We soon became friends, and, at last, intimates. I was now boarding at "Ripley's"—a good old-fashioned tavern, over which presided Major Ripley, respected for revolutionary services, an amiable character, and a long Continental queue. In the administration of the establishment he was ably supported by his daughter, Aunt Lucy—the very genius of tavern courtesy, cookery, and comfort. Here Brainard joined me, and we took rooms side by side. Thus, for more than a year, we were together, as intimate as brothers. He was of a child-like disposition, and craved constant sympathy. He soon got into the habit of depending upon me in many things, and at last—especially in dull weather, or when he was sad, or something went wrong with him—he would creep into my bed, as if it were his right. At that period of gloom in my own fortunes, this was as well a solace to me as to him. After my return from Europe we resumed these relations, and for some months more we were thus together.
I cannot do better than sketch a single incident, which will give you some insight into Brainard's character. The scene opens in Miss Lucy's little back-parlor—a small, cosy, carpeted room, with two cushioned rocking-chairs, and a bright hickory fire. It is a chill November night, about seven o'clock of a Friday evening. The Mirror—Brainard's paper—is to appear the next morning. The week has thus far passed, and he has not written for it a line. How the days have gone he can hardly tell. He has read a little—dipped into Byron, pored over the last Waverly novel, and been to see his friends; at all events, he has got rid of the time. He has not felt competent to bend down to his work, and has put it off till the last moment. No further delay is possible. He is now not well; he has a severe cold.
Miss Lucy, who takes a motherly interest in him, tells him not to go out, and his own inclinations suggest the charms of a quiet evening in the rocking chair, by a good fire—especially in comparison with going to his comfortless office, and drudging for the press. He lingers till eight, and then suddenly rousing himself, by a desperate effort, throws on his cloak and sallies forth. As was not uncommon, I go with him. A dim fire is kindled in the small Franklin stove in his office, and we sit down. Brainard, as was his wont, especially when he was in trouble, falls into a curious train of reflections, half comic and half serious.
"Would to Heaven," he says, "I were a slave! I think a slave, with a good master, has a good time of it. The responsibility of taking care of himself—the most terrible burden of life—is put on his master's shoulders. Madame Roland, with a slight alteration, would have uttered a profound truth. She should have said—'Oh, Liberty, Liberty, thou art a humbug!' After all, liberty is the greatest possible slavery, for it puts upon a man the responsibility of taking care of himself. If he goes wrong, why, he's condemned! If a slave sins, he's only flogged, and gets over it, and there's an end of it. Now, if I could only be flogged, and settle the matter that way, I should be perfectly happy. But here comes my tormentor."
The door is now opened, a boy with a touselled head and inky countenance enters, saying curtly—"Copy, Mr. Brainard!"
"Come in fifteen minutes!" says the editor, with a droll mixture of fun and despair.
WHITTLING.
Brainard makes a few observations, and sits down at his little narrow pine table—hacked along edges with many a restless penknife. He seems to notice the marks, and pausing a moment, says,—