"It's a warm day, sir," said I, as he took his seat; "and you must pardon me for my being in undress, sir; but, really, I can't endure a coat to-day. Wouldn't you like to pull off your own? Make yourself perfectly at home, sir."
"O, no, sir; thank you. I am not warm; on the other hand, I am cold," and the old man buttoned his coat about him.
I was surprised, for I saw that he was evidently healthy, and then I conjectured that his frigidity on that hot day must proceed from intense mental suffering, and I asked him,—
"Did you call to see me professionally?"
"Yes, sir; I have been recommended by my attorney, Judge Hoffman, to call upon you and lay a case before you, which he says you may possibly be able to work out; and if you can't, he tells me to give up trying further. He has exhausted his powers upon it, and my all depends upon it," and the old man's voice discovered a slight tremor as he uttered the last words, and excited my interest intensely.
"Tell me your story in detail, leaving out nothing that you can remember, however trivial, and I will listen patiently; take your time."
The old gentleman, taking me at my word, and beginning with a "You must know," recited his own early history, which had no bearing on the case in issue, as I soon saw; but I let him go on; so much had his real trouble weighed upon his mind that he seemed to think the line which led to it ran through his whole life.
He was a farmer and a country merchant, who had, at the age of twenty-two, succeeded to the estate of his father, who was also a farmer and a merchant; that is, he "kept store" in a respectable country farming town, and "carried on farming" besides, with the aid of "hired men," whom he supervised. He was a man—that is, my visitor—of more than ordinary information, probably a great reader, and at one time the leading "Whig" of his place—the village oracle, in fact, at whose "store" the country people gathered of nights to hear him talk politics, and doubtless to debate among themselves the issues of those days when Clay was the idol of the great, respectable Whig party of the land. The old man was able to narrate a story with great fidelity, and showed a mind well disciplined. I had but few questions to ask him, as he went on in his narrative, and when he had concluded, I had already conceived a theory of the case, which in due time I proceeded to verify in practice.
He was then seventy-eight years old, he said; was married at thirty-four, his wife still living. They had had one child, a son, born in his father's thirty-seventh year, but who died at the age of four years, just when he had begun to be most interesting, the delight, of course, of his parents. The old man descanted, in pathetic terms, upon his desolation over the loss of that dear child, and said it came near bringing his mother to her grave; that she had never since been the same woman as before; that she never laughed aloud now, as she used to when they were first married, being then a woman of very jocular habits, and full of boisterous fun. "Since then," said he, "she has only faintly smiled, now and then, over something which pleased her fancy or met her hearty approval. No ordinary occurrence can bring a smile or a tear to her eye. But she is a dear, dear woman; and now that a great grief is upon us, I suffer more for her sake than my own."
The old man's voice grew husky as he proceeded, and I confess that, accustomed though I was to tales of horror, and feeling always that nothing of a wretched nature could ever surprise or move me to deep emotions, I felt for him nevertheless, and entered into the spirit of his soul before I knew what were its griefs.