I did not mean to stay there long. My departure was hastened by the

advice of a man who knew me, and told he also knew my New Hampshire

scrape, and that I had better leave Portland as soon as possible. Half

an hour after this good advice I was on my way by cars to Canada. In

Canada I stayed in different small towns near the border, and “kept

moving,” till I thought the New Hampshire matter had blown over a

little, or at least till they had given me up as a “gone case,” and I

then reappeared in Troy.

CHAPTER IX. MARRYING TWO MILLINERS.

BACK IN VERMONT--FRESH TEMPTATIONS--MARGARET BRADLEY--WINE AND

WOMEN--A MOCK MARRIAGE IN TROY--THE FALSE CERTIFICATE--MEDICINE

AND MILLINERY--ELIZA GURNSEY--A SPREE AT SARATOGA--MARRYING ANOTHER

MILLINER--AGAIN ARRESTED OR BIGAMY--IN JAIL ELEVEN MONTHS--A TEDIOUS

TRIAL--FOUND GUILTY--APPEAL TO SUPREME COURT--TRYING TO BREAK OUT OF

JAIL--A GOVERNOR’S PROMISE--SECOND TRIAL--SENTENCE TO THREE YEARS’

IMPRISONMENT.

From Troy I went, first to Newburyport, Mass., where I had some

business, and where I remained a week, and then returned to Troy again.

Next I went to Bennington, Vt., to sell medicines and practice, and I

found enough to occupy me there for full two months. From Bennington to

Rutland, selling medicines on the way, and at Rutland I intended to stay

for some time. My oldest son was there well established in the medical

business, and I thought that both of us together might extend a wide

practice and make a great deal of money.

No doubt we might have done so, if I had minded my medical business

only, and had let matrimonial matters alone. I had just got rid of a

worthless woman in New Hampshire with a very narrow escape from State

prison. But, as my readers know by this time, all experience, even the

bitterest, was utterly thrown away upon me; I seemed to get out of one

scrape only to walk, with my eyes open, straight into another.

At the hotel where I went to board, there was temporarily staying a

woman, about thirty-two years old, Margaret Bradly, by name, who kept a

large millinery establishment in town. I became acquainted with her, and

she told me that she owned a house in the place, in which she and her

mother lived; but her mother had gone away on a visit, and as she did

not like to live alone she had come to the hotel to stay for a few days

till her mother returned. Margaret was a fascinating woman; she knew it,

and it was my miserable fate to become intimate, altogether too intimate

with this designing milliner.

I went to her store every day, sometimes two or three times a day, and

she always had in her backroom, wine or something stronger to treat me

with, and in the evening I saw her at the hotel. When her mother came

back, and Margaret opened her house again, I was a constant visitor. I

was once more caught; I was in love.

Matters went on in this way for several weeks, when one evening I told

her that I was going next day to Troy on business, and she said she

wanted to go there to buy some goods, and that she would gladly take the

opportunity to go with me, if I would let her. Of course, I was only too

happy; and the next day I and my son, and she and one of the young women

in her employ, who was to assist her in selecting goods, started for

Troy. When I called for her, just as we were leaving the house, the old

lady, her mother, called out:

“Margaret, don’t you get married before you come back.”

“I guess I will,” was Margaret’s answer, and we went, a very jovial

party of four, to Troy and put up at the Girard House, where we had

dinner together, and drank a good deal of wine. After dinner my son and

myself went to attend to our business, she and her young woman going to

make their purchases, and arranging to meet us at a restaurant at half

past four o’clock, when we would lunch preparatory to returning to

Rutland.

We met at the appointed place and hour, and had a very lively lunch

indeed, an orgie in fact, with not only enough to eat, but altogether

too much to drink. I honestly think the two women could have laid me and

my son under the table, and would have done it, if we had not looked out

for ourselves; as it was, we all drank a great deal and were very merry.

We were in a room by ourselves, and when we had been there nearly an

hour, it occurred to Margaret that it would be a good idea to humor the

old lady’s dry joke about the danger of our getting married during this

visit to Troy.

“Henry,” said she to my son; “Go out and ask the woman who keeps the

saloon where you can get a blank marriage certificate, and then get one

and bring it here, and we’ll have some fun.”

We were all just drunk enough to see that there was a joke in it, and

we urged the boy to go. He went to the woman, who directed him to a

stationer’s opposite, and presently he came in with a blank marriage

certificate. We called for pen and ink and he sat down and filled out

the blank form putting in my name and Margaret Bradley’s, signing it

with some odd name I have forgotten as that of the clergyman performing

the ceremony. He then signed his own name as a witness to the marriage,

and the young woman who was with us also witnessed it with her

signature. We had a great deal of fun over it, then more wine, and then

it was time for us to hurry to the depot to take the six o’clock train

for Rutland.

Reaching home at about eleven o’clock at night, we found the old lady

up, and waiting for Margaret. We went in and Margaret’s first words

were:

“Well, mother! I’m married; I told you, you know, I thought I should be;

and here’s my certificate.”

The mother expressed no surprise--she knew her daughter better than

I did, then--but quietly congratulated her, while I said not a single

word. My son went to see his companion home, and, as I had not achieved

this latest greatness, but had it thrust upon me, I and my new found

“wife” went to our room. The next day I removed from the hotel to

Margaret’s house and remained there during my residence in Rutland, she

introducing me to her friends as her husband, and seeming to consider it

an established fact.

Three weeks after this mock marriage, however, I told Margaret that I

was going to travel about the State a while to sell my medicines, and

that I might be absent for some time. She made no objections, and as I

was going with my own team she asked me to take some mantillas and a few

other goods which were a little out of fashion, and see if I could not

sell them for her. To be sure I would, and we parted on the best of

terms.

Behold rue now, not only a medical man and a marrying man, but also

a man milliner. When I could not dispose of my medicines, I tried

mantillas, and in the course of my tour I sold the whole of Margaret’s

wares, faithfully remitting to her the money for the same. I think she

would have put her whole stock of goods on me to work off in the same

way; but I never gave her the opportunity to do so.

My journeying brought me at last to Montpelier where I proposed to stay

awhile and see if I could establish a practice. I had disposed of my

millinery goods and had nothing to attend to but my medicines--alas that

my professional acquirements as a marrying man should again have been

called in requisition. But it was to be. It was my fate to fall into the

hands of another milliner.

“Insatiate monster! would not one suffice?”

It seems not. There was a milliner at Rutland whose family and, friends

all believed to be my wife, though she knew she was not; and here in

Montpelier, was ready waiting, like a spider for a fly, another milliner

who was about to enmesh me in the matrimonial net. I had not been in

the place a week before I became acquainted with Eliza Gurnsey. I could

hardly help it, for she lived in the hotel where I stopped, and although

she was full thirty-five years old, she was altogether the most

attractive woman in the house. She was agreeable, good-looking,

intelligent, and what the vernacular calls “smart.” At all events, she

was much too smart for me, as I soon found out.

She had a considerable millinery establishment which she and her younger

sister carried on, employing several women, and she was reputed to

be well off. Strange as it may seem in the light of after events, she

actually belonged to the church and was a regular attendant at the

services. But no woman in town was more talked about, and precisely what

sort of a woman she was may be estimated from the fact that I had known

her but little more than a week, when she proposed that she, her sister

and I should go to Saratoga together, and have a good time for a day or

two.

I was fairly fascinated with the woman and I consented. The younger

sister was taken with us, I thought at first as a cover, I knew

afterwards as a confederate, and Eliza paid all the bills, which were

by no means small ones, of the entire trip. We stopped in Saratoga at a

hotel, which is now in very different hands, but which was then kept

by proprietors who, in addition to a most excellent table and

accommodations, afforded their guests the opportunity, if they desired

it, of attending prayers every night and morning in one of the parlors.

This may have been the inducement which made Eliza insist upon going to

this house, but I doubt it.

For our stay at Saratoga, three or four days, was one wild revel. We

rode about, got drunk, went to the Lake, came back to the hotel, and

the second day we were there, Eliza sent her sister for a Presbyterian

minister, whose address she had somehow secured, and this minister came

to the hotel and married us. I presume I consented, I don’t know, for I

was too much under the effect of liquor to know much of anything. I have

an indistinct recollection of some sort of a ceremony, and afterwards

Eliza showed me a certificate--no Troy affair, but a genuine document

signed by a minister residing in Saratoga, and witnessed by her sister

and some one in the hotel who had been called in. But the whole was like

a dream to me; it was the plot of an infamous woman to endeavor to make

herself respectable by means of a marriage, no matter to whom or how

that marriage was effected.

Meanwhile, the Montpelier papers had the whole story, one of them

publishing a glowing account of my elopement with Miss Gurnsey, and the

facts of our marriage at Saratoga was duly chronicled. This paper fell

into the hands of Miss Bradley, at Rutland, and as she claimed to be my

wife, and had parted with me only a little while before, when I went

out to peddle medicines and millinery, her feelings can be imagined. She

read the story and then aroused all Rutland. I had not been back from

Saratoga half an hour before I was arrested in the public house in

Montpelier and taken before a magistrate, on complaint of Miss Bradley,

of Rutland, that I was guilty of bigamy.

The examination was a long one, and as the facts which were then shown

appeared afterwards in my trial they need not be noted now. I had two

first-rate lawyers, but for all that, and with the plainest showing

that Margaret Bradley had no claim whatever to be considered my wife, I

was bound over in the sum of three thousand dollars to appear for

trial, and was sent to jail. There was a tremendous excitement about the

matter, and the whole town seemed interested.

To jail I went, Eliza going with me, and insisting upon staying; but the

jailer would not let her, nor was she permitted to visit me during my

entire stay there, at least she got in to see me but once. I made

every effort to get bail, but was unsuccessful. Eight long weary months

elapsed before my trial came on, and all this while I was in jail. My

trial lasted a week. The Bradley woman knew she was no more married to

me than she was to the man in the moon; but she swore stoutly that we

were actually wedded according to the certificate. On the other hand,

my son swore to all the facts about the Troy spree, and his buying and

filling out the certificate, which showed for itself that, excepting the

signature of the young woman who also witnessed it, it was entirely in

Henry’s handwriting. I should have got along well enough so far as

the Bradley woman was concerned; but the prosecution had been put in

possession of all the facts relative to my first and worst marriage, and

the whole matter came up in this case. The District Attorney had sent

everywhere, as far even as Illinois, for witness with regard to that

marriage. It seemed as if all Vermont was against me. I have heard that

with the cost of witnesses and other expenses, my trial cost the state

more than five thousand dollars. My three lawyers could not save me.

After a week’s trial the case went to the jury, and in four hours they

returned a verdict of “guilty.”

My counsel instantly appealed the case to the Supreme Court, and,

meanwhile I went back to jail where I remained three months more. A few

days after I returned to jail a friend of mine managed to furnish me

with files and saws, and I went industriously to work at the gratings

of my window to saw my way out. I could work only at night, when the

keepers were away, and I covered the traces of my cuttings by filling in

with tallow. In two months I had everything in readiness for my escape.

An hour’s more sawing at the bars would set me free. But just at that

time the Governor of the State, Fletcher, made a visit to the jail.

I told him all about my case. He assured me, after hearing all the

circumstances, that if I should be convicted and sentenced, he would

surely pardon me in the course of six or eight weeks. Trusting in this

promise, I made no further effort to escape though I could have done

so easily any night; but rather than run the risk of recapture, and a

heavier sentence if I should be convicted, I awaited the chances of the

court, and looked beyond for the clemency of the Governor.

Well, finally my case came up in the Supreme Court. It only occupied

a day, and the result was that I was sentenced for three years in the

State prison. I was remanded to jail, and five days from that time I was

taken from Montpelier to Windsor.

CHAPTER X. PRISON-LIFE IN VERMONT.

ENTERING PRISON--THE SCYTHE SNATH BUSINESS--BLISTERED HANDS--I

LEARN NOTHING--THREAT TO KILL THE SHOP--KEEPER--LOCKSMITHING--OPEN

REBELLION--SIX WEEKS IN THE DUNGEON--ESCAPE OF A PRISONER--IN THE

DUNGEON AGAIN--THE MAD MAN, HALL--HE ATTEMPTS TO MURDER THE DEPUTY--I

SAVE MOREY’S LIFE--HOWLING IN THE BLACK HOLE--TAKING OFF HALL’S

IRONS--A GHASTLY SPECTACLE--A PRISON FUNERAL--I AM LET ALONE--BETTER

TREATMENT--THE FULL TERM OF MY IMPRISONMENT.

We arrived at Windsor and I was safely inside of the prison at three

o’clock in the afternoon. Warden Harlow met me with a joke, to the

effect that, had it not been for my handcuffs he should have taken the

officer who brought me, to be the prisoner, I was so much the better

dressed of the two. He then talked very seriously to me for a long time.

He was sorry, and surprised, he said, to see a man of my appearance

brought to such a place for such a crime; he could not understand how a

person of my evident intelligence should get into such a scrape.

I told him that he understood it as well as I did, at all events; that

I could not conceive why I should get into these difficulties, one

after the other; but that I believed I was a crazy man on this one

subject--matrimonial monomania; that when I had gone through with one

of these scrapes, and had suffered the severe punishment that was almost

certain to follow, the whole was like a dream to me--a nightmare and

nothing more. With regard to what was before me in this prison I

should try and behave myself, and make the best of the situation; but I

notified the Warden that I did not mean to do one bit of work if I could

help it.

He took me inside, where my fine clothes were taken away, and I. was

dressed in the usual particolored prison uniform. I was told the rules,

and was warned that if I did not observe them it would go hard with

me. Then followed twenty-four hours solitary confinement, and the next

afternoon I was taken from my cell to a shop in which scythe snaths were

made.

It had transpired during my trial at Montpelier, that when I was a young

man, I was a blacksmith by trade. This information had been transmitted

to prison and I was at once put to work making heel rings. It was some

years since I had worked at a forge and handled a hammer. Consequently,

in three or four days, my hands were terribly blistered, and as the

Warden happened to come into the shop, I showed them to him, and quietly

told him that I would do that work no longer. He told me that I must do

it; he would make me do it. I answered that he might kill me, or punish

me in any way he pleased, but he could not make me do that kind of

labor, and I threw down my hammer and refused to work a moment longer.

The Warden left me and sent Deputy Warden Morey to try me. He approached

me in a kindly way, and I showed my blistered hands to him. He thought

that was the way to “toughen” me. I thought not, and said so, and,

moreover, told him I would never make another heel ring in that prison,

and I never did.

He sent me to my cell and I stayed there a week, till my hands were

well. Then the Deputy came to me and asked me if I was willing to learn

to hew out scythe snaths in the rough for the shavers, who finished

them? I said I would try. I went into the shop and was shown how the

work was to be done. Every man was expected to hew out fifty snaths in a

day. In three or four days the shop-keeper came and overlooked me while

I was working in my bungling way, and said if I couldn’t do better than

that I must clear out of his shop and do something else. My reply was

that I did not understand the business, and had no desire or intention

to learn it. He sent for the Deputy Warden, who came and expressed

the opinion that I could not do anything. I said I was willing to do

anything I could understand.

“Do you understand anything?” asked the Deputy.

“Well, some things, marrying for instance,” was my answer.

“I want no joking or blackguardism about this matter,” said the Deputy;

“them simple fact is, you’ve got to work; if you don’t we’ll make you.”

So I kept on at hewing, making no improvement, and in a day or two

more the shopkeeper undertook to show me how the work should be done. I

protested I never could learn it.

“You don’t try; and I have a good mind to punish you.”

The moment the shop-keeper said it I dropped the snath, raised my

axe, and told him that if he came one step nearer to me I would make

mincemeat of him. He thought it was advisable to stay where he was; but

one of the prison-keepers was in the shop, and as he came toward me I

warned him that he had better keep away.

All the men in the shop were ready to break out in insubordination; when

I threatened the shop keeper and the guard, they cheered; the Deputy

Warden was soon on the ground; he stood in the doorway a moment, and

then, in a kind tone called me to him. I had no immediate quarrel with

him, and so I dropped my axe and went to him. He told me that there

was no use of “making a muss” there, it incited the other prisoners to

insubordination, and was sure to bring severe punishment upon myself.

“Go and get your cap and coat,” said he “and come with me.”

“But if you are going to put me into that black hole of yours,” I

exclaimed, “I won’t go; you’ll have to draw me there or kill me on the

way.”

He promised he would not put me in the dungeon, he was only going to

put me in my cell, he said, and to my cell I went, willingly enough,

and stayed there a week, during which time I suppose everyone of my

shopmates thought I was in the dungeon, undergoing severe punishment for

my rebellions conduct.

I had learned now the worst lesson which a prisoner can learn--that is,

that my keepers were afraid of me. To a limited extent, it is true, I

was now my own master and keeper. In a few days Deputy Morey came to

me and asked me if I was “willing” to come out and work. I was sick

of solitary confinement, and longed to see the faces of men, even

prisoners: so I told him if I could get any work I could do I was

willing to try it, and would do as well as I knew how. He asked me if I

knew anything of locksmithing? I told him I had some taste for it, and

if he would show me his job I would let him see what I could do.

The fact is, I was a very fair amateur locksmith, and had quite

a fondness for fixing, picking, and fussing generally over locks.

Accordingly, when he gave me a lock to work upon to make it “play

easier,” as he described it, I did the job so satisfactorily that I had

nearly every lock in the prison to take off and operate upon, if it was

nothing more than to clean and oil one. This business occupied my

entire time and attention for nearly three months. Then I repaired iron

bedsteads, did other iron work, and I was the general tinker of the

prison.

It came into my head, however, one day, that I might as well do nothing.

The prison fare was indescribably bad, almost as bad as the jail fare at

Easton. We lived upon the poorest possible salt beef for dinner, varied

now and then with plucks and such stuff from the slaughter houses, with

nothing but bread and rye coffee for breakfast and supper, and mush and

molasses perhaps twice a week.

I was daily abused, too, by the Warden, his Deputy, and his keepers.

They looked upon me as an ugly, insubordinate, refractory, rebellious

rascal, who was ready to kill any of them, and, worst of all, who would

not work. I determined to confirm their minds in the latter supposition,

and so one day I threw down my tools and refused to do another thing.

They dragged me to the dungeon and thrust me in. It was a wretched dark

hole, with a little dirty straw in one corner to lie upon. My entire

food and drink was bread and water. The man who brought it never spoke

to me. His face was the only one I saw during the livelong day. Day and

night were alike to me; I lost the run of time; but at long intervals,

once in eight or ten days, I suppose, the Deputy came to this hole and

asked me if I would come out and work.

“No, no!” I always answered, “never!” Then I paced the stone floor in

the dark, or lay on my straw. I lay there till my hips were worn raw.

No human being can conceive the agony, the suffering endured in this

dungeon. At last I was nearly blind, and was scarcely able to stand up.

I presume that the attendant who brought my daily dole of bread and my

cup of water, reported my condition. One day the door opened and I was

ordered out. They were obliged to bring me out; I was so reduced that I

was but the shadow of myself. They meant to cure my obstinacy or to kill

me, and had not quite succeeded in doing either.

There was no use in asking me if I would go to work then; I was just

alive. A few days in my own cell, in the daylight, and with something

beside bread and water to eat, partially restored me. I was then taken

into the shop where the snaths were finished by scraping and varnishing,

the lightest part of the work, but I would not learn, would not do,

would not try to do anything at all. They gave me up. The whole struggle

nearly killed me, but I beat them. I was turned into the halls and told

to do what I could, which, I knew well enough, meant what I would.

After that I worked about the halls and yard, sometimes sweeping, and

again carrying something, or doing errands for the keepers from one part

of the prison to another. I was what theatrical managers call a general

utility man, and, not at all strangely, for it is human nature, now

that I could do what I pleased, I pleased to do a great deal, and was

tolerably useful, and far more agreeable than I had been in the past.

There was a young fellow, twenty-two years of age, in one of the cells,

serving out a sentence of six years. When I was sweeping around I used

to stop and talk to him every day. One day he was missing. He had been

supposed to be sick or asleep for several hours, for apparently lie

lay in bed, and was lying very still. But that was only an ingeniously

constructed dummy. The young man himself had made a hole under his bed

into an adjoining vacant cell, the door of which stood open. He had

crawled through his hole, come out of the vacant cell door, and gone up

to the prison garret, where he found some old pieces of rope. These he

tied together, and getting out at the cupola upon the roof, he managed

to let himself down on the outside of the building and got away. He was

never recaptured. The Warden said that some one must have told him about

the adjoining vacant cell, with its always open door, else how would the

young man have known it?

I was accused of imparting this valuable information, and I suffered

four weeks’ confinement in that horrible dungeon on the mere suspicion.

This made ten weeks in all of my prison-life in a hole in which I

suffered so that I hoped I should die there.

One of the prisoners was a desperate man, named Hall. He was a convicted

murderer, and was sentenced for life. He too, worked about in the prison

and the yards, dragging or carrying a heavy ball and chain. When bundles

of snaths were to be carried from one shop to the other in the various

processes of finishing, Hall had to do it, and to carry his ball and

chain as well, so that he was loaded like a pack-horse. No pack-horse

was ever so abused.

Of course he was ugly; the wardens and the keepers knew it, and

generally kept away from him.

I talked with him more than once, and he told me that with better

treatment he should be a better man. “Look at the loads which are put on

me every day,” he would say; as if this ball and chain were not as much

as I can carry; and this for life, for life!

One day when Hall and I were working together in the prison, Deputy

Warden Morey came in and said something to him, and in a moment the man

sprung upon him. He had secured somehow, perhaps he had picked it up in

the yard, a pocket knife, and with this he stabbed the Warden, striking

him in the shoulder, arm, and where he could.

Morey was a man sixty-five years of age, and he made such resistance

as he could, crying out loudly for help. I turned, ran to Hall, and with

one blow of my fist knocked him nearly senseless; then help came and we

secured the mad man. Morey was profuse in protestations of gratitude to

me for saving his life.

There was a great excitement over this attempt to murder the Deputy, and

for a few hours, with wardens and keepers, I was a hero. I had been in

the prison more than a year, and was generally regarded as one of the

worst prisoners, one of the “hardest cases;” a mere chance had suddenly

made me one of the most commendable men within those dreary walls. As

for Hall, he was taken to the dungeon and securely chained by the feet

to a ring in the center of the stone floor. There is no doubt whatever

that the man was a raving maniac. He howled night and day so that he

could be heard everywhere in the prison--“Murder, murder! they are

murdering me in this black hole; why don’t they take me out and kill

me?”

The Warden said it could not be helped; that the man must be kept there;

he was dangerous to himself and others; the dark cell was the only place

for him. So Hall stayed there and howled, his cries growing weaker from

day to day; by-and-by we heard him only at intervals, and after that

not at all.

One morning there was a little knot of men around the open dungeon door,

the Deputy Warden and two or three keepers. Mr. Morey called to me to go

and get the tools and come there and take off Hall’s irons. I went into

the cell and in a few minutes I unfastened his feet from the ring;

then I took the shackles off his limbs. I thought he held his legs very

stiff, but knew he was obstinate, and only wondered he was so quiet.

Somebody brought in a candle and I looked at Hall’s face. I never saw a

more ghastly sight. The blood from his mouth and nostrils had clotted

on the lower part of his face, and his wild eyes, fixed and glassy, were

staring at the top wall of the dungeon. He must have been dead several

hours. The Deputy and the rest knew he was dead--the man who carried in

the bread and water told them--me it came with a shock from which I did

not soon recover.

They buried Hall in the little graveyard which was in the yard of the

prison. An Episcopal clergyman, who was chaplain of the prison, read the

burial service over him. The prisoners were brought out to attend the

homely funeral. The ball and chain, all the personal property left by

Hall, were put aside for the next murderer sentenced for life, or for

the next “ugly” prisoner. “If I were only treated better, and not abused

so, I should be a better man.” This is what Hall used to say to me

whenever he had an opportunity. The last and worst and best in that

prison had been done for him now.

From the day when I rescued Morey from the hands of Hall, his whole

manner changed towards me, and he treated me with great kindness,

frequently bringing me a cup of tea or coffee, and something good to

eat. He also promised to present the circumstances of the Hall affair to

the Governor, and to urge my pardon, but I do not think he ever did so,

at least I heard nothing of it. When I pressed the matter upon Morey’s

attention he said it would do no good till I had served out half my

sentence, and then he would see what could be done.

I served half my sentence, and then the other half, every day of it. But

during the last two years I had very little to complain of except the

loss of my liberty. I was put into the cook shop where I could get

better food, and I did pretty much what I pleased. By general consent

I was let alone. They had found out that ill usage only made me “ugly,”

while kindness made me at least behave myself. And so the three weary

years of my confinement were on to an end.

CHAPTER XI. ON THE TRAMP.

THE DAY OF MY DELIVERANCE--OUT OF CLOTHES--SHARING WITH A BEGGAR--A

GOOD FRIEND--TRAMPING THROUGH THE SNOW--WEARY WALKS--TRUSTING TO

LUCK--COMFORT AT CONCORD--AT MEREDITH BRIDGE--THE BLAISDELLS--LAST

OF THE “BLOSSOM” BUSINESS--MAKING MONEY AT PORTSMOUTH--REVISITING

WINDSOR--AN ASTONISHED WARDEN--MAKING FRIENDS OF OLD ENEMIES--INSPECTING

THE PRISON--GOING TO PORT JERVIS.

At last the happy day of my deliverance came. The penalty for pretending

to marry one milliner and for being married by another milliner was

paid. My sentence was fulfilled. I had looked forward to this day for

months. Of all my jail and prison life in different States, this in

Vermont was the hardest, the most severe. My obstinacy, no doubt, did

much at first to enhance my sufferings, and it was the accident only

of my saving Morey’s life that made the last part of my imprisonment

a little more tolerable. When I was preparing to go, it was discovered

that the fine suit of clothes I wore into the prison had been given by

mistake or design to some one else, and my silk hat and calf-skin boots

had gone with the clothes. But never mind! I would have gone out into

the world in rags--my liberty was all I wanted then. The Warden gave me

one of his own old coats, a ragged pair of pantaloons, and a new pair

of brogan shoes. He also gave me three dollars, which was precisely a

dollar a year for my services, and this was more than I ever meant to

earn there. Thus equipped and supplied I was sent out into the streets

of Windsor.

I had not gone half a mile before I met a poor old woman whom I had

known very well in Rutland. She recognized me at once, though I know I

was sadly changed for the worse. She was on her way to Fall River, where

she had relatives, and where she hoped for help, but had no money to pay

her fare, so I divided my small stock with her, and that left me just

one dollar and a half with which to begin the world again. I went down

to the bridge and the toll--gatherer gave me as much as I could eat,

twenty five cents in money, and a pocket-full of food to carry with me.

I was heading, footing rather, for Meredith Bridge in New Hampshire.

It was in the month of December; and I was poorly clad and without an

overcoat. I must have walked fifteen miles that afternoon, and just at

nightfall I came to a wayside public house and ventured to go in. As

I stood by the fire, the landlord stepped up and slapping me on the

shoulder, said:

“Friend, you look as if you were in trouble; step up and have something

to drink.”

I gladly accepted the invitation to partake of the first glass of liquor

I had tasted in three years. It was something, too, everything to be

addressed thus kindly. I told this worthy landlord my whole story; how

I had been trapped by the two milliners, and how I had subsequently

suffered. He had read something about it in the papers; he felt as if

he knew me; he certainly was sorry for me; and he proved his sympathy

by giving me what then seemed to me the best supper I had ever eaten,

a good bed, a good breakfast, a package of provisions to carry with me,

and then sent me on my way with a comparatively light heart.

It rained, snowed, and drizzled all day long. I tramped through the wet

snow ankle deep, but made nearly forty miles before night, and then came

to a public house which I knew well. When I was in the bar-room drying

myself and warming my wet and half-frozen feet, I could not but think

how, only a few years before, I had put up at that very house, with a

fine horse and buggy of my own in the stable, and plenty of money in my

pocket. The landlord’s face was familiar enough, but he did not know

me, nor, under my changed circumstances, did I desire that he should.

Supper, lodging, and breakfast nearly exhausted my small money capital;

I was worn and weary, too, and the next day was able to walk but twenty

miles, all told. On the way, at noon I went into a farm house to warm

myself. The woman had just baked a short-cake which stood on the

hearth, toward which I must have cast longing eyes, for the farmer said:

“Have you had your dinner, man?”

“No, and I have no money to buy any.”

“Well, you don’t need money here. Wife, put that short-cake and some

butter on the table; now, my man, fall to and eat as much as you like.”

I was very hungry, and I declare I ate the whole of that short-cake.

I told these people that I had been in better circumstances, and that

I was not always the poor, ragged, hungry wretch I appeared then. They

made we welcome to what I had eaten and when I went away filled my

pockets with food. At night I was about thirty miles above Concord. I

had no money, but trusting to luck, I got on the cars--the conductor

came, and when he found I had no ticket, he said he must put me off. It

was a bitter night and I told him I should be sure to freeze to death.

A gentleman who heard the conversation at once paid my fare, for which I

expressed my grateful thanks, and I went to Concord.

On my arrival I went to a hotel and told the landlord I wanted to stay

there till the next day, when a conductor whom I knew would be going to

Meredith Bridge; that I was going with him, and that he would probably

pay my bill at the hotel. “All right,” said the landlord, and he gave me

my supper and a room. The next noon my friend, the conductor, came and

when I first spoke to him he did not recognize me; I told him who I

was, but to ask me no questions as to how I came to appear in those old

clothes, and to be so poor; I wanted to borrow five dollars, and to go

with him to Meredith Bridge. He greeted me very cordially, handed me a

ten-dollar Bill--twice as much as I asked for--said he was not going to

the Bridge till next day, and told me meanwhile, to go to the hotel and

make myself comfortable.

I went back to the hotel, paid my bill, stayed there that day and night,

and the next morning “deadheaded,” with my friend the conductor to

Meredith Bridge. Everybody knew me there. The hotel-keeper made me

welcome to his house, and said I could stay as long as I liked.

“Say, dew ye ever cure anybody, Doctor?” asked my old friend, the

landlord, and he laughed and nudged me in the ribs, and asked me to take

some of his medicine from the bar, which I immediately did.

I was at home now. But the object of my visit was to see if I could

not collect some of my old bills in that neighborhood, amounting in the

aggregate to several hundred dollars. They were indeed old bills of five

or six years’ standing, and I had very little hope of collecting much

money. I went first to Lake Village, and called on Mr. John Blaisdell,

the husband of the woman whom I had cured of the dropsy, in accordance,

as she believed at the time, with her prophetic dream. Blaisdell didn’t

know me at first; then he wanted to know what my bill was; I told him

one hundred dollars, to say nothing of six years’ interest; he said he

had no money, though he was regarded as a rich man, and in fact was.

“But sir,” said I, “you see me and how poor I am. Give me something on

account. I am so poor that I even borrowed this overcoat from the

tailor in the village, that I might present a little more respectable

appearance when I called on my old patients to try to collect some of my

old bills. Please to give me something.”

But he had no money. He would pay for the overcoat; I might tell the

tailor so; and afterwards he gave me a pair of boots and an old shirt.

This was the fruit which my “blossom” of years before brought at last.

I saw Mrs. Blaisdell, but she said she could do nothing for me. She had

forgotten what I had done for her.

Of all my bills in that vicinity, with a week’s dunning, I collected

only three dollars; but a good friend of mine, Sheriff Hill, went around

and succeeded in making up a purse of twenty dollars which he put into

my hands just as I was going away. My old landlord wanted nothing for my

week’s board; all he wanted was to know “if I ever cured anybody;” and

when I told him I did, “sometimes” he insisted upon my taking more of

his medicine, and he put up a good bottle of it for me to carry with me

on my journey.

With my twenty dollars I went to Portsmouth, where I speedily felt that

I was among old and true friends. I had not been there a day before I

was called upon to take care of a young man who was sick, and after a

few weeks charge of him I received in addition to my board and expenses,

three hundred dollars. I was now enabled to clothe myself handsomely,

and I did so and went to Newburyport, where I remained several weeks and

made a great deal of money.

In the spring I went to White River Junction, and while I was in

the hotel taking a drink with some friends, who should come into the

bar-room but the Lake Village tailor from whom I had borrowed the

overcoat which I had even then on my back. I was about to thank him for

his kindness to me when he took me aside and said reproachfully:

“Doctor, you wore away my overcoat and this is it, I think.”

“Good heavens! didn’t John Blaisdell pay you for the coat? He told me he

would; its little enough out of what he owes me.”

“He never said a word to me about it,” was the reply. I told the tailor

the circumstances; I did not like to let him to know that I had then

about seven hundred dollars in my pocket; I wished to appear poor

as long as there was a chance to collect any of my Meredith and Lake

Village bills; so I offered him three dollars to take back the coat. He

willingly consented and that was the last of the “Blossom” business with

the Blaisdells.

I was bound not to leave this part of the country without revisiting

Windsor, and I went there, stopping at the best house in the town, and,

I fear, “putting on airs” a little. I had suffered so much in this

place that I wanted to see if there was any enjoyment to be had there.

Satisfaction there was, certainly--the satisfaction one feels in going

back under the most favorable circumstances, to a spot where he has

endured the very depths of misery. After a good dinner I set out to

visit the prison. Here was the very spot in the street where, only a few

months before, I, a ragged beggar, had divided my mere morsel of money

with the poor woman from Rutland. What change in my circumstances those

few months had wrought. I had recovered my health which bad food, ill

usage, and imprisonment had broken down, and was in the best physical

condition. The warden’s old coat and pantaloons had been exchanged for

the finest clothes that money would buy. I had a good gold watch and

several hundred dollars in my pocket. I had seen many of my old friends,

and knew that they were still my friends, and I was fully restored to

my old position. My three years’ imprisonment was only a blank in my

existence; I had begun life again and afresh, precisely where I left off

before I fell into the hands of the two Vermont milliners.

All this was very pleasant to reflect upon; but do not believe I thought

even then, that the reason for this change in my circumstances, and

changes for the better, was simply because I had minded my business and

had let women alone.

When I called on Warden Harlow, and courteously asked to be shown about

the prison, he got up and was ready to comply with my request, when he

looked me full in the face and started back in amazement:

“Well, I declare! Is this you?”

“Yes, Warden Harlow; but I want you to understand that while I am here

I do not intend to do a bit of work, and you can’t make me. You may as

well give it up first as last; I won’t work anyhow.”

The Warden laughed heartily, and sent for Deputy Morey who came in to

“see a gentleman,” and was much astonished to find the prisoner, who,

two years before, had saved his life from the hands and knife of the

madman Hall. I spent a very pleasant hour with my old enemies, and

I took occasion to give them a hint or two with regard to the proper

treatment of prisoners. I then made the rounds of the prison, and went

into the dungeon where I had passed so many wretched hours for weeks

at a time. The warden and his deputy congratulated me upon my improved

appearance and prospects, and hoped that my whole future career would be

equally prosperous.

Nor did I forget to call up my friend in need and friend indeed in

the toll-house at the bridge. I stayed three or four days in Windsor,

finding it really a charming place, and I was almost sorry to leave it.

But my only purpose in going there, that is to revisit the prison, was

accomplished, and I started for New York, and went from there to Port

Jervis, where I met my eldest son.

CHAPTER XII. ATTEMPT TO KIDNAP SARAH SCHEIMER’S BOY.

STARTING TO SEE SARAH--THE LONG SEPARATION--WHAT I LEARNED ABOUT

HER--HER DRUNKEN HUSBAND--CHANGE OF PLAN--A SUDDENLY--FORMED

SCHEME--I FIND SARAH’S SON--THE FIRST INTERVIEW--RESOLVE TO

KIDNAP THE BOY--REMONSTRANCES OF MY SON HENRY--THE ATTEMPT--A

DESPERATE STRUGGLE--THE RESCUE--ARREST OF HENRY--MY FLIGHT

INTO PENNSYLVANIA--SENDING ASSISTANCE TO MY SON--RETURN TO PORT

JERVIS--BAILING HENRY--HIS RETURN TO BELVIDERE--HE IS BOUND OVER TO BE

TRIED FOR KIDNAPPING--MY FOLLY.

After I had been in Port Jervis three or four days I matured a plan that

had long been forcing in my mind, and that was, to try and see Sarah

Scheimer once more, or at least to find out something about her and

about our son. The boy, if he was living, must be about ten years of

age. I had never seen him; nor, since the night when I was taken out of

bed and carried to the Easton jail had I ever seen Sarah, or even heard

from her, except by the message the Methodist minister brought to me

from her the day after I was released from jail. In the long interval

I had married the Newark widow, and had served a brief term in the New

Jersey State prison for doing it; I had married Mary Gordon, in New

Hampshire, and had run away, not only from her, but from constables and

the prison in that state; the mock marriage with the Rutland woman at

Troy, and the altogether too real marriage with the Montpelier milliner

had followed; I had spent three wretched years in the Vermont prison at

Windsor; and numerous other exciting adventures had checkered my career.

What had happened to Sarah and her son during all this while? There was

not a week in the whole time since our sudden separation when I had

not thought of Sarah; and now I was near her old home, with means at

my command, leisure on my hands, and I was determined to know something

about her and the child.

So long a time had elapsed and I was so changed in my personal

appearance that I had little fear of being recognized by any one in

Pennsylvania or the adjoining part of New Jersey, who would molest me.

The old matters must have been pretty much forgotten by all but the very

few who were immediately interested in them. It was safe to make the

venture at all events, and, I resolved to make the venture to see and

learn what I could.

I had the idea in my mind that if Sarah was alive and well, and free,

I should be able to induce her to fulfil her promise to come to me, and

that we might go somewhere and settle down and live happily together. At

any rate, I would try to see her and our child.

I did not communicate a word of all this to my son Henry. I told him I

was going to New Jersey to visit some friends, to look for business, and

I would like to have him accompany me. He consented; I hired a horse and

carriage, and one bright morning we started. I had no friends to visit,

no business to do, except to see Sarah--the dearest and best--loved of

all my wives.

When we reached Water Gap I found an old acquaintance in the landlord of

the hotel, and I told him where I was going, and what I hoped to do. He

knew the Scheimers, knew all that had happened eleven years before, and

he told me that Sarah had married again, seven years ago, and was the

mother of two more children. She lived on a farm, half a mile from

Oxford, and her husband who had married her for her money, and had

been urged upon her by her parents, was a shiftless, worthless, drunken

fellow. The boy--my boy--was alive and well, and was with his mother.

This intelligence changed, or rather made definite my plan. Sarah was

nothing to me now. The boy was everything. I must see him, and if he was

what he was represented to be, a bright little fellow, I determined that

he should no longer remain in the hands and under the control of his

drunken step-father, but I would carry him away with me if I could. It

was nearly noon when we arrived at Oxford, and going to my old quarters,

I found that “Boston Yankee,” had long since left the place. There was

a new landlord, and I saw no familiar faces about the house; all was new

and strange to me. I made inquiries, and soon found out that Sarah’s

boy went to a school in town not far from the hotel, and I went there to

“prospect,” leaving Henry at the public house.

It was noon now, and fifty or more boys were trooping out of school. I

carefully scanned the throng. The old proverb has it that it is a wise

child who knows its own father; but it is not so difficult for a father

to know his own children. The moment I put my eyes on Sarah’s son, I

knew him; he was the very image of me; I could have picked him out of a

thousand. I beckoned to the boy and he came to me. He was barefoot; and

his very toes betrayed him, for they “overrode” just as mine did; but

his face was enough and would have been evidence of his identity as my

son in any court in Christendom.

“Do you know me, my little man?” said I.

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Do you know what was your mother’s name before she was married?”

“Yes Sir, it was Sarah Scheimer.”

“Do you know that the man with whom you live is not your rather?”

“Oh, yes, Sir, I know that; mother always told me so; but she never told

me who my father was.”

“My son,” said I taking him in my arms, “I am your father; wait about

here a few minutes till I can go and get my horse and carriage, and I

will take you to ride.”

I ran over to the hotel; ordered my horse to be brought to the door at

once, got into the wagon with Henry and told him that Sarah Scheimer’s

boy was just across the way, and that I was going to carry him off with

us. Henry implored me not to do it, and said it was dangerous. I never

stopped to think of danger when my will impelled me. I did not know that

at that moment, men who had noticed my excited manner, and who knew I

was “up to something,” were watching me from the hotel piazza. I drove

over where the boy was waiting, called him to me, and Henry held the

reins while I put out my hands to pull the boy into the carriage. Two of

the men who were watching me came at once, one of them taking the horse

by the head, and the other coming to me and demanding:

“What are you going to do with that boy?”

“Take him with me; he is my son.”

“No you don’t,” said the man, and he laid hold of the boy and attempted

to pull him out of the wagon. I also seized the lad who began to scream.

In the struggle for possession, I caught up the whip and struck the man

with the handle, felling him to the ground. All the while the other man

was shouting for assistance. The crowd gathered. The boy was roughly

torn from me, in spite of my efforts to retain him. Henry was thoroughly

alarmed; and while the mob were trying to pull us also out of the

carriage he whipped the horse till he sprang through the crowd and was

well off in a moment.

“Get out of town as fast as you can drive,” said I to Henry.

We were not half an hour in reaching Belvidere. There I stopped

to breathe the horse a few minutes, and Henry insisted that he was

starving, and must have something to eat; he would go into the hotel he

said, and get some dinner. I told him it was madness to do it; but he

would not move an inch further on the road till he had some dinner. He

went into the dining room, and I paced up and down the piazza, nervous,

anxious, fearing pursuit, dreading capture, well knowing what would

happen when those Jerseymen should get hold of me and find out who I

was. At that moment I saw the pursuers coming rapidly up the road. I

called to my son:

“Henry, Henry! for God’s sake come out here, quick!”

But he thought I was only trying to frighten him so as to hurry him away

from his dinner, and get him on the road, and he paid no attention to my

summons. I knew that I was the man who was wanted, and, without waiting

for Henry, I jumped into my wagon and drove off. I just escaped, that’s

all. The moment I left, my pursuers were at the door. I looked back and

saw them drag my son out of the house, and take him away with them. I

turned my horse’s head towards the Belvidere Bridge. All the country

about there was as familiar to me as the county I was born in. I knew

every road, and I had no fear of being caught. Once across the bridge

and in Pennsylvania, and I was comparatively safe, unless I myself

should be kidnapped as I was at midnight, only a little way from this

very spot, eleven years before. Here was an opportunity now to rest and

reflect. Confound those Scheimers and all their blood! Was I never to

see the end of the scrapes that family would get me into, or which I was

to get myself into, on account of the Scheimers?

Surely they could not harm Henry. They might have taken him merely in

the hope of drawing me back to try to clear him, or rescue him, and then

they would get hold of the man they wanted. My son had done nothing. He

did not even know of the contemplated abduction till five minutes before

it was attempted, and then he protested against it. He only held the

horse when I pulled the lad into the wagon.

Nothing showed so completely the consciousness of his own entire

innocence in the matter, as the coolness with which he sat down to his

dinner in Belvidere, and insisted upon remaining when I warned him of

our danger. These facts shown, any magistrate before whom he might be

taken, must let him go at once. I thought, perhaps, if I waited a few

hours where I was, he would be sure to rejoin me, and we could then

return to Port Jervis without Sarah’s son to be sure; but, otherwise, no

worse off than we were when we set out on this ill-starred expedition

in the morning.

All this seemed so plain to me that I sent over to Belvidere for a

lawyer, who soon came across the bridge to see me, and to him I narrated

the whole circumstances of the case from, beginning to end. I asked him

if I had not a right to carry off the boy whom I knew to be my own? His

reply was that he would not stop to discuss that question; all he knew

was that there was a great hue and cry after me for kidnapping the boy;

that my son was seized and held for aiding and abetting in the attempted

abduction; and he advised me, as a friend, to leave that part of the

country as soon as possible. I gave him fifty dollars to look after

Henry’s case. He thought, considering how little, and that little

involuntarily, my son had to do with the matter, he might be got off; he

would do all he could for him anyhow. He then returned to Belvidere, and

I took the road north.

When I arrived at Port Jervis I detailed to my landlord the whole

occurrences of the day--what I had tried to do, and how miserably I had

failed, and asked him what was to be done next. He said “nothing;” we

could only wait and see what happened.

The day following I received a letter from the Belvidere lawyer

informing me that Henry had been examined, had been bound over in

the sum of three hundred dollars to take his trial on a charge of

kidnapping, and he was then in the county jail. I at once showed this

letter to the landlord, and he offered to go down with another man to

Belvidere and see about the bail. I gave him three hundred dollars,

which he took with him and put into the bands of a resident there who

became bail, and in a day or two Henry came back with them to Port

Jervis.

My son was frantic; he had been roughly treated; and to think, he said,

that he should be thrust into the common jail and kept there two days

with all sorts of scoundrels, when he had done actually nothing! He

would go back there, stand his trial, and prove his innocence, if

he died for it. He reproached me for attempting to carry off the boy

against his advice and warning; he knew we should into trouble; but he

would show them that he had nothing to do with it; that’s what he would

do.

Now this was precisely what I did not wish to have him do. A trial of

this case, even if Henry should come off scott free, would be certain to

revive the whole of the old Scheimer story, which had nearly died away,

and which I had no desire to have brought before the public again in

any way whatever. The bail bond I was willing, eager even to forfeit, if

that would end the matter. But Henry was sure they couldn’t touch him,

and he meant to have the three hundred dollars returned to me.

Seeing how sensitive the boy was on the subject, and how bent he was

on proving his innocence, I thought it best to draw him away from the

immediate locality, and so, in the course of a week, I persuaded him to

go to New York with me, and we afterward went to Maine for a few weeks

to sell my medicines. This Maine trip was a most lucrative one, which

was very fortunate, for the money I made there, to the amount of

several hundred dollars, was shortly needed for purposes which I did not

anticipate when I put the money by.

We returned to New York, and I supposed that Henry had given up all idea

of attempting to “prove his innocence;” indeed we had no conversation

about the kidnapping affair for several weeks. But he slipped away from

me. One day I came back to the hotel, and, inquiring for him, was told

at the office he had left word for me that he had gone to Belvidere. A

letter from him a day or two afterward confirmed this, to me, unhappy

intelligence. The time was near at hand for his trial, and he had gone

and given himself up to the authorities. He wrote to me again that he

had sent word about his situation to his mother--my first and worst

wife--and she and his sister were already with him.

Of course it was impossible for me to go there, if there were no other

reasons, I was too immediately interested in this affair to be present,

and I had no idea of undergoing a trial and a certain conviction for

myself. But I sent down a New York lawyer with one hundred dollars,

directing him to employ council there, and to advise and assist as much

as he could. Meanwhile, I remained in New York, anxious, it is true, yet

almost certain that it would be impossible, under the circumstances, to

convict Henry of the kidnapping for which he was indicted. He had not

even assisted in the affair, and was sure his counsel would be able to

so convince the court and jury.

And reviewing the whole matter, now in my cooler moments, this scheme of

trying to carry away Sarah’s son, seemed to be as foolish, useless, and

mad, as any one of my marrying adventures. Till I picked him out from

among his schoolmates, I had never seen the child at all. When I started

from Port Jervis to go down, as I supposed, into Pennsylvania, I had no

more idea of kidnapping the boy than I had of robbing a sheep-fold.

It was only when the landlord at Water Gap told me that Sarah had

remarried, and was wedded to a worthless, drunken husband, that I

conceived the plan of removing the boy from such associations. I was

going to bring him up in a respectable manner. Alas! I did not succeed

even in bringing him away.

CHAPTER XIII. ANOTHER WIDOW.

WAITING FOR THE VERDICT--MY SON SENT TO STATE PRISON--WHAT SARAH WOULD

HAVE DONE--INTERVIEW WITH MY FIRST WIFE--HELP FOR HENRY--THE BIDDEFORD

WIDOW--HER EFFORT TO MARRY ME--OUR VISIT TO BOSTON--A WARNING--A

GENEROUS GIFT--HENRY PARDONED--CLOSE OF THE SCHEIMER ACCOUNT--VISIT TO

ONTARIO COUNTY--MY RICH COUSINS--WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN--MY BIRTH--PLACE

REVISITED.

I waited with nervous impatience for the close of the trial in New

Jersey, when I hoped to welcome my son Henry to New York. It was

so plain a case, as it seemed to me, and must appear, I thought, to

everybody, that I hardly doubted his instant acquittal. But very shortly

the New York lawyer whom I had sent to Belvidere, came back and brought

terrible news. Henry had been tried, and notwithstanding the fairest

showing in his favor, he was convicted and sentenced to eighteen months

imprisonment at Trenton.

As it appeared, it was I really, and not Henry, who was on trial. The

circumstances of the desperate struggle, and my knocking down one of

the men with the butt of my whip, were conspicuous in the case. Even

the little boy was put on the stand, and was made to testify against his

older half-brother. Henry himself was astounded at the result of the

trial, and was firmly convinced that instead of “proving his innocence”

to Jersey jurymen, he had better have let his innocence go by default.

We never even got back again the three hundred dollars which had been

put into the hands of the man who went bail for Henry when he was bound

over for trial. For us, it was bad business from beginning to end.

Henry wrote a letter to me, that just before his trial, before he had

delivered himself up, and while he was still under bail, he had gone to

see Sarah Scheimer on the little farm which was bought with her money,

and was worked, so far as it was worked at all, by her drunken husband.

The family were even poorer than the landlord at Water Gap had reported.

Sarah herself was miserable and unhappy. She told Henry, when he

informed her who he was, that if I had wanted to see her or her son, I

should have been welcome. She would have been very glad to have had me

take the boy and clothe him decently; but she could not part with him,

and would not have let me take him away; still, I could see him at any

time, and as often as I liked, and the boy should grow up to know and to

look upon me as his father.

And this, really, was all I desired, all I wanted; and it was all easily

within my grasp, ready in fact to be put into my hands, and I had gone

ahead in my usual mad, blundering way, acting, not only without advice,

but against such advice as came from Henry at the last moment, and had

alienated the mother from me, lost the boy, and had sent Henry, who was

wholly innocent, to state prison for eighteen months.

The poor fellow was take to Trenton and was put into the prison where

I had spent seven months. He was almost crazy when he got there. His

mother and sister went with him, and took lodgings in the place so as to

be near him, to render him any assistance that might be in their power.

I had been idle now for some weeks in New York, and I went back to

Maine, to Biddeford, where I lad a good practice. I picked up a good

deal of money, and in two months I returned to New York to make a brief

visit, and to see if something could not be done for the release of

Henry from prison. At my solicitation a friend of mine wrote to

Trenton to Henry’s mother to come on to New York, and meet me at the

Metropolitan Hotel on a specified day, to transact some business. She

came, and we met for the first time in several years. We met now simply

on business, and there was no expression of sentiment or feeling on

either side. We cared nothing for each other. I commended her for her

devotion to Henry, and then told her I believed, if the proper efforts

were made, he could be pardoned out of prison. I told her what lawyer

and other persons to see, and how to proceed in the matter. I gave her

the most minute instructions, and then handed her five hundred dollars

with which to fee her lawyer, and to pay her and her daughter’s living

expenses in Trenton. She was grateful for the money, and was only too

glad to go to work for Henry; she would have done it long ago if she had

only known what to do. We then parted, and I have never seen the woman,

since that day.

This business transacted, I at once returned to my practice at

Biddeford. Among my patients was a wealthy widow, “fat, fair, and

forty,” and I had not attended her long before a warm affection sprung

up between us, and in time, when the widow recovered, we began to think

we were in love with each other. I confess that I agreed to marry

her; but it was to be at some distant day--a very distant day as I

intended--for, strange as it may seem, and as it did seem to me, I had

at last learned the lesson that I had better let matrimony alone. I had

married too many wives, widows, milliners, and what not, already,

and had suffered too severely for so doing. I meant that my Vermont

imprisonment, the worst of all, should be the last.

So I only “courted” the widow, calling upon her almost every day, and

I was received and presented to her acquaintances as her affianced

husband. Her family and immediate friends were violently opposed to the

match, thereby showing their good sense. I was also informed that they

knew something of my previous history, and I was warned that I had

better not undertake to marry the widow. Bless their innocent hearts! I

had no idea of doing it. I was daily amazed at my own common sense. My

memory was active now; all my matrimonial mishaps of the past, with all

the consequences, were ever present to my mind, and never more present

than when was in the company of the fascinating widow. As for her,

the more her relatives opposed the match, the more she was bent upon

marrying me. Her family, she, said, were afraid they were going to lose

her property, but she would never give them a cent of it, anyhow, and

she would marry when and whom she pleased.

Not “when,” exactly; because, as she protested she would marry me, I

had something to say about it; I had been run away with by a milliner

in Vermont, and I had no idea of beings forcibly wedded by a widow in

Maine. I pleaded that my business was not sufficiently established; I

was liable to be called away from time to time; I had affairs to arrange

in New York and elsewhere before I could settle down; and so the happy

day was put off to an indefinite future time.

By-and-by I had business in Boston, and the widow declared that she

would go with me; she wanted to visit her friend’s there and do some

shopping; and without making particular mention of her intention to her

relatives, she went with me, and we were in Boston together more

than two weeks. At the end of that time she returned to Biddeford and

notified her friends treat she was married to the doctor, though she had

no certificate, not even a Troy one, to show for it.

I deemed it advisable not to go back with her, but went to Worcester for

a while. In a few days I went to Biddeford, keeping somewhat close, for

I did not care to meet any of the relatives, and at night I called upon

the widow. She told me that her family had raised a tremendous fuss

about me, and had learned as much as they, and indeed she, wanted to

know about my adventures in Vermont and New Hampshire. They had not gone

back of that, but that was enough. It was dangerous, she told me, for me

to stay there; I was sure to be arrested; I had better get away from the

place as soon as possible. We might meet again by-and-by, but unless I

wanted to be arrested I must leave, the place that very night. She gave

me seven hundred dollars, pressed the money upon me, and I parted from

her, returning to Worcester, and going from there to Boston. Besides

what the widow bad given me, I had made more than one thousand dollars

in Maine, and was comparatively well off.

Then came the joyful intelligence that Henry was released. His mother

had worked for him night and day. She bad drawn up a petition, secured

a large number of sterling signatures, had gone with her counsel to see

the Governor, had presented the petition and all the facts in the case,

and the Governor had granted a pardon. Henry served only six months of

the eighteen for which he was sentenced, and very soon after I received

word that he was free, he came to me in Boston, stayed a few days, and

then went home to his mother in Unadilla.

With the release of my son, I considered the Scheimer account closed,

and I have never made any effort to see Sarah or our boy since that

time.

From Boston I went to Pittsford, Ontario County, N. Y., where I had many

friends, who knew nothing about any of my marriages or misfortunes, my

arrests or imprisonments. I went visiting merely, and enjoyed myself so

much that I stayed there nearly three months, going about the country,

and practicing a little among my friends. I was never happier than I was

during this time. I was free from prisons, free from my wives, and

free from care. As a matrimonial monomaniac I now looked upon myself as

cured.

Among the friends whom I visited in Ontario County, and with whom I

passed several pleasant weeks, were two cousins of mine whom I had not

seen for many years, since we were children in fact, but who gave me a

most cordial welcome, and made much of me while I was there. They knew

absolutely nothing of my unhappy history--no unpleasant rumor even

respecting me, had ever penetrated that quiet quarter of the State. I

told them what I pleased of my past career, from boyhood to the present

time, and to them I was only a tolerably successful doctor, who made

money enough to live decently and dress well, and who was then suffering

from overwork and badly in need of recuperation. This, indeed, was the

ostensible reason for my visit to Ontario. I was somewhat shattered; my

old prison trials and troubles began to tell upon me. I used to think

sometimes that I was a little “out of my head;” I certainly was so

whenever I entered upon one of my matrimonial schemes, and I must have

been as mad as a March hare when I attempted to kidnap Sarah Scheimer’s

boy. After all the excitement and suffering of the past few years, I

needed rest, and here I found it.

My cousins were more than well-to-do farmers; they were enormously

rich in lands and money. Just after the war of 1812, their father,

my uncle, and my own father, had come to this, then wild and almost

uninhabited, section of the State to settle. Soon after they arrived

there my father’s wife died, and this loss, with the general loneliness

of the region, to say nothing of the fever and ague, soon drove my

father back to Delaware County to his forge for a living, and to the

day of his death he was nothing more than a hard-working,

hand-to-mouth-living, common blacksmith.

But my uncle stayed there, and, as time went on, he bought hundreds of

acres of land for a mere song, which were now immensely valuable, and

had made his children almost the richest people in that region. My

Cousins were great farmers, extensive raisers of stock, wool-growers,

and everything else that could make them prosperous. There seemed to be

no end to their wealth, and their fiat farms, spread out on every side

as far as the eye could see.

And if my father had only stayed there, I could not help but think what

a different life mine might have been. Instead of being the adventurer

I was, and had been ever since I separated from my first and worst

wife--doing well, perhaps, for a few weeks or a few months, and then

blundering into a mad marriage or other difficulty which got me into

prison; well-to-do to-day and to-morrow a beggar--I, too, might

have been rich and respectable, and should have, saved myself a world of

suffering. This was but a passing thought which did not mar my visit,

or make it less pleasant to me. I went there to be happy, not to be

miserable, and for three months I was happy indeed.

From there I went to my birthplace in Columbia County, revisiting old

scenes and the very few old friends and acquaintances who survived, or

who had not moved away. I spent a month there and thereabouts, and at

the end of that time I felt full restored to my usual good health, and

was ready to go to work again, not in the matrimonial way, but in my

medical business, that was enough for me now.

CHAPTER XIV. MY OWN SON TRIES TO MURDER ME.

SETTLING DOWN IN MAINE--HENRY’S HEALTH--TOUR THROUGH THE

SOUTH--SECESSION TIMES--DECEMBER IN NEW ORLEANS--UP THE

MISSISSIPPI--LEAVING HENRY IN MASSACHUSETTS--BACK IN MAINE AGAIN--RETURN

TO BOSTON--PROFITABLE HORSE TRADING--PLENTY OF MONEY--MY FIRST WIFE’S

CHILDREN--HOW THEY HAD BEEN BROUGHT UP--A BAREFACED ROBBERY--ATTEMPT TO

BLACKMAIL ME--MY SON TRIES TO ROB AND KILL ME--MY RESCUE--LAST OF THE

YOUNG MAN.

Where to go, not what to do, was the next question. Wherever I might go

and establish myself, if only for a few days, or a few weeks, I was sure

to have almost immediately plenty of patients and customers enough for

my medicines--this had been my experience always--and unfortunately for

me, I was almost equally sure to get into some difficulty from which

escape was not always easy. Looking over the whole ground for a fresh

start in business, it seemed to me that Maine was the most favorable

place. Whenever I had been there I had done well; it was one of the very

few States I had lived in where I had not been in jail or in prison; nor

had I been married there, though the Biddeford widow did her best to wed

me, and it is not her fault that she did not succeed in doing it.

To Maine, then, I went, settling down in Augusta, and remaining there

four months, during which time I had as much as I could possibly attend

to, and laid by a very considerable sum of money. While I was there

I heard the most unfavorable reports with regard to the health of my

eldest son Henry. Prison life at Trenton had broken him down in body

as well as in spirit, and he had been ill, some of the time seriously,

nearly all the time since he went to Unadilla. The fact that he was

entirely innocent of the offence for which he was imprisoned, preyed

upon his mind, and with the worst results. As these stories reached me

from week to week, I became anxious and even alarmed about him, and at

last I left my lucrative business in Augusta and went to New York. I

could not well go to Unadilla to visit Henry without seeing his mother,

whom I had no desire to see; so I sent for him to come to me in the

city if was able to do so. I knew that if medicine or medical attendance

would benefit him, I should be able to help him.

In a few days he came to me in a most deplorable physical condition. He

was a mere wreck of his former self. Almost immediately he began to talk

about the attempt to abduct the boy from Oxford; how innocent he was in

the matter, and how terribly he had suffered merely because he happened

to be with me when I rashly endeavored to kidnap the lad. All this went

through me like a sharp sword. It seemed as if I was the cause, not only

of great unhappiness to myself, but of pain and misery to all who were

associated or brought in contact with me. For this poor boy, who had

endured and suffered so much on my account, I could not do enough. My

means and time must now be devoted to his recovery, if recovery, was

possible.

He was weak, but was still able to walk about, and he enjoyed riding

very much. I kept him with me in the city a week or two, taking daily

rides to the Park and into the country, and when he felt like going out

in the evening I made him go to some place of amusement with me. I had

no other business, and meant to have none, but to take care of Henry,

and I devoted myself wholly to his comfort and happiness. In a few days

he had much improved in health and spirits, so much so, that I meditated

making a long tour with him to the South, hoping that the journey there

and back again would fully restore him.

Fortunately, my recent Maine business had put me in possession of

abundant funds, and when I had matured my scheme, and saw that Henry

was in tolerable condition to travel, I proposed the trip to him, and he

joyfully assented to my plan. I wanted to get him far away, for awhile,

from a part of the country which was associated in his mind, more than

in mine, with so much misery, and he seemed quite as eager to go. Change

of air and scene I knew would do wonders for him bodily, and would build

him up again.

We made our preparations and started for the South, going first to

Baltimore and then on through the Southern States by railroad to New

Orleans. It was late in the fall of 1860, just before the rebellion,

when the south was seceding or talking secession, and was already

preparing for war. Henry’s physical condition compelled us to rest

frequently on the way, and we stopped sometimes for two or three days

at a time, at nearly every large town or city on the entire route.

Everywhere there was a great deal of excitement; meetings were held

nearly every night secession was at fever heat, and there was an

unbounded expression and manifestation of ill-feeling against the north

and against northern men. Nevertheless, I was never in any part of

the Union where I was treated with so much courtesy, consideration and

genuine kindness as I was there and then. I was going south, simply to

benefit the invalid who accompanied me; everybody seemed to know it;

and everybody expressed the tenderest sympathy for my son. Wherever we

stopped, it seemed as if the people at the hotels, from the landlord

to the lowest servant, could not do enough for us. At Atlanta, Augusta,

Mobile, and other places, where we made our stay long enough to get a

little acquainted, my son and myself were daily taken out to ride, and

were shown everything of interest that was to be seen. Henry did not

enjoy this journey more than I did--to me as well as to him, the trip

was one prolonged pleasure, and by the time we reached New Orleans

nearly a month after we left New York, my son had so recuperated that I

had every hope of his speedy and full restoration.

It was the beginnings of winter when we reached New Orleans; but during

the whole month of December while we remained in that city, winter,

if indeed it was winter, which we could hardly believe, was only a

prolongation of the last beautiful autumn days we had left at the north.

Now Orleans was then at the very height of prosperity; business

was brisk, money was plenty, the ships of all nations and countless

steamboats from St. Louis, Cincinnati, Louisville and all points up the

Mississippi and Ohio rivers lay at the levee. The levee itself, from

end to end, for miles along the river front, was one mass of merchandise

which had come to the city, or was awaiting shipment. I had never seen a

livelier city. Indescribably gay, too, was New Orleans that winter. The

city was full of strangers; the hotels were thronged; there were balls

every night; the theatres were crowded, and everybody seemed bent

on having a good time. With all the rest, there was an extraordinary

military furor, and militia companies and regiments paraded the streets

every day, while secession meetings were held in various halls, or in

the public squares, nearly ever night.

From the St. Charles hotel where we stopped, St. Charles street seemed

ablaze and alive all night, and densely thronged all day. Sunday brought

no rest, for Sunday, so far as military parades, amusement and general

gaiety were concerned, was the liveliest day in the week; and Sunday

night the theatres were sure to present their best performances and to

draw their largest audiences. And so, from morning till night, and

from night till morning again, all was whirl, stir, bustle, business,

enjoyment, and excitement. To me, unaccustomed as I was to such scenes,

New York even seemed tame and dull, and slow in comparison with New

Orleans.

This is a picture of the Crescent City as it presented itself to me and

to my son in the early part of the winter before the war. No one knew

or even dreamed of the terrible times that were to come. No one believed

that war was probable, or even possible; it was well enough, perhaps,

to prepare for it; but secession was to be an accomplished fact, and

the North and all the world would quietly acknowledge it. This was the

general sentiment in the city; though secession, and what would, or what

might come of it, was the general topic of talk in the hotels, in the

restaurants, at the theatres, in the streets, everywhere. Now and then

some southerner with whom I had become acquainted would try to draw me

out to ascertain my sentiments on the subject, but I always laughed, and

said good naturedly:

“My dear sir, I didn’t come down here to talk about secession, but to

see if the southern climate would benefit my sick son.”

The fact was that I minded my own business, and minded it so well that

while I was in New Orleans I managed to find a few patients and sold

recipes and medicines enough to pay the entire expenses of our journey

thus far, from the North.

Almost every day my son and I drove somewhere up to Carrolton, down to

the battle-ground, or on the shell road to Lake Ponchartrain. It was a

month of genuine enjoyment to us both; of profit to me pecuniarily; and

of the best possible benefit to Henry’s health.

Early in January we took passage on one of the finest of the Mississippi

steamboats for St. Louis. The boat was crowded, and among the passengers

were a good many merchants, Northern men long resident in New Orleans,

who thought they saw trouble coming, and accordingly had closed up their

business in the Crescent City, and were now going North to stay there.

We had on board, too, the usual complement of gamblers and amateur or

professional poker-players, who kept the forward saloon near the bar,

and known in the river vernacular as the “Texas” of the boat, lively all

day long and well into the night, or rather the next morning. It was ten

or eleven days before we reached St. Louis. Nothing notable occurred

on the trip; but day after day, as we proceeded northward, and left

the soft, sunny south behind us, with the daily increasing coldness and

wintry weather, Henry seemed to decline by degrees, and gradually to

lose nearly all that he had gained since we left New York. When we

reached St. Louis he was seriously sick. I was very sorry we had come

away so soon in the season, and proposed that we should return and stay

in the south till spring; but Henry would not consent. There was nothing

to be done, then, but to hurry on to the east, and when we arrived in

New York Henry would not go home to his mother in Unadilla, but insisted

upon accompanying me to Boston. I was willing enough that he should go

with me, for then I could have him under my exclusive care; but when we

arrived in Boston he was so overcome by the excitement of travel, and

was so feeble from fatigue as well as disease, that instead of having

him go with me to Augusta, as I intended, by the advice of a friend I

took him into the country where he could be nursed, be quiet, and be

well taken care of till spring. I left him in good hands, promising

to come and see him as soon as I could, and then went back to my old

business in Augusta.

It required a little time to knot the new end of that business to the

end where I had broken off three months before; but I was soon in full

practice again and was once more making and saving money. I had no

matrimonial affair in hand, no temptation in fact, and none but strictly

professional engagements to fulfil. In Augusta and in several other

towns which I visited, for the whole of the rest of the winter, I was

as busy as I could be. Early in the spring I made up my mind to run away

for a week or two, and arranged my business so that I could go down into

Massachusetts and visit Henry, hoping, if he was better, to bring him

back with me to Maine.

Two of my patients in Paris, Maine, had each given me a good horse in

payment for my attendance upon them and their families, and for what

medicines I had furnished, and I took these horses with me to sell in

Boston. I drove them down, putting a good supply of medicines in my

wagon to sell in towns on the way, and when I arrived in Boston sold out

the establishment, getting one hundred and twenty-five dollars for the

wagon, three hundred dollars for one horse, and four hundred dollars

for the other--a pretty good profit on my time and medicine for the two

patients--and I brought with me besides about eighteen hundred dollars,

the net result, above my living expenses, of about three months’

business in Maine, and what I had done on the way down through

Massachusetts. I am thus minute about this money because it now devolves

upon me to show what sort of a family of children my first and worst

wife had brought up.

Of these children by my first marriage, my eldest son Henry, since he

had grown up, had been with me nearly as much as he had been with his

mother, and I loved him as I did my life. Since he became of age, at

such times when I was not in prison, or otherwise unavoidably separated

from him, we had been associated in business, and had traveled and lived

together. I knew all about him; but of the rest of the children I knew

next to nothing. Shortly after I sold my horses, one day I was in my

room at the hotel, when word was brought to me that some one in the

parlor wanted to see me.

I went down and found a young man, about twenty-one years of age, who

immediately came to me addressing me as “father,” and he then presented

a young woman, about two years older than he was, as his sister and my

daughter. I had not seen this young gentleman since the time when I had

carried him off from school and from the farmer to whom he was bound,

and had clothed him and taken him with me to Amsterdam and Troy,

subsequently sending him to my half-sister at Sidney. The ragged little

lad, as I found him, had grown up into a stout, good-looking young man;

but I had no difficulty in recognizing him, though I was much at loss to

know the precise object of this visit; so after shaking hands with them,

and asking then how they were, I next inquired what they wanted?

Well, they had been to see Henry, and he was a great deal better.

I told them I was very glad to hear it, and that I was then on my way to

visit him, and hoped to see him in a few days, as soon as I could finish

my business in Boston; if Henry was as well as they reported I should

bring him away with me.

“But if you are busy here,” said my young man, “we can save you both

time and trouble. We will go to Henry again and settle his bills for

board and other expenses, and will bring him with us to you at this

hotel.”

This, at the time, really seemed to me a kindly offer; it would enable

me to stay in Boston and attend to business I had to do, and Henry

would come there with his brother and sister in a day or two. I at once

assented to the plan, and taking my well-filled pocket-book from the

inside breast pocket of my coat, I counted out two hundred and fifty

dollars and gave them to the young man to pay Henry’s board, doctor’s

and other bills, and the necessary car fares for the party. They then

left me and started, as I supposed, to go after Henry.

But a few days went on and I saw and heard nothing of Henry. At last

word came to me one day that some one down stairs wanted to see me and I

told the servant to send him to my room, hoping that it might be Henry.

But no; it was my young man, of whom I instantly demanded:

“Where is your brother, whom you were to bring to me a week ago? What

have you done with the money I gave you for his bills?”

“I hadn’t been near Henry; sister has gone home; and I’ve spent the

money on a spree, every cent of it, here in Boston, and I want more.”

“Want more!” I exclaimed in blank amazement:

“Yes, more; and if you don’t give it to me, I’ll follow you wherever you

go, and tell people all I know about you.”

“You scoundrel,” said I, “you come here and rob, not me, but your poor,

sick brother, and then return and attempt to blackmail me. Get out of

my sight this instant.”

He sprung on me, and made a desperate effort to get my money out of my

pocket. We had a terrible struggle. He was younger and stronger than

I was, and as I felt that I was growing weaker I called out loudly for

help and shouted “Murder!”

The landlord himself came running into the room; I succeeded in tearing

myself away, from the grasp of my assailant, and the landlord felled

him to the floor with a chair. He then ran to the door and called to a

servant to bring a policeman.

“No, don’t!” I exclaimed; “Don’t arrest the villain, for I can make no

complaint against him--he is my son!”

But the landlord was bound to have some satisfaction out of the affair;

so he dragged the young man into the hall and kicked him from the top of

the stairs to the bottom, where, as soon as he had picked himself up, a

convenient servant kicked him out into the street. I have never set eyes

on my young man since his somewhat sudden departure from that hotel.

And when I went to visit my poor Henry a day or two afterwards, I can

hardly say that I was surprised, though I was indignant to learn that

his brother and sister had never been near him at all since he had been

in Massachusetts. They knew where and how he was from his letter’s to

his mother; they knew, too, from the same letters--for I had notified

Henry--at what time I would be in Boston, and with this information they

had come on to swindle me. I have no doubt, when the young man came the

second time to rob me, he would have murdered me, if the landlord had

not come to my assistance. And this was the youngest son of my first and

worst wife!!

I found Henry in better condition than I expected, and I took him back

with me to Augusta. I did not tell him of his brother’s attempt to rob

and kill. Me--it would have been too great a shock for him. He stayed

with me only a few days and then, complaining of being homesick, he went

to visit his mother again.

CHAPTER XV. A TRUE WIFE AND HOME, AT LAST.

WHERE WERE ALL MY WIVES?--SENSE OF SECURITY--AN IMPRUDENT

ACQUAINTANCE--MOVING FROM MAINE--MY PROPERTY IN RENSSELAER COUNTY--HOW

I LIVED--SELLING A RECIPE--ABOUT BUYING A CARPET--NINETEEN

LAW--SUITS--SUDDEN DEPARTURE FOR THE WEST--A VAGABOND FOR TWO

YEARS--LIFE IN CALIFORNIA--RETURN TO THE EAST--DIVORCE FROM MY FIRST

WIFE--A GENUINE MARRIAGE--MY FARM--HOME AT LAST.

I remained in Maine nearly two years, hardly ever going out of the

State, except occasionally to Boston on business. Making Augusta my

residence and headquarters, I practiced in Portland and in nearly all

the towns and cities in the eastern part of the State. During all this

time, I behaved myself, in all respects better than I had ever before

done in any period of my life. I began to look upon myself as a reformed

man; I had learned to let liquor alone, and was consequently in far

less, indeed, next to no danger of stepping into the traps in which

my feet had been so often caught. I may as well confess it--it was

intoxicating liquor, and that mainly, which had led me into my various

mad marrying schemes and made me the matrimonial monomaniac and lunatic

lover that I was for years. What my folly, my insanity caused me to

suffer, these pages have attempted to portray. I had grown older, wiser,

and certainly better. I now only devoted myself strictly to my business,

and I found profit as well as pleasure in doing it.

What had become of all my wives in the meantime, I scarcely knew and

hardly cared. Of course from time to time I had heard more or less about

them--at least, a rumor of some sort now and then reached me. About my

first and worst wife, at intervals I heard something from Henry, who was

still with her, and who frequently wrote to me when he was well enough

to do so. Margaret Bradley and Eliza Gurnsey were still carrying on

the millinery business in Rutland, and in Montpelier, and were no

doubt weaving other and new webs in hopes of catching fresh flies. Mary

Gordon, as I learned soon afterwards, was married almost before I had

fairly escaped from New Hampshire in my flight to Canada, and she had

gone to California with her new husband. Of the Newark widow I knew

nothing; but two years of peace, quiet, and freedom from molestation

in Maine had made me feel quite secure against any present or future

trouble from my past matrimonial misadventures.

I was living in Maine, prudently I think under an assumed name, and as

the respectable, and, to my patients and customers, well-known Doctor

Blank, I was scarcely liable to be recognized at any time or by any

one as the man who had married so many wives, been in so many jails and

prisons, and whose exploits had been detailed from time to time in the

papers.

Nor, all this while, did I have the slightest fear of detection. I

looked upon myself as a victim rather than as a criminal, and for what

I had done, and much that I had not done, I had more than paid the

penalty. So far as all my business transactions were concerned, my

course had always been honorable, and in my profession, for my cures and

for my medicines, I enjoyed a good reputation which all my efforts were

directed to deserve.

Of course, now and then, I met people in Portland, and especially in

Boston, who had known me in former years, and who knew something of my

past life; but these were generally my friends who sympathized with my

sufferings, or who, at least, were willing to blot out the past in my

better behavior of the present. One day in Boston a young man came up to

me and said:

“How do you do, Doctor?”

“Quite well,” I replied; “but you have the advantage of me; I am sure I

do not remember you, if I ever knew you.”

“You don’t remember me! Why, I am the son of the jailer in Montpelier

with whom you spent so many months before you went to Windsor; I knew

you in a minute, and Doctor, I’ve been in Boston a week and have got

‘strapped;’ how to get back to Montpelier I don’t know, unless you will

lend me five or six dollars which I will send back to you the moment I

get home.”

“I remember you well, now,” said I; “you are the little rascal who

wouldn’t even go and buy me a cigar unless I gave you a dime for doing

it; and then, sometimes, you cheated me out of my money; I wouldn’t lend

you a dollar now if it would save you from six month’s imprisonment in

your father’s filthy jail. Good morning.”

And that was the last I saw of him.

I was getting tired of Maine. I had been there longer than I had stayed

in any place, except in the Vermont State Prison, for the past fifteen

years, and I began to long for fresh scenes and a fresh field for

practice. I had accumulated some means, and thought I might take life

a little easier--make a home for myself somewhere, practicing my

profession when I wanted to, and at other times enjoying the leisure

I loved and really needed. So I closed up my business in Augusta and

Portland, put my money in my pocket, and once more went out into the

world on a prospecting tour. My first idea was to go to the far West,

and I went to Troy with the intention of staying there a few days,

and then bidding farewell to the East forever. The New England States

presented no attractions to me; I had exhausted Maine, or rather it had

exhausted me; New Hampshire, Vermont, and Massachusetts had too many

unpleasant associations, if indeed they were safe states for me, with my

record to live in, and Connecticut I knew very little about. Certainly I

had no intention of trying to settle in New Jersey or Pennsylvania. The

west was the place; anywhere in the west.

Here was I in Troy, revolving plans in my own mind for migrating to the

west, just as Mary Gordon and I had done in the very same hotel, only a

few years before; and in the course of a week I came to exactly the same

conclusion that Mary and I did--not to go. I heard of a small farm--it

was a very small one of only twelve acres--which could be bought in

Rensselaer County, not more than sixteen miles from Albany and Troy.

I went to see the place, liked it, and bought it for sixteen hundred

dollars. There was a small but good house and a barn on the place,

and altogether it was a cheap and desirable property. I got a good

housekeeper, hired a man, and began to carry on this little farm,

raising garden vegetables and fruit mainly, and sending them to market

in Albany and Troy. Generally I took my own stuff to market, and sold

medicines and recipes as well, and in Albany I had a first rate practice

which I went to that city to attend to once or twice a week. While

my man was selling vegetables and fruit--I remember I sold a hundred

dollars worth of cherries from my farm the first summer--in the market,

I was Doctor Blank receiving my patients at Stanwix Hall, or calling

upon them at their residences; and when the day’s work was over, my man

and I rode home in the wagon which had brought us and the garden truck

early in the morning. On the whole, this kind of life was exceedingly

satisfactory, and I liked it.

I made frequent expeditions to Saratoga and to other places not far from

home to attend to cases to which I was called, and to sell medicines;

and considering that the main object I had in settling in Rensselaer

County was rest and more leisure than I had enjoyed for some years, I

had a great deal more to do than I desired. Nevertheless, I might

have continued to live on my little farm, raising vegetables, picking

cherries, and practicing medicine in the neighborhood, had not the fate,

which seemed to insist that I should every little while come before

a court of justice for something or other, followed me even here. A

certain hardware dealer in Albany, with whom I had become acquainted,

proposed to buy one of my recipes, and to go into an extensive

manufacture of the medicine. He had read and heard of the fortunes that

had been made in patent medicines, by those who understand the business,

and he thought he would see if he could not get rich in a year or less

in the same way.

After some solicitation I sold him the recipe for one thousand dollars,

receiving six hundred dollars down, and a promise of the balance when

the first returns from sales of the medicine came in. I also entered

into a contract to show the man how to make the medicine, and to give

him such advice and assistance in his new business as I could. My

hardware friend understood his legitimate business better than he did

that which he had undertaken, and although be learned how to manufacture

the medicine he did not know how to sell it; and after trying it a few

weeks, and doing next to nothing, he turned upon me as the author of his

misfortunes and sued me for damages.

Incidental to this, and only incidental, is the following: Shortly after

I purchased my property, as I was very fond of calling my little farm,

in Rensselaer County, I was in Albany one day when it occurred to

me that I wanted a carpet for my parlor. I went to the store of a

well-known carpet-dealer, and asked to be shown some of his goods.

While I was going through the establishment I came across a man who

was industriously sewing together the lengths of a cut carpet, and I

recognized in him one of my fellow convicts at Windsor. He, however, did

not know me, and I doubt if he could have been convinced of my identity

as the wretch who plied the broom in the halls of the prison. To him,

as he glanced at me, I was only a well-dressed gentleman whom the

proprietor was courteously showing through the establishment in the

hope of securing a good customer. It was this little circumstance, I

think--my chance meeting with my old fellow-prisoner, and my changed

circumstances and appearance which put me beyond recognition by

him--that prompted me to the somewhat brazen business that followed:

“I only came in to look to-day,” I said to the carpet-dealer; “for the

precise sum of money in my pocket at present is eighteen pence, and no

more; but if you will cut me off forty yards of that piece of carpeting,

and trust me for it, I will pay your bill in a few days, as sure as I

live.”

My frank statement with regard to my finances seemed to attract the

attention of the merchant who laughed and said:

“Well, who are you, anyhow? Where do you live?”

I told him that I was Doctor Blank; that I lived in Rensselaer county

on a small place of my own; I raised fruit and vegetables for market; I

cured cancers, dropsy, and other diseases when I could; sold medicines

readily almost where I would; and was in Albany once or twice a week.

“Measure and cut off the carpet,” said he to the clerk who was following

us, “and put it in the Doctor’s wagon”

The bill was about a hundred dollars, and I drove home with the carpet.

It was nearly six weeks afterwards when I went into the store again, and

greeted the proprietor. He had seen me but once before and had totally

forgotten me. I told him I was Doctor Blank, small farmer and large

medical practitioner of Rensselaer County.

“The devil you are! Why, you’re the man that bought a carpet of me a few

weeks ago; I was wondering what had become of you.”

“I’m the man, and I must tell you that the carpet doesn’t look well;

but never mind--here’s a hundred dollars, and I want you to receipt the

bill.”

“Now,” said I, when he returned the bill to me receipted, “the carpet

looks firstrate; I never saw a handsomer one in my life.”

“Well, you are an odd chap, any how,” said the carpet-dealer, laughing,

and shaking me by the hand. Almost from that moment we were more than

mere acquaintances, we were fast friends. In the course of the long

conversation that followed, I told him of my trouble with the hardware

man--how I had sold him the recipe; that he had failed, from ignorance

to conduct the business properly, and had sued me for damages.

“I know the man,” said my new friend; “let him go ahead and sue and

be benefited, if he can; meanwhile, do you keep easy; I’ll stand by

you.”

And stand by me he did through thick and thin. The hardware man sued me

no less than nineteen times, and for pretty much everything--damages,

debt, breach of contract, and what not. With the assistance of a

lawyer whom my friend recommended to me, I beat my opponent in eighteen

successive suits; but as fast as one suit was decided he brought

another, almost before I could get out of the court room. At last he

carried the case to the Supreme Court, and from there it went to a

referee. The matter from beginning to end, must have cost him a mint

of money; but he went on regardless of the costs which he hoped and

expected to get out of me at last.

My long and painful experience, covering many years, had given me a

pretty thorough knowledge of the law’s uncertainty, as well as the law’s

delay, and very early in the course of the present suit, I had quietly

disposed of my property in Rensselaer County. I sold the little farm,

which cost me sixteen hundred dollars, for twenty-one hundred dollars,

and I had had, besides, the profits of nearly two years’ farming and a

good living from and on the place. I also arranged all my money matters

in a manner that I felt assured would be satisfactory to me, if not

to my opponent, and then, following the advice of my friend, the

carpet-dealer, I let the hardware man sue and be “benefited if he

could.” When, however, the case went finally to a referee who was

certain, I felt sure, to decide against me, I took no further personal

interest in the matter, nor have I ever troubled myself to learn the

filial decision. I made up my mind in a moment and decided that the time

had come, at last, when it was advisable for me to go to the West.

Westward I went, towards sunset almost, and for the two following years

I led, I fear, what would be considered a very vagabond life. I went

to Utah, thinking while I was in Salt Lake City, if they only knew my

history there I was sure to be elected an apostle, or should be, at any

rate, a shining light in Mormondom--only I had taken my wives in regular

succession, and had not assembled the throng together. I pushed across

the plains, and went to California, remaining a long time in San

Francisco. This may have been vagabondism, but it was profitable

vagabondism to me. During this long wandering I held no communication

with my friends in the East; friends and foes alike had an opportunity

to forget me, or if they thought of me they did not know whether I was

dead or alive; they certainly never knew, all the time, where I was;

and while I was journeying I never once met a man or woman who had

been acquainted with me in the past. All the time, too, I had plenty of

money; indeed, when, I returned at last I was richer far than I was when

I left Albany, and left as the common saying graphically expresses it,

“between two days.” I had my old resources of recipes, medicines and my

profession, and these I used, and had plenty of opportunity to use, to

the best advantage. I could have settled in San Francisco for life

with the certainty of securing a handsome annual income. I never feared

coming to want. If I had lost my money and all other resources had

failed, I was not afraid to make a horse-nail or turn a horse-shoe

with the best blacksmith in California, and I could have got my living,

as I did for many a year, at the forge and anvil.

But I made more money in other and easier ways, and I made friends. In

every conceivable way my two years’ wandering was of far more benefit to

me than I dreamed of when I wildly set out for the West without knowing

exactly where, or for what, I was going. The new country, too, had given

me, not only a fresh fund of ideas, but a new stock of health--morally

and physically I was in better condition than I ever was before in

my life. I had a clear head; a keen sense of my past follies; a vivid

consciousness of the consequences which such follies, crimes they may be

called, are almost certain to bring. I flattered myself that I was not

only a reformed prisoner, but a reformed drunkard, and a thoroughly

restored matrimonial monomaniac.

And when I returned, at last, to the East, and went once more to visit

my near and dear friends in Ontario County, I was received as one who

had come back from the dead. When I had been here a few weeks, and had

communicated to my cousins so much of the story of my life as I then

thought advisable, I took good counsel and finally did what I ought to

have done long years before. I commenced proper legal proceedings for

a divorce from my first and worst wife. I do not need to dwell upon the

particulars; it is enough to say, that the woman, who was then living,

so far from opposing me, aided me all she could, even making affidavit

to her adultery with the hotel clerk at Bainbridge, long ago, and I

easily secured my full and complete divorce. Now I was, indeed, a free

man--all the other wives whom I had married, or who had married me,

whether I would or no, were as nothing; some were dead and others were

again married. It may be that this new, and to me strange sense of

freedom, legitimate freedom, set me to thinking that I might now secure

a genuine and true wife, who would make a new home happy to me as long

as we both should live.

Fortune, not fate now, followed me, led me rather and guided my

footsteps. It was not many months before I met a woman who seemed to me

in every way calculated to fill the first place in that home which I had

pictured as a final rest after all my woes and wanderings. From mutual

esteem our acquaintance soon ripened into mutual love. She was all

that my heart could desire. I was tolerably well off; my position was

reputable; my connections were respectable. To us, and to our friends,

the match seemed a most desirable one. It was no hasty courtship; we

knew each other for months and learned to know each other well; and with

true love for each other, we had for each other a genuine respect. I

frankly told her the whole story of my life as I have now written it.

She only pitied my misfortunes, pardoned my errors, and, one bright,

golden, happy autumn day, we were married.

In the northeastern part of the State of New York on the banks of a

broad and beautiful river, spread out far and near the fertile acres

of one of the finest farms in the country. It is well stocked and well

tilled. The surrounding country is charming--game in the woods, and fish

in the streams afford abundant sport, and the region is far away from

large cities, and remote even from railroads. I do not know of a more

delightful place in the whole world to live in. On the farm I speak

of, a cottage roof covers a peaceful, happy family, where content and

comfort always seem to reign supreme. A noble woman, a most worthy wife

is mistress of that house; joyous children move and play among the trees

that shade the lawns; and the head of the household, the father of the

family, is the happiest of thee group.

That farm, that family, that cottage, that wife, that happy home are

mine--all mine. I have found a true wife and a real home at last.

My story is told; and if it should suggest to the reader the moral which

is too obvious to need rehearsal, one object I had in telling the story

will have been accomplished.

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg’s Seven Wives and Seven Prisons, by L.A. Abbott