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: "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: "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: "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: "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: "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: "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.