Thomas Green Fessenden was the eldest of nine children of the Rev.
Thomas Fessenden. He was born on the 22d of April, 1771, at Walpole, in
New Hampshire, where his father, a man of learning and talent, was long
settled in the ministry. On the maternal side, likewise, he was of
clerical extraction; his mother, whose piety and amiable qualities are
remembered by her descendants, being the daughter of the Rev. Samuel
Kendal of New Salem. The early education of Thomas Green was chiefly at
the common school of his native place, under the tuition of students
from the college at Hanover; and such was his progress, that he became
himself the instructor of a school in New Salem at the age of sixteen.
He spent most of his youthful days, however, in bodily labor upon the
farm, thus contributing to the support of a numerous family; and the
practical knowledge of agriculture which he then obtained was long
afterwards applied to the service of the public. Opportunities for
cultivating his mind were afforded him, not only in his father's
library, but by the more miscellaneous contents of a large bookstore.
He had passed the age of twenty-one when his inclination for mental
pursuits determined him to become a student at Dartmouth College. His
father being able to give but little assistance, his chief resources at,
college consisted in his wages as teacher of a village school during the
vacations. At times, also, he gave instruction to an evening class in
psalmody.
From his childhood upward, Mr. Fessenden had shown symptoms of that
humorous turn which afterwards so strongly marked his writings; but his
first effort in verse, as he himself told me, was made during his
residence at college. The themes, or exercises, of his fellow students
in English composition, whether prose or rhyme, were well characterized
by the lack of native thought and feeling, the cold pedantry, the
mimicry of classic models, common to all such productions. Mr.
Fessenden had the good taste to disapprove of these vapid and spiritless
performances, and resolved to strike out a new course for himself. On
one occasion, when his classmates had gone through with their customary
round of verbiage and threadbare sentiment, he electrified them and
their instructor, President Wheelock, by reading "_Jonathan's
Courtship_." There has never, to this day, been produced by any of our
countrymen a more original and truly Yankee effusion. He had caught the
rare art of sketching familiar manners, and of throwing into verse the
very spirit of society as it existed around him; and he had imbued each
line with a peculiar yet perfectly natural and homely humor. This
excellent ballad compels me to regret, that, instead of becoming a
satirist in politics and science, and wasting his strength on temporary
and evanescent topics, he had not continued to be a rural poet. A
volume of such sketches as "Jonathan's Courtship," describing various
aspects of life among the yeomanry of New England, could not have failed
to gain a permanent place in American literature. The effort in
question met with unexampled success: it ran through the newspapers of
the day, reappeared on the other side of the Atlantic, and was warmly
applauded by the English critics; nor has it yet lost its popularity.
New editions may be found every year at the ballad-stalls; and I saw
last summer, on the veteran author's table, a broadside copy of his
maiden poem, which he had himself bought in the street.
Mr. Fessenden passed through college with a fair reputation for
scholarship, and took his degree in 1796. It had been his father's wish
that he should imitate the example of sonic of his ancestors on both
sides, by devoting himself to the ministry. He, however, preferred the
law, and commenced the study of that profession at Rutland, in Vermont,
with Nathaniel Chipman, then the most eminent practitioner in the State.
After his admission to the bar, Mr. Chipman received him into
partnership. But Mr. Fessenden was ill qualified to succeed in the
profession of law, by his simplicity of character, and his utter
inability to acquire an ordinary share of shrewdness and worldly wisdom.
Moreover, the success of "_Jonathan's Courtship_," and other poetical
effusions, had turned his thoughts from law to literature, and had
procured him the acquaintance of several literary luminaries of those
days; none of whose names, probably, have survived to our own
generation, save that of Joseph Dennie, once esteemed the finest writer
in America. His intercourse with these people tempted Mr. Fessenden to
spend much time in writing for newspapers and periodicals. A taste for
scientific pursuits still further diverted him from his legal studies,
and soon engaged him in an affair which influenced the complexion of all
his after-life.
A Mr. Langdon had brought forward a newly invented hydraulic machine,
which was supposed to possess the power of raising water to a greater
height than had hitherto been considered possible. A company of
mechanics and others became interested in this machine, and appointed
Mr. Fessenden their agent for the purpose of obtaining a patent in
London. He was, likewise, a member of the company. Mr. Fessenden was
urged to hasten his departure, in consequence of a report that certain
persons had acquired the secret of the invention, and were determined to
anticipate the proprietors in securing a patent. Scarcely time was
allowed for testing the efficacy of the machine by a few hasty
experiments, which, however, appeared satisfactory. Taking passage
immediately, Mr. Fessenden arrived in London on the 4th of July, 1801,
and waited on Mr. King, then our minister, by whom he was introduced to
Mr. Nicholson, a gentleman of eminent scientific reputation. After
thoroughly examining the invention, Mr. Nicholson gave an opinion
unfavorable to its merits; and the question was soon settled by a letter
from one of the Vermont proprietors to Mr. Fessenden, informing him that
the apparent advantages of the machine had been found altogether
deceptive. In short, Mr. Fessenden had been lured from his profession
and country by as empty a bubble as that of the perpetual motion. Yet
it is creditable both to his ability and energy, that, laying hold of
what was really valuable in Langdon's contrivance; he constructed the
model of a machine for raising water from coal-mines, and other great
depths, by means of what he termed the "renovated pressure of the
atmosphere." On communicating this invention to Mr. Nicholson and other
eminent mechanicians, they acknowledged its originality and ingenuity,
and thought that, in some situations, it might be useful. But the
expenses of a patent in England, the difficulty of obtaining patronage
for such a project, and the uncertainty of the result, were obstacles
too weighty to be overcome. Mr. Fessenden threw aside the scheme, and,
after a two months' residence in London, was preparing to return home,
when a new and characteristic adventure arrested him.
He received a visit, at his lodging in the Strand, from a person whom he
had never before seen, but who introduced himself to his good-will as
being likewise an American. His business was of a nature well
calculated to excite Mr. Fessenden's interest. He produced the model of
an ingenious contrivance for grinding corn. A patent had already been
obtained; and a company, with the lord-mayor of London at its head, was
associated for the construction of mills upon this new principle. The
inventor, according to his own story, had disposed of one-fourth part of
his patent for five hundred pounds, and was willing to accommodate his
countryman with another fourth. After some inquiry into the stranger's
character and the accuracy of his statements, Mr. Fessenden became a
purchaser of the share that was offered him; on what terms is not
stated, but probably such as to involve his whole property in the
adventure. The result was disastrous. The lord-mayor soon withdrew his
countenance from the project. It ultimately appeared that Mr. Fessenden
was the only real purchaser of any part of the patent; and, as the
original patentee shortly afterwards quitted the concern, the former was
left to manage the business as he best could. With a perseverance not
less characteristic than his credulity, he associated himself with four
partners, and undertook to superintend the construction of one of these
patent-mills upon the Thanes. But his associates, who were men of no
respectability, thwarted his plans; and after much toil of body, as well
as distress of mind, he found himself utterly ruined, friendless and
penniless, in the midst of London. No other event could have been
anticipated, when a man so devoid of guile was thrown among a set of
crafty adventurers.
Being now in the situation in which many a literary man before him had
been, he remembered the success of his fugitive poems, and betook
himself to the pen as his most natural resource. A subject was offered
him, in which no other poet would have found a theme for the Muse.
It seemed to be his fatality to form connections with schemers of all
sorts; and he had become acquainted with Benjamin Douglas Perkins, the
patentee of the famous metallic tractors. These implements were then in
great vogue for the cure of inflammatory diseases, by removing the
superfluous electricity. Perkinism, as the doctrine of metallic
tractors was styled, had some converts among scientific men, and many
among the people but was violently opposed by the regular corps of
physicians and surgeons. Mr. Fessenden, as might be expected, was a
believer in the efficacy of the tractors, and, at the request of
Perkins, consented to make them the subject of a poem in Hudibrastic
verse, the satire of which was to be levelled against their opponents.
"Terrible Tractoration" was the result. It professes to be a poetical
petition from Dr. Christopher Caustic, a medical gentleman who has been
ruined by the success of the metallic tractors, and who applies to the
Royal College of Physicians for relief and redress. The wits of the
poor doctor have been somewhat shattered by his misfortunes; and, with
crazy ingenuity, he contrives to heap ridicule on his medical brethren,
under pretence of railing against Perkinism. The poem is in four
cantos, the first of which is the best, and the most characteristic of
the author. It is occupied with Dr. Caustic's description of his
mechanical and scientific contrivances, embracing all sorts of possible
and impossible projects; every one of which, however, has a ridiculous
plausibility. The inexhaustible variety in which they flow forth proves
the author's invention unrivalled in its way. It shows what had been
the nature of Mr. Fessenden's mental toil during his residence in
London, continually brooding over the miracles of mechanism and science,
his enthusiasm for which had cost him so dear. Long afterwards,
speaking of the first conception of this poem, the author told me that
he had shaped it out during a solitary day's ramble in the outskirts of
London; and the character of Dr. Caustic so strongly impressed itself on
his mind, that, as he walked homeward through the crowded streets, he
burst into frequent fits of laughter.
The truth is, that, in the sketch of this wild projector, Mr. Fessenden
had caricatured some of his own features; and, when he laughed so
heartily, it was at the perception of the resemblance.
"Terrible Tractoration" is a work of strange and grotesque ideas aptly
expressed: its rhymes are of a most singular character, yet fitting each
to each as accurately as echoes. As in all Mr. Fessenden's productions,
there is great exactness in the language; the author's thoughts being
thrown off as distinctly as impressions from a type. In regard to the
pleasure to be derived from reading this poem, there is room for
diversity of taste; but, that it is all original and remarkable work, no
person competent to pass judgment on a literary question will deny. It
was first published early in the year 1803, in an octavo pamphlet of
above fifty pages. Being highly applauded by the principal reviews, and
eagerly purchased by the public, a new edition appeared at the end of
two months, in a volume of nearly two hundred pages, illustrated with
engravings. It received the praise of Gifford, the severest of English
critics. Its continued success encouraged the author to publish a
volume of "Original Poems," consisting chiefly of his fugitive pieces
from the American newspapers. This, also, was favorably received. He
was now, what so few of his countrymen have ever been, a popular author
in London; and, in the midst of his triumphs, he bethought himself of
his native land.
Mr. Fessenden returned to America in 1804. He came back poorer than he
went, but with an honorable reputation, and with unstained integrity,
although his evil fortune had connected him with men far unlike himself.
His fame had preceded him across the Atlantic. Shortly before his
arrival, an edition of "Terrible Tractoration" had been published at
Philadelphia, with a prefatory memoir of the author, the tone of which
proves that the American people felt themselves honored in the literary
success of their countryman. Another edition appeared in New York, in
1806, considerably enlarged, with a new satire on the topics of the day.
It is symptomatic of the course which the author had now adopted, that
much of this new satire was directed against Democratic principles and
the prominent upholders of them. This was soon followed by "Democracy
Unveiled," a more elaborate attack on the same political party.
In "Democracy Unveiled," our friend Dr. Caustic appears as a citizen of
the United States, and pours out six cantos of vituperative verse, with
copious notes of the same tenor, on the heads of President Jefferson and
his supporters. Much of the satire is unpardonably coarse. The
literary merits of the work are inferior to those of "Terrible
Tractoration "; but it is no less original and peculiar. Even where the
matter is a mere versification of newspaper slander, Dr. Caustic's
manner gives it an individuality not to be mistaken. The book passed
through three editions in the course of a few months. Its most pungent
portions were copied into all the opposition prints; its strange, jog-trot
stanzas were familiar to every ear; and Mr. Fessenden may fairly be
allowed the credit of having given expression to the feelings of the
great Federal party.
On the 30th of August, 1806, Mr. Fessenden commenced the publication, at
New York, of "_The Weekly Inspector_," a paper at first of eight, and
afterwards of sixteen, octavo pages. It appeared every Saturday. The
character of this journal was mainly political; but there are also a few
flowers and sweet-scented twigs of literature intermixed among the
nettles and burs, which alone flourish in the arena of party strife.
Its columns are profusely enriched with scraps of satirical verse in
which Dr. Caustic, in his capacity of ballad-maker to the Federal
faction, spared not to celebrate every man or measure of government that
was anywise susceptible of ridicule. Many of his prose articles are
carefully and ably written, attacking not men so much as principles and
measures; and his deeply felt anxiety for the welfare of his country
sometimes gives an impressive dignity to his thoughts and style. The
dread of French domination seems to have haunted him like a nightmare.
But, in spite of the editor's satirical reputation, "_The Weekly
Inspector_" was too conscientious a paper, too sparingly spiced with the
red pepper of personal abuse, to succeed in those outrageous times. The
publication continued but for a single year, at the end of which we find
Mr. Fessenden's valedictory to his leaders. Its tone is despondent both
as to the prospects of the country and his own private fortunes. The
next token of his labors that has come under my notice is a small volume
of verse, published at Philadelphia in 1809, and alliteratively entitled
"Pills, Poetical, Political, and Philosophical; prescribed for the
Purpose of purging the Public of Piddling Philosophers, Penny
Poetasters, of Paltry Politicians, and Petty Partisans. By Peter
Pepper-Box, Poet and Physician." This satire had been written during
the embargo, but, not making its appearance till after the repeal of
that measure, met with less success than "Democracy Unveiled."
Everybody who has known Mr. Fessenden must have wondered how the kindest
hearted man in all the world could have likewise been the most noted
satirist of his day. For my part, I have tried in vain to form a
conception of my venerable and peaceful friend as a champion in the
stormy strife of party, flinging mud full in the faces of his foes, and
shouting forth the bitter laughter that rang from border to border of
the land; and I can hardly believe, though well assured of it, that his
antagonists should ever have meditated personal violence against the
gentlest of human creatures. I am sure, at least, that Nature never
meant him for a satirist. On careful examination of his works, I do not
find in any of them the ferocity of the true bloodhound of
literature,--such as Swift, or Churchill, or Cobbett,--which fastens upon
the throat of its victim, and would fain drink his lifeblood. In my
opinion, Mr. Fessenden never felt the slightest personal ill-will against
the objects of his satire, except, indeed, they had endeavored to detract
from his literary reputation,--an offence which he resented with a poet's
sensibility, and seldom failed to punish. With such exceptions, his
works are not properly satirical, but the offspring of a mind
inexhaustibly fertile in ludicrous ideas, which it appended to any topic
in hand. At times, doubtless, the all-pervading frenzy of the times
inspired him with a bitterness not his own. But, in the least
defensible of his writings, he was influenced by an honest zeal for
the public good. There was nothing mercenary in his connection with
politics. To an antagonist who had taunted him with being poor, he
calmly replied, that he "need not have been accused of the crime of
poverty, could he have prostituted his principles to party purposes, and
become the hireling assassin of the dominant faction." Nor can there be
a doubt that the administration would gladly have purchased the pen of
so popular a writer.
I have gained hardly any information of Mr. Fessenden's life between the
years 1807 and 1812; at which latter period, and probably some time
previous, he was settled at the village of Bellows Falls, on Connecticut
River, in the practice of the law. In May of that year, he had the good
fortune to become acquainted with Miss Lydia Tuttle, daughter of Mr.
John Tuttle, an independent and intelligent farmer at Littleton, Mass.
She was then on a visit in Vermont. After her return home, a
correspondence ensued between this lady and Mr. Fessenden, and was
continued till their marriage, in September, 1813. She was considerably
younger than himself, but endowed with the qualities most desirable in
the wife of such a man; and it would not be easy to overestimate how
much his prosperity and happiness were increased by this union. Mrs.
Fessenden could appreciate what was excellent in her husband, and supply
what was deficient. In her affectionate good sense he found a
substitute for the worldly sagacity which he did not possess, and
could not learn. To her he intrusted the pecuniary cares, always so
burdensome to a literary man. Her influence restrained him from such
imprudent enterprises as had caused the misfortunes of his earlier
years. She smoothed his path of life, and made it pleasant to him, and
lengthened it; for, as he once told me (I believe it was while advising
me to take, betimes, a similar treasure to myself), he would have been
in his grave long ago, but for her care.
Mr. Fessenden continued to practise law at Bellows Falls till 1815, when
he removed to Brattleborough, and assumed the editorship of "The
Brattleborough Reporter," a political newspaper. The following year, in
compliance with a pressing invitation from the inhabitants, he returned
to Bellows Falls, and edited, with much success, a literary and
political paper, called "_The Intelligencer_." He held this employment
till the year 1822, at the same time practising law, and composing a
volume of poetry, "_The Ladies' Monitor_," besides compiling several
works in law, the arts, and agriculture. During this part of his life,
he usually spent sixteen hours of the twenty-four in study. In 1822 he
came to Boston as editor of "_The New England Farmer_," a weekly
journal, the first established, and devoted principally to the diffusion
of agricultural knowledge.
His management of the Farmer met unreserved approbation. Having been
bred upon a farm, and passed much of his later life in the country, and
being thoroughly conversant with the writers on rural economy, he was
admirably qualified to conduct such a journal. It was extensively
circulated throughout New England, and may be said to have fertilized
the soil like rain from heaven. Numerous papers on the same plan sprung
up in various parts of the country; but none attained the standard of
their prototype. Besides his editorial labors, Mr. Fessenden published,
from time to time, various compilations on agricultural subjects, or
adaptations of English treatises to the use of the American husbandman.
Verse he no longer wrote, except, now and then, an ode or song for some
agricultural festivity. His poems, being connected with topics of
temporary interest, ceased to be read, now that the metallic tractors
were thrown aside, and that the blending and merging of parties had
created an entire change of political aspects, since the days of
"Democracy Unveiled." The poetic laurel withered among his gray hairs,
and dropped away, leaf by leaf. His name, once the most familiar, was
forgotten in the list of American bards. I know not that this oblivion
was to be regretted. Mr. Fessenden, if my observation of his
temperament be correct, was peculiarly sensitive and nervous in regard
to the trials of authorship: a little censure did him more harm than
much praise could do him good; and methinks the repose of total neglect
was better for him than a feverish notoriety. Were it worth while to
imagine any other course for the latter part of his life, which he made
so useful and so honorable, it might be wished that he could have
devoted himself entirely to scientific research. He had a strong taste
for studies of that kind, and sometimes used to lament that his daily
drudgery afforded him no leisure to compose a work on caloric, which
subject he had thoroughly investigated.
In January, 1836, I became, and continued for a few months, an inmate of
Mr. Fessenden's family. It was my first acquaintance with him. His
image is before my mind's eye at this moment; slowly approaching me with
a lamp in his hand, his hair gray, his face solemn and pale, his tall
and portly figure bent with heavier infirmity than befitted his years.
His dress, though he had improved in this particular since middle life,
was marked by a truly scholastic negligence. He greeted me kindly, and
with plain, old-fashioned courtesy; though I fancied that he somewhat
regretted the interruption of his evening studies. After a few moments'
talk, he invited me to accompany him to his study, and give my opinion
on some passages of satirical verse, which were to be inserted in a new
edition of "Terrible Tractoration." Years before, I had lighted on an
illustrated copy of this poem, bestrewn with venerable dust, in a corner
of a college library; and it seemed strange and whimsical that I should
find it still in progress of composition, and be consulted about it by
Dr. Caustic himself. While Mr. Fessenden read, I had leisure to glance
around at his study, which was very characteristic of the man and his
occupations. The table, and great part of the floor, were covered with
books and pamphlets on agricultural subjects, newspapers from all
quarters, manuscript articles for "_The New England Farmer_," and
manuscript stanzas for "Terrible Tractoration." There was such a litter
as always gathers around a literary man. It bespoke, at once, Mr.
Fessenden's amiable temper and his abstracted habits, that several
members of the family, old and young, were sitting in the room, and
engaged in conversation, apparently without giving him the least
disturbance. A specimen of Dr. Caustic's inventive genius was seen in
the "Patent Steam and Hot-Water Stove," which heated the apartment, and
kept up a pleasant singing sound, like that of a teakettle, thereby
making the fireside more cheerful. It appears to me, that, having no
children of flesh and blood, Mr. Fessenden had contracted a fatherly
fondness for this stove, as being his mental progeny; and it must be
owned that the stove well deserved his affection, and repaid it with
much warmth.
The new edition of "Tractoration" came out not long afterwards. It was
noticed with great kindness by the press, but was not warmly received by
the public. Mr. Fessenden imputed the failure, in part, to the
illiberality of the "trade," and avenged himself by a little poem, in
his best style, entitled "Wooden Booksellers"; so that the last blow of
his satirical scourge was given in the good old cause of authors against
publishers.
Notwithstanding a wide difference of age, and many more points of
dissimilarity than of resemblance, Mr. Fessenden and myself soon became
friends. His partiality seemed not to be the result of any nice
discrimination of my good and evil qualities (for he had no acuteness in
that way), but to be given instinctively, like the affection of a child.
On my part, I loved the old man because his heart was as transparent as
a fountain; and I could see nothing in it but integrity and purity, and
simple faith in his fellow-men, and good-will towards all the world.
His character was so open, that I did not need to correct my original
conception of it. He never seemed to me like a new acquaintance, but as
one with whom I had been familiar from my infancy. Yet he was a rare
man, such as few meet with in the course of a lifetime. It is
remarkable, that, with such kindly affections, Mr. Fessenden was so
deeply absorbed in thought and study as scarcely to allow himself time
for domestic and social enjoyment. During the winter when I first knew
him, his mental drudgery was almost continual. Besides "_The New
England Farmer_," lie had the editorial charge of two other
journals,--"_The Horticultural Register_," and "_The Silk Manual_"; in
addition to which employment, he was a member of the State legislature,
and took some share in the debates. The new matter of "Terrible
Tractoration" likewise cost him intense thought. Sometimes I used to meet
him in the street, making his way onward apparently by a sort of instinct;
while his eyes took note of nothing, and would, perhaps, pass over my face
without sign of recognition. He confessed to me that he was apt to go
astray when intent on rhyme. With so much to abstract him from outward
life, he could hardly be said to live in the world that was bustling
around him. Almost the only relaxation that he allowed himself was an
occasional performance on a bass-viol which stood in the corner of his
study, and from which he loved to elicit some old-fashioned tune of
soothing potency. At meal-times, however, dragged down and harassed as
his spirits were, he brightened up, and generally gladdened the whole
table with a flash of Dr. Caustic's honor.
Had I anticipated being Mr. Fessenden's biographer, I might have drawn
from him many details that would have been well worth remembering. But
he had not the tendency of most men in advanced life, to be copious in
personal reminiscences; nor did he often speak of the noted writers and
politicians with whom the chances of earlier years had associated him.
Indeed, lacking a turn for observation of character, his former
companions had passed before him like images in a mirror, giving him
little knowledge of their inner nature. Moreover, till his latest day,
he was more inclined to form prospects for the future than to dwell upon
the past. I remember the last time, save one, that we ever met--I found
him on the bed, suffering with a dizziness of the brain. He roused
himself, however, and grew very cheerful; talking, with a youthful glow
of fancy, about emigrating to Illinois, where he possessed a farm, and
picturing a new life for both of us in that Western region. It has
since come to my memory, that, while he spoke, there was a purple flush
across his brow,--the harbinger of death.
I saw him but once more alive. On the thirteenth day of November last,
while on my way to Boston, expecting shortly to take him by the hand, a
letter met me with an invitation to his funeral--he had been struck with
apoplexy on Friday evening, three days before, and had lain insensible
till Saturday night, when he expired. The burial took place at Mount
Auburn on the ensuing Tuesday. It was a gloomy day; for the first
snowstorm of the season had been drifting through the air since morning;
and the "Garden of Graves" looked the dreariest spot on earth. The snow
came down so fast, that it covered the coffin in its passage from the
hearse to the sepulchre. The few male friends who had followed to the
cemetery descended into the tomb; and it was there that I took my last
glance at the features of a man who will hold a place in my remembrance
apart from other men. He was like no other. In his long pathway
through life, from his cradle to the place where we had now laid him, he
had come, a man indeed in intellect and achievement, but, in guileless
simplicity, a child. Dark would have been the hour, if, when we closed
the door of the tomb upon his perishing mortality, we had believed that
our friend was there.
It is contemplated to erect a monument, by subscription, to Mr.
Fessenden's memory. It is right that he should be thus honored. Mount
Auburn will long remain a desert, barren of consecrated marbles, if
worth like his be yielded to oblivion. Let his grave be marked out,
that the yeomen of New England may know where he sleeps; for he was
their familiar friend, and has visited them at all their firesides. He
has toiled for them at seed-time and harvest: he has scattered the good
grain in every field; and they have garnered the increase. Mark out his
grave as that of one worthy to be remembered both in the literary and
political annals of our country, and let the laurel be carved on his
memorial stone; for it will cover the ashes of a man of genius.