Among the passengers was a fellow of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, who called himself a Doctor. He told me he was from New York, and was going to Saint Louis to establish a practice for himself.
“I don’t care,” said he, “whether I am successful at first or not. I have five thousand dollars in my pocket, and that will keep me a year or so without my doing much. By that time, I’ll get myself worked into a practice, no doubt.”
“Certainly,” I agreed.
He was not a fine-looking man, but he was obviously a vain fool, and one whom I thought I should not like to trust further than I could throw a comet by the tail. Every one called him “Doctor,” and he seemed to like it. I will say more of him by and by.
The sharer of my state-room—he occupied the lower berth—was a venerable man of eighty years, a native of Missouri. He was a man of finished education, and, by profession, a physician. He and I were so much pleased with each other, that we have since corresponded; and I have found his acquaintance truly edifying, as well as agreeable. His name was Crele.
Dr. Crele told me a sad tale of his troubles in Missouri during the war. He resided in Lafayette county, of that State, where old feuds held carnival during the desolating civil war. He had taken no part in the contest, in any way, he told me; and he said that his nearest and best friend on earth had lately been an only son of thirty years—whom he pictured to me as all that was manly, noble, pure, honorable, and worthy of a parent’s fond affection. This son, he said, had studied for the ministry, had acquired a rare education, and, like himself, had taken no part in the war. But one bitter night, when he himself was seriously ill, and his son was sitting by his bedside, a party of armed men, headed by an old enemy of his family, abruptly burst into his house, and shot down that son—the last prop of his old age. One of the reckless and deluded men was going to shoot him, as he lay in bed, but another interrupted him, saying:
“Never mind the old white-headed reprobate. It isn’t worth while. He’ll soon die, anyhow.”
So, sparing him a few dim years of bitterness, they ransacked the house, carried off all the valuables they could find, damaged much of the furniture, set the building on fire, and departed. The flames were extinguished by friendly neighbors, who came to his assistance, and who lifted up from a pool of blood the lifeless form of his son.
There were tears in the old man’s eyes as he told me this; and no wonder. His hair was white, his hand trembled, and his step was unsteady with age. He must have felt alone in the world.
I will not state which cause the villains professed to be attached to, who murdered the Doctor’s son, and left him a blank and desolate old age. There were wrongs and outrages committed on both sides during the war. No reasonable person will fail to admit this. A civil war gives a horrible license to bad men; and God forbid that our land should ever be blighted by another.