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.
