Papers from Overlook House Part 6

There was strange meaning in the angry eye; A strange defiance, and an unknown threat, Enmity and a triumph. As if a triumph gained.

A nation crushed, her husband's mother looked, No flush was on her face--her voice the same.

Coldly she said, farewell. And Ellen held The child with firmer grasp, when she was gone.

Then she had sorrow that they thus should part; For she felt all the reverence death made due, And also mourned rejection of her love.

As the child slept one night, watched by his nurse, She crossed the river on the bridge of logs, To reach her parents. Under the bright stars The Neshamony, and its hurried waves, Rising and falling all around her path.

No peace in all the Heavens that she could see Was like her peace. "I suffer here," she said, "But suffering, I shall learn more love for all."

She had returned. Her footsteps died away, Her parents stood yet in the open air, Where they had parted with her for the night.

Then o'er the stream there came an awful cry.

It was her cry. Oh agony to hear!

It stilled all sounds besides. It seemed to make The wide-arched Heavens one call to echo it.

Parents and others rushed there with affright, In breathless terror. Nurse and child were gone.

Each wood around, and every forest road Gleamed all the night with torches. But no cheer Rose to proclaim a trace of faintest hope.

One traveler said, that on a distant road He met a carriage, hurrying with strange speed, And heard, in pa.s.sing, cries of a young child.

In vain they follow. Hopeless they return.

Oh wondrous, the ingenious plan devised By that poor mother to regain her child!

Her parents tried, as if for life and death To give her aid: and saw that she must die: For patience such as hers was all too grand To linger long on earth. She day by day Trod her old haunts. But never did she see The Heaven, or beauteous world. Her pallid lips Moved with perpetual prayer. And when she leaned On those who loved her, the storm-tossed at rest, She was as quiet as in days, when she Was but an infant. When they spoke of hope She smiled. It was a smile of love, not hope.

It was indeed simplicity to one, Just on the threshold where His people pa.s.s, And where, forever, they have more than hope.

All saw that she attained a mystic life, That was not of the earth. What might she had To love the sorrowing! By the dying bed She seemed as if she had not known a pang, Her voice so peaceful. Little children round Gazed sorrowful: and in their confused thought Deemed that the anguish of her little child Weeping its mother, was her dying pain; And thought how desolate fond hearts would be If they were gone, as was her little one.

One sweet Lord's Day she knelt down at the rail, In her loved Church, and had forgot all grief, Receiving there the hallowed Bread and Wine, And the one shadowed forth had strengthened her, So that she fed on food come down from Heaven.

The others moved. But she was in her place.

The Pastor came, and found that she was dead.

Oh how the tears of Christians fell that day!

Oh how they thanked G.o.d for her good release!

And so she went to her eternal rest.

But men, unreasoning, said they saw her form, Oft in the night, along the river sh.o.r.e-- Oft at the Ford, which now is crossed no more.

And men will say, in firmness of belief, That when the Inn was closed, and no man dwelt In its forsaken walls, a light was seen In Ellen's room. And then they also say, That pure while flowers which never grew before, Now come with Spring, where her bright spirit walks.

My children say, that if you hear the owl Along her pathway, you may hasten on Sure that her spirit will not meet you there.

But should you hear a bird of plaintive song, Break the night's stillness, then go far around By field and wood--for you may see her form Along the sh.o.r.e she gladdened with her life-- A sh.o.r.e of many sorrows at the last.

III.

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

I had just concluded my first cause at the bar. My duty had been the defence of a man, whom the jury, without leaving the box, condemned to be hung. My friends said that I spoke very eloquently. I consoled myself for my want of success, by remembering that my client had put into my hands, sorry evidence of his innocence, in place of having allowed me to arrange the circ.u.mstances of his murderous deed, so that the testimony against him might have at least, some degree of inconsistency and doubt.

But the rash creature formed his plan for killing a man out of his own head. A poor, stupid, blundering head it was.

I have always regarded that trial with a cool, philosophical mind. I think that any gentleman, who indulges himself in that rather exceptionable occupation of shedding the blood of his fellow-man, without first consulting a lawyer, deserves to be executed. And, verily, this fellow got his deserts.

Well, as I sat in my office, perfectly calm and composed, some hours after the case was decided, I received a pretty note from a widow lady.

I had often met her at our pleasant little evening parties. She was on a visit to one of her friends in our green village; was very pretty, was said to be quite agreeable, and it was obvious that she was much admired by the gentlemen. As to her age--to say the least on that subject, which I consider, in such a case, to be the only gentlemanly mode of procedure--she was some years older than she wished to be accounted.

Her particular friends said that she had been very beautiful as a girl.

She was one of that select cla.s.s, scattered over our country, concerning each of whom there was a family tradition, that on some occasion of public ceremonial, General Was.h.i.+ngton had paused and stood opposite to her in mute admiration. I know that the great Father of his country was reported to have paid such a tribute to one of my maiden aunts--and that the story procured from her nephews and nieces a large portion of respect. I boasted, as a boy, of this fact--regarding it as a sprig of a foreign aristocratic family, would the honors of his aunt, the d.u.c.h.ess.

But an unreliable boy at our school matched this history from the unwritten archives of his vulgar relatives. So, in great disgust, I held my tongue on the subject for the future.

Well, thought I, as I mused over the note of the widow, the formation of some of her letters indicating a romantic turn of mind; this is, indeed, a strange, a very strange world. Here I have just done with a client who must get himself hung. A dull, stupid fellow; a blockhead of the most knotty material, "unwedgeable" by any possible force of common sense; a spot on the face of the earth! Hang him! Hanging is too good for him. He was a fellow who had neither eyes, nor nose, nor mouth for the attracted observation of a jury, nor any history, nor any ingenuity in his murderous deed,--as a thread on which a poor advocate could suspend one gem of argument, one gem of eloquence to blaze and dazzle the eyes of the twelve substantial citizens, whose verdict was to life or death. And now here is a call to attend to some legal business to be done in the suns.h.i.+ne of a fair lady's favor! Has she heard of the rare ability displayed in the defence of this man who is so soon to be suspended in the air, as a terror to evil doers? Or has she been allured by my good looks and agreeable manners? Handsome!--a few years older than myself, and then a good little fortune, which my legal knowledge could protect. Well, if this world be odd, I must make the best of it.

Society is a strange structure; and happy is the man who is a statue ready for his appropriate pedestal.

It is unquestionably an amiable trait in human character which clothes those, who by special circ.u.mstances acquire marked relations with us, in attractions which surpa.s.s ordinary charms.

I must freely confess that I never saw the widow look so interesting as at the hour when I made my visit. I presented myself with dignity, as one who represented learning at the bar, and future dignities on the bench. She received me kindly. There was a seriousness in her demeanor, an obvious earnestness, as of one who had a burden on the mind, so that I perceived that the occasion was one of great importance.

I ought here to inform the gentle reader that it had been my good pleasure, instigated by ambition natural to young men, and as a relaxation from my graver studies, to indite various articles in prose and verse for the _Newark Democrat_;--a paper which was supposed by the editor, the host at the Bald Eagle Inn, the headquarters of the ruling political party in our town, and also by several members of the Legislature who could read any kind of printing, to exert a great influence over the destinies of our country.

There was one contribution of mine, ent.i.tled, "The Flame Expiring in the Heart," which obtained great admiration, and was committed to memory by a number of the young ladies at Miss Sykes' boarding-school. It was copied into both of the New York papers. Just, however, as it seemed to be securing a place for itself in American poetry, some one, urged by envy, and under the instigation of very bad taste,--some said it was Paulding, some Was.h.i.+ngton Irving,--but that was simply slanderous,--I say some one of more self-conceit than of the gift of appreciation of pure versification, and of elevated sentiment, wrote a reply. It had a hypocritical dedication as if the author of the aforesaid poem was affectionately addressed, and as if the utmost tenderness of sorrow was displayed in sympathy. To crown all, the coa.r.s.eness of the writer was shown in the t.i.tle, "A Bellows to Fan the Expiring Flame of Alonzo in the Newark Democrat."

However it is not necessary for me to dwell on my literary career. I was compelled to allude to it, in order that you could understand the reasonableness of the conduct of the lady under the circ.u.mstances which I now describe.

After a few words of greeting, she at once descended into the "midst of things." She informed me that the reasons of her sending for me, were her convictions of my goodness of heart, which she gleaned, no doubt, from the tone of my poetry, of my elevated desire to promote the interests of science and of letters, and her high idea of my literary abilities, particularly as a writer of prose.

Here I felt that her critical skill was in error. She had not, perhaps, as much natural capacity for the admiration of sterling poetry as of prose. Without intending to hint that I pretend to the false humility of undervaluing my prose style, I am satisfied, that to say the least, my poetry is in all respects its equal. But to return from this brief digression; the fair one proceeded to say, that she perceived that I had a remarkable gift in narrative.

Now, her deceased husband, she said, was a very remarkable man. A true account of his abilities and virtues need only be placed before the public attention to secure him a perpetual remembrance among men. It would be a great wrong,--indeed it would be robbing the world of a just claim, that his character, writings, and his general history should not be widely known. As she discoursed on the subject, she became a little romantic; and when she began to expand her views, and to adopt the figure of a flower concealed from the gaze of men, lying buried in the dark recesses of the forest, which ought to be brought out before the common view, I doubted whether the sentence had not been previously studied. This only proved, of course, her faithfulness to the memory of her husband; and her desire that I should enter into her sympathies.

She proceeded to say, that she had selected me as his Biographer. If I complied with her wishes, I would find that I had undertaken a task in which I would have intense interest, and be stimulated to exertion. She could tell me of eminent men who had spoken of him in terms of exalted praise. He had once sent to a distinguished scholar in Germany, a strange petrifaction; and the learned man had written a long essay, in which he described it, and made it the basis of remarks on nature in general, and took occasion to speak of his American correspondent as a learned man, and one who wrote in magnificent sentences. Indeed, I was to find no difficulty in collecting the greatest abundance of material for a memoir. She wished this composition to be prefixed to a large volume in ma.n.u.script which he had prepared for the press some years before his lamented close of life. The volume was a treatise on "Fugitive impressions, and enduring mental records."

Now had this proposition been made by a man, I should have declined the undertaking. In that case law would have appeared as a jealous master,--its study long, and life very short. But as it was, the lady had sufficient power to extort a promise that I would devote myself to the work.

The grat.i.tude of the fair one, was, in itself, no small fee for the labor which was before me. I felt that it was necessary to arrange with her, that I could consult with her at all times, as I proceeded with my work, and that she should hear me read over a page at any time, or even sentences, if I needed her advice. These proposals satisfied her that I was about entering on my duty in earnest, and she became so affable, so pleased with me, that I antic.i.p.ated that every page of my work would secure me a pleasant visit.

My first plan was to make a tour to the village which had the honor to number a few years ago, Dr. Bolton, who was to be so famous by means of my well-rewarded pen. And I must confess that my arrival at Scrabble Hill, for such was the name of the place, was attended with circ.u.mstances so very dismal, that my ardor would have been damped, had not a bright flame sent its warmth, and cheering rays through my mind.

I remembered that my very absence from Newark was a perpetual plea for me, to the lady whom I sought to serve. And this consoled me, as I drove along the street of the place. The dwellings were poor. They were more dismal than houses falling into ruins; for it was evident that they had been run up as ambitious sh.e.l.ls, and never finished. The men went about with coats out at the elbows, and seemed to drag along languidly to the blacksmith's shop, or to the inn. The whole place looked as if it had no thought of better days. My sudden presence, and the appearance of my horse and gig, promised, as the opened eyes of the gazers a.s.sured me, to exercise the mental faculties of the inhabitants, in the highest degree of which they were capable.

The inn was no better than the rest of the village. The landlord was one of the most imperturbable of human beings. I verily believe that his wife told the truth when she a.s.serted, as I inquired whether he could not be sent for, to sit with me, tired of my solitude in the evening, that I need not think of such a thing, for "John Hillers was no company for n.o.body." And this remark, I thought, was accompanied with the suggestion hinted in her manner, that she herself would be a far better gossip. Her exact adherence to the truth was, I presume, equally manifested, when I asked as a hungry man, "What have you in the house?"

and she replied, "Not much of anything."

After a wretched meal in a room half heated from a stove in the adjoining kitchen, and where the fire-place was full of pieces of paper, and of empty bottles labelled "bitters," I began to reflect on the nature of my undertaking. The great responsibility devolved on one who should attempt the biography of so great a man as Doctor Bolton, all at once a.s.sumed a new aspect. My vanity and self-confidence began to ooze away. These rainbows faded, and a very dull sky was all that was left.

Was I able to do justice to so great an ornament of my native land? The reputation of a man sometimes depends on the ability of his biographer.

A good memoir is a bright lamp, which guides the eyes of men to works, otherwise, perhaps, doomed to lie in obscurity forever. And when they are opened, it throws a gleam on the page, which secures attention, and elicits admiration. All the civilized world sees its great books in the light supplied by a few critics. Hence the critical biographer may enhance all the merit of the author, who is his subject. On the other hand, if he usher the unknown book before the public, by a dull and weak narrative, and criticism, men will imagine that he has been selected as a congenial mind, and will slight even the treatise of a man like Doctor Bolton.

In the morning the sun began to s.h.i.+ne,--for I ought to have said that when I entered the village I drove through a dull misty rain. I took heart, and determined to prosecute my researches with ardor. What is to be done must be done, and let us try and do all things well.

The first person on my list of those who could give me information, was Mrs. Rachel Peabody. I found her at home. She seemed much surprised and mystified, when I told her that I was about writing a life of the doctor,--but not at all astonished that when I sought information, I should come to her.

The reference to the past excited her mind. For an hour or more she poured forth her recollections. And gentle reader, my page would present a strange array of information, could I accurately record the words that flowed from her lips. Her chief idea of the doctor, was, that he carried with her help, advice, and warm cabbage leaves, Eliza Jane, Faith Kitty, and John Potts, of the house of Peabody, through a variety of unaccountable diseases. Hitherto I had been a creature, hardened at the cry of little children. Now when I learnt what a sad time they often had, when their teeth were ready to force their way through the gums, I am prepared to bear all the noise which they can make, with a patience that will cause me to be a favorite with every mother.