Roughing It/Chapter LXX

We stopped some time at one of the plantations, to rest ourselves andrefresh the horses. We had a chatty conversation with several gentlemenpresent; but there was one person, a middle aged man, with an absent lookin his face, who simply glanced up, gave us good-day and lapsed againinto the meditations which our coming had interrupted. The planterswhispered us not to mind him—crazy. They said he was in the Islands forhis health; was a preacher; his home, Michigan. They said that if hewoke up presently and fell to talking about a correspondence which he hadsome time held with Mr. Greeley about a trifle of some kind, we musthumor him and listen with interest; and we must humor his fancy that thiscorrespondence was the talk of the world.

It was easy to see that he was a gentle creature and that his madness hadnothing vicious in it. He looked pale, and a little worn, as if withperplexing thought and anxiety of mind. He sat a long time, looking atthe floor, and at intervals muttering to himself and nodding his headacquiescingly or shaking it in mild protest. He was lost in his thought,or in his memories. We continued our talk with the planters, branchingfrom subject to subject. But at last the word "circumstance," casuallydropped, in the course of conversation, attracted his attention andbrought an eager look into his countenance. He faced about in his chairand said:

"Circumstance? What circumstance? Ah, I know—I know too well. So youhave heard of it too." [With a sigh.] "Well, no matter—all the worldhas heard of it. All the world. The whole world. It is a large world,too, for a thing to travel so far in—now isn't it? Yes, yes—theGreeley correspondence with Erickson has created the saddest andbitterest controversy on both sides of the ocean—and still they keep itup! It makes us famous, but at what a sorrowful sacrifice! I was sosorry when I heard that it had caused that bloody and distressful warover there in Italy. It was little comfort to me, after so muchbloodshed, to know that the victors sided with me, and the vanquishedwith Greeley.—It is little comfort to know that Horace Greeley isresponsible for the battle of Sadowa, and not me.

"Queen Victoria wrote me that she felt just as I did about it—she saidthat as much as she was opposed to Greeley and the spirit he showed inthe correspondence with me, she would not have had Sadowa happen forhundreds of dollars. I can show you her letter, if you would like to seeit. But gentlemen, much as you may think you know about that unhappycorrespondence, you cannot know the straight of it till you hear it frommy lips. It has always been garbled in the journals, and even inhistory. Yes, even in history—think of it! Let me—please let me, giveyou the matter, exactly as it occurred. I truly will not abuse yourconfidence."

Then he leaned forward, all interest, all earnestness, and told hisstory—and told it appealingly, too, and yet in the simplest and mostunpretentious way; indeed, in such a way as to suggest to one, all thetime, that this was a faithful, honorable witness, giving evidence in thesacred interest of justice, and under oath. He said:

"Mrs. Beazeley—Mrs. Jackson Beazeley, widow, of the village ofCampbellton, Kansas,—wrote me about a matter which was near her heart—a matter which many might think trivial, but to her it was a thing ofdeep concern. I was living in Michigan, then—serving in the ministry.She was, and is, an estimable woman—a woman to whom poverty and hardshiphave proven incentives to industry, in place of discouragements.Her only treasure was her son William, a youth just verging upon manhood;religious, amiable, and sincerely attached to agriculture. He was thewidow's comfort and her pride. And so, moved by her love for him, shewrote me about a matter, as I have said before, which lay near her heart—because it lay near her boy's. She desired me to confer withMr. Greeley about turnips. Turnips were the dream of her child's youngambition. While other youths were frittering away in frivolousamusements the precious years of budding vigor which God had given themfor useful preparation, this boy was patiently enriching his mind withinformation concerning turnips. The sentiment which he felt toward theturnip was akin to adoration. He could not think of the turnip withoutemotion; he could not speak of it calmly; he could not contemplate itwithout exaltation. He could not eat it without shedding tears. All thepoetry in his sensitive nature was in sympathy with the graciousvegetable. With the earliest pipe of dawn he sought his patch, and whenthe curtaining night drove him from it he shut himself up with his booksand garnered statistics till sleep overcame him. On rainy days he satand talked hours together with his mother about turnips. When companycame, he made it his loving duty to put aside everything else andconverse with them all the day long of his great joy in the turnip.

"And yet, was this joy rounded and complete? Was there no secret alloy ofunhappiness in it? Alas, there was. There was a canker gnawing at hisheart; the noblest inspiration of his soul eluded his endeavor—viz: hecould not make of the turnip a climbing vine. Months went by; the bloomforsook his cheek, the fire faded out of his eye; sighings andabstraction usurped the place of smiles and cheerful converse. But awatchful eye noted these things and in time a motherly sympathy unsealedthe secret. Hence the letter to me. She pleaded for attention—she saidher boy was dying by inches.

"I was a stranger to Mr. Greeley, but what of that? The matter wasurgent. I wrote and begged him to solve the difficult problem ifpossible and save the student's life. My interest grew, until it partookof the anxiety of the mother. I waited in much suspense.—At last theanswer came.

"I found that I could not read it readily, the handwriting beingunfamiliar and my emotions somewhat wrought up. It seemed to refer inpart to the boy's case, but chiefly to other and irrelevant matters—suchas paving-stones, electricity, oysters, and something which I took to be'absolution' or 'agrarianism,' I could not be certain which; still, theseappeared to be simply casual mentions, nothing more; friendly in spirit,without doubt, but lacking the connection or coherence necessary to makethem useful.—I judged that my understanding was affected by my feelings,and so laid the letter away till morning.

"In the morning I read it again, but with difficulty and uncertaintystill, for I had lost some little rest and my mental vision seemedclouded. The note was more connected, now, but did not meet theemergency it was expected to meet. It was too discursive. It appearedto read as follows, though I was not certain of some of the words:

"Polygamy dissembles majesty; extracts redeem polarity; causes hitherto exist. Ovations pursue wisdom, or warts inherit and condemn. Boston, botany, cakes, folony undertakes, but who shall allay? We fear not. Yrxwly,

HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"But there did not seem to be a word about turnips. There seemed to beno suggestion as to how they might be made to grow like vines. There wasnot even a reference to the Beazeleys. I slept upon the matter; I ate nosupper, neither any breakfast next morning. So I resumed my work with abrain refreshed, and was very hopeful. Now the letter took a differentaspect-all save the signature, which latter I judged to be only aharmless affectation of Hebrew. The epistle was necessarily from Mr.Greeley, for it bore the printed heading of The Tribune, and I hadwritten to no one else there. The letter, I say, had taken a differentaspect, but still its language was eccentric and avoided the issue. Itnow appeared to say:

"Bolivia extemporizes mackerel; borax esteems polygamy; sausages wither in the east. Creation perdu, is done; for woes inherent one can damn. Buttons, buttons, corks, geology underrates but we shall allay. My beer's out. Yrxwly,

HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"I was evidently overworked. My comprehension was impaired. Therefore Igave two days to recreation, and then returned to my task greatlyrefreshed. The letter now took this form:

"Poultices do sometimes choke swine; tulips reduce posterity; causes leather to resist. Our notions empower wisdom, her let's afford while we can. Butter but any cakes, fill any undertaker, we'll wean him from his filly. We feel hot.

Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"I was still not satisfied. These generalities did not meet thequestion. They were crisp, and vigorous, and delivered with a confidencethat almost compelled conviction; but at such a time as this, with ahuman life at stake, they seemed inappropriate, worldly, and in badtaste. At any other time I would have been not only glad, but proud, toreceive from a man like Mr. Greeley a letter of this kind, and would havestudied it earnestly and tried to improve myself all I could; but now,with that poor boy in his far home languishing for relief, I had no heartfor learning.

"Three days passed by, and I read the note again. Again its tenor hadchanged. It now appeared to say:

"Potations do sometimes wake wines; turnips restrain passion; causes necessary to state. Infest the poor widow; her lord's effects will be void. But dirt, bathing, etc., etc., followed unfairly, will worm him from his folly—so swear not.

Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.'

"This was more like it. But I was unable to proceed. I was too muchworn. The word 'turnips' brought temporary joy and encouragement, but mystrength was so much impaired, and the delay might be so perilous for theboy, that I relinquished the idea of pursuing the translation further,and resolved to do what I ought to have done at first. I sat down andwrote Mr. Greeley as follows:

"DEAR SIR: I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note. It cannot be possible, Sir, that 'turnips restrain passion'—at least the study or contemplation of turnips cannot—for it is this very employment that has scorched our poor friend's mind and sapped his bodily strength.—But if they do restrain it, will you bear with us a little further and explain how they should be prepared? I observe that you say 'causes necessary to state,' but you have omitted to state them.

"Under a misapprehension, you seem to attribute to me interested motives in this matter—to call it by no harsher term. But I assure you, dear sir, that if I seem to be 'infesting the widow,' it is all seeming, and void of reality. It is from no seeking of mine that I am in this position. She asked me, herself, to write you. I never have infested her—indeed I scarcely know her. I do not infest anybody. I try to go along, in my humble way, doing as near right as I can, never harming anybody, and never throwing out insinuations. As for 'her lord and his effects,' they are of no interest to me. I trust I have effects enough of my own—shall endeavor to get along with them, at any rate, and not go mousing around to get hold of somebody's that are 'void.' But do you not see?—this woman is a widow—she has no 'lord.' He is dead—or pretended to be, when they buried him. Therefore, no amount of 'dirt, bathing,' etc., etc., howsoever 'unfairly followed' will be likely to 'worm him from his folly'—if being dead and a ghost is 'folly.' Your closing remark is as unkind as it was uncalled for; and if report says true you might have applied it to yourself, sir, with more point and less impropriety.

Very Truly Yours, SIMON ERICKSON.

"In the course of a few days, Mr. Greely did what would have saved aworld of trouble, and much mental and bodily suffering andmisunderstanding, if he had done it sooner. To wit, he sent anintelligible rescript or translation of his original note, made in aplain hand by his clerk. Then the mystery cleared, and I saw that hisheart had been right, all the time. I will recite the note in itsclarified form:

[Translation.]

'Potatoes do sometimes make vines; turnips remain passive: cause unnecessary to state. Inform the poor widow her lad's efforts will be vain. But diet, bathing, etc. etc., followed uniformly, will wean him from his folly—so fear not.

Yours, HORACE GREELEY.'

"But alas, it was too late, gentlemen—too late. The criminal delay haddone its work—young Beazely was no more. His spirit had taken itsflight to a land where all anxieties shall be charmed away, all desiresgratified, all ambitions realized. Poor lad, they laid him to his restwith a turnip in each hand."

So ended Erickson, and lapsed again into nodding, mumbling, andabstraction. The company broke up, and left him so.... But they did notsay what drove him crazy. In the momentary confusion, I forgot to ask.