"This table reminds me of one of my brother William's stories. There was an old man in Groton, who had but one child, and she was a daughter. When she was about eighteen, several young men came to see her. At last she picked out one of them, and desired to marry him. He seemed a fit match enough, but the father positively refused his consent. For a long time he persisted, and would give no reason for his conduct. At last he took his daughter aside, and said—'Now, Sarah, I think pretty well of this young man in general, but I've observed that he's given to whittling. There's no harm in that, but the point is this: he whittles and whittles, and never makes nothing! Now, I tell you, I'll never give my only daughter to such a feller as that!' Whenever Bill told this story, he used to insinuate that this whittling chap, who never made anything, was me! At any rate, I think it would have suited me exactly."
Some time passed in similar talk, when, at last, Brainard turned suddenly, took up his pen, and began to write. I sat apart, and left him to his work. Some twenty minutes passed, when, with a smile on his face, he got up, approached the fire, and taking the candle to light his paper, read as follows:—
"THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.
"The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain,
While I look upwards to thee. It would seem
As if God pour'd thee from his 'hollow hand,'
And hung his bow upon thy awful front;
And spoke in that loud voice that seem'd to him
Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake,
'The sound of many waters;' and had bade
Thy flood to chronicle the ages back,
And notch his cent'ries in the eternal rocks!"
He had hardly done reading when the boy came. Brainard handed him the lines—on a small scrap of coarse paper—and told him to come again in half-an-hour. Before this time had elapsed, he had finished and read me the following stanza:—
"Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we
That hear the question of that voice sublime?
Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung
From war's vain trumpet by thy thundering side?
Yea, what is all the riot man can make,
In his short life, to thy unceasing roar?
And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him
Who drown'd a world, and heap'd the waters far
Above its loftiest mountains? A light wave,
That breathes and whispers of its Maker's might."
These lines having been furnished, Brainard left his office, and we returned to Miss Lucy's parlor. He seemed utterly unconscious of what he had done. I praised the verses, but he thought I only spoke warmly from friendly interest. The lines went forth, and produced a sensation of delight over the whole country. Almost every exchange paper that came to the office had extracted them. Even then he would scarcely believe that he had done anything very clever. And thus, under these precise circumstances, were composed the most suggestive and sublime stanzas upon Niagara that were ever penned. Brainard had never, as he told me, been within less than five hundred miles of the cataract, nor do I believe that, when he went to the office, he had meditated upon the subject.
The reader will see, from the circumstances I have mentioned, that I know the history of most of Brainard's pieces, as they came out, from time to time, in his newspaper. Nearly all of them were occasional—that is, suggested by passing events, or incidents in the poet's experience.
Early in the year 1825 I persuaded Brainard to make a collection of his poems, and have them published. At first his lip curled at the idea, as being too pretentious. He insisted that he had done nothing to justify the publication of a volume. Gradually he began to think of it, and, at length, I induced him to sign a contract authorizing me to make arrangements for the work. He set about the preparation, and at length—after much lagging and many lapses—the pieces were selected and arranged. When all was ready, I persuaded him to go to New York with me to settle the matter with a publisher.
One anecdote, in addition to those already before the public, and I shall close this sketch. Brainard's talent for repartee was of the first order. On one occasion, Nathan Smith, an eminent lawyer, was at Ripley's tavern, in the midst of a circle of judges and lawyers attending the court. He was an Episcopalian, and at this time was considered by his political adversaries—unjustly, no doubt—as the paid agent of that persuasion, now clamoring for a sum of money from the State, to lay the foundation of a "Bishops' Fund." He was thus regarded somewhat in the same light as O'Connell, who, while he was the great patriot leader of Irish independence, was, at the same time, liberally supported by the "rint." By accident, Brainard came in, and Smith, noticing a little feathery attempt at whiskers down his cheeks, rallied him upon it.