CHAPTER IV.

_HOW THE OVERLOOK PAPERS CAME TO BE WRITTEN._

"I believe," said the Judge one morning shortly after my arrival, "that

I must supply you with pen and paper, and assign to you a task."

"What can I do? Tell me how to be useful."

"Do not offer too hastily. Let me inform you of a custom which is

observed here like the laws of the Medes and Persians.

"All our guests, at our festival seasons, and I hope that whenever it

can be in your power you will be present, are most seriously enjoined to

bring with them a contribution to our Overlook Papers. From each is

demanded a story, a poem, or an essay. In the evening these are read.

And indeed, I require from each of my friends who receives an

invitation, if he cannot accept it, still to transmit his paper.

"These or copies of them are preserved in the huge book-case in the

library. We sometimes draw upon the old collection, and it is pleasant

to revive the old associations as they are again read to a happy circle.

I ought to have sent you word, and told you to prepare your paper. It

is an unusual thing for me to be guilty of such an omission. As I have

been negligent I must now enjoin you to prepare to do your part with the

others."

"My dear sir, has ever any guest written a paper after his arrival

here?"

"Come! come! I have never asked any guest to do it after he came, who

could probably accomplish it more easily than yourself."

"What shall I write?"

"Whatever you please. A Poem if you will."

"I might make the attempt. But will poetry come 'under compulsion?'

Surely not 'under compulsion.' Shall I cudgel my brains? Will Pegasus go

at my will when I smite him with my staff? How long might I sit here,

the image of despair, and what despair on monumental marble, as desolate

as the poet with fixed eye, unable to indite a line? How long might I be

like the hopeless bird--all promise, but not one unfolded gleam of

beauty? In this free air am I to find the poetic pressure of a prison?

In this old cheerful home, a poet's garret? With your abundant and

hospitable board before me, can I write as famous men of old, when they

wanted a dinner? Am I to sit here, as one has said, waiting for

inspiration as a rusty conductor for a flash of lightning? My dear sir,

I surely can plead exemption. Let me come here, if we live, next

Christmas season or at the early spring or autumnal gathering. I will

provide two if you please. If the first should weary, then the circle

can hope that I have kept the best for the last."

"I do not think that it will answer for one to be a hearer who has no

paper of his own. So let me insist on your compliance."

"Well sir, if you insist on it, I must see what I can do. Would you

object to my producing a poem already published by me in a New York

paper?"

"I am sorry to say that would not be in accordance with our rules. The

piece must be composed for our social gathering."

"Well I must then make the attempt. I would weave a short romance out of

some story I have heard in my travels. But I am always afraid of the sad

being who, searching to the fag-end of memory says, after hearing you,

and approving, let me see, I have heard that, or something like it,

before! I once learned a lesson and received a nervous shock which

easily returns, as I was about to address a meeting, and under a sudden

impression asked the most knowing inhabitant of the village, 'Did any of

the speakers who have addressed you ever tell such a story?' 'Oh! yes,'

said he, with sudden alarm, 'Every one who has been here has told that

story.' Yet that was my main stay, argument, illustration, eloquence. I

had to do the best I could without it. Since then I am in a trepidation

lest I fall into the pit from which I kept my feet at that time."

"Well so much the better. Such caution will insure variety."

"Do not be too sure of that. Excessive care often leads us to the very

errors it would avoid."

So our conversation closed. The paper was written and read. I looked

some time ago in vain for my piece among the Overlook papers. Strange to

say, it was not there. I saw the Judge originally endorse it and tie it

up in the collection. Meta told me when I expressed my surprise that the

document was missing, that she must confess that when she was younger

and more silly, and had her taste less cultivated, she took it one day,

after I had left her father's, secretly from the pile. Regarding it as

of such small consequence, she had not put it back in its place; and as

it was also particularly weak in having a few sentences evidently meant

for her to understand as no one else could. She will find it, she says,

when she next examines her old papers and letters. And she assures me

that it must be safe, because the old house would not trouble itself to

destroy it; the Overlook moths would not dare to touch it, and that it

is destined to outlive its author, even if he had brass enough in him to

make a monument.

I.

_DR. BENSON, OR THE LIVING MAN EMBALMED FOR TWENTY YEARS._

The United States is the oldest country in the world. Many of its

institutions are of a venerable antiquity which cast those of Europe

into the shade. By their side those of Great Britain, France and Germany

seem but of yesterday. The honest impressions of each man substantiate

these assertions so clearly that all argument on the subject would be as

great a work of supererogation as that of carrying shade to a forest.

Ages, countless ages, as all reflecting men are aware, have been

requisite for the development of man into the highest type of

civilization. Not less, it is obvious, than five thousand years could

elevate any human being into a genuine Yankee. Such an immense space of

time must have elapsed before man, passing through each primeval epoch,

could have worn away on Plymouth Rock the caudal appendages that impeded

the progress of humanity.

We have such remarkable institutions among us, such progressive

theorists upon all possible subjects, that the foundations of our

cities must have been laid simultaneously with those of the Pyramids.

A like conviction arises as we compare our accomplished financiers who

can raise up in any plain, mountains of gold, and turn little streams of

promise into seas of bank notes, with the Indian magician whose alchemy

transmuted mutterings and strange figures in the ashes into comfortable

fires, venison, bear's meat, and a variety of comforts for his

terror-striking wigwam. Are there not noted streets in our cities where

some men have discovered the philosopher's stone?

And then look on the systems of our modern politics. Each man can see

what glacier periods have been over the land, what thickness of ice

impenetrable to pure rays from above, melted from beneath, ice which has

ground down to dust the ancient heights of honor, of modest nature

distrusting itself. Yes, we are the oldest people in the wide world.

Even the little village where my history directs our attention has one

savor of dignified antiquity. It has had a long series of names in no

rapid succession. Our antiquarians have not paid sufficient attention to

this subject of the succession of such names borne by our villages and

towns. One cause is our nervous apprehension, that such a study will

reveal a former state of society which people of strong prejudice may

not mention to our honor. Citizens who have long purses acquired in the

sale of farms divided into town lots, who have highly educated and

refined children, do not wish any one to contradict them while they

intimate their illustrious descent, by saying that they remember when

their father or grandfather dwelt at Scrabbletown, Blackeye or

Hardcorner. The honest truth is that these names of these rural towns do

indicate the transmigration of the souls of the places into different

social forms. They often tell of the original solitude, the cluster of

poor dwellings of men a little above the Indian, of small taverns

springing up as the devil has sown the seed, of the free-fights, of the

loose stones in the roads, the mud immeasurably deep, of the reformation

with the advent of the itinerant preacher, of the church, of the

school-house, of the rapid progress in general prosperity. In place of

yielding to the seductive influence of the disquisition which offers

itself to my toil, I shall consider it sufficient to say of our village

that it was honored by becoming the residence of Dr. Benson. It is

sufficient for me to inform my reader that at the time when my history

commences his fame and occupation gave the title to the place. Indeed,

in his honor it bore successively the names of Pill-Town, and Mortar and

Pestle city.

His general history was not one that is uncommon in our land. Many a man

of small education, but who has had a natural turn for the study of

simple means for the cure of ordinary diseases in a country

neighborhood has acquired considerable skill, and done more good, and

far less evil, than could have been anticipated. In fact the ignorant

often lean on such a man with special confidence. They prefer his

services to those of the well-taught and meritorious physician. For they

think it easily explicable, that the learned doctor should often cure

the diseased. Books have taught him what medicines are needful for those

who are sick. But around the quack there is a delightful cloud of

mystery. His genius was surely born with him. He has stumbled on his

remedies by some almost supernatural accident. And then there is the

exciting and most pleasant doubt whether he has not had some dealings

with the devil. You have moreover this advantage, that you acquire all

the benefit of his compact with the evil one, without any guilt on your

part. All that is evil lies on the head of the practitioner.

How noble the calling of the true physician! What more need we say of

his office than that in every sick-room he can look to the Redeemer, and

feel that he employs him to do, what he was continually doing by his own

words when he was on the earth? "Without the power of miracles,"--I

quote from memory words that fell from the lips of one very dear to me

whose voice is no more heard on earth, and I fear I mar the

sentence,--"Without the power of miracles, he goes about doing good, the

blessed shadow of our Lord; and by him God gives sight to the blind,

hearing to the deaf, enables the lame to walk and raises up those almost

fallen into the sleep of death."

As I write, the manly form of our family physician, the form that we

laid in the grave a few years ago, rises before me. Oh! what

unselfishness, what high sense of honor and professional duty, what

compassion for human infirmities, what a grand and enduring perception

of the brotherhood of man, of the one family of rich and poor, learned

and ignorant, didst thou then learn, our dear kind friend, in thy

innumerable ministrations! Literary men have too often indulged in cheap

humor at the cost of the physician. It is easy to caricature anything

grand and sacred. It is easy to cure in the pages of the novel the sick

man who plays his pranks at the expense of the doctor, and eats his

meat, and drinks his wine when the medical advice assures him that he

must fast or die. Just imagine one of these literati to send for his

physician in haste.

"Doctor," he exclaims, "it is well you have come! Do give me some

relief."

"Wait a moment," exclaims the physician! "I have something to read to

you."

"Read to me, doctor! Why I am ill,--alarmed. Depend upon it, I am very

sick. Prescribe for me at once."

"Prescribe for you! Why hear what you wrote concerning physicians. If

they are what you describe, you should never ask them to come near your

sick bed."

"But I wrote only in jest. I described the pretender."

"No, my dear sir, your assault is without limitation. Your attack is

against all men of my profession. Your words were adapted to aid the

ignorant popular prejudice against our art. I will read to you."

I cannot but think that, in such a case, there are not a few writers of

light literature, who would be forced to perceive the meanness of their

assault on a noble profession.

Our hero commenced his public career in a blacksmith's shop, where he

gave assistance in the useful work done by his master on the anvil.

There he displayed a curious talent for healing the diseases of the

horses, which the farmers brought to the place. This gave him some

notoriety. And he never was sent for to heal as a veterinary doctor, on

any occasion, when he did not have the confidence of a man whose eyes

pierced far through the skin, and saw the secret causes of disease.

A change in his fortunes occurred, when a skilful physician, who fled

from France in a time of great political trouble, came to reside in his

neighborhood. All the spare time that our hero could command he spent in

serving him in his fishing excursions--rowing his boat for him, and

pointing out the best places where he could cast his hook--an act that

seemed to be his best solace as an exile. The good stream or lake that

well repaid his skill and patience in the use of his rod, was almost to

him for a season, a Lethe between him and beautiful France.

The amiable Frenchman was not destined long to endure any sorrows on our

soil. At his death, Benson became the possessor of his few books, his

few surgical instruments and some curious preparations. He rented a

small house near the blacksmith's shop and tavern, and placed his books,

the instruments, some strange bones, a curious stuffed animal, and some

jars and bottles prominently in the window. He also had some

unaccountable grandeur of scientific words, understood by all to be

French--a public supposition in evidence of his having been a favorite

pupil of the doctor. And then, as he was a capital fellow at a drink, it

is no marvel that he acquired practice with rapidity. And as money

flowed into his pocket, unhappily the whisky, in a proportionate manner,

flowed down his throat. But as he had an established reputation, he of

course received the compliment: "I would rather have Benson to cure me

if he was drunk than to have any other doctor to cure me if he was

sober." Such was the confidence of the men of Pill-Town in his skill.

Oftentimes when his brain was excited by his potations, he would wander

off into the woods and seek roots and plants, talking to himself in

strange words, and bent, apparently, on some great discovery. He began

to throw out vague hints to some of his companions that he knew of some

strange secret, and could perform a work more wonderful than he had ever

before done in all his practice. But as his associates never dreamed

that any one would make experiments on the bodies of men, and as his

talk of philosophy seemed to be in the clouds, they, more akin to the

clods of earth, heard him with blank minds, so that when he had done

talking, there was no more impression left, than the shadows of passing

birds left on their fields.

Once as he sat with a friend over a bottle of famous whisky, which is

your true leveler, placing the man of science on a level with the

ignorant boor, he gave him a full account of a singular adventure which

he had with an Indian physician. It was a peculiarity of the doctor that

his memory and power of narration increased, as he imbibed increasing

quantities of his primitive beverage. He said that he had wandered away

from home one fine morning, and been lost in the distant forest. He

became very weary and fell asleep. His slumbers were broken by some

sounds that were near to him, and looking through the bushes he saw a

majestic Indian who was searching with great diligence for some roots,

whose use he had imagined no man knew but himself. The doctor said that

he rose, and approaching him with due professional dignity, informed him

that he supposed he was one of the medical fraternity. His natural

conjecture proved to be very correct. They soon became very sociable,

and pledged each other in several good drinks from a flask which the

white man fortunately carried in his pocket. The savage M. D. finally

took him to his laboratory, and in return for some communications from

one well versed in the modern state of medical science in France, which

the red man listened to with the most intense admiration, he disclosed a

variety of Indian cures. Above all he told of a marvelous exercise of

his power, and related the secret means employed under the assurance of

the most solemn promise that it should not be divulged. Dr. Benson told

his friend that this great secret was in his mind morning and evening;

that when he waked at night it haunted him, and that he could not cease

to think of it if he would make every attempt.

When the bottle was nearly empty he said that if his hearer would

promise great secrecy he would relate the narrative of the Indian. The

other gave the required assurances. Three times however the doctor

repeated one specific caution,--"Would he promise not to tell it to his

wife?" and receiving three most earnest pledges, that no curtain

inquisition should exert its rack so successfully, as to extort any

fragment of the confidence, the relater proceeded without fear. I will

tell you, said he, how the red-skin doctor influenced the welfare of a

great Indian Prince.

Awaha was king of a tribe whose territory bordered on one of the great

northern lakes. The eagle soaring when the heavens were filled with the

winged tribes, was not more conspicuous and more supreme in grandeur,

than he, when he stood among all the assembled warriors of the north. As

the thunder-peal when the bolt tore the great oak on the mountains, so

that it must wither and die, exceeded all the other tumult of the storm,

so the shout he uttered in battle was heard amid the fierce cries of

conflict.

The hearts of all the beautiful maidens moved at his approach, as the

graceful flags and wild-flowers move when the breath of the evening wind

seems to seek rest as it passes over the quiet lake. The Indian mothers

said that it was strange that he sought no wife, when his deeds had gone

before him, and seemed to have softened the hearts of such as the wisest

of his race might have chosen for him. He had come from the battles a

great warrior. Were there not daughters of his tribe, who became more

stately and more grave, as though they heard great battle songs when he

came near? Were not these fitted to be the wives of great braves,--the

mothers of sons whose fame would last in war-songs? Surely the great

warrior had need to speak to one who would be saddest of all when he was

away, and most glad when his shadow fell upon the threshold! He speaks

not, and the air around him is too still. The sunbeams seemed wintry,

waiting for his voice. He seemed to leave the paths through the forest

very lonely. The great mountain's summit must not ever be alone, covered

with ice and snow, bright in the sun and in the moonbeams. Let spring

come and cover it with soft green, and let the sweet song fill its

trees, as the warm light streamed over it from the morning.

Many of the tribe marvelled that he did not seek for a bride the

beautiful Mahanara. Some said that it was whispered among those who knew

her best, that her thoughts were as the scent of the sweet vine she had

planted and trained over the door of her wigwam, intended for the narrow

circle at home, but drifting away far off on the fitful breeze; for when

she would not, she sighed as she remembered the young warrior.

Once, some of the village girls told her that they heard that he had

chosen a bride who lived far beyond the waters, and the great ridge of

the Blue Mountains.

She replied, and her words seemed to die as they reached the ear, that

the one whom he had chosen for his wife, ought not to plant the corn for

his food but where the flowers covered the sod which she was to overturn

in her spring tasks, that she must bring him water from the spring on

the high hills where the Great Spirit had opened the fountains with his

lightning, and where in vallies the pure snow lingered longest of all

that fell in the winter; that when he came back from the hunter's far

journey or from the terrors of his war path, her face must assure him of

all the love and praise of his tribe, as the lake tells all the moon and

stars shed abroad of glory in the pure midnight.

The story that was a secret sorrow to her was false, and no maiden

should have whispered it. It came not over a path that was trodden by

warriors. The dove would not fly in the air which was burdened by such

tidings. Awaha loved her, and because she feared to meet him freely, and

seemed to turn away as he drew near, he thought that she loved him not.

One night he fell asleep by the great fire of the hunters. The

companions of the chase had counted their spoils, and spoke with joy of

their return, of the glad smiles that awaited them, of the hum of the

voices of the children as they drew near to the village.

He dreamt that he came near to his solitary dwelling-place. He was all

alone on the path of the forest. He heard the unending sounds which are

in the great wilderness, none of which ever removes the lonely shadow

from the heart,--the shadow that has fallen on endless generations, that

speaks of countless graves amid the trees, and of countless hosts that

are out of sight in the spirit land.

That I could hear, he thought, one voice breaking the stillness of my

way! That I could look to the end of the thick trees and know that when

I issued from their darkness, as the light would be above me, so the

light would be in my home.

As he was thus borne away by the fancies of the night he murmured the

name of Mahanara.

By his side was her brother, who loved him more than his life. He heard

the name, and rejoiced in the assurance which it taught him. When he

spoke of the murmur of the dream the next day, as they were alone on the

great prairie, he received the open confession. And then the brother

uttered words which filled the heart with hope.

When they returned from the hunting-grounds he directed his steps to the

dwelling of her father,--crossing to reach it, the little stream that

she loved to watch as it foamed amid the white stones that rested in

its bed.

Around the walls were trophies of the chase and of the battle. But the

wild songs and the stories of former days were no more heard from his

lips. He seldom spoke but of the Spirit-land, and in strange words for

the home of the Indian, prayed that the Great One would teach the tribes

to love peace. He said he was going to new hunting grounds, but not to

new war paths. The people of the wilderness that he would meet in the

sky would speak in voices that never would utter the cry of strife.

When the evening came upon them, and the old man sat silent, looking

gladly on the stars, Awaha said to Mahanara, "Walk with me to these

fir-trees that echo murmurs to yon stream."

"Mahanara's place is here," she said gently. "Here she can prepare the

corn and the venison, and spread the skins for her guest. But in the

fir-grove there is no door for her to open. There she cannot say,

Welcome. There she cannot throw the pine-knot on the flames to brighten

the home for thy presence. Stay here and say some words of the

Spirit-land to my father. I will sew the beads, and weave the split

quills, and the voices I shall hear shall be pleasant like the mingling

of the murmurs of the rill and of the wind when the leaves that we see

not are in motion, sounds which I so love, for they were among the

first sounds I heard by the side of my mother."

Then he replied, "I must say here what I would have said to thee under

the stars and the night. Why was it not said in the days that are past?

The stream could not come to the water-flower, for it was frozen. The

sun came the other day, and the winter-power took off its bonds from the

stream. Long have I loved thee--loved thee here as I wandered in the

village--loved thee far off on the prairies--loved thee when the shout

told that the vanquished fled from our onset. Be my bride, and the Great

Spirit will know where is the Indian whose step on earth is the

lightest."

He saw that the tears were falling fast as he spoke, and that she did

move as a maiden at the plea of her lover.

"Thou hast waited," she said, "to move thy flower until the winter has

hold of its roots in the ground hard as the rock. Hadst thou come before

the snow had melted, then Mahanara had gone with thee. Then together we

had cared for him who can go out on the hunt no more. But seest thou

these links of the bleached bone carved with these secret symbols? Seest

thou the fragment of the broken arrow-head? Thou knowest how these bind

me to another. I will pray for thee to the Great Spirit. A warrior's

wife may pray for a warrior. Seek thou another and a better bride among

the daughters of our tribe."

"It cannot be," he said. "I shall go away from the land where the sun

shines, like the lone tree amid the rocks. It shall wither and die, and

who will know that it ever cast its shade for the hunter."

"Ah not so," she said, "it is the shadow of to-day. Seek the wife that

is on the earth for thee. If she has sorrow send for me and I will hold

up her fainting head. If I comfort her, then shall I also comfort thee.

I will speak the praises of thy tribe and she will love me."

Awaha sat in his lonely house day after day, and friends looked on him

in sorrow and said that the Great Spirit was calling him, for his last

path was trodden. They sought me in their sorrow, not regarding the long

weary journey. My home is in a deep dark cave on the side of the

mountain. The great horn from the monster that has never roamed the

forest since the Indian began to hand down the story of his day hangs on

the huge oak at the entrance. The blasts shake the forest, and I hear it

far down below the springs in the earth where I burn my red fires.

In vain I tried all my arts to drive from him the deep and lasting

sorrow. So I sought the aid of my mother whose home is near the great

river that pours its waters from the clouds--over which the storm of

heaven seems to rage in silence. She heard my story, and she arrayed

herself in her strange robe bright with the skins of snakes from a land

where the sun always keeps the earth green and warm. On her head were

the feathers of the eagle and of the hawk.

She kindled her fire on the stones that were heaped together and threw

in them bones and matted hair.

Then she drank of the cup, death to all but for her lips, and poured

that which was left on the flame. The fire told her the story of days

that were to come. She said that Awaha must live. When three winters had

come and gone Mahanara would be alone, for wrapped in his hunting skins,

the braves would lay her husband in his grave. Let him live--let Awaha

live--for he and Mahanara shall yet dwell among their people. The vine

shall fall. It can twine around another tree. Let Awaha live.

So I sought him--and his eye was dim--he scarce knew the voices of those

around him. I gave him the precious elixir which my mother alone on

earth could draw from roots such as no eye of man has ever seen. The

young men placed him on a litter and bore him to a far off river. There

we made the raft, covered it with leaves, and we floated gently onward

to my cave. Then I said leave him with me. In a few days he will have

strength and shall go down these waters to his canoe. A new home shall

he seek where there are no paths ever trodden by Mahanara. There he

shall not look round as the breeze moves the bushes, as though she was

near him. He shall not see flowers there which shall say, you gathered

such for her in the warm days when the Indian village was full of hearts

as bright as the sun shining down upon it. The woods everywhere has a

place for the warrior. There are no mountains where the battle-cry

cannot echo. There are no red men where the great man shall not be

great. I then gave him strange food that a hunter from the spirit land

once threw down at the tent of my mother when she had healed his little

child that he left to the care of his tribe. I then compounded in the

cup which was white and shining, as it had been on a high rock for ages

to be bleached in the moonbeams, the draught that he was to drink that

he might sleep for three years. I laid him gently in the clift in the

rock above my cave. The warm spring ran winter and summer beneath the

place of his rest. I covered him with light bruised roots that would add

to his strength. I placed over him the cedar boughs, matted, so that the

rain could reach him. Over these, folds of leaves well dried in the heat

of the cavern. I laid the loose stones over all and scattered the dust

there which the beasts flee from, waking the echo of the forest. There

he slept until the great stillness come over the husband of Mahanara,

and the great song had told of his wisdom, of his battles, as the

warriors stood by his grave.

One day she sat by the side of the stream,--and not on the bank where

she had often chanted the wild song to Awaha. Her hands were forming the

beautiful wampum belt. I came to her, and as we spoke of past days, her

eye rested on the chain of Awaha, that I wound and unwound as if I

thought not of it, before her eyes that rested on it for a moment only

to look away, and to look far down into the deep water.

I laid it secretly near her,--and left her, crossing on the white stones

of the stream, and passing into the deep forest.

When the dark night came over all the village, I crept silently to her

wigwam. There she sat by the fire and pressed the chain to her heart,

and looked sadly on the flames that rose and fell, and gleamed on one

who was near and unknown.

He must live. So I sought him when the red star was over the mountain.

Three moons more could he have slept, and have yet been called from his

sleep to see the bright sunbeams.

Oh how beautiful the warrior, when all the coverings were taken away,

and I saw him again as on the day when he first fell into his slumber.

As I waked him, he said, "yesterday you said that I should live. I feel

strange strength after the sleep of the night that is past."

When he fell asleep a great night had crept up to his eye,--and he saw

not the hunting-ground,--the fierce battle,--the wigwam,--but

darkness,--and beyond it darkness,--and beyond that the land of all

spirits. Now his eye was sad,--but he looked as one who heard voices

call him to go forth, and be not as the stone that lies on the

hill-side.

I sought Mahanara, and told her that he would come back from far, and

would seek her as the bride of a warrior. I sent him to her home, and he

trod the forest paths as the sunshine sweeps from wave-crest to

wave-crest in the brook that hurries on, leaving the sound of peace in

its murmurs. So out of the years they met, as the breeze so sweet from

over the wild-flowers and trees of the valley, and the wind that carried

strength from the sides of the mountain.

"Can you marvel that they call me the great medicine man among the

tribes? Thou art a great brother. Thy fire-water is good. The white men

honor thee. Thou keepest the sod that is wet with tears from being

turned over. They call thee the very great man of thy tribe." I will not

tell you all that he said of me. Let others learn that of him, and speak

of it. Then he said,--"Brother tell thou me more of thy wonderful

powers. I will teach thee how to mingle the cup for the sleep of many

years." "So he told me," said the doctor, "how to compound the mixture.

And the secret no one shall hear from my lips. If you will, I will put

you to sleep for as long a time as you can desire. Put your money out

at interest. Go to sleep until all you have has been doubled. Then let

me wake you, and you can enjoy it."

This desire to put a fellow-creature into this sleep took possession of

the doctor, and it was his dream by day and night, when he was tipsy, or

half ready to become so. He tried to persuade a good-natured negro,

Jack, who lived near his premises, to indulge in the luxury. But Jack

assured him that he was as much obliged to him as if he had done it.

At last he formed his plan, and attempted to carry it into execution.

There was Job Jones, who lived, nobody knew how, and nobody cared

whether he lived or not. When he could gain a few coppers, he was a

great and independent statesman at the tavern. And when he had no pence,

he walked along in the sun as if he had no business in its light, and

with a cast-down look as if he thanked the world for not drowning him,

like supernumerary kittens.

So one evening the doctor easily enticed Job to his office. Then he

partook of whisky until he lost all sense of all that occurred around

him. The poor fellow soon fell asleep. The great experimenter dragged

him to a box prepared for him in the cellar. Then he poured down his

throat the final draught, and covered him with great boughs of cedar. He

then ascended to his office. His first thought was that of triumph.

"There," he said, "was that shallow Doctor Pinch, the practitioner at

the next village, who had called him an ignoramus, and said that he was

not fit to be the family physician of a rabbit. He had written the

account of the boy who had fallen down and indented his skull, and that

some of his brains had to be removed,--all done so skilfully by Doctor

Pinch, that he was ever after, a brighter fellow than ever before. His

mother always boasted of the manner in which the doctor had 'japanned'

his skull. But what will he be when I wake up Job? Sleep away, Job! You

will have for years to come, the easiest life of any man in these United

States. No want of shoes, or clothes, or whisky. When you wake you shall

have a new suit, after the fashion of that coming time. Doctor Pinch!

Pooh! what is Doctor Pinch to Doctor Benson?"

After a little while a cry of murder rang through his half intoxicated

brain. A great chill crept over his frame. The night became horrible in

its stillness.

He must try the old resource. It never failed, whisky must restore the

energy. He took up the glass from the table. It fell from his hands as

if he was paralyzed.

He had made a fearful mistake. The cup of whisky which he had poured out

for himself was the last drink which he had ministered to Job. He had

taken the sleeping draught by mistake.

When they came, he thought and found him so still, so senseless, and

that for days he never moved, would they not bury him! Then he might

smother in the grave! Or waking some twenty years hence, he would wake

in some tomb, some vile epitaph over him, written by that Pinch, and

call for aid, and die, and die.

He saw himself in his coffin. The neighbors were all around him. The

clergyman was ready to draw an awful moral against intemperance from his

history. He was about to assure his hearers that no one could doubt what

had become of such a man in another world.

His brain became more and more confused. He sank on the floor senseless.

So Job slumbered in the box, and the doctor on the floor of the office.

* * * * *

Twenty years have elapsed. Dr. Benson wakes. It is a clear morning. How

has the world changed! There, out of his window he sees the village.

That row of neat dwellings is his property. He has a pleasant home to

wake in. His wife is the very personification of happiness and

prosperity. The clothes in which he arrays himself are a strange

contrast to the miserable habiliments in which he fell down to sleep on

the office floor twenty years ago. There is the spire of the

church--and thank God, he loves to enter there as a sincere and humble

worshipper.

What a change in this lapse of years! What an awakening! How is the

world altered!

If the doctor's voice reached the ear of the intemperate man, he said,

"Friend, better the fang of the rattlesnake than your cup. The bands

that you think to be threads, are iron bands that are clasping you not

only for your grave, but forever. Awake! and see if the good Lord will

not give you a world changed, as the world has thus been to Dr.

Benson."

II.

_THE GHOST AT FORD INN--NESHAMONY._

PART FIRST.

There, where the time-worn bridge at School House Run,

Spans o'er the stream unquiet as our lives,

You find a place where few will pause at night;

Where the foot-fall is quick, and all press on

As if a winter's blast had touched the frame,

And men drew to themselves. Oft there is seen,

So men aver, the quiet gliding ghost.

Descend yon hill, near woods so desolate,

With upward gloom, and tangled undergrowths,

And shadows mouldering in the brightest day.

Near is the Indian spring's unmurmuring flow.

The summit now is gladdened by the Church.

You leave all village sounds, and are alone,

On grass-worn paths your feet emit no sound.

The thick damp air is full of dreary rest,

And stillness there spreads out like the great night.

Upon the left, hidden by aged oaks,

Is a small cedar grove; where broken winds

Are organ-like with requiem o'er some graves.

A low stone wall, and never-opened gate

Protect the marble records of the dead.

To stand at sunny noon, or starry night

Upon the arch, where you can yield the soul,

Captive to nature's impress, power with peace,

Is stillness from afar. The solitude

Seems linked with some far distant, distant space

In the broad universe, where worlds are not.

Unrest with rest is there. We often call

That peace, where thoughts are deep, but where the soul

Moves as the great, great sea, in mighty waves.

Here memories for tears, forgotten thoughts

Come without seeking. Just as the winds of May

Bring with unlaboring wings, from unknown fields,

Sweet scents from flowers, and from the early grass.

The fearful man, who left the village store,

Near to the cross roads, where the untutored tongue

Supplies the gossip of the printed sheet,

Has here beheld the mist-like, awful ghost.

The rustic lover under midnight stars,

Detained so long by Phebe's sorceries,

His little speech taking so long to say,

Has had his faith sore tried, as he has asked,

Will I, next week, pass here alone, again?

Far the most haunted spot lies yet beyond,

Follow the road until you reach the Ford,

There at the mouldering pile of wall and logs,

Where once the floating raft was as a bridge,

A pure white spirit oftentimes is seen.

She sometimes wanders all along the shore;

Sometimes from off the rocks, she seems to look

For something in the waters. Then again

Where the trees arch the road that skirts the bank,

And night is like the darkness of a cave,

This gentle spirit glides. Earth's sorrow yet,

Its burden, weary burden, borne alone.

Sad is the story of her earthly life.

You see that lonely house upon the green,

With its broad porch beneath that sycamore.

'Tis now a pleasant undisturbed abode.

There lingereth much of ancient time within:

Long may it cling there in these days of change!

Quaint are the rooms, irregular. The bright fire

Glows from the corner fire-place. Often there

I sit, and marvel o'er the shadowy past.

It is a place of welcome. Loving hearts

Extend the welcome. Angels welcome thus.

Dear sisters, reading there the purest page,

Planning some act of gentleness to wo,

The selfishness of solitary life,

Not finding place amid your daily thoughts,

For you commune with that activity

Of love most infinite, that once came down

From the far Heaven, to human form on earth.

The music of the true, the harmony

Of highest thoughts, that have enthroned as kings

The best in heart, and head of all our race,

Have their great kindred echoes as you read.

O as your prayers ascend, pray oft for me,

And then I shall not lose the name of friend.

The golden link that bindeth heart to heart

Forever, is the Love and prayer in Christ.

Since the Great Being gives me love at home,

The Diamond payment for my worth of dust,

Gives me that bright and daily light of earth,

I'm bold, and covetous of Christian love.

This house, in ancient days a wayside inn,

Has sheltered men of mark. Here Washington

Rested his weary head without despair,

Before the sinking tide rose with bright waves

At Trenton, and the spot where Mercer fell.

Here youthful La Fayette was also seen,

Whose smile, benign in age, was joy to me,

As my loved Father, at our fire-side spake

To him, as the true Patriot speaks to those

Who win a nation's homage by their toils.

Here even now, on an age-colored pane,

The letters, diamond-cut, show Hancock's name.

The war had found the host of the Ford Inn

A happy man; no idler round a bar;

For his chief calling was upon his farm,

With rich fields open to the sun, amid

The dense surrounding forests, where the deer

Still lingered by the homes of laboring men.

He bore arms for his country. And he heard

The last guns fired at Yorktown for the free.

One little daughter played around his hearth;

Oft tracked his steps far in the furrowed field;

Looked up with guileless eye in his true face.

After each absence short, her merry shout

Of greeting at his coming, rose as sure

As sounds from those dark cedars on the shore,

When the winds rise and break their mirror there.

Oh happy child! She also learned the love

That places underneath her the strong arms

Of Him who held the children when on earth,

Journeying along his pathway to the cross.

She opened all her gentle Heaven-touched heart

To all the unknown teachings of her home.

The wild-flower's beauty passed into her thoughts,

And as she gazed, and saw in earth and sky,

In every form the love of God stream forth,

She knew of beauty that could never fade.

For He, from whom these emanations came,

Will never cease to be a God revealed.

Happy the child, for her fond parents both

Had souls to kindle with her sympathies.

They learned anew with her the blessed love,

Which makes the pure like children all their days.

With her pure mind repassed the former way,

Their age and youth blended at once in her.

There was a small church in the little town

Of Bristol, some miles distant, over which

A loving pastor ruled with watchful care.

He came from England,--and but few had known

That he was bishop, of that secret line

Which Ken, and other loyalists prolonged,

Prepared for any changes in the realm.

The good man loved his people at the ford.

The child's expanding mind had ample seals

Of his kind guidance. From his store of books

He culled the treasures for her thoughtful eye.

Another memorable influence,

To add refining grace, came from the town.

One, whose sweet beauty threw a woman's charm

Over a household, seeking health in air,

That rustles forest leaves, that sweeps the fields,

Came to their home, and was not useless there.

She threw round Ellen, in resplendent light,

What Ellen knew before, in fainter day.

The lady was so true in all her grace,

Such open nature, that the child, all heart,

Could think, could love, could be as one with her.

How sad, that the refinement of the world,

Should often be the cost of all that's true!

From the volcano's side the dreadful stream,

That buried the great city, pressed its way,

To every room of refuge. Prison ne'er

Gave bondage like those dark and awful homes.

Around each form came the encrusting clay:

Death at the moment. Dying ne'er so still.

In passing ages all the form was gone:

The dark clay held the shapes of what had been,

And when the beauteous city was exhumed,

Into those hollows, moulds of former life,

They poured the plaster, and regained the form,

Of men, or women, as they were at death.

So all that lives in nature, in the heart,

Is often, living, buried by the world,

By its dead stream. Dust only can remain.

And in its place the statue--outward all

The form of beauty--the pretense of soul.

How the child basked in all her loveliness!

Unconscious, she was moulded day by day,

Sweet buds that in her heart strove to unfold,

Had waited for that sun. And Ellen saw

Her mother in changed aspect. The soft charms

Of her new friend, revealed at once in her,

More of the woman's natural tenderness.

The gentle child, had not a single love

For all the varied scenes of bank and stream--

And these to her were almost all the earth,

But as each glory centered round her home.

If the descending sun threw down the light

Tinged with the mellow hues of autumn leaves,

Upon the waters till they shone as gold,

And yet diminished not the million flames

That burnt upon the trees, all unconsumed,

It was to her a joy. But deeper joy

Came with the thought, that all her eye surveyed,

Was but a repetition of the scene,

When her fond mother, at some former day,

Had by her side blessed God for these his works.

And all the softest murmurs of the air

Recalled her father's step, and his true voice.

Thus home entwined itself with every thought,

As that great vine with all that wide-branched oak.

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 dame

And her young daughter entered the Ford Inn.

As Ellen gazed upon the little one

Whose eye recalled the dove, and then the gleam

That morning threw upon her much loved waves,

And on the tresses, like the chesnut fringe

In full luxuriance, she came forth and stood

With such a guileless, and admiring love,

That tenderness was won. And then they strolled

O'er Ellen's favorite haunts. She asked the child,

Have you such waters, and such trees beside

Your home far off? The little languid eye

Gazed vacantly on all the beauty there,

And then, as one who had not heard the words,

And least of all could give forth a response

To nature's loving call, even as it passed

To 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 fall

A veil between the two--a veil like night.

All Ellen's greater, deeper swell of tides

Of soul, forever dashing on the cliffs

On which mind's ocean-great forever beat

Their swell of thunder, here could find no height

That could reverberate. And yet her heart

Was 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 sympathy

With 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 true

To all that One in heaven had said to her,

Were most alluring powers. Ellen forgot

Wherein they differed: And their souls then chimed

As 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 pomp

Of 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 one

Above 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 sought

Her mother; whose companionship was peace:

Who ever won her to her wonted rest.

There is a poetry in many hearts

Which only blends with thought through tenderness:

It never comes as light within the mind

Creating forms of beauty for itself.

It has an eye, and ear for all the world

Can have of beauty. You will see it bend

Over the cradle, sorrow o'er the grave.

It knows of every human tie below,

The vast significance. Unto its God

It renders homage, giving incense clouds

To waft its adorations. By the cross,

It hears the voice, "How holy all is here!"

It speaks deep mysteries, and yet the clue

Is most apparent to the common mind.

Its sayings fall like ancient memories;

We so accept them. Natures such as these

Are often common-place, until the heart

Is 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 road

Full of dry dust. And such the mother was.

So as we tell you of the child, there needs

No 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 help

Rang in their ears. It was a manly voice

Grieving through pain. They turned aside, and found

A stranger, who had fallen, as he leapt

From out his boat. His fallen gun and dress

Proclaimed the sportsman. Aid was soon at hand,

And in their dwelling he found friends, and care.

Days past. His mother came, and soon she found

He 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 stood

Irresolute, the spell was fixed: as when

The power of spring thaws winter to itself.

She knew her son was worthy: and she knew

Here, 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 light

Of her paternal home. Their winter's fires

Mingled their gleam upon the dark night wave,

Or on the ice. By summer's winds her voice

Was 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 placed

Her 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 on

Such 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 assume

The 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 weep

In days of bliss, as she had read the page

Which tells of Jesus bearing his own cross.

His mother came, but Ellen was repelled

By the stern brow of one who met the shock

And would not quail. That hard and iron will

Was so unlike _her_ firmness. She was one

Who had ruled abjects. Sorrow seemed a wrong.

The parting time drew near. And then as one

Who asked as one gives law. "This little boy

Should dwell with me. Thereby shall he attain

All 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 come

And 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 wealth

Of other learning recompense this loss!

Would this stern woman ripen in his heart

Fruits, that angelic eyes beheld with joy?

"When the boy grew, at times she'd gladly send

With thanks, the child to all this proffered care."

But now--to send him now! Why at the thought

A 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 held

The 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 stars

The Neshamony, and its hurried waves,

Rising and falling all around her path.

No peace in all the Heavens that she could see

Was 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 make

The 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 road

Gleamed all the night with torches. But no cheer

Rose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.

One traveler said, that on a distant road

He 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 devised

By that poor mother to regain her child!

Her parents tried, as if for life and death

To give her aid: and saw that she must die:

For patience such as hers was all too grand

To linger long on earth. She day by day

Trod her old haunts. But never did she see

The Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lips

Moved with perpetual prayer. And when she leaned

On those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest,

She was as quiet as in days, when she

Was but an infant. When they spoke of hope

She 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 had

To love the sorrowing! By the dying bed

She seemed as if she had not known a pang,

Her voice so peaceful. Little children round

Gazed sorrowful: and in their confused thought

Deemed that the anguish of her little child

Weeping its mother, was her dying pain;

And thought how desolate fond hearts would be

If 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 dwelt

In its forsaken walls, a light was seen

In 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 owl

Along her pathway, you may hasten on

Sure 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 around

By field and wood--for you may see her form

Along the shore she gladdened with her life--

A shore of many sorrows at the last.

III.

_MY FIRST ATTEMPT AT BIOGRAPHY;--OR, LITERATURE FOR A FAIR WIDOW._

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 and composed, 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 the widow, 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 human character 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 the _Newark 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. She had 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, I would 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 my

work, 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 the gazers 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 of my 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--a lady 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 and admiration. 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 anything which 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 have been 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 addressed to

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 them out 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 into the 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 gave me 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 who knew 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 that

wisdom 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

and philosophers, 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 mind on

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 wrong

by 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

Caesar 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, "For the 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. Every letter 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. I hope 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 so terribly 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 conversation with 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.

IV.

_KATYDIDS:--A NEW CHAPTER IN NATURAL HISTORY._

John Jones, a man who said he hated strife,

Had from the altar led an able wife.

No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow;

Temper and Time are rivals with their plow.

Some said that she was gentle as the May;

That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day.

Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense,

If I proclaim you void of common sense,

When you would have your wives to know no will,

To have no thought but such as you instill;

To be your shadows, never to suggest,

Each judgment crossing yours at once represt;

And to suppose, that every chiding word

Shall from your bearded lips alone be heard.

If no resistance met us in our home,

What petty tyrants would all men become?

The little wits that most of men possess,

For want of sharp'ning would become far less;

The selfish streams that flow from out our will,

So far corrupted be more stagnant still:

And restless, we should wage an inward war,

But for the soothing rays of home's true star.

Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end,

In me, at least, they'll find a sturdy friend.

I give my witness, I who have been thrown,

Widely with all in Country and in Town,

Women are best of all our fallen race,

Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace,

And if our homes are not the abodes of peace,

The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease.

In that small dwelling there--from morn to night,

A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight;

A plain poor woman, in a common dress,

Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address.

Just wend thy way unto the little brook,

Day after day upon its waters look,

See every day the self-same ripples there,

On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare.

So she from day to day the course of life,

Finds one recurring call of labor's strife,

Save when God's blessed day of rest hath come,

And its sun shines, as in the church, at home.

Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone,

She has God's will to do, and it is done.

With tender care she trains her youthful band,

And never wearies in her heart or hand;

Is ready, when the music in her ear,

From one loved step, proclaims her husband near,

To spread the frugal board, the welcome give,

In each act say, for self I do not live.

Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing care

How her dear love doth follow everywhere,

Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed,

When the long sickness bowed thy weary head,

Watching,--to her all sacrifice as light,

As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night.

Ah 'tis most noble, manly, not to know

How light o'er all doth from her presence flow,

And when a quicker word in haste doth fall,

To speak of her, as if strife was her all.

What could she say, if she replied to thee,

Told to the world her secret misery,

Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought,

Where but a look the healing balm had brought.

One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death,

A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath.

Slowly she dies,--and with prophetic eye

Tracing the course of human destiny,

I see a home she brightened, hence so lone,

Its calm day darkened, and its music gone;

The young, the old with anxious cares opprest,

Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their rest

On the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide,

My tears can fall, and standing by thy side,

I know a woman's place, a woman's worth,--

I know the gift of God in her to earth.

Thou will not let thy wife become to thee,

That which her nature claims that she should be.

Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart,

Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart,

Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more true

More wise, more bold each noble deed to do.

Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt find

Her strength indeed, by this just bond of mind.

You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might,

Forever boasting that thy wrong is right.

Without her soul to thine, the page is dull

Of all life's work,--and with this it is full

Of all illumined splendors, as of old,

The precious writings were adorned with Gold.

Ah view that cell so dark!--the felon there,

With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair.

He once in princely splendor lived his day,

Lord of the street, a monarch in his way.

His costly revels gained an envied fame,

Where shallow fops, and women like them came.

Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy God defy?

Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie?

If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife,

Made known to her the secret guilty strife,

Told of the awful chance, the business dice,

The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice,

Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do,

Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you?

She would have said, in woman's faith so strong,

"We may be poor,--we never will do wrong.

Take all this splendor; let it fade away,

But stand thou honest as the open day."

Would she have been to thee a feeble stay?

We make the woman weak where she is weak;

We school her feeble; feebleness we seek.

We make believe that life is pompous pride,

That she is blest, by gold when gratified,

This my conclusion, as the world we scan,

What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man.

But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed,

Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed.

He draws his trail of briars round life's ring,

And wonders he is caught by everything.

Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child,

Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild.

Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate,

As like her sire as pewter plate to plate.

And they together almost vexed to death,

The wife, the target of their arrowed breath.

Sometimes the patient creature's anger rose

Their petty wrongs, and malice to oppose.

And tempers such as hers, men do not try

By single deeds that cause some misery;

Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long,

Their anger speaks accumulated wrong.

Kate had her beauty, and her household skill,

And in due time her Jack had found his Gill,

He was a man as meek as man could be,

And could not dream of woman's tyranny.

He was a pleasant man to smile "good day,"

And had the art to say what others say;

Thought his old saws came from a welling-spring

In his own mind--not knowing he did bring

All that so softly from his lips e'er fell,

As vapid water from his neighbor's well--

The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone,

And so the world of curs let him alone.

Not to an infant could Kate gentle be,

As to a creature, meek and kind as he.

How could she tear the vine that round her grew,

Ready to fall with every wind that blew.

The wife made battle for him with his friends;

And fighting them, she thus made good amends

For all her patience with him. Thus with care

She spread her shield, and said, attack, who dare.

Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war,

And shout unto the battle from afar,

And her defense at last such habit wrought

Had she assailed him, she herself had fought.

In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind,

And illness, too, its miseries combined.

Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown!

Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train alone

Of thought, declares that reason is denied.

We hear of one who said, I must abide

Behind the door, because I am a clock.

And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shocked

To feel a rat within his stomach run.

The doctor heard: the story being done,

He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure.

You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure."

"Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?"

"'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat."

The man at such a pill must need rebel.

And with good sense he quietly got well.

Kate had her fancies--said she soon would die,

And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy.

"Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn,

The wife who shielded you from many a thorn;

I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made,

Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid.

I'm glad I sent away to Jericho,

That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so.

I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree,

About that scandal that she said of me:

That I was jealous, to my apron string

Tied you--distrustful of my marriage ring.

I'm glad I told her that it was a lie,

And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry.

"And, Oh! poor Will--so helpless when alone,

What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone?

How would I love, a spirit round thy way,

To move, and be thy blessing every day!

To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears,

To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears.

All I can do for thee, thou patient one,

So gentle, tender, loving, all is done.

I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness.

This is, in death, my very great distress.

Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow,

Your clothes are whole--in perfect order now.

Be sure you get a wife that is like me,

In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy.

For you, so long to gentleness allied,

Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide."

Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rain

Most at the time when she inflicted pain,

By her unkind surmise, that he would take

Another wife--did she the world forsake.

"You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true,

I cannot have another--none but you.

You made me what I am the people say;

Another wife might make me; what I pray?

An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like,

Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike.

Another wife might keep the time too late,

Take out the wheels, and snatch away each weight:

And I, neglected, come to a dead stop,

Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop.

But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed,

When you, at last, are numbered with the dead,

As I depend upon your good advice,

Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?"

Never had Bill so great a blunder made;

Never had demon so his cause betrayed.

Changed in her view--a villain lost to shame--

She scarced believed that he could bear his name.

She saw the future. Susan Price was there.

With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair.

The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep?

The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep?

With those same pans would Susan cook their food,

For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood?

Would Susan drink the wine that she had made?

Would all those pickles be to her betrayed?

"Shall that vain thing sit there,--a pretty pass!

Neglecting work, to simper in that glass?

Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old,

And puff it out with pride in every fold?

And of all other insults, this the worst,--

My beating heart is ready here to burst--

She'll use my blue-edged china,--yes she will--

Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill.

"I see her, proud to occupy my chair,

To pour out tea, to smile around her there,

While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake,

And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take.

And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave,

He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave."

Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around,

Heard the full terror of the thunder sound?

Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blast

Rolling vast waves on high whene'er it past?

Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread ire

Poured on the man to burn his soul like fire.

But soon the burst of anger all was o'er,--

And softened, she could speak of death once more.

"And Susan Price can marry whom she will,

And,"--so she argued, "will not marry Bill."

One day she said,--"It is revealed to me

That ere I die, a warning there shall be."

Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more,

As thus she spake, than it had done before.

"Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene,

Death will appear,--the warning intervene.

Death will appear in this our quiet home--

A chicken without feathers will he come."

Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small,

Fame gives us tears,--for laughter it will call.

Fame spreads this whim,--this foolish crazy fear,--

The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near.

There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight--

Mischief to him was ever a delight.--

He heard the story, and his scheme prepared,

And what his brain had purposed, that he dared.

He from a rooster all his feathers tore,

--Had he been learned in the Grecian lore

Heard of the Cynic, old Diogenes,

Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease,

Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time,

With heedlessness to human wants sublime,

When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?"

"All that I ask, hide not from me the sun."

He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl,

When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl,

And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began,

"There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man."

But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought.

Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought,

And forced to enter into Katy's door:

Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor.

She looked upon him, and began to weep.

Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep.

"And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art come

To take my spirit far away from home."

Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace,

She waved the unfeathered monster from its place.

Would drive far off from her the coming ill,--

"Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill."

'Twas overheard--and wide the story spread.

It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said,

In precious wrath,--"They slander thus our Kate;

Some foe devised this in malicious hate;

And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie."

Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply.

"She did it, I am sure," replied the wife,

"She did it, sure as I have breath and life."

"No--Katy didn't," said the man in rage.

"Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wage

A war of words, like these upon my page.