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Note, – The old lady who intimated that there had been "love passages between herself and the Doctor" – Biographical representation.
"It is delightful to know that a man of such science, and constant observation, was not rude, or wanting in those gentle traits which allure the susceptibilities of the best portion of our race. I might narrate a romantic incident, which would prove how he had unintentionally inspired an affection in a lovely lady, which endured in the most singular extent, even to old age. I have witnessed her tears at the mention of his name. On the most ample scrutiny, I repose, when I say, that the Doctor had never trifled with this sincere love. The sense of devoted affection in this case, led the victim of a tender delusion to infer, that on his part, the regard was reciprocated. I can imagine the sorrow of his great heart, if he discovered the unfortunate error and misplaced passion. In the case to which I now refer, I could only judge of the beauty and attractions of the early youth, by those remains of little arts and graceful attitudes, which are the result, so generally, of a consciousness of a beauty that is confessed by all."
Then too I could avail myself of the ingenious devices of praise, by a denial of infirmities.
"In him there was nothing for effect – nothing that was theatrical – nothing done to cause the vulgar to stare with astonishment. No pompous equipage, no hurried drives, no sudden summons from the dwellings of his friends, as if patients required his sudden attendance – no turgid denomination of little objects by words of thundering sound – no ordering the simple placing of the feet in hot water, as Pediluvium, – none of those arts were employed by the subject of our Biography, to acquire or extend his practice, or build up his great fame."
I also found some of the letters of the Doctor. Let me attempt the work of Alchemy again. Let me transform some passage into the proper language of Modern Biography.
Thus I find this sentence in a letter to Colonel Tupp: "Some of our negroes in New Jersey are very troublesome, and some wise plan should be devised lest they become a heavy burden – "
"It would appear" – thus should it be erected into Biographical effect – "that the Doctor, to be named always with so much veneration, was probably one of the first of our men of giant minds, to foresee the dangers of the problem involved in the existence of the African race, in the new world. I claim him – on the evidence of his familiar epistolary correspondence – as the originator of the great movements of statesmen and philosophers, for its solution. He gave, beyond all contradiction, that impulse to the energetic thought, which has led to all the plans for the elevation of those, who bear 'God's image cut in ebony.' As we trace the voice to the distant fountain – or the immense circle of fire on our prairies, to the sparks elicited by the careless traveler from the small flint, so as I recall the present innumerable discussions on this sable subject, I refer them all to the unpretending utterances of this great man. I recur to the small village where he dwelt. His study, his favorite retreat, is before me. There, at the table, illuminated as it were with his manuscript, I see his impressive form. Near him are the pestle and mortar; the various jars on which are labels in such unknown words, that the country people regard them as if they were the ingredients for the sorcerer, – his coat, – his books, – his minerals, – such are his surroundings.
"There in that study – he first in the unostentatious effusions of a private letter, suggests the seed of those convictions, which led to the formation of the Colonization Society. No fanaticism, however, has marked and disfigured the stately forms of his thoughts, on the subject of the extinction of slavery. Let not the readers of this Biography at the Sunny South, imagine that he designed an interference with their possessions. There is evidence of the perfect balance of his mind on this subject, in the fact, that he designates them, in another letter, written probably after this one, which contains the immortal sentence, in which he employs a word, which in printed syllables, with the exception of one repeated letter in the English, resembles the Roman adjective for Black, – but whose pronunciation rejected the classical usage.
"I am aware that those who love his memory will be compelled to do battle for the honors which they justly claim for these and other anticipations of later movements in the world of wisdom and philanthropy. As Harvey discovered the circulation of the blood, only to have his claim a subject of dispute, so our great Philosopher will find those to detract from his merits, and maintain that the great efforts to which we have alluded were of later origination."
While I speak upon this subject of the African discussion, I may remark that there is a singular discovery which I have made, as I have searched his papers, and concerning which I am in doubt, whether it should be delegated to oblivion or made the subject of ingenuous confession. I am aware that obscurity throws its shadow over the topic. I am also aware that I may hereby cast a suspicion of the spirit of a wild projector, over the subject of this memoir. I think, however, and believe that I do not flatter myself unjustly, that I have guarded against such a wrong by the delineation I have given of his calm and reflecting character.
The circumstances which my pen is somewhat reluctant to trace for fear of misapprehension, are these: I find in a letter to a friend the remark, "You would be no less startled by the assertion, that I could transform the African into a white man, than to learn from me that my Cæsar has become sedulous in the discharge of his duties, and ceased to slumber by the kitchen fire when he should be at his work at the wood-shed."
Now observe this ominous suggestion about the transformation of the physical characteristics of those who have been translated among us from the land of sandy deserts. Here is a hint of the physical transformation of a black man into a white. And then I must add that I find two small pieces of paper lying near the letter, which seem to corroborate my view, which papers, I candidly confess, – here is the ground of hesitation, the momentum which disturbs the mind seemingly on the eve of its rest, might indeed have been prescriptions saved by accident, or have been hints on the subject of the transformation of the race of darkened skins. One of these fragments contains the words, "Elixir to remove the dark pigment which causes the surface discrimination" – on the other, "For the removal of odorous accidentals." I am willing to leave the subject to the consideration of my readers.
Then again I have known a man who had no brilliant or striking qualities, exalted into one of most honorable fame, – in this wise, —
"The doctor perhaps had no one gift of intellectual power which exalted him above other men. But look to the faculties which he possessed in admirable combination; regard him in the complete symmetry of his mind," etc. etc.
Thus I amused myself by this imitation of the system of eulogistic biographies. But I must confess that I had returned to my home oppressed with a feverish anxiety, as of one who felt that he had become involved in a hopeless undertaking. How utterly absurd the position which I occupied! How silly had I been in taking the assurance of Mrs. Bolton for certain truth, and acting on the principle, that her husband was a great man in his day. I now began to regard the deceased as one of the most stupid creatures that had ever felt a pulse.
But then I had acquired the most morbid fear of meeting the widow. What excuse should I offer for a change of purpose? I have no doubt that my exposure and miserable life when at the village, seeking pearls and finding chaff, had produced a temporary derangement of my system, and that I had contracted some low fever.
Nothing else could account for the manner in which I was tormented by my position. What could be more easy than to say that I found myself unable to gather material for the life of the Great – I was about to say, old fool! Somehow I was spell-bound. I could not reason calmly on the subject. It broke my rest at night. It haunted me during the day. I now perceive, that I ought to have sought the advice of my physician. But then, common sense seemed to have deserted me on this one point. I was nervous, wretched, for so unreasonable a reason, and could not find relief. One night I dreamed that the widow and the doctor were both intent on murdering me. There she stood near me, the picture of wrath, and urging him, as a second Lady Macbeth, to destroy me. He advanced and raised his abominable pestle above his head. He smiled, proving how a man may smile and be a villain, and procrastinated the deadly blow to torment me. Fortunately I saw projecting from one of his huge pockets a large bottle of some specific which he had concocted for a patient. Springing up, I seized the vial, and grasping him by the collar, was pouring it down his throat, saying, you infamous old murderer die of your own medicine, when a chair, near my bed, thrown violently half across the room by my impetuosity, awoke me.
But every knock at my door tormented me. Every letter was examined with terror, – lest I should recognize a hand calling me to account.
I found my way about Newark through unfrequented streets, and across the lots when it was practicable. Even when I went to the court-house, on business, I left my office, not by the door, but through a small back window, and by sundry winding ways reached my destination.
After this plan had been pursued for some time, I was duly honored by the following note.
"Sir: – You are not to think that your designs are unknown. Your singular conduct in passing by my house so often, – a house so removed from the streets through which you would naturally pass, – could not fail to be observed by any man who had an eye in his head, and who regarded his rights. I am not alone in this observation of your proceedings. We have taken into consideration your stealthy look as you passed, and have noticed how you watched at the corners, lest any one should see you.
"Depend upon it your designs are known. The villany is detected. You are a hypocrite of the deepest dye. Unless you entirely, and immediately, relinquish your pursuit, you will suffer in a manner you little apprehend.
"Do not prowl in this mean way around my premises any more. Strive to retrieve your character. I hope the day may come when I can honor you as I now despise you.
"Warning."
About the same time I received this additional note.
"Dear Bob: – I heard the other day that you had returned home, and I have been eager to see you. They tell me that you have fallen desperately in love with a certain widow, and that you have been up the country, under pretence of partridge shooting, in order that you might inquire about her property. Are the inquiries satisfactory? Are the acres and dwellings such, that on your return, she appears to be angelic? Or, being disappointed as to the properties left her by her father, and the old doctor, is she but a woman of ordinary charms? Oh Bob! I never thought you so mercenary. I thought that you would follow my example, and despise all but the real excellencies which can adorn a wife.
"Had it not been that I am lame, I should have been to see you, – as it is desirable that we should meet soon.
"Now I think of it, there is another foolish report about you, – that you go to the court-house by the back street, in consequence of your having heard that that scape-grace, Bill Turney, whom you lashed so terribly in your address before the squire, when Obadiah Potter was arrested for beating his wife, intended to pummel you as soon as he caught you. They say also that he describes his belligerent intentions in very graphic language, to wit, that he will, 'shoot through you, like lightning through a gooseberry bush.' These stories will amuse you.
"Stop and see me the first time you come along the main street in a bold manner.
"Your friend,"J. Walters."
These annoyances had at least a good effect. I resolved that I would see the widow, and throwing off my nervous anxiety, explain to her that I could not possibly find materials sufficient for a biography. I intended also to suggest, that a physician might be better qualified for the undertaking.
Hence I gladly accepted the invitation of a fair cousin of mine, to be one of her guests for an evening party; where I felt confident that I should meet the widow.
It had now been several weeks since I had been thrown into the society of ladies. My health was improved. The nervous fever that had agitated me, had passed away. The fascination of one whom I had sometimes met in our village gatherings, seemed to be restoring me to myself.
After a while, my companion looking across the room, said to me, "How well our widow looks this evening."
I thought that there was a mischievous look in her laughing eye. But sure enough – there stood the Empress, who had commanded the biography. She was resting her hand upon a piano, and in deep conversation with Judge Plian.
I crossed the room and spoke to her. She received me politely – but not as one who had the slightest recollection, that there was any tie of the most profound interest between us. Surely a man writing her deceased husband's biography, should have immediately become her chief object of attention. On the contrary, after a few common-place words, she turned to the Judge, and became absorbed in his conversation.
And this was the more remarkable, because the man was by no means good-looking. Nay, I think him rather insignificant. I had a few words with him on the occasion of the trial of that miserable creature, who would get himself hung, and I concluded, not only that he was not well versed in legal learning, but that he was a remarkably stubborn man, riveted to his opinions, even when, by means of lucid argument, you proved him to be in error.
A short time afterwards I entered into conversation with my fair cousin. She directed me to look at the two, near the piano.
"They will make a good-looking couple, will they not?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why, have you not heard of their engagement?"
"Engagement!"
"Yes, it has been a short acquaintance. Indeed, Bob, now that it recurs to my mind, I heard that she sent you out of the way, into the country on business, that the Judge might not be alarmed by the appearance of a rival. But you know that villagers are famous for gossip. Of course there was nothing in it. And I said, you never had a serious thought about her."
Was ever anything like this? Before the shoes were old with which she followed my poor father's body. While the Biography of her deceased husband was in progress, she forms an engagement with a man of no sort of personal attractions, and who, being on the bench, can have his legal decisions confuted by a young lawyer.
Surely the most strict moralist would confess, that I was released from my engagements! Surely Sir Charles Grandison would have said, that I need not put myself forward for an explanation with the widow. If she spoke to me on the subject, could I not say, "Let the Judge write the book?"
These notes have not been written in vain, if I can contribute, in the least degree, to the awakening of the public mind to a demand for greater moral principles, in the composition of histories, and of the memoirs of distinguished men.
I thought that the widow might send me a note, before many days had passed. I waited, and concluded in a Christian spirit, that if she applied to me, she should have the notes which I had accumulated. But I never heard again of my first attempt at writing a memoir. I never heard again of Dr. Bolton's Biography.
IV.
KATYDIDS: – A NEW CHAPTER IN NATURAL HISTORY
John Jones, a man who said he hated strife,
Had from the altar led an able wife.
No lines told scandal on a wrinkled brow;
Temper and Time are rivals with their plow.
Some said that she was gentle as the May;
That Jones, the dog, was now to have his day.
Your pardon, men, I pray you now dispense,
If I proclaim you void of common sense,
When you would have your wives to know no will,
To have no thought but such as you instill;
To be your shadows, never to suggest,
Each judgment crossing yours at once represt;
And to suppose, that every chiding word
Shall from your bearded lips alone be heard.
If no resistance met us in our home,
What petty tyrants would all men become?
The little wits that most of men possess,
For want of sharp'ning would become far less;
The selfish streams that flow from out our will,
So far corrupted be more stagnant still:
And restless, we should wage an inward war,
But for the soothing rays of home's true star.
Oh, let this wrong abuse of women end,
In me, at least, they'll find a sturdy friend.
I give my witness, I who have been thrown,
Widely with all in Country and in Town,
Women are best of all our fallen race,
Richer in heart, than e'en in outward grace,
And if our homes are not the abodes of peace,
The fault is ours; and the complaint should cease.
In that small dwelling there – from morn to night,
A woman toils, withdrawn from human sight;
A plain poor woman, in a common dress,
Of kindly tones, and of uncouth address.
Just wend thy way unto the little brook,
Day after day upon its waters look,
See every day the self-same ripples there,
On those same stones, for ages smooth and bare.
So she from day to day the course of life,
Finds one recurring call of labor's strife,
Save when God's blessed day of rest hath come,
And its sun shines, as in the church, at home.
Unlike the stream she has no murmuring tone,
She has God's will to do, and it is done.
With tender care she trains her youthful band,
And never wearies in her heart or hand;
Is ready, when the music in her ear,
From one loved step, proclaims her husband near,
To spread the frugal board, the welcome give,
In each act say, for self I do not live.
Oh man, o'erlook thy wife's unceasing care
How her dear love doth follow everywhere,
Forget her, as she stood beside thy bed,
When the long sickness bowed thy weary head,
Watching, – to her all sacrifice as light,
As 'tis to stars to watch o'er earth at night.
Ah 'tis most noble, manly, not to know
How light o'er all doth from her presence flow,
And when a quicker word in haste doth fall,
To speak of her, as if strife was her all.
What could she say, if she replied to thee,
Told to the world her secret misery,
Showed the sad wounds that thy neglect had wrought,
Where but a look the healing balm had brought.
One, at this hour, lies on the bed of death,
A neighbor lovely as the morning's breath.
Slowly she dies, – and with prophetic eye
Tracing the course of human destiny,
I see a home she brightened, hence so lone,
Its calm day darkened, and its music gone;
The young, the old with anxious cares opprest,
Their hearts, like shadows feeling for their rest
On the green sward, where flickering sunbeams glide,
My tears can fall, and standing by thy side,
I know a woman's place, a woman's worth, —
I know the gift of God in her to earth.
Thou will not let thy wife become to thee,
That which her nature claims that she should be.
Thou hast a cold dead life from her apart,
Thou art not moulded by her gentler heart,
Else by her sweet, pure thoughts thou wert more true
More wise, more bold each noble deed to do.
Of woman's weakness dost thou speak? Thou'lt find
Her strength indeed, by this just bond of mind.
You are the weak one, cannot grasp her might,
Forever boasting that thy wrong is right.
Without her soul to thine, the page is dull
Of all life's work, – and with this it is full
Of all illumined splendors, as of old,
The precious writings were adorned with Gold.
Ah view that cell so dark! – the felon there,
With glaring eye that speaks his vast despair.
He once in princely splendor lived his day,
Lord of the street, a monarch in his way.
His costly revels gained an envied fame,
Where shallow fops, and women like them came.
Oh man! how couldst thou thus thy God defy?
Could riches pay thee for thy long-told lie?
If thou hadst said thy secret to thy wife,
Made known to her the secret guilty strife,
Told of the awful chance, the business dice,
The gambling sales, the shameful, well-named vice,
Asked what to risk, asked what a man should do,
Would that shame-darkened cell have been for you?
She would have said, in woman's faith so strong,
"We may be poor, – we never will do wrong.
Take all this splendor; let it fade away,
But stand thou honest as the open day."
Would she have been to thee a feeble stay?
We make the woman weak where she is weak;
We school her feeble; feebleness we seek.
We make believe that life is pompous pride,
That she is blest, by gold when gratified,
This my conclusion, as the world we scan,
What's wrong in woman tells of wrong in man.
But where is Jones? While I have thus digressed,
Why Jones, poor fellow, is by care oppressed.
He draws his trail of briars round life's ring,
And wonders he is caught by everything.
Jones snaps at every woman, man, and child,
Just as a turtle by hot coals made wild.
Jones had a daughter, and her name was Kate,
As like her sire as pewter plate to plate.
And they together almost vexed to death,
The wife, the target of their arrowed breath.
Sometimes the patient creature's anger rose
Their petty wrongs, and malice to oppose.
And tempers such as hers, men do not try
By single deeds that cause some misery;
Stirred at the last by injuries borne so long,
Their anger speaks accumulated wrong.
Kate had her beauty, and her household skill,
And in due time her Jack had found his Gill,
He was a man as meek as man could be,
And could not dream of woman's tyranny.
He was a pleasant man to smile "good day,"
And had the art to say what others say;
Thought his old saws came from a welling-spring
In his own mind – not knowing he did bring
All that so softly from his lips e'er fell,
As vapid water from his neighbor's well —
The poor dog never stole a good-sized bone,
And so the world of curs let him alone.
Not to an infant could Kate gentle be,
As to a creature, meek and kind as he.
How could she tear the vine that round her grew,
Ready to fall with every wind that blew.
The wife made battle for him with his friends;
And fighting them, she thus made good amends
For all her patience with him. Thus with care
She spread her shield, and said, attack, who dare.
Strange, how 'mid peace we make the show of war,
And shout unto the battle from afar,
And her defense at last such habit wrought
Had she assailed him, she herself had fought.
In time, ill-temper wrought upon her mind,
And illness, too, its miseries combined.
Oh! sad to read of intellect o'erthrown!
Sometimes all blank. Sometimes one train alone
Of thought, declares that reason is denied.
We hear of one who said, I must abide
Behind the door, because I am a clock.
And there he stood, and ticked. And one was shocked
To feel a rat within his stomach run.
The doctor heard: the story being done,
He wisely smiled, and said, "I soon can cure.
You need not be a rat-trap long I'm sure."
"Why how, O doctor, can you reach the rat?"
"'Tis easy: down your throat I'll send a cat."
The man at such a pill must need rebel.
And with good sense he quietly got well.
Kate had her fancies – said she soon would die,
And wasting seemed to prove her prophecy.
"Poor Will," she said, "you soon my loss will mourn,
The wife who shielded you from many a thorn;
I'm glad the pigs are killed, the sweet-meats made,
Our turnips gathered, and our butcher paid.
I'm glad I sent away to Jericho,
That lazy Bess, that tried my temper so.
I'm glad I told my mind to Jane Agree,
About that scandal that she said of me:
That I was jealous, to my apron string
Tied you – distrustful of my marriage ring.
I'm glad I told her that it was a lie,
And somewhat sorry, since it made her cry.
"And, Oh! poor Will – so helpless when alone,
What wilt thou do, dear one, when I am gone?
How would I love, a spirit round thy way,
To move, and be thy blessing every day!
To fan thy forehead, and to dry thy tears,
To nerve thy soul, and banish all thy fears.
All I can do for thee, thou patient one,
So gentle, tender, loving, all is done.
I feel so lonely, in thy loneliness.
This is, in death, my very great distress.
Some one will fill my place, ere long, I trow,
Your clothes are whole – in perfect order now.
Be sure you get a wife that is like me,
In gentle temper, and sweet sympathy.
For you, so long to gentleness allied,
Could not a bristling woman, sure, abide."
Poor Will! At first his tears fell down like rain
Most at the time when she inflicted pain,
By her unkind surmise, that he would take
Another wife – did she the world forsake.
"You are a wife," he said, "so fond, so true,
I cannot have another – none but you.
You made me what I am the people say;
Another wife might make me; what I pray?
An eight-day clock, they say, I am most like,
Wound up by you, and by you taught to strike.
Another wife might keep the time too late,
Take out the wheels, and snatch away each weight:
And I, neglected, come to a dead stop,
Like some old time-piece in a lumber shop.
But if you think, dear wife, that I must wed,
When you, at last, are numbered with the dead,
As I depend upon your good advice,
Choose you the bride. Shall it be Susan Price?"
Never had Bill so great a blunder made;
Never had demon so his cause betrayed.
Changed in her view – a villain lost to shame —
She scarced believed that he could bear his name.
She saw the future. Susan Price was there.
With hazel eyes, and curls of Auburn hair.
The rooms she swept would that vile Susan sweep?
The cup-board key would that bad Susan keep?
With those same pans would Susan cook their food,
For that fool Bill, and for some foolish brood?
Would Susan drink the wine that she had made?
Would all those pickles be to her betrayed?
"Shall that vain thing sit there, – a pretty pass!
Neglecting work, to simper in that glass?
Will she cut down that silk frock, good, though old,
And puff it out with pride in every fold?
And of all other insults, this the worst, —
My beating heart is ready here to burst —
She'll use my blue-edged china, – yes she will —
Oh! I could throw it piece by piece at Bill.
"I see her, proud to occupy my chair,
To pour out tea, to smile around her there,
While my false friends will praise her half-baked cake,
And Bill will chuckle o'er each piece they take.
And while his grief is lettered o'er my grave,
He'll laugh, and eat, and show himself a knave."
Hast thou on some huge cliff, with oaks around,
Heard the full terror of the thunder sound?
Hast thou at sea, all breathless heard the blast
Rolling vast waves on high whene'er it past?
Then mayst thou form some thought of her dread ire
Poured on the man to burn his soul like fire.
But soon the burst of anger all was o'er, —
And softened, she could speak of death once more.
"And Susan Price can marry whom she will,
And," – so she argued, "will not marry Bill."
One day she said, – "It is revealed to me
That ere I die, a warning there shall be."
Will looked, and saw her mind now wandered more,
As thus she spake, than it had done before.
"Yes," she exclaimed, "before I leave this scene,
Death will appear, – the warning intervene.
Death will appear in this our quiet home —
A chicken without feathers will he come."
Fame spreads the great, and fame will spread the small,
Fame gives us tears, – for laughter it will call.
Fame spreads this whim, – this foolish crazy fear, —
The neighbors laughed, and told it far and near.
There dwelt close by, a restless heedless wight —
Mischief to him was ever a delight. —
He heard the story, and his scheme prepared,
And what his brain had purposed, that he dared.
He from a rooster all his feathers tore,
– Had he been learned in the Grecian lore
Heard of the Cynic, old Diogenes,
Who, lying in his tub, in dreamy ease,
Said to the hard-brained conqueror of old time,
With heedlessness to human wants sublime,
When he inquired, "What shall for you be done?"
"All that I ask, hide not from me the sun."
He might have thought of him; and Plato's scowl,
When in the school he hurled the unfeathered fowl,
And said, ere murmuring lips reproof began,
"There, Plato, is, as you defined, a man."
But of the Greeks our wight had not a thought.
Under his arm the fowl, all plucked, was brought,
And forced to enter into Katy's door:
Who spied him wandering o'er her sanded floor.
She looked upon him, and began to weep.
Bill sat not far off on a chair asleep.
"And so," she said, "Oh death! and thou art come
To take my spirit far away from home."
Then as inspired a sudden hope to trace,
She waved the unfeathered monster from its place.
Would drive far off from her the coming ill, —
"Shoo shoo, thou death, now leave me, go to Bill."
'Twas overheard – and wide the story spread.
It reached John Jones, and to his wife he said,
In precious wrath, – "They slander thus our Kate;
Some foe devised this in malicious hate;
And you, perhaps, were one to make the lie."
Thus deeply stung, she made a fierce reply.
"She did it, I am sure," replied the wife,
"She did it, sure as I have breath and life."
"No – Katy didn't," said the man in rage.
"Yes, Katy did," she said. And so they wage
A war of words, like these upon my page.
The Indian Fairy spirit heard the din,
And first to patience strove them both to win,
Sent the cool breeze to fan the burning brow,
Volcanic fires to die by flakes of snow.
In war incessant, still the clamor rose,
Still Katy did, and didn't, and fierce blows.
At last the spirit took their souls away,
And in their cottage lay their lifeless clay;
Their bodies changed – and insects they became —
Green as the grass – but still their cry the same.
Hence in all trees, we hear in starry night,
The contradiction, and the wordy fight.
We hear John Jones, and his unhappy wife,
And all their brood forever in a strife:
And Katy did, and Katy didn't still
Are sounds incessant as a murmuring rill.
