Judge Clemens, who time and again had wrecked or crippled his fortune
by devices more or less unusual, now adopted the one unfailing method of
achieving disaster. He endorsed a large note, for a man of good repute,
and the payment of it swept him clean: home, property, everything
vanished again. The St. Louis cousin took over the home and agreed to
let the family occupy it on payment of a small interest; but after
an attempt at housekeeping with a few scanty furnishings and Pamela's
piano--all that had been saved from the wreck--they moved across the
street into a portion of the Virginia house, then occupied by a Dr.
Grant. The Grants proposed that the Clemens family move over and board
them, a welcome arrangement enough at this time.
Judge Clemens had still a hope left. The clerkship of the Surrogate
Court was soon to be filled by election. It was an important
remunerative office, and he was regarded as the favorite candidate
for the position. His disaster had aroused general sympathy, and his
nomination and election were considered sure. He took no chances; he
made a canvass on horseback from house to house, often riding through
rain and the chill of fall, acquiring a cough which was hard to
overcome. He was elected by a heavy majority, and it was believed he
could hold the office as long as he chose. There seemed no further need
of worry. As soon as he was installed in office they would live in style
becoming their social position. About the end of February he rode to
Palmyra to be sworn in. Returning he was drenched by a storm of rain and
sleet, arriving at last half frozen. His system was in no condition to
resist such a shock. Pneumonia followed; physicians came with torments
of plasters and allopathic dosings that brought no relief. Orion
returned from St. Louis to assist in caring for him, and sat by his
bed, encouraging him and reading to him, but it was evident that he grew
daily weaker. Now and then he became cheerful and spoke of the Tennessee
land as the seed of a vast fortune that must surely flower at last. He
uttered no regrets, no complaints. Once only he said:
“I believe if I had stayed in Tennessee I might have been worth twenty
thousand dollars to-day.”
On the morning of the 24th of March, 1847, it was evident that he could
not live many hours. He was very weak. When he spoke, now and then, it
was of the land. He said it would soon make them all rich and happy.
“Cling to the land,” he whispered. “Cling to the land, and wait. Let
nothing beguile it away from you.”
A little later he beckoned to Pamela, now a lovely girl of nineteen,
and, putting his arm about her neck, kissed her for the first time in
years.
“Let me die,” he said.
He never spoke after that. A little more, and the sad, weary life
that had lasted less than forty-nine years was ended: A dreamer and a
moralist, an upright man honored by all, he had never been a financier.
He ended life with less than he had begun.