Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1859-12-08


this frenzy he replied Bracebridge Hall" "
&c None Of your works." remarked, "are
more charming than the Biography of Gold
smith,"
Yet that was written" said he, =" even more
rapidly than the other" He then added:
"When have been engaged on continuous
work, have often been obliged to rise in the
middle of the night, light my lamp, and write
an hour or two, to relieve my mind: and now
that write no more, am sometimes compelled
to get up in the same way to read.''
Sometimes, also, as the last Idlewild letters
mentioned, he gets up to shave!
6" When was in Spain," he remarked,
searching the old chronicles, and engaged on the
life of Columbus, often wrote fourteen or ff-
teen hours out of the twcnty-four."
He said that whenever he had forced his mind
unwillingly to work, the product was worth
less, and he invariably threw it away and began
again for,' as he observed, " an essay or
chapter that has been only hammered out, is
seldom good for anything. An authors right
time to work is when his mind is aglow; when
his imaginationis is kinded these are his precious
moments; let him wait until they come, but
when they have come, let him make the most of
them"
referred to his last and greatest work, the
Life of Washington, and asked if he felt on
finishing it, any such sensation as Gibbon is
said to have experienced over the last sheet of
the Decline and Fall. He replied that the
whole work had engrossed his mind to such
degree that, before he was aware, he had wri-
ten himself into feebleness of health that he
feared in the midst of his labor that it would
break him down before he could end it: that
when at last tho final pages were written, he
gave the manuscript to his nephew to be con-
Quoted through the press, and threw himself
back upon his redcushioned lounge with an in
describable feeling of relief! He added that
the great fatigue of mind throughout the whole
task had resulted from the care and pains re-
quired in the construction and arrangement oil
materials, and not in the mere literary COMPOSE
ton of the successive chapters
But what magnificent volumes What a
work for an old man to have achieved! What
fitting close to the labors Of long and busy
life! They unite on one page, and will perpet
uate in one memory, not only great name, but
its great namesako; the Father of the Ameri
can Republic. and the Father of the American
Republic of Letters.
On the parlor wall hung the engraving o
Faed's picture of &c Scott and his Cotempora
res" alluded to it as presenting group o
his former friends
/" Yes" said he" knew every man of then
but three; and now they are all gone"
"Are the portraits good?" | inquired.
Scott's head he replied, =" is well drawn,
though the expression lacks something of Scott
force; Campbell's is tolerable; Lockharts il
the worst Lockhart," said he, was man Of
very delicate organization, but he had mor'
manly look than in the picture
"You should write one more book | hint
ed.
"What is that?"
" Your "reminiscences of those liferar,
friends"
"Ah," he exclaimed, " it is too late now
shall never take the men again have so en-
tirely given up writing that even my bes
friends letters liz unanswered. | must hav'
rest. No more books now !"
He referred to the visit, week before from
Mr.. Willis, whose letter he had just been read
ing in the Home Journal.
~ am most glad, said he, "that Mr. Will
remembered my nieces; they are my housekeep
ers and nurses they take such good care of m
that really am the most fortunate old bache
lor in the world Yes" he repeated with mer
rv emphasis, s'the most fortunate old bachelo
in all the world
1t was delightful to witness the animation Q
his manner, and the heartiness of his gratitude
as he continued to relate how they supplied a
his wants-gave him his medicines at the righ
time, without troubling him to look at tn
clock for himself-caled him down to breakfas
-cloaked and shawled him for his mornin
ride-brought him his hat for his fine weathe
: walks-and in every possible way humored hil
in every possible whim.
: al call them sometimes my nieces," he sald
} but oftencr my daughters "
As rose to go, he brought from a corner {
the room photograph of a little girl, exhibit
/ ing it with great enthusiasm. 1t was gift frol
little child who had come to see him ever
, day during his sickness. The picture was a,
companled with note, printed in large letter.
with lead pencil, by the little correspondent
! who said she was too young to write Il
spoke with great vivacity of his childish visto
Children" said the old man, ''are gre,
pets am very fond of the little creatures" F"
The authors study-into which | looked i(
few moments before leaving-is small rom
, almost entirely filled by the writing table an
0 the lounge behind it, The walls are laden wit
| books and pictures, which evidently are re,a
ranged every day by some delicate hand ic
; none of the books were tumbled into the corne
and no papers were lying loose upon the tabl
t The pen, too was laid precisely parallel to ii
edge of the inkstand-a nlcety which only
womanly housekeeper would preservere to mai
o tain Besides, there was not speck of du
+. upon carpet or cushion!
h As came away, the old gentleman budl'
! his shawl about him, and stood "a few momen
u ON the steps. A momentary burst of sunshil
y iell on him through the breaking clouds.
: that full light he looked still less like an o
q man than in the dark parlor by the shaded Wi
= dow. His form was slightly bent, but the qui
s humor of the early portraits was still lingerir
= in his face Hc was the same genial, generou
r merry eyed man at seventy seven as Jarvis h'
. painted him nearly fifty years before l VII
v always to remember him as | saw him at tn
t last moment! THEODORE TILToN.