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, amiable, 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. To wit, 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.
