The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 13, November, 1858

An accordant glance passed between Adelaide and Simon. When Withers retired, Simon followed him, and under Adelaide's window, and under her eyes, he boxed the ears of Philip, the Debonair. After that, Mr. Withers was discreeter.

But Miss Wimple's trial was not yet at its worst. The low-necked dress had been as unseasonable as the substitution of the hooped skirt for the quilted petticoat was imprudent. Before Madeline had been gone a week, she contracted, as was to be feared, a heavy cold, which within a month assumed a chronic bronchial form, attended with alarming symptoms. The extreme dejection of spirits, consequent upon her persecuted loneliness, had predisposed her to disease in the first place, and aggravated its character when it came.

At last she fell dangerously ill, and with the closing of the shop—for she could hire no one to attend in it—came poverty in its most dreadful form. But for the charity of her kind physician, who sent a servant-girl, a mere child, to nurse her, and daily kept her supplied with proper nourishment from his own house, she would, so it seemed to her, have died of neglect and starvation. Yet better, she thought, to depart even so, than linger on, when such lingering taxed the patience and the faith beyond the loftiest examples of religion. Miss Wimple was too stout-hearted to cry for death, though she felt, that, having lived with heroism, she could at least die with presence of mind. She waited, with a composure that had a strange quality of pride.

In her New York home, Mrs. Morris, the governess, was as happy as she dared to feel. In Mr. Osgood's family she had found all things as Miss Wimple had promised. Treated with studious deference and consideration, not unmixed with affection, she enjoyed for her secret thoughts the most privileged privacy. Her brave gratitude was superior to the distress a weaker woman might have suffered from the necessity of making Mr. Osgood unreservedly acquainted with her story, in order to enlist his aid to procure tidings of Miss Wimple, whose safety, health, and happiness were now far dearer to her than her own.

She did tell him all, and had reason to thank God for the courage that made it a possible, even an easy, thing for her to do. Her truly noble benefactor and protector, receiving her communication as if he then heard it for the first time, assured her that in thus confiding in the freedom of his mind, and in his honor, she had set up a new and stronger claim to his interest and friendly care. She had but enlarged his obligation to his until then unknown correspondent for having given his children, to whom their governess had already truly endeared herself, so admirable a teacher, so precious a friend.

["But why," you will ask, "did not Madeline write to Miss Wimple?" Because that provident angel had, without explanation, exacted from her a promise that she would in no case write first. In truth, Miss Wimple foresaw her own various suffering, and sought to spare Madeline some cruel pangs, and herself the hard trial of disingenuous correspondence.]

And Mr. Osgood would have started at once for Hendrik, where he was not personally known to any one, to procure tidings of Miss Wimple and allay the anxiety of Mrs. Morris, had Madeline not found, that very day, her name in the Herald's list of letters waiting to be called for in the New York Post-Office. That letter was, indeed, for Madeline, and its contents were as follows:—

"To Miss MADELINE SPLURGE,—Miss Wimple, of Hendrik, is very ill, and poor, and friendless. It has been suggested to the writer of this that you can help her. If you can, and will, there is no time to lose. A FRIEND."

The "friend" was Simon Blount. Ever since the Athenæum was closed, he had hung anxiously about the place, frequently dropping in upon the neighbors to ask—quite by-the-byishly, and by chance, it seemed to them—after the health of Miss Wimple; and sometimes he waylaid the little servant, as she passed to and fro between the bookstore and the doctor's residence, and plied her with questions. On such occasions he was sure to make the little maid the depository of certain silver secrets, which forthwith she revealed to Miss Wimple in the shape of whole basketfuls of comfortable stuff, "from the Doctor." Adelaide had given the hint for this letter. Calling at the Athenæum one day, about a fortnight after Madeline's departure, her quick eye caught sight of a bit of paper lying on the counter, whereon was freshly written, "Madeline Splurge." Miss Wimple had been entering some trifling charge in the course of her small book-keeping, and, still dallying with the pen, a passing thought, less idle than anxious, had traced the name. On that slight foundation Adelaide had built a happy guess, though Simon knew it not,—and though he accepted her suggestion, it amazed him.

Let us lift the curtain now, on the last, an extraordinary, tableau.

In the Wimple nest a strange company are met at the bidding of Madeline Splurge, who couches a flashing lance for the life and the honor of her benefactress.

Proudly, condescendingly, haughtily superior to the least sparing of herself,—as one who stooped at the bidding of Duty,—she had told her story, from first to last, omitting nothing; with head erect, pale lips, and flashing eyes,—with a passing flush, perhaps, at the more shameful passages, but with no faltering, no dodging, no self-excusing, no beseeching,—scornfully when she spoke of home, and the beginning of the end,—redly, hatefully, wickedly dangerous, when Philip Withers came on the scene,—with tremulous lips and the low tones of Gratitude's most moving eloquence for the story of Miss Wimple and her sublimely simple sacrifice,—modestly and with grateful deference, at the mention of Mr. Osgood and his rare chivalry.

Then, taking from her bosom a small morocco pocket-book, and from the pocket-book a card, she said,—

"And now to toss that thing to the geese of Hendrik! Read that, slowly, distinctly, that all may hear!"—and she placed the card in Simon's hand, who ran his eye over it for a moment, then stood up, and read:—

"MADELINE,—For God's sake be merciful, be reasonable! I will comply with your hardest terms,—I will share all I possess with you, [Adelaide smiled,]—I will even marry you after a time; but do not, I implore you, in your recklessness, involve me in your unnecessary ruin; do not fling me under the playful feet of that ingenious shrew Adelaide. Meet me at the bridge tonight, in memory of our dear old love."

"P.W."

When Simon had read the card, he let it fall on the floor, with a gesture of disgust, and, without looking at Withers, who slunk, pitifully wilted, into a corner, returned to his place on a low stool, where he resumed his former attitude, holding the hand of Sally Wimple, who now, with closed eyes, reclined on Madeline's bosom, —that bosom that was, for her weariness, the type of the complete rest that crowns and blesses a brave struggle,—of that all-for-the-best-ness that comes of the heart's clearings-up. Only Adelaide broke the silence; with her gaze fixed full on Withers, and a triumphant sneer crowning her happy lips, she uttered one word by way of chorus,—"Joseph!"

At that word a faint flush flitted athwart the cheeks of Madeline, and she moved as if uneasy; but she did not speak again, nor turn her eyes to any face but Miss Wimple's.

Josephine Splurge was there; but, perceiving no opening that she could fill to advantage with a delightful quotation, and having no pickle at hand whereto she might give all her mind, she supported a graceful silence with back hair and an attitude.

Mrs. Splurge was there,—and that was all. Not clearly understanding what she was called upon to say or do under the circumstances, nor prepared to take the responsibility of saying or doing anything without being called upon, she said and did nothing at all. Mrs. Splurge, who had had some experience in that wise, had never been of so little consequence before.

Near the head of the bed, his looks directed toward Miss Wimple with an expression of benevolent solicitude, sat a gentleman of middle age, rather handsome, his hair inclined to gray, his attire fine, but studiously simple.

"Mrs. Morris," he said, "may I be permitted to speak a word here?"

"Surely, Mr. Osgood."

"Then, ladies and gentlemen, since doubtless we understand each other by this time, I think it advisable that we retire, and leave Miss Wimple to much-needed repose."

All arose and passed out, Mrs. Splurge leading the way, Mr. Osgood holding the door. Last of all, and with a pitiful shyness, as if dodging some fresh discomfiture and exposure, came Philip Withers.

"The door is at your service, Sir," said Mr. Osgood, as he passed; "to be sure, the window were more appropriate for your passage; but to attach importance to your existence by suddenly endangering it is an honor I am not prepared to pay you."

Madeline remained with Miss Wimple.

Now Miss Wimple is Simon Blount's wife, and they live with his mother.

The debt of the Athenæum is paid.

Adelaide abides at the Splurge house,—a reserved, bitter, forbidding woman.

Mrs. Splurge still lives; but that is of as little consequence as ever.

I assert it for an astonishing fact,—Philip Withers married Josephine! Truly, the ways of Providence are as just as they are inscrutable. The meanness of Withers, mated to the selfish, helpless, peevish stupidity of Josephine, made an ingenious retribution.

When I was at the opera, a few nights since, I saw in a private box a benevolent-looking gentleman of middle age, evidently well-born and accustomed to wealth. He was accompanied by a lady in elegant mourning,—a lady of decided beauty and distinguished appearance.

Miss Flora McFlimsey was there:—"That," said she, "is Mrs. Morris, of Fourteenth Street,—a mysterious governess in the family of Mr. Osgood; and the gentleman is Mr. Osgood."

NATURE AND THE PHILOSOPHER

What dost thou here, pale chemist, with thy browKnotted with pains of thought, nigh hump-backed o'erThy alembics and thy stills? These garden-flowers,Whose perfumes spice the balmy summer-air,Teach us as well as thee. Thou dost condenseHealthy aromas into poison-drops,Narcotic drugs of dangerous strength and power,—And wines of paradise to thee becomeIntoxicating essences of hell.Cold crystallizer of the warm heaven's gold!Thou rigorous analyst! thou subtile brain!Gathering thought's sunshine to a focus heatThat blinds and burns and maddens! What, my friend!Are we, then, salamanders? Do we liveA charmèd life? Do gases feed like air?Pray you, pack up your crucibles and go!Your statements are too awfully abstract;Your logic strikes too near our warm tap-roots:We shall breathe freer in our natural airOf common sense. What are your gallipotsAnd Latin labels to this fresh bouquet?—Friend, 'tis a pure June morning. Ask the bees,The butterflies, the birds, the little girls.We are after flowers. You are after—what?Aconite, hellebore, pulsatilla, rheum.Take them and go! and take your burning lens!We dare not bask in the sun's genial beamsDrawn to that spear-like point. Truth comes and goes,Life-giving in diffusion. Nature flows, extends,And veils us with herself,—herself God's veil.But you persist in opening your bladders,And the three gases that compose the airYou bid us take a breath of, one by one.For Mother Nature you should have respect:She does not like these teasings and these jokes.Philosopher you seem; you'd state all fair;You would go deep and broad. You're right; but thenForget not there's an outer to your inner,—A whole that binds your parts,—a truth for manAs well as chemist,—and your lecture-room,With magic vials and quaint essencesAnd odors strange, may teach your students lessThan this June morning, with the sun and flowers.

THOMAS JEFFERSON.27

The biography before us is so voluminous that it can hardly maintain the popularity to which its subject entitles it. He must be a bold man, and to some degree forgetful of the brevity of life, who, for any ordinary purpose of information or amusement, undertakes to read these huge octavos. True, the theme is somewhat extended; Jefferson's life was a protracted and busy one; he took a leading part in complicated transactions, and promulgated doctrines which cannot be summarily discussed. But the author's prolixity has not grown out of the extent of his theme alone. He is both diffuse and digressive. He introduces much irrelevant matter, and tells everything in a round-about-way. By a judicious exercise of the arts of elimination and compression, we think that all which illustrates the subject might have been comprised in one volume much smaller than the smallest of these.

But Mr. Randall's most serious fault arises from his desire to be thought a fine writer. Without making long extracts, it is impossible to give any conception of the absurdities into which this childish ambition has led him. The tropes and metaphors, the tawdry tinsel, the common tricks of feeble rhetoricians are reproduced here as if they were the highest results of rhetorical art. The display is often amusing. Thus, in describing Mrs. John Adams, Mr. Randall says: "Her lofty lineaments carried a trace of the Puritan severity. They were those of the helmed Minerva, and not of the cestus-girdled Venus." We do not mention this in order to justify a strain of captious criticism, but to ask Mr. Randall, in all seriousness, how it was possible for him to associate a staid and sensible New England matron with Venus and Minerva? What would he say of a writer who should gravely tell us that Washington's features were those of the cloud-compelling Jupiter, not of Mars, slayer of men,—and that Franklin's countenance resembled that of the wily Ulysses, not that of the far-ruling Agamemnon? We might fill this paper with passages like the one we have quoted. What is the use of this kind of writing? It does not convey any meaning; there is no beauty in it; it increases the size and price of books; it corrupts the taste of the young, is offensive to persons of good sense, and mortifying to those who take pride in the literary reputation of their country. It is the bane of our literature. Many of our prose-writers constantly put language upon paper the use of which in ordinary life would be received by a court as evidence of insanity. If they do so for display, they take the readiest course to defeat their purpose. There is nothing so fascinating as simplicity and earnestness. A writer who has an object, and goes right on to accomplish it, will compel the attention of his readers. But it seems, that in art, as well as in morals and politics, the plainest truths are the last to be understood.

We make these strictures with reluctance. This biography, in many respects, is valuable, and Mr. Randall might easily have made it interesting. He had a subject worthy of any pen, and an abundance of new material. He does not lack skill. His unstudied passages, though never elegant, are well enough. He is industrious. Though we must dissent from some of his conclusions, he is entitled to the praise of being accurate, and is free from prejudice,—except that amiable prejudice which has been well called the lues Boswelliana.28 His delineations of famous personages, though marked by the faults of which we have spoken, show quite unusual perception of character. He has a thorough appreciation of Jefferson's noblest characteristics, and an honorable sympathy with the philosophy of which Jefferson was a teacher.

With resources and qualifications like these, he might have produced a biography which the country would have received with gratitude, and which would have conferred an enviable reputation upon him; as it is, through his neglect of a few wholesome rules which he must have learned when a school-boy, the years of labor he has spent over this book will go for nothing, and the hopes he has built upon it will be disappointed.

There is much conflict of opinion as to the character of Jefferson, and the value of his services. We doubt whether there is another person in our history, as to whom there still exists so strong a feeling of dislike on the one hand, and of admiration on the other. By some he is regarded as a theorist and a demagogue, who, for selfish purposes, opposed the purest patriots, and disseminated doctrines which will pervert our institutions and destroy our social fabric; by others he is revered as the philosopher who first asserted the rights of man, and the statesman who first defined the functions of our government and demonstrated the principles upon which it should he administered. His detractors and admirers both bear witness to the extent and permanency of his influence. He saw all the phases of our national life. He assisted in the struggle for liberty, and in the contest which gave form to that liberty,—while it was his happy fortune to inaugurate the system by which, with occasional deviations, the republic, for more than fifty years, has been governed. He heard the discussion of the Stamp Act, and the debate on the admission of Missouri. He shared in the dispute which the establishment of the Constitution produced, and lived to witness the outbreak of the quarrel which now threatens the existence of the Constitution. His influence was felt through the whole of this long period. Nor was it confined to affairs alone. He took part in all the intellectual action of his countrymen. He was an adept in science, an ingenious mechanic, and a contributor to literature. He stimulated adventure, and was the judicious patron of architecture and the fine arts. More than any man of his day, to the labors of a practical statesman he brought a mind disciplined by a liberal philosophy; and he adorned the most exalted stations with the graceful fame of learning and polite accomplishments. It is impossible for us to touch every point of his great career. It is difficult to dwell upon a single point without being seduced into a discussion too extended for these pages. We may, however, be permitted, in a rapid manner, to present Mr. Jefferson in some of those relations which seem to us to throw the strongest light upon his character and teachings.

Peter Jefferson, the father of Thomas, was a notable man. His parents were poor, and in early life he went into the backwoods of Virginia as a surveyor. He is described as a person of great stature and strength. His mind was equally robust. He was a natural mathematician, and was remarkable for hardihood and perseverance. His temper was equable, but his passions were strong and his anger terrible. In youth his education had been neglected; but, by the wise employment of his leisure, he obtained considerable reputation for learning throughout the rude region where he lived. This huge man, with gigantic strength and fierce passions, is said to have been endowed with tender sympathies, and to have had a scholar's love for Shakspeare and Addison.

Social distinctions were strictly observed at that day, but Peter Jefferson broke through them and married a daughter of the Randolph family.

Thomas, the third child and oldest son of this marriage, was born at Shadwell, his father's estate, on the 2d of April, 1743. The characteristics of the sire descended to the son, the physical attributes in milder, and the intellectual in more active forms. Like many men of his class, Peter Jefferson had perhaps an undue sense of the obstacles he had encountered through lack of education, and was careful to provide for that of his children. As soon as possible, Thomas was sent to school, and when nine years old, under the tuition of a Scottish clergyman, he was introduced to the study of Latin, Greek, and French. His father died when he was fourteen years old, leaving a considerable estate, and particular directions that Thomas should receive a thorough classical training. The executor had some doubt as to whether it would be prudent to send the lad to college in obedience to the paternal request; whereupon Thomas addressed him in a little argument, which is a curious exhibition of the proclivities of his mind. In the mathematical manner which afterwards became common with him, he urged that at home he would lose one fourth of his time on account of the company which was attracted by his presence, and that entertaining so many guests would be a heavier charge upon the estate than the expense of his residence at Williamsburg.

The young disputant prevailed, and, in 1760, he was sent to William and Mary College. He remained there two years. His acquirements, during this time, though probably not so great as Mr. Randall would have us believe, must have been large. He had equal aptitude for the classics and mathematics. In the latter his proficiency was remarkable, and he always retained his taste for it. Though never a critical classical scholar, he could read Latin with ease. He was conversant with French, and had some familiarity with Greek. In later life he studied Anglo-Saxon and Italian. But Jefferson terminated his collegiate course with a possession far more valuable than all the learning he could gather in the narrow curriculum of a colonial college; study had excited in him that eager thirst for knowledge which is an appetite of the mind almost as unconquerable as the appetites of the body.

After leaving college, he remained at Williamsburg, and entered the office of Mr. Wyeth, a leader at the Virginia bar. Williamsburg was the capital and the centre of the most refined society of the province. Francis Fauquier was governor. He was an Englishman, of distinguished family, who had lost a large property in a single night's play, and had taken the appointment to Virginia to repair his fortunes. To some of the vices and most of the accomplishments of a man of the world he added fine talents and many solid attainments. He was, withal, a skilful musician and a fascinating conversationist. Mr. Wyeth, and Dr. Small, professor of mathematics at the college, were in the habit of dining with the governor at stated times, for the purpose of conversation. Jefferson, though not yet twenty years old, was admitted to these parties. Fauquier organized a musical society, and Jefferson, who played upon the violin, belonged to this likewise. In these associations, the young student acquired the easy courtesy and conversational art which afterwards greatly contributed to his success, and distinguished him even among the gentlemen of Paris.

His life, between twenty and thirty, was judiciously employed. A closer student could hardly have been found at Edinburgh or Heidelberg. He pursued his profession persistently, and, in addition, made incursions into the fields of belles-lettres and political and physical science. He early conceived a prejudice against metaphysical speculation, which was never removed. We cannot believe that his partiality for romance was much greater. He undoubtedly had that appreciation of the value of this department of letters which every man of sense has, and included it within the circle of his reading because it contains much desirable knowledge. The severest criticism which can be made upon his taste for poetry is conveyed by the statement, that, when young, he admired Ossian, and, when old, admired Moore.

His summers were spent at Shadwell. The responsible charge of a large estate rested upon him, and he introduced into his affairs and studies the extraordinary system which, through life, he carried into all matters, great or small. He commenced keeping a garden-book, which, with interruptions caused by absence, was continued until he was eighty-one years old. It contains memoranda of vegetable phenomena, and statements of all kinds of information, in any way affecting the economy of horticulture. He likewise kept a farm-book. His accounts were noted, without the loss of a day, through his entire life, and every item of personal expense was separately stated. We often find entries like these: "11 d. paid to the barber,"—"4 d. for whetting penknife,"—and "1s. put in the church-box." On the 4th of July, 1776, we find:—"pd. Sparhawk, for a thermometer, £3 15s.—pd. for 7 prs. women's gloves, 27s.—gave, in charity, 1s. 6d." His meteorological register informs us, that, at 6 o'clock, A.M., of the same memorable day, the mercury stood 68° above; at noon, at 76°; and at 9, P.M., at 73-1/2°. Entries were regularly made in this register, three times a day. Separate books were kept for special accounts, like the expenses of the Presidential mansion. In addition, he made minute records of observation in natural history, and a curious "Statement of the Vegetable Market of Washington, during a Period of Eight Years, wherein the Earliest and Latest Appearance of each Article, within the whole Eight Years, is noted." This table mentions thirty-seven different articles, and was compiled during his Presidency. He made a collection of the vocabularies of fifty Indian languages, and two collocations of those passages in the New Testament which contain the doctrines of Jesus. One of these, entitled, "The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth," is an octavo volume, with a complete index. The texts are written out in Greek, Latin, French, and English, and placed in parallel columns.