70. CHAPTER LXX.
WE stopped some time at one of the plantations, to rest
ourselves and refresh the horses. We had a chatty conversation
with several gentlemen present; but there was one person, a middle
aged man, with an absent look in his face, who simply glanced up,
gave us good-day and lapsed again into the meditations which our
coming had interrupted. The planters whispered us not to mind
him—crazy. They said he was in the Islands for his health; was a
preacher; his home, Michigan. They said that if he woke up
presently and fell to talking about a correspondence which he had
some time held with Mr. Greeley about a trifle of some kind, we
must humor him and listen with interest; and we must humor his
fancy that this correspondence was the talk of the world.
It was easy to see that he was a gentle creature and that his
madness had nothing vicious in it. He looked pale, and a little
worn, as if with perplexing thought and anxiety of mind. He sat a
long time, looking at the floor, and at intervals muttering to
himself and nodding his head acquiescingly or shaking it in mild
protest. He was lost in his thought, or in his memories. We
continued our talk with the planters, branching from subject to
subject. But at last the word "circumstance," casually dropped, in
the course of conversation, attracted his attention and brought an
eager look into his countenance. He faced about in his chair and
said:
"Circumstance? What circumstance? Ah, I know—I
know too well. So you have heard of it too." [With a sigh.]
"Well, no matter—all the world has 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—the Greeley correspondence with
Erickson has created the saddest and bitterest controversy on both
sides of the ocean—and still they keep it up! It makes us famous,
but at what a sorrowful sacrifice! I was so sorry when I heard that
it had caused that bloody and distressful war over there in Italy. It
was little comfort to me, after so much bloodshed, to know that the
victors sided with me, and the vanquished with Greeley.—It is little
comfort to know that Horace Greeley is responsible for the battle
of Sadowa, and not me.
Queen Victoria wrote me that she felt just as I did about it—she
said that as much as she was opposed to Greeley and the spirit he
showed in the correspondence with me, she would not have had
Sadowa happen for hundreds of dollars. I can show you her letter,
if you would like to see it. But gentlemen, much as you may think
you know about that unhappy correspondence, you cannot know
the
straight of it till you
hear it from my lips. It has always been garbled in
the journals, and even in history. Yes, even in history—think of it!
Let me—
please let me,
give you the matter, exactly as it occurred. I truly will not
abuse your confidence."
Then he leaned forward, all interest, all earnestness, and told
his story—and told it appealingly, too, and yet in the simplest and
most unpretentious way; indeed, in such a way as to suggest to
one, all the time, that this was a faithful, honorable witness, giving
evidence in the sacred interest of justice, and under oath. He
said:
"Mrs. Beazeley—Mrs. Jackson Beazeley, widow, of the village
of Campbellton, 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 of deep concern. I was living in Michigan,
then—serving in the ministry. She was, and is, an estimable
woman—a woman to whom poverty and hardship have proven
incentives to industry, in place of discouragements. Her only
treasure was her son William, a youth just verging upon manhood;
religious, amable, and sincerely attached to agriculture. He was
the widow's comfort and her pride. And so, moved by her love for
him, she wrote 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 with Mr. Greeley about turnips. Turnips were the dream of
her child's young ambition. While other youths were frittering
away in frivolous amusements the precious years of budding vigor
which God had given them for useful preparation, this boy was
patiently enriching his mind with information concerning turnips.
The sentiment which he felt toward the turnip was akin to
adoration. He could not think of the turnip without emotion; he
could not speak of it calmly; he could not contemplate it without
exaltation. He could not eat it without shedding tears. All the
poetry in his sensitive nature was in sympathy with the gracious
vegetable. With the earliest pipe of dawn he sought his patch, and
when the curtaining night drove him from it he shut himself up
with his books and garnered statistics till sleep overcame him. On
rainy days he sat and talked
hours together with his mother about turnips. When company
came, he made it his loving duty to put aside everything else and
converse 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 of unhappiness in it? Alas, there was. There was a canker
gnawing at his heart; the noblest inspiration of his soul eluded his
endeavor—viz: he could not make of the turnip a climbing vine.
Months went by; the bloom forsook his cheek, the fire faded out of
his eye; sighings and abstraction usurped the place of smiles and
cheerful converse. But a watchful eye noted these things and in
time a motherly sympathy unsealed the secret. Hence the letter to
me. She pleaded for attention—she said her boy was dying by
inches.
"I was a stranger to Mr. Greeley, but what of that? The matter
was urgent. I wrote and begged him to solve the difficult problem
if possible and save the student's life. My interest grew, until it
partook of the anxiety of the mother. I waited in much
suspense.—At last the answer came.
"I found that I could not read it readily, the handwriting being
unfamiliar and my emotions somewhat wrought up. It seemed to
refer in part to the boy's case, but chiefly to other and irrelevant
matters—such as paving-stones, electricity, oysters, and something
which I took to be `absolution' or `agrarianism,' I could not be
certain which; still, these appeared to be simply casual mentions,
nothing more; friendly in spirit, without doubt, but lacking the
connection or coherence necessary to make them 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
uncertainty still, for I had lost some little rest and my mental
vision seemed clouded. The note was more connected, now, but
did not meet the emergency it was expected to meet. It was too
discursive. It appeared to 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 be no suggestion as to how they might be made to grow
like vines. There was not even a reference to the Beazeleys. I
slept upon the matter; I ate no supper, neither any breakfast next
morning. So I resumed my work with a brain refreshed, and was
very hopeful. Now the
letter took a different aspect-all save the signature, which
latter I judged to be only a harmless affectation of Hebrew. The
epistle was necessarily from Mr. Greeley, for it bore the printed
heading of The Tribune, and
I had written to no one else there. The letter, I say, had taken
a different aspect, but still its language was eccentric and avoided
the issue. It now 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 I gave two days to recreation, and then returned to my
task greatly refreshed. 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 the
question. They were crisp, and vigorous, and delivered with a
confidence that almost compelled conviction; but at such a time as
this, with a human life at stake, they seemed inappropriate,
worldly, and in bad taste. At any other time I would have been not
only glad, but proud, to receive from a man like Mr. Greeley a
letter of this kind, and would have studied 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 heart for learning.
"Three days passed by, and I read the note again. Again its
tenor had changed. 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
much worn. The word `turnips' brought temporary joy and
encouragement, but my strength was so much impaired, and the
delay might be so perilous for the boy, 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 and wrote 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 a world of trouble, and much mental and bodily suffering
and misunderstanding, if he had done it sooner. Towit, he sent an
intelligible rescript or translation of his original note, made in a
plain hand by his clerk. Then the mystery cleared, and I saw that
his heart had been right, all the time. I will recite the note in its
clarified 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 had done its work—young Beazely was no more. His spirit
had taken its flight to a land where all anxieties shall be charmed
away, all desires gratified, all ambitions realized. Poor lad, they
laid him to his rest with a turnip in each hand."
So ended Erickson, and lapsed again into nodding, mumbling,
and abstraction. The company broke up, and left him so.... But
they did not say what drove him crazy. In the momentary
confusion, I forgot to ask.