Papers from Overlook-House

by Frederic W. Beasley

Suddenly, I began to understand, the meaning of this mysterious conversation. You will say I was excessively stupid not to perceive it before; that the hints were almost as intolerable and palpable as the most excessive hint ever given—that of Desdemona to the Moor of Venice. But you will please to remember, that you had not the personal appearance before you, which was in the room with me.

After I left this informant, I sat down on the rail of a small bridge, and then made a memorandum, of which you shall hear in due season.

I was told, in one of my "searches for truths," that if I would only write to Mr. Bob Warren, of Hardrun, I could acquire important knowledge of the nature which I so eagerly coveted. Accordingly, I addressed to him a very polite letter, and begged his aid—as I was collecting materials for the life of a celebrated Physician—Dr. Bolton, of Scrabble-Hill.

Only a short time elapsed before I received a reply, and to the following effect:

"Robert Loring, Esq.,—Dear Sir:

"About the doctor. I did know him. That is to say, I used to meet him scattered about the country, though I never called him in for professional services. In fact I believe my mother-in-law has more judgment about common ailments, than half the doctors around the world; and, thanks to a kind Providence, we have had wonderful health in the family.

"You want to hear about his personal appearance. He was a short thick-set man, with rather a reddish summit, and a sort of an in-pressed nose, and his skin always so tight that it seemed as if no more ever could get into it. As to his manners, he was slow, awful slow; slow in taking in ideas, like in mind in this respect, to snow melting on a March day. He did not say much, and so people, after the common ignorant notion about such folks, thought that as not much came out of him, there must be a great deal left in him. He would often repeat what others said, only putting the things into bigger words, and rolling them out so that people did not know their own observations.

"You ask me if I remember any observations of his. The most sensible remarks he ever made were some scornful attacks on Tom Jefferson's gun-boats, just before election; but I cannot say what they were, being very busy in hunting up voters at the time.

"I hope the doctor was no relation of yours. I write under that impression. I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, but I must say I am in a quandary, when I learn that you propose to print a book about him. I hope I shall know when it is printed.

"As to asking my associates here, as you say, about the man, there is no use in it. I am perfectly willing to do anything to oblige you, or any one else. But I know what they would say—that he was a stupid, solemn old ass.

"I think the creature was honest enough. As to not being over blessed with smartness, it was not his fault; for all cannot have much brains; for if they had, what would the world be, where it seems to me evident that the great majority must be blessed with but little common sense, or the country would never get along? It is always evident to me, that a small part of the world must do the thinking.

"Poor fellow! I have nothing to say against the doctor. He was honest enough. He was good-natured, and could forgive an injury, and that I take it is a pretty good proof that his religion will be found worth more at last than that of a good many people who think themselves better than ever he thought himself. In fact, if I have said anything about him that is not to his credit, I am not much used to writing; and then the idea of having his life written, rather turned my ideas into confusion. I can't go through the work of writing a new letter. He never hurt any one, I believe, by his practice. His being slow kept him from giving as much medicine as he would have done had he been a smarter man.

"I hope what I write is agreeable and useful.

"With respect,
"Yours to command,
"Robert Warren.

"P.S.—I will say that the doctor was ready to do a good turn. He was not hard on the poor. I believe I said he was honest, and had a good temper. It was a very good temper. He was honest as the sun—so people said, and in this instance it was true. He was not for experiments, as that Dr. Stone at the Run, who was always restless as if at some deep game, or like Dr. Thomas, at our place, who tried his new-fashioned medicines on rabbits, so that at least it was not an imposition on human nature. The doctor practiced in the good old way, and for that he has my respect."

I have now given you a pretty clear idea of the valuable results of my historical labors at the village. With my notes collected with so much care, I turned my back on this place, and returned to my office at Newark.

And now what was to be done? I began to feel quite feverish and miserable. Then I asked myself the question, whether all histories, and a considerable number of our biographies, were not based on similar poverty of materials—were not paste-board edifices looking like stone, and having only chaff for a foundation?

Now came a great temptation.—Should I imitate certain authors who, by means of cunning sentences, made the trifling appear to be events which were all-important, and so transformed ideas, that the mean became an object of admiration?

I recalled an instance when an historian found a record of a man whom he desired to clothe in all possibility of royal purple, and so to find fame with his sect, or to gain applause as a gorgeous writer. The true narrative declared, "At this time he believed that he received from heaven a divine intimation, a light from above, assuring him that a man might go through all the instruction of the Colleges of Oxford and Cambridge, and not be able to tell a man how to save his soul."