VI.
The quiet period after the anxiety and stress of editorship in a great city was for a time grateful to the poet. He managed the farm in a desultory way, but his main occupation was composing verses under his favorite locust tree which had been planted by his father and which had increased in size and numbers until in the words of his daughter, "it was a complete grove of locust trees surrounding a house grown old with its time worn owner, his venerable mother and maiden sister beloved and respected for her many virtues. Her decease, which took place a few years previous to his own, he says in an obituary, he can say no more nor less than that 'she was as good and innocent as an angel.'" This sister, Mary Freneau, a beautiful woman, had been wooed at one time by Madison, but for some reason she had refused him.
Freneau's family consisted of four daughters: Eleanor, born in 1791; Agnes W., born June 22, 1794; Catherine L., born February 25, 1798; and Margaret Alaire, born June 10, 1801. Eleanor married a Mr. Hammill, and the four daughters of this union died unmarried; Agnes married Dr. Edward Leadbeater, and the eldest son of this union, at the earnest request of the poet, was christened Philip Leadbeater Freneau, his grandfather putting into his infant hands the ancestral Bible, which was the family treasure. The descendants of Agnes Freneau and Dr. Leadbeater are very numerous. The two younger daughters of the poet never married.
The active pen of Freneau, so long practiced in discussing the affairs of the day, could not rest idle during his period of retirement. He began a series of letters to the Philadelphia Aurora and other papers, and on December 30, 1799, issued them in a volume entitled "Letters on Various Interesting and Important Subjects, many of which have appeared in the Aurora." It bore his old pen name, Robert Slender, with the added title, O. S. M., interpreted later to mean "One of the Swinish Multitude." The book has surprising merit. The letters are written in a breezy, colloquial style, and the simple-minded old cobbler is well characterized. Freneau has actually succeeded in making him a living creature, and his opinions and "whim whams" are full of hard sense and practical wisdom. The book is by all means the best prose that Freneau ever wrote. So easy is the style and so natural is the characterization that I cannot forbear quoting at some length from a chapter chosen almost at random:
LETTER XXII
Mr. Editor,
Having heard that there was a tavern at about the distance of a mile or so from my favourite country spot, where now and then a few neighbours meet to spit, smoke segars, drink apple whiskey, cider or cider-royal, and read the news—a few evenings ago, I put on my best coat, combed out my wig, put my spectacles in my pocket, and a quarter dollar—This I thought was right; for although Mrs. Slender told me eleven-pence was enough, says I, I'll e'en take the quarter dollar, for a man always feels himself of more consequence when he has got good money in his pocket—so out I walks with a good stout stick in my hand, which I always make a point to carry with me, lest the dogs should make rather freer with my legs than I could wish. But I had not gone more than half the way, when, by making a false step, I splash'd my stocking from knee to the ancle. Odds my heart, said I, see what a hand I have made of my stocking; I'll be bail, added I, I'll hear of this in both sides of my head—but it can't now be helped—this, and a thousand worse accidents, which daily happen, are all occasioned by public neglect, and the misapplication of the public's money—Had I, said I, (talking to myself all the while) the disposal of but half the income of the United States, I could at least so order matters, that a man might walk to his next neighbour's without splashing his stockings or being in danger of breaking his legs in ruts, holes, gutts, and gullies. I do not know, says I to myself, as I moralized on my splash'd stocking, but money might with more profit be laid out in repairing the roads, than in marine establishments, supporting a standing army, useless embassies, exorbitant salaries, given to many flashy fellows that are no honour to us, or to themselves, and chartering whole ships to carry a single man to another nation—Odds my life, continued I, what a number of difficulties a man labours under, who has never read further than Lilly's grammar, and has but a poor brain—had I been favoured with a good education, I could no doubt readily see the great usefulness of all these measures of government, that now appear to me so unaccountable—I could then, said I, still talking to myself, see the reason why the old patriots, whose blood flowed so freely in purchasing our independence, are cast aside, like a broken pitcher, (as the scripture says) and why the old tories and active refugees are advanced to places of power, honour and trust—I could then be able to explain why Robbins, an American citizen, for killing an Englishman who held him a slave, and so gaining his liberty, was delivered to the English to be hanged—and Sterret, who killed a veteran sailor, who had formerly fought and bled in the cause of his country, and then was bravely doing his duty, yet, remains unpunished.... As I said this, by accident I looked up, and perceived to my surprise, that if I had gone but one step further, I would have actually knocked my nose against the sign-post—I declare, said I, here I am, this is a tavern indeed. I then felt in my pocket, if I had my quarter dollar, which to my joy I found—I then unbuttoned my coat, to shew my silk waistcoat, pulled my watch chain a good piece longer out of my pocket, fixed my hat a little better on my head—and then advanced boldly into the tavern—But I see I am got to the end of my page, and therefore must defer the remainder of my adventure to another opportunity."
In the advertisement of the book, the author made the half promise of more letters in the same vein:
"Should these letters meet with a favourable reception in their present form, a second volume will shortly be published, containing besides those that have since appeared separately a variety of original ones upon such interesting subjects as may hereafter claim the public attention."
The volume was never published. The little family at Mount Pleasant could not subsist alone on letters and poems, however brilliant. The outlook was not a bright one, as the following letter[17] to his brother Peter, in Charleston, dated March 1, 1801, would indicate: