then the Father, knowing all to come,Gave her more grace, and so she loved him more,And had no Idol. But, as days rolled onSuch sorrow came, I scarce can tell the tale.She saw her husband's manly strength all gone.
There was a withering tree, in the spring time,Which on the lawn, seemed struggling to assumeThe Autumn's hues amid the world's full green.He faintly smiled, and said, "So do I fade."Soon it was dead. He lingered slowly on.Hopes came: hopes faded. From the early world'Tis the same story. It was well for her,In this her sorrow, she had learned to weepIn days of bliss, as she had read the pageWhich tells of Jesus bearing his own cross.
His mother came, but Ellen was repelledBy the stern brow of one who met the shockAnd would not quail. That hard and iron willWas so unlikeherfirmness. She was oneWho had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong.
The parting time drew near. And then as oneWho asked as one gives law. "This little boyShould dwell with me. Thereby shall he attainAll discipline to form the noble man.Even as I made his Father what he was,So will I now, again, care for the child.Let him with me. And he shall often comeAnd visit you. This surely will be wise."We need not say that Ellen too was firm.
A mother's love! In all the world a power,To educate as this! Could any wealthOf other learning recompense this loss!Would this stern woman ripen in his heartFruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy?"When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly sendWith thanks, the child to all this proffered care."But now—to send him now! Why at the thoughtA darkness gathered over all the world.From all things came a voice, "All, all alone,The husband is not—the child far away."
There was strange meaning in the angry eye;A strange defiance, and an unknown threat,Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained.A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked,No flush was on her face—her voice the same.
Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen heldThe child with firmer grasp, when she was gone.Then she had sorrow that they thus should part;For she felt all the reverence death made due,And also mourned rejection of her love.
As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse,She crossed the river on the bridge of logs,To reach her parents. Under the bright starsThe Neshamony, and its hurried waves,Rising and falling all around her path.No peace in all the Heavens that she could seeWas like her peace. "I suffer here," she said,"But suffering, I shall learn more love for all."
She had returned. Her footsteps died away,Her parents stood yet in the open air,Where they had parted with her for the night.
Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry.It was her cry. Oh agony to hear!It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to makeThe wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it.Parents and others rushed there with affright,In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone.Each wood around, and every forest roadGleamed all the night with torches. But no cheerRose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.One traveler said, that on a distant roadHe met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed,And heard, in passing, cries of a young child.In vain they follow. Hopeless they return.
Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devisedBy that poor mother to regain her child!Her parents tried, as if for life and deathTo give her aid: and saw that she must die:For patience such as hers was all too grandTo linger long on earth. She day by dayTrod her old haunts. But never did she seeThe Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lipsMoved with perpetual prayer. And when she leanedOn those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest,She was as quiet as in days, when sheWas but an infant. When they spoke of hopeShe smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope.It was indeed simplicity to one,Just on the threshold where His people pass,And where, forever, they have more than hope.
All saw that she attained a mystic life,That was not of the earth. What might she hadTo love the sorrowing! By the dying bedShe seemed as if she had not known a pang,Her voice so peaceful. Little children roundGazed sorrowful: and in their confused thoughtDeemed that the anguish of her little childWeeping its mother, was her dying pain;And thought how desolate fond hearts would beIf they were gone, as was her little one.
One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail,In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief,Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine,And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her,So that she fed on food come down from Heaven.The others moved. But she was in her place.The Pastor came, and found that she was dead.Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day!Oh how they thanked God for her good release!And so she went to her eternal rest.
But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form,Oft in the night, along the river shore—Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more.And men will say, in firmness of belief,That when the Inn was closed, and no man dweltIn its forsaken walls, a light was seenIn Ellen's room. And then they also say,That pure while flowers which never grew before,Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks.My children say, that if you hear the owlAlong her pathway, you may hasten onSure that her spirit will not meet you there.But should you hear a bird of plaintive song,Break the night's stillness, then go far aroundBy field and wood—for you may see her formAlong the shore she gladdened with her life—A shore of many sorrows at the last.
I had just concluded my first cause at the bar. My duty had been the defence of a man, whom the jury, without leaving the box, condemned to be hung. My friends said that I spoke very eloquently. I consoled myself for my want of success, by remembering that my client had put into my hands, sorry evidence of his innocence, in place of having allowed me to arrange the circumstances of his murderous deed, so that the testimony against him might have at least, some degree of inconsistency and doubt. But the rash creature formed his plan for killing a man out of his own head. A poor, stupid, blundering head it was.
I have always regarded that trial with a cool, philosophical mind. I think that any gentleman, who indulges himself in that rather exceptionable occupation of shedding the blood of his fellow-man, without first consulting a lawyer, deserves to be executed. And, verily, this fellow got his deserts.
Well, as I sat in my office, perfectly calm andcomposed, some hours after the case was decided, I received a pretty note from a widow lady. I had often met her at our pleasant little evening parties. She was on a visit to one of her friends in our green village; was very pretty, was said to be quite agreeable, and it was obvious that she was much admired by the gentlemen. As to her age—to say the least on that subject, which I consider, in such a case, to be the only gentlemanly mode of procedure—she was some years older than she wished to be accounted.
Her particular friends said that she had been very beautiful as a girl. She was one of that select class, scattered over our country, concerning each of whom there was a family tradition, that on some occasion of public ceremonial, General Washington had paused and stood opposite to her in mute admiration. I know that the great Father of his country was reported to have paid such a tribute to one of my maiden aunts—and that the story procured from her nephews and nieces a large portion of respect. I boasted, as a boy, of this fact—regarding it as a sprig of a foreign aristocratic family, would the honors of his aunt, the Duchess. But an unreliable boy at our school matched this history from the unwritten archives of his vulgar relatives. So, in great disgust, I held my tongue on the subject for the future.
Well, thought I, as I mused over the note of thewidow, the formation of some of her letters indicating a romantic turn of mind; this is, indeed, a strange, a very strange world. Here I have just done with a client who must get himself hung. A dull, stupid fellow; a blockhead of the most knotty material, "unwedgeable" by any possible force of common sense; a spot on the face of the earth! Hang him! Hanging is too good for him. He was a fellow who had neither eyes, nor nose, nor mouth for the attracted observation of a jury, nor any history, nor any ingenuity in his murderous deed,—as a thread on which a poor advocate could suspend one gem of argument, one gem of eloquence to blaze and dazzle the eyes of the twelve substantial citizens, whose verdict was to life or death. And now here is a call to attend to some legal business to be done in the sunshine of a fair lady's favor! Has she heard of the rare ability displayed in the defence of this man who is so soon to be suspended in the air, as a terror to evil doers? Or has she been allured by my good looks and agreeable manners? Handsome!—a few years older than myself, and then a good little fortune, which my legal knowledge could protect. Well, if this world be odd, I must make the best of it. Society is a strange structure; and happy is the man who is a statue ready for his appropriate pedestal.
It is unquestionably an amiable trait in humancharacter which clothes those, who by special circumstances acquire marked relations with us, in attractions which surpass ordinary charms.
I must freely confess that I never saw the widow look so interesting as at the hour when I made my visit. I presented myself with dignity, as one who represented learning at the bar, and future dignities on the bench. She received me kindly. There was a seriousness in her demeanor, an obvious earnestness, as of one who had a burden on the mind, so that I perceived that the occasion was one of great importance.
I ought here to inform the gentle reader that it had been my good pleasure, instigated by ambition natural to young men, and as a relaxation from my graver studies, to indite various articles in prose and verse for theNewark Democrat;—a paper which was supposed by the editor, the host at the Bald Eagle Inn, the headquarters of the ruling political party in our town, and also by several members of the Legislature who could read any kind of printing, to exert a great influence over the destinies of our country.
There was one contribution of mine, entitled, "The Flame Expiring in the Heart," which obtained great admiration, and was committed to memory by a number of the young ladies at Miss Sykes' boarding-school. It was copied into both of the New York papers.Just, however, as it seemed to be securing a place for itself in American poetry, some one, urged by envy, and under the instigation of very bad taste,—some said it was Paulding, some Washington Irving,—but that was simply slanderous,—I say some one of more self-conceit than of the gift of appreciation of pure versification, and of elevated sentiment, wrote a reply. It had a hypocritical dedication as if the author of the aforesaid poem was affectionately addressed, and as if the utmost tenderness of sorrow was displayed in sympathy. To crown all, the coarseness of the writer was shown in the title, "A Bellows to Fan the Expiring Flame of Alonzo in the Newark Democrat."
However it is not necessary for me to dwell on my literary career. I was compelled to allude to it, in order that you could understand the reasonableness of the conduct of the lady under the circumstances which I now describe.
After a few words of greeting, she at once descended into the "midst of things." She informed me that the reasons of her sending for me, were her convictions of my goodness of heart, which she gleaned, no doubt, from the tone of my poetry, of my elevated desire to promote the interests of science and of letters, and her high idea of my literary abilities, particularly as a writer of prose.
Here I felt that her critical skill was in error. Shehad not, perhaps, as much natural capacity for the admiration of sterling poetry as of prose. Without intending to hint that I pretend to the false humility of undervaluing my prose style, I am satisfied, that to say the least, my poetry is in all respects its equal. But to return from this brief digression; the fair one proceeded to say, that she perceived that I had a remarkable gift in narrative.
Now, her deceased husband, she said, was a very remarkable man. A true account of his abilities and virtues need only be placed before the public attention to secure him a perpetual remembrance among men. It would be a great wrong,—indeed it would be robbing the world of a just claim, that his character, writings, and his general history should not be widely known. As she discoursed on the subject, she became a little romantic; and when she began to expand her views, and to adopt the figure of a flower concealed from the gaze of men, lying buried in the dark recesses of the forest, which ought to be brought out before the common view, I doubted whether the sentence had not been previously studied. This only proved, of course, her faithfulness to the memory of her husband; and her desire that I should enter into her sympathies.
She proceeded to say, that she had selected me as his Biographer. If I complied with her wishes, Iwould find that I had undertaken a task in which I would have intense interest, and be stimulated to exertion. She could tell me of eminent men who had spoken of him in terms of exalted praise. He had once sent to a distinguished scholar in Germany, a strange petrifaction; and the learned man had written a long essay, in which he described it, and made it the basis of remarks on nature in general, and took occasion to speak of his American correspondent as a learned man, and one who wrote in magnificent sentences. Indeed, I was to find no difficulty in collecting the greatest abundance of material for a memoir. She wished this composition to be prefixed to a large volume in manuscript which he had prepared for the press some years before his lamented close of life. The volume was a treatise on "Fugitive impressions, and enduring mental records."
Now had this proposition been made by a man, I should have declined the undertaking. In that case law would have appeared as a jealous master,—its study long, and life very short. But as it was, the lady had sufficient power to extort a promise that I would devote myself to the work.
The gratitude of the fair one, was, in itself, no small fee for the labor which was before me. I felt that it was necessary to arrange with her, that I could consult with her at all times, as I proceeded with mywork, and that she should hear me read over a page at any time, or even sentences, if I needed her advice. These proposals satisfied her that I was about entering on my duty in earnest, and she became so affable, so pleased with me, that I anticipated that every page of my work would secure me a pleasant visit.
My first plan was to make a tour to the village which had the honor to number a few years ago, Dr. Bolton, who was to be so famous by means of my well-rewarded pen. And I must confess that my arrival at Scrabble Hill, for such was the name of the place, was attended with circumstances so very dismal, that my ardor would have been damped, had not a bright flame sent its warmth, and cheering rays through my mind.
I remembered that my very absence from Newark was a perpetual plea for me, to the lady whom I sought to serve. And this consoled me, as I drove along the street of the place. The dwellings were poor. They were more dismal than houses falling into ruins; for it was evident that they had been run up as ambitious shells, and never finished. The men went about with coats out at the elbows, and seemed to drag along languidly to the blacksmith's shop, or to the inn. The whole place looked as if it had no thought of better days. My sudden presence, and the appearance of my horse and gig, promised, as the opened eyes of thegazers assured me, to exercise the mental faculties of the inhabitants, in the highest degree of which they were capable.
The inn was no better than the rest of the village. The landlord was one of the most imperturbable of human beings. I verily believe that his wife told the truth when she asserted, as I inquired whether he could not be sent for, to sit with me, tired of my solitude in the evening, that I need not think of such a thing, for "John Hillers was no company for nobody." And this remark, I thought, was accompanied with the suggestion hinted in her manner, that she herself would be a far better gossip. Her exact adherence to the truth was, I presume, equally manifested, when I asked as a hungry man, "What have you in the house?" and she replied, "Not much of anything."
After a wretched meal in a room half heated from a stove in the adjoining kitchen, and where the fire-place was full of pieces of paper, and of empty bottles labelled "bitters," I began to reflect on the nature of my undertaking. The great responsibility devolved on one who should attempt the biography of so great a man as Doctor Bolton, all at once assumed a new aspect. My vanity and self-confidence began to ooze away. These rainbows faded, and a very dull sky was all that was left.
Was I able to do justice to so great an ornament ofmy native land? The reputation of a man sometimes depends on the ability of his biographer. A good memoir is a bright lamp, which guides the eyes of men to works, otherwise, perhaps, doomed to lie in obscurity forever. And when they are opened, it throws a gleam on the page, which secures attention, and elicits admiration. All the civilized world sees its great books in the light supplied by a few critics. Hence the critical biographer may enhance all the merit of the author, who is his subject. On the other hand, if he usher the unknown book before the public, by a dull and weak narrative, and criticism, men will imagine that he has been selected as a congenial mind, and will slight even the treatise of a man like Doctor Bolton.
In the morning the sun began to shine,—for I ought to have said that when I entered the village I drove through a dull misty rain. I took heart, and determined to prosecute my researches with ardor. What is to be done must be done, and let us try and do all things well.
The first person on my list of those who could give me information, was Mrs. Rachel Peabody. I found her at home. She seemed much surprised and mystified, when I told her that I was about writing a life of the doctor,—but not at all astonished that when I sought information, I should come to her.
The reference to the past excited her mind. For an hour or more she poured forth her recollections. And gentle reader, my page would present a strange array of information, could I accurately record the words that flowed from her lips. Her chief idea of the doctor, was, that he carried with her help, advice, and warm cabbage leaves, Eliza Jane, Faith Kitty, and John Potts, of the house of Peabody, through a variety of unaccountable diseases. Hitherto I had been a creature, hardened at the cry of little children. Now when I learnt what a sad time they often had, when their teeth were ready to force their way through the gums, I am prepared to bear all the noise which they can make, with a patience that will cause me to be a favorite with every mother.
I must confess that I left the mansion of the Peabodys very much perplexed, to know what I could weave, of this conversation into my biography. Had I gleaned a fact, that ought to live in the memory of men, long after marble monuments shall have crumbled into dust? As I formed my enduring statue, was I now able to take my chisel into my hand, and leave its immortal line? I flattered myself that I had a presentiment, that I should yet discover in this narration, some evidence of the greatness of the celebrated physician.
And now I was to call on Miss Mary Phelps—alady of great respectability—advanced in life—who had spent her years in maiden meditation fancy free.
Miss Phelps was certainly one of the most homely creatures, on whom my eyes were ever compelled to rest. If she had qualities of mind and heart, sufficient to compensate her for her external appearance, she was indeed an angel within.
But I quickly ascertained, that such a theory was impracticable. Her temper was, evidently, a torment to those around her. The airs of a foolish girl had not disappeared from her manner. She even received me with a ridiculous affectation of shyness, and when she glanced at me her eyes fell quickly to the ground.
"Madam," said I, "I have been referred to you as to one who could give me valuable information, for an important work which I have in hand?"
"Oh, sir—" and her looks indicated intolerable disgust, and great defiance,—"you are one of the folks hired to take the census, and you want Papistical statements about the ages of people, that ain't as old as you wish them to be."
"Oh, no—nothing of the kind. I am engaged in writing a life of Doctor Bolton. As his appointed biographer, I wish to attain all the knowledge I can concerning him. For this reason I have visited this village, where he once resided,—such a successful practitioner; and the object of such universal love andadmiration. You have dwelt here a great many years." Here the lady frowned in a very ominous manner. "That is to say, you lived here as a child, and continued here until the present maturity of your powers has been attained. I have therefore to inquire of you, whether you can give me any information about him—anything that would throw light on his character. After all it is your gentle sex who retain the most tender, and lasting impressions of such a man."
Here Miss Phelps' demeanor became a most unaccountable procedure. Her eyes fell upon the floor. She looked as if she thought, that deep blushes were on her sallow, sunken cheeks. She became the most wonderful representation of modesty, sensibility, and embarrassment.
I waited patiently, but there was no response.
"Madam," said I, "unless the friends of the Doctor give me their assistance, it will be impossible for me to write his life. Think, madam, what a wrong it would be, that his history should not be known to the world! Surely you can inform me of some circumstances, which are of an interesting nature in his history. Can you not recall any events, which awaken tender sentiments? Did nothing ever occur in your intercourse with him,—did nothing ever occur between you that was memorable?"
"There may have been circumstances," she said,"which are of too delicate a nature to confide to you. There are feelings which one does not want to speak about to a gentleman, whom one did not know a little while ago from Adam."
"Indeed, madam, if the Doctor attended you in any illness, whose nature was such that you would prefer not to speak of it, do not for a moment suppose that I would trespass on the delicacy of your feelings by any inquiries. In fact it is enough for you to assure me, in general terms, that the Doctor was a skilful physician. I would much prefer such general statements: particularly as my nerves are much unstrung by hearing of the diseases of some children in this place—for whom he ministered in the most admirable manner. I need not print your name in his biography. As to diseases, I do not know the symptoms of those of the heart—or——"
"Ah, then," she said, "you have hit it. The heart! He was a lovely man. Yes, he was a man that any woman could love." As this was said, her hands were clasped together.
"I thank you," I replied, "for that information. You had, of course, ample opportunity to know his character. You have been his intimate friend." Here the lady gave me another timid, hesitating glance, and then her eyes sought the abiding place on the floor.
"Indeed I do not wish you to speak of anythingwhich is unpleasant to you. If your admiration of the Doctor is so great, all that you could tell me, would be in his favor. Out of your recollections, you can suggest anything that you deem proper."
"You have heard about him, and me?"
"I have been told that you were intimate with him. That you could give me information about him. Whatever tender memories I may awaken, do not allow me to distress you."
Here she put up a marvelously big handkerchief to her eyes. Dear me, I thought, at least she had a tender heart.
"If, madam, you have lost a dear friend, whom the Doctor attended in his last illness—but excuse me,—I regret that I trouble you, that I awaken sorrowful recollections."
"You have never, then, heard of my history?"
"No, madam."
"The Doctor was a great loss to me." The utterance was distinct, in defiance of the huge handkerchief.
"Were you in ill health at the time of his death?"
"I enjoyed very bad health—and he attended me—like—like——"
"A brother?"
"No brother could be so affectionate. Oh how often we sat together in this very room! Our hearts havebeen so full, that we were silent for half an hour together."
"The Doctor was very much attached to his last wife, was he not?"
"He married her after he was disappointed in another object of his affections. But it was not my fault. Things will cross one another sometimes, and make all go wrong. He said, when he gave me a bill one day,—that I was necessary to his existence. I shall never forget it. He did marry that girl—far too young for him. But I didn't blame him. I will not say any more. My feelings oppress me."
Suddenly, I began to understand, the meaning of this mysterious conversation. You will say I was excessively stupid not to perceive it before; that the hints were almost as intolerable and palpable as the most excessive hint ever given—that of Desdemona to the Moor of Venice. But you will please to remember, that you had not the personal appearance before you, which was in the room with me.
After I left this informant, I sat down on the rail of a small bridge, and then made a memorandum, of which you shall hear in due season.
I was told, in one of my "searches for truths," that if I would only write to Mr. Bob Warren, of Hardrun, I could acquire important knowledge of the nature which I so eagerly coveted. Accordingly, I addressedto him a very polite letter, and begged his aid—as I was collecting materials for the life of a celebrated Physician—Dr. Bolton, of Scrabble-Hill.
Only a short time elapsed before I received a reply, and to the following effect:
"Robert Loring, Esq.,—Dear Sir:"About the doctor. I did know him. That is to say, I used to meet him scattered about the country, though I never called him in for professional services. In fact I believe my mother-in-law has more judgment about common ailments, than half the doctors around the world; and, thanks to a kind Providence, we have had wonderful health in the family."You want to hear about his personal appearance. He was a short thick-set man, with rather a reddish summit, and a sort of an in-pressed nose, and his skin always so tight that it seemed as if no more ever could get into it. As to his manners, he was slow, awful slow; slow in taking in ideas, like in mind in this respect, to snow melting on a March day. He did not say much, and so people, after the common ignorant notion about such folks, thought that as not much came out of him, there must be a great deal left in him. He would often repeat what others said, only putting the things into bigger words, and rolling themout so that people did not know their own observations."You ask me if I remember any observations of his. The most sensible remarks he ever made were some scornful attacks on Tom Jefferson's gun-boats, just before election; but I cannot say what they were, being very busy in hunting up voters at the time."I hope the doctor was no relation of yours. I write under that impression. I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, but I must say I am in a quandary, when I learn that you propose to print a book about him. I hope I shall know when it is printed."As to asking my associates here, as you say, about the man, there is no use in it. I am perfectly willing to do anything to oblige you, or any one else. But I know what they would say—that he was a stupid, solemn old ass."I think the creature was honest enough. As to not being over blessed with smartness, it was not his fault; for all cannot have much brains; for if they had, what would the world be, where it seems to me evident that the great majority must be blessed with but little common sense, or the country would never get along? It is always evident to me, that a small part of the world must do the thinking."Poor fellow! I have nothing to say against the doctor. He was honest enough. He was good-natured,and could forgive an injury, and that I take it is a pretty good proof that his religion will be found worth more at last than that of a good many people who think themselves better than ever he thought himself. In fact, if I have said anything about him that is not to his credit, I am not much used to writing; and then the idea of having his life written, rather turned my ideas into confusion. I can't go through the work of writing a new letter. He never hurt any one, I believe, by his practice. His being slow kept him from giving as much medicine as he would have done had he been a smarter man."I hope what I write is agreeable and useful."With respect,"Yours to command,"Robert Warren."P.S.—I will say that the doctor was ready to do a good turn. He was not hard on the poor. I believe I said he was honest, and had a good temper. It was a very good temper. He was honest as the sun—so people said, and in this instance it was true. He was not for experiments, as that Dr. Stone at the Run, who was always restless as if at some deep game, or like Dr. Thomas, at our place, who tried his new-fashioned medicines on rabbits, so that at least it was not an imposition on human nature. The doctor practiced in the good old way, and for that he has my respect."
"Robert Loring, Esq.,—Dear Sir:
"About the doctor. I did know him. That is to say, I used to meet him scattered about the country, though I never called him in for professional services. In fact I believe my mother-in-law has more judgment about common ailments, than half the doctors around the world; and, thanks to a kind Providence, we have had wonderful health in the family.
"You want to hear about his personal appearance. He was a short thick-set man, with rather a reddish summit, and a sort of an in-pressed nose, and his skin always so tight that it seemed as if no more ever could get into it. As to his manners, he was slow, awful slow; slow in taking in ideas, like in mind in this respect, to snow melting on a March day. He did not say much, and so people, after the common ignorant notion about such folks, thought that as not much came out of him, there must be a great deal left in him. He would often repeat what others said, only putting the things into bigger words, and rolling themout so that people did not know their own observations.
"You ask me if I remember any observations of his. The most sensible remarks he ever made were some scornful attacks on Tom Jefferson's gun-boats, just before election; but I cannot say what they were, being very busy in hunting up voters at the time.
"I hope the doctor was no relation of yours. I write under that impression. I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, but I must say I am in a quandary, when I learn that you propose to print a book about him. I hope I shall know when it is printed.
"As to asking my associates here, as you say, about the man, there is no use in it. I am perfectly willing to do anything to oblige you, or any one else. But I know what they would say—that he was a stupid, solemn old ass.
"I think the creature was honest enough. As to not being over blessed with smartness, it was not his fault; for all cannot have much brains; for if they had, what would the world be, where it seems to me evident that the great majority must be blessed with but little common sense, or the country would never get along? It is always evident to me, that a small part of the world must do the thinking.
"Poor fellow! I have nothing to say against the doctor. He was honest enough. He was good-natured,and could forgive an injury, and that I take it is a pretty good proof that his religion will be found worth more at last than that of a good many people who think themselves better than ever he thought himself. In fact, if I have said anything about him that is not to his credit, I am not much used to writing; and then the idea of having his life written, rather turned my ideas into confusion. I can't go through the work of writing a new letter. He never hurt any one, I believe, by his practice. His being slow kept him from giving as much medicine as he would have done had he been a smarter man.
"I hope what I write is agreeable and useful.
"With respect,"Yours to command,"Robert Warren.
"P.S.—I will say that the doctor was ready to do a good turn. He was not hard on the poor. I believe I said he was honest, and had a good temper. It was a very good temper. He was honest as the sun—so people said, and in this instance it was true. He was not for experiments, as that Dr. Stone at the Run, who was always restless as if at some deep game, or like Dr. Thomas, at our place, who tried his new-fashioned medicines on rabbits, so that at least it was not an imposition on human nature. The doctor practiced in the good old way, and for that he has my respect."
I have now given you a pretty clear idea of the valuable results of my historical labors at the village. With my notes collected with so much care, I turned my back on this place, and returned to my office at Newark.
And now what was to be done? I began to feel quite feverish and miserable. Then I asked myself the question, whether all histories, and a considerable number of our biographies, were not based on similar poverty of materials—were not paste-board edifices looking like stone, and having only chaff for a foundation?
Now came a great temptation.—Should I imitate certain authors who, by means of cunning sentences, made the trifling appear to be events which were all-important, and so transformed ideas, that the mean became an object of admiration?
I recalled an instance when an historian found a record of a man whom he desired to clothe in all possibility of royal purple, and so to find fame with his sect, or to gain applause as a gorgeous writer. The true narrative declared, "At this time he believed that he received from heaven a divine intimation, a light from above, assuring him that a man might go through all the instruction of the Colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, and not be able to tell a man how to save his soul."
Now, this plain statement, however translated intothe dignity of an ambitious style, would not appear to advantage in a brilliant eulogy. The man was fanatical, and crazy. But the design was to represent him as a philosophical reformer in the religious world.
And now behold the power of art. In the original document there is a sad poverty, and deformity of flesh and bones. The poor creature must appear on the stage in kingly robes. Hear our model!—Behold the transformation! "At this time he was convinced that he received a divine illumination, infusing such thoughts as transcend the most elevated conceptions of mere human wisdom; and he was overwhelmed with the depth of the conviction, that a man might pass through all the extent of scholastic learning taught at Oxford and Cambridge, and not be able to solve the great problem of human existence."
Was there ever such alchemy? If I could attain a moderate degree of efficiency, as the pupil of such a writer, the small items of information collected at the village, could become a grand biography.
Let me see, thought I, what I can make of my material. I do not know that I could dare to publish words which would make a false impression. But let me try my skill in this essay to transmute poor substances into gold. I take the note concerning the visit to Mrs. Rachel Peabody,—and the account she gaveme of the sicknesses of Eliza Jane, Faith Kitty, and John Potts.
"One of the most impressive views of the doctor, was his appearance among the young, when the sickness which does not spare our race in the days of our early development, was bearing its distress to the languid frame, and sorrow to the affectionate relatives who watched by the bed-side. I do not mean to say that this illustrious physician was less skilful in dealing with the maladies of middle life, or with those which we deplore in the aged,—whose sun we would have to sink in all the tranquillity of a serene sky. It is the consequence of maternal love, that in this village where his great talents were so unfortunately circumscribed, you may still hear the most touching descriptions of his skill and tenderness by the cradle, and by the couch of those children, the future promise of our country, who would attend on the instructions of the academy, were it not that their condition has become one, where obscure causes prove to us the limitation of our finite capacities."
Let me now try my hand on the letter of Mr. Warren.
Note,—"The doctor was a solemn ass." Biographical representation. "Suspicion might arise with respect to the extent of the intellectual power of the doctor, if the biographer led the reader to suppose that all whoknew him, in his retreat from the great circles where the understanding is cultivated to its highest degree, regarded him as a man of transcendent genius. The slow process of thought, often observable in men whose deductions reach the greatest altitude, like the great tree slowly evolved from its incipient stem, is a contradiction to the conceptions, which the vulgar form of the intellectual power of men of acute minds. They anticipate the sudden flashing of the eagle eye, and the flight of thought as with the eagle wing. And when they are doomed to disappointment, and meet with that seemingly sluggish action of the mind, which has learned caution, lest elements that should enter into the decision that is sought, should not be observed, it is an error at which a philosophical mind can afford a smile, to find that their unauthorized disgust, will seek a similitude for the great man of such tardy conclusions, in some animal that is proverbial for the dulness of its perceptions."
Note,—"Supposed to be wise, because he was solemn and stupid." Biographical representation. "It is curious to observe that when contemporary testimony is elicited, concerning the powers of a superior man, you discover, amid unavoidable abuse and misrepresentation, unintentional testimony to his exalted qualities. While an attempt is made to undermine his claim to wisdom, it will incidentally appear thatwisdom was ascribed to him. The endeavor of envy which would ostracise him, is a proof that it is excited by common admiration heaped upon its object."
Note,—The old lady who intimated that there had been "love passages between herself and the Doctor"—Biographical representation.
"It is delightful to know that a man of such science, and constant observation, was not rude, or wanting in those gentle traits which allure the susceptibilities of the best portion of our race. I might narrate a romantic incident, which would prove how he had unintentionally inspired an affection in a lovely lady, which endured in the most singular extent, even to old age. I have witnessed her tears at the mention of his name. On the most ample scrutiny, I repose, when I say, that the Doctor had never trifled with this sincere love. The sense of devoted affection in this case, led the victim of a tender delusion to infer, that on his part, the regard was reciprocated. I can imagine the sorrow of his great heart, if he discovered the unfortunate error and misplaced passion. In the case to which I now refer, I could only judge of the beauty and attractions of the early youth, by those remains of little arts and graceful attitudes, which are the result, so generally, of a consciousness of a beauty that is confessed by all."
Then too I could avail myself of the ingenious devices of praise, by a denial of infirmities.
"In him there was nothing for effect—nothing that was theatrical—nothing done to cause the vulgar to stare with astonishment. No pompous equipage, no hurried drives, no sudden summons from the dwellings of his friends, as if patients required his sudden attendance—no turgid denomination of little objects by words of thundering sound—no ordering the simple placing of the feet in hot water, as Pediluvium,—none of those arts were employed by the subject of our Biography, to acquire or extend his practice, or build up his great fame."
I also found some of the letters of the Doctor. Let me attempt the work of Alchemy again. Let me transform some passage into the proper language of Modern Biography.
Thus I find this sentence in a letter to Colonel Tupp: "Some of our negroes in New Jersey are very troublesome, and some wise plan should be devised lest they become a heavy burden——"
"It would appear"—thus should it be erected into Biographical effect—"that the Doctor, to be named always with so much veneration, was probably one of the first of our men of giant minds, to foresee the dangers of the problem involved in the existence of the African race, in the new world. I claim him—on the evidence of his familiar epistolary correspondence—as the originator of the great movements of statesmen andphilosophers, for its solution. He gave, beyond all contradiction, that impulse to the energetic thought, which has led to all the plans for the elevation of those, who bear 'God's image cut in ebony.' As we trace the voice to the distant fountain—or the immense circle of fire on our prairies, to the sparks elicited by the careless traveler from the small flint, so as I recall the present innumerable discussions on this sable subject, I refer them all to the unpretending utterances of this great man. I recur to the small village where he dwelt. His study, his favorite retreat, is before me. There, at the table, illuminated as it were with his manuscript, I see his impressive form. Near him are the pestle and mortar; the various jars on which are labels in such unknown words, that the country people regard them as if they were the ingredients for the sorcerer,—his coat,—his books,—his minerals,—such are his surroundings.
"There in that study—he first in the unostentatious effusions of a private letter, suggests the seed of those convictions, which led to the formation of the Colonization Society. No fanaticism, however, has marked and disfigured the stately forms of his thoughts, on the subject of the extinction of slavery. Let not the readers of this Biography at the Sunny South, imagine that he designed an interference with their possessions. There is evidence of the perfect balance of his mindon this subject, in the fact, that he designates them, in another letter, written probably after this one, which contains the immortal sentence, in which he employs a word, which in printed syllables, with the exception of one repeated letter in the English, resembles the Roman adjective for Black,—but whose pronunciation rejected the classical usage.
"I am aware that those who love his memory will be compelled to do battle for the honors which they justly claim for these and other anticipations of later movements in the world of wisdom and philanthropy. As Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood, only to have his claim a subject of dispute, so our great Philosopher will find those to detract from his merits, and maintain that the great efforts to which we have alluded were of later origination."
While I speak upon this subject of the African discussion, I may remark that there is a singular discovery which I have made, as I have searched his papers, and concerning which I am in doubt, whether it should be delegated to oblivion or made the subject of ingenuous confession. I am aware that obscurity throws its shadow over the topic. I am also aware that I may hereby cast a suspicion of the spirit of a wild projector, over the subject of this memoir. I think, however, and believe that I do not flatter myself unjustly, that I have guarded against such a wrongby the delineation I have given of his calm and reflecting character.
The circumstances which my pen is somewhat reluctant to trace for fear of misapprehension, are these: I find in a letter to a friend the remark, "You would be no less startled by the assertion, that I could transform the African into a white man, than to learn from me that my Cæsar has become sedulous in the discharge of his duties, and ceased to slumber by the kitchen fire when he should be at his work at the wood-shed."
Now observe this ominous suggestion about the transformation of the physical characteristics of those who have been translated among us from the land of sandy deserts. Here is a hint of the physical transformation of a black man into a white. And then I must add that I find two small pieces of paper lying near the letter, which seem to corroborate my view, which papers, I candidly confess,—here is the ground of hesitation, the momentum which disturbs the mind seemingly on the eve of its rest, might indeed have been prescriptions saved by accident, or have been hints on the subject of the transformation of the race of darkened skins. One of these fragments contains the words, "Elixir to remove the dark pigment which causes the surface discrimination"—on the other, "Forthe removal of odorous accidentals." I am willing to leave the subject to the consideration of my readers.
Then again I have known a man who had no brilliant or striking qualities, exalted into one of most honorable fame,—in this wise,—
"The doctor perhaps had no one gift of intellectual power which exalted him above other men. But look to the faculties which he possessed in admirable combination; regard him in the complete symmetry of his mind," etc. etc.
Thus I amused myself by this imitation of the system of eulogistic biographies. But I must confess that I had returned to my home oppressed with a feverish anxiety, as of one who felt that he had become involved in a hopeless undertaking. How utterly absurd the position which I occupied! How silly had I been in taking the assurance of Mrs. Bolton for certain truth, and acting on the principle, that her husband was a great man in his day. I now began to regard the deceased as one of the most stupid creatures that had ever felt a pulse.
But then I had acquired the most morbid fear of meeting the widow. What excuse should I offer for a change of purpose? I have no doubt that my exposure and miserable life when at the village, seeking pearls and finding chaff, had produced a temporary derangement of my system, and that I had contracted some low fever.
Nothing else could account for the manner in which I was tormented by my position. What could be more easy than to say that I found myself unable to gather material for the life of the Great—I was about to say, old fool! Somehow I was spell-bound. I could not reason calmly on the subject. It broke my rest at night. It haunted me during the day. I now perceive, that I ought to have sought the advice of my physician. But then, common sense seemed to have deserted me on this one point. I was nervous, wretched, for so unreasonable a reason, and could not find relief. One night I dreamed that the widow and the doctor were both intent on murdering me. There she stood near me, the picture of wrath, and urging him, as a second Lady Macbeth, to destroy me. He advanced and raised his abominable pestle above his head. He smiled, proving how a man may smile and be a villain, and procrastinated the deadly blow to torment me. Fortunately I saw projecting from one of his huge pockets a large bottle of some specific which he had concocted for a patient. Springing up, I seized the vial, and grasping him by the collar, was pouring it down his throat, saying, you infamous old murderer die of your own medicine, when a chair, near my bed, thrown violently half across the room by my impetuosity, awoke me.
But every knock at my door tormented me. Everyletter was examined with terror,—lest I should recognize a hand calling me to account.
I found my way about Newark through unfrequented streets, and across the lots when it was practicable. Even when I went to the court-house, on business, I left my office, not by the door, but through a small back window, and by sundry winding ways reached my destination.
After this plan had been pursued for some time, I was duly honored by the following note.
"Sir:—You are not to think that your designs are unknown. Your singular conduct in passing by my house so often,—a house so removed from the streets through which you would naturally pass,—could not fail to be observed by any man who had an eye in his head, and who regarded his rights. I am not alone in this observation of your proceedings. We have taken into consideration your stealthy look as you passed, and have noticed how you watched at the corners, lest any one should see you."Depend upon it your designs are known. The villany is detected. You are a hypocrite of the deepest dye. Unless you entirely, and immediately, relinquish your pursuit, you will suffer in a manner you little apprehend."Do not prowl in this mean way around my premises any more. Strive to retrieve your character. Ihope the day may come when I can honor you as I now despise you."Warning."
"Sir:—You are not to think that your designs are unknown. Your singular conduct in passing by my house so often,—a house so removed from the streets through which you would naturally pass,—could not fail to be observed by any man who had an eye in his head, and who regarded his rights. I am not alone in this observation of your proceedings. We have taken into consideration your stealthy look as you passed, and have noticed how you watched at the corners, lest any one should see you.
"Depend upon it your designs are known. The villany is detected. You are a hypocrite of the deepest dye. Unless you entirely, and immediately, relinquish your pursuit, you will suffer in a manner you little apprehend.
"Do not prowl in this mean way around my premises any more. Strive to retrieve your character. Ihope the day may come when I can honor you as I now despise you.
"Warning."
About the same time I received this additional note.
"Dear Bob:—I heard the other day that you had returned home, and I have been eager to see you. They tell me that you have fallen desperately in love with a certain widow, and that you have been up the country, under pretence of partridge shooting, in order that you might inquire about her property. Are the inquiries satisfactory? Are the acres and dwellings such, that on your return, she appears to be angelic? Or, being disappointed as to the properties left her by her father, and the old doctor, is she but a woman of ordinary charms? Oh Bob! I never thought you so mercenary. I thought that you would follow my example, and despise all but the real excellencies which can adorn a wife."Had it not been that I am lame, I should have been to see you,—as it is desirable that we should meet soon."Now I think of it, there is another foolish report about you,—that you go to the court-house by the back street, in consequence of your having heard that that scape-grace, Bill Turney, whom you lashed soterribly in your address before the squire, when Obadiah Potter was arrested for beating his wife, intended to pummel you as soon as he caught you. They say also that he describes his belligerent intentions in very graphic language, to wit, that he will, 'shoot through you, like lightning through a gooseberry bush.' These stories will amuse you."Stop and see me the first time you come along the main street in a bold manner."Your friend,"J. Walters."
"Dear Bob:—I heard the other day that you had returned home, and I have been eager to see you. They tell me that you have fallen desperately in love with a certain widow, and that you have been up the country, under pretence of partridge shooting, in order that you might inquire about her property. Are the inquiries satisfactory? Are the acres and dwellings such, that on your return, she appears to be angelic? Or, being disappointed as to the properties left her by her father, and the old doctor, is she but a woman of ordinary charms? Oh Bob! I never thought you so mercenary. I thought that you would follow my example, and despise all but the real excellencies which can adorn a wife.
"Had it not been that I am lame, I should have been to see you,—as it is desirable that we should meet soon.
"Now I think of it, there is another foolish report about you,—that you go to the court-house by the back street, in consequence of your having heard that that scape-grace, Bill Turney, whom you lashed soterribly in your address before the squire, when Obadiah Potter was arrested for beating his wife, intended to pummel you as soon as he caught you. They say also that he describes his belligerent intentions in very graphic language, to wit, that he will, 'shoot through you, like lightning through a gooseberry bush.' These stories will amuse you.
"Stop and see me the first time you come along the main street in a bold manner.
"Your friend,"J. Walters."
These annoyances had at least a good effect. I resolved that I would see the widow, and throwing off my nervous anxiety, explain to her that I could not possibly find materials sufficient for a biography. I intended also to suggest, that a physician might be better qualified for the undertaking.
Hence I gladly accepted the invitation of a fair cousin of mine, to be one of her guests for an evening party; where I felt confident that I should meet the widow.
It had now been several weeks since I had been thrown into the society of ladies. My health was improved. The nervous fever that had agitated me, had passed away. The fascination of one whom I had sometimes met in our village gatherings, seemed to be restoring me to myself.
After a while, my companion looking across the room, said to me, "How well our widow looks this evening."
I thought that there was a mischievous look in her laughing eye. But sure enough—there stood the Empress, who had commanded the biography. She was resting her hand upon a piano, and in deep conversation with Judge Plian.
I crossed the room and spoke to her. She received me politely—but not as one who had the slightest recollection, that there was any tie of the most profound interest between us. Surely a man writing her deceased husband's biography, should have immediately become her chief object of attention. On the contrary, after a few common-place words, she turned to the Judge, and became absorbed in his conversation.
And this was the more remarkable, because the man was by no means good-looking. Nay, I think him rather insignificant. I had a few words with him on the occasion of the trial of that miserable creature, who would get himself hung, and I concluded, not only that he was not well versed in legal learning, but that he was a remarkably stubborn man, riveted to his opinions, even when, by means of lucid argument, you proved him to be in error.
A short time afterwards I entered into conversationwith my fair cousin. She directed me to look at the two, near the piano.
"They will make a good-looking couple, will they not?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, have you not heard of their engagement?"
"Engagement!"
"Yes, it has been a short acquaintance. Indeed, Bob, now that it recurs to my mind, I heard that she sent you out of the way, into the country on business, that the Judge might not be alarmed by the appearance of a rival. But you know that villagers are famous for gossip. Of course there was nothing in it. And I said, you never had a serious thought about her."
Was ever anything like this? Before the shoes were old with which she followed my poor father's body. While the Biography of her deceased husband was in progress, she forms an engagement with a man of no sort of personal attractions, and who, being on the bench, can have his legal decisions confuted by a young lawyer.
Surely the most strict moralist would confess, that I was released from my engagements! Surely Sir Charles Grandison would have said, that I need not put myself forward for an explanation with the widow.If she spoke to me on the subject, could I not say, "Let the Judge write the book?"
These notes have not been written in vain, if I can contribute, in the least degree, to the awakening of the public mind to a demand for greater moral principles, in the composition of histories, and of the memoirs of distinguished men.
I thought that the widow might send me a note, before many days had passed. I waited, and concluded in a Christian spirit, that if she applied to me, she should have the notes which I had accumulated. But I never heard again of my first attempt at writing a memoir. I never heard again of Dr. Bolton's Biography.