Roughing It
refreshing when viewed from the blistering climate we were in. One could
stand on that mountain (wrapped up in blankets and furs to keep warm),
and while he nibbled a snowball or an icicle to quench his thirst he
could look down the long sweep of its sides and see spots where plants
are growing that grow only where the bitter cold of Winter prevails;
lower down he could see sections devoted to production that thrive in
the temperate zone alone; and at the bottom of the mountain he could see
the home of the tufted cocoa-palms and other species of vegetation that
grow only in the sultry atmosphere of eternal Summer. He could see all
the climes of the world at a single glance of the eye, and that glance
would only pass over a distance of four or five miles as the bird flies!
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By and by we took boat and went ashore at Kailua, designing to ride
horseback through the pleasant orange and coffee region of Kona, and
rejoin the vessel at a point some leagues distant. This journey is well
worth taking. The trail passes along on high ground—say a thousand feet
above sea level—and usually about a mile distant from the ocean, which
is always in sight, save that occasionally you find yourself buried in
the forest in the midst of a rank tropical vegetation and a dense growth
of trees, whose great bows overarch the road and shut out sun and sea
and everything, and leave you in a dim, shady tunnel, haunted with
invisible singing birds and fragrant with the odor of flowers. It was
pleasant to ride occasionally in the warm sun, and feast the eye upon
the ever-changing panorama of the forest (beyond and below us), with its
many tints, its softened lights and shadows, its billowy undulations
sweeping gently down from the mountain to the sea. It was pleasant also,
at intervals, to leave the sultry sun and pass into the cool, green
depths of this forest and indulge in sentimental reflections under the
inspiration of its brooding twilight and its whispering foliage. We rode
through one orange grove that had ten thousand trees in it! They were
all laden with fruit.
At one farmhouse we got some large peaches of excellent flavor. This
fruit, as a general thing, does not do well in the Sandwich Islands. It
takes a sort of almond shape, and is small and bitter. It needs frost,
they say, and perhaps it does; if this be so, it will have a good
opportunity to go on needing it, as it will not be likely to get it. The
trees from which the fine fruit I have spoken of, came, had been planted
and replanted _sixteen times_, and to this treatment the proprietor of
the orchard attributed his success.
We passed several sugar plantations—new ones and not very extensive. The
crops were, in most cases, third rattoons. [NOTE.—The first crop is
called “plant cane;” subsequent crops which spring from the original
roots, without replanting, are called “rattoons.”] Almost everywhere on
the island of Hawaii sugar-cane matures in twelve months, both rattoons
and plant, and although it ought to be taken off as soon as it tassels,
no doubt, it is not absolutely necessary to do it until about four
months afterward. In Kona, the average yield of an acre of ground is
_two tons_ of sugar, they say. This is only a moderate yield for these
islands, but would be astounding for Louisiana and most other sugar
growing countries. The plantations in Kona being on pretty high
ground—up among the light and frequent rains—no irrigation whatever is
required.
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CHAPTER LXX.
We stopped some time at one of the plantations, to rest ourselves and
refresh the horses. We had a chatty conversation with several gentlemen
present; but there was one person, a middle aged man, with an absent
look in his face, who simply glanced up, gave us good-day and lapsed
again into the meditations which our coming had interrupted. The
planters whispered us not to mind him—crazy. They said he was in the
Islands for his health; was a preacher; his home, Michigan. They said
that if he woke up presently and fell to talking about a correspondence
which he had some time held with Mr. Greeley about a trifle of some
kind, we must humor him and listen with interest; and we must humor his
fancy that this correspondence was the talk of the world.
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It was easy to see that he was a gentle creature and that his madness
had nothing vicious in it. He looked pale, and a little worn, as if with
perplexing thought and anxiety of mind. He sat a long time, looking at
the floor, and at intervals muttering to himself and nodding his head
acquiescingly or shaking it in mild protest. He was lost in his thought,
or in his memories. We continued our talk with the planters, branching
from subject to subject. But at last the word “circumstance,” casually
dropped, in the course of conversation, attracted his attention and
brought an eager look into his countenance. He faced about in his chair
and said:
“Circumstance? What circumstance? Ah, I know—I know too well. So you
have heard of it too.” [With a sigh.] “Well, no matter—all the world has
heard of it. All the world. The whole world. It is a large world, too,
for a thing to travel so far in—now isn’t it? Yes, yes—the Greeley
correspondence with Erickson has created the saddest and bitterest
controversy on both sides of the ocean—and still they keep it up! It
makes us famous, but at what a sorrowful sacrifice! I was so sorry when
I heard that it had caused that bloody and distressful war over there in
Italy. It was little comfort to me, after so much bloodshed, to know
that the victors sided with me, and the vanquished with Greeley.—It is
little comfort to know that Horace Greeley is responsible for the battle
of Sadowa, and not me.
“Queen Victoria wrote me that she felt just as I did about it—she said
that as much as she was opposed to Greeley and the spirit he showed in
the correspondence with me, she would not have had Sadowa happen for
hundreds of dollars. I can show you her letter, if you would like to see
it. But gentlemen, much as you may think you know about that unhappy
correspondence, you cannot know the _straight_ of it till you hear it
from my lips. It has always been garbled in the journals, and even in
history. Yes, even in history—think of it! Let me—_please_ let me, give
you the matter, exactly as it occurred. I truly will not abuse your
confidence.”
Then he leaned forward, all interest, all earnestness, and told his
story—and told it appealingly, too, and yet in the simplest and most
unpretentious way; indeed, in such a way as to suggest to one, all the
time, that this was a faithful, honorable witness, giving evidence in
the sacred interest of justice, and under oath. He said:
“Mrs. Beazeley—Mrs. Jackson Beazeley, widow, of the village of
Campbellton, Kansas,—wrote me about a matter which was near her heart—a
matter which many might think trivial, but to her it was a thing of deep
concern. I was living in Michigan, then—serving in the ministry. She
was, and is, an estimable woman—a woman to whom poverty and hardship
have proven incentives to industry, in place of discouragements. Her
only treasure was her son William, a youth just verging upon manhood;
religious, amiable, and sincerely attached to agriculture. He was the
widow’s comfort and her pride. And so, moved by her love for him, she
wrote me about a matter, as I have said before, which lay near her
heart—because it lay near her boy’s. She desired me to confer with Mr.
Greeley about turnips. Turnips were the dream of her child’s young
ambition. While other youths were frittering away in frivolous
amusements the precious years of budding vigor which God had given them
for useful preparation, this boy was patiently enriching his mind with
information concerning turnips. The sentiment which he felt toward the
turnip was akin to adoration. He could not think of the turnip without
emotion; he could not speak of it calmly; he could not contemplate it
without exaltation. He could not eat it without shedding tears. All the
poetry in his sensitive nature was in sympathy with the gracious
vegetable. With the earliest pipe of dawn he sought his patch, and when
the curtaining night drove him from it he shut himself up with his books
and garnered statistics till sleep overcame him. On rainy days he sat
and talked hours together with his mother about turnips. When company
came, he made it his loving duty to put aside everything else and
converse with them all the day long of his great joy in the turnip.
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“And yet, was this joy rounded and complete? Was there no secret alloy
of unhappiness in it? Alas, there was. There was a canker gnawing at his
heart; the noblest inspiration of his soul eluded his endeavor—viz: he
could not make of the turnip a climbing vine. Months went by; the bloom
forsook his cheek, the fire faded out of his eye; sighings and
abstraction usurped the place of smiles and cheerful converse. But a
watchful eye noted these things and in time a motherly sympathy unsealed
the secret. Hence the letter to me. She pleaded for attention—she said
her boy was dying by inches.
“I was a stranger to Mr. Greeley, but what of that? The matter was
urgent. I wrote and begged him to solve the difficult problem if
possible and save the student’s life. My interest grew, until it partook
of the anxiety of the mother. I waited in much suspense.—At last the
answer came.
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“I found that I could not read it readily, the handwriting being
unfamiliar and my emotions somewhat wrought up. It seemed to refer in
part to the boy’s case, but chiefly to other and irrelevant matters—such
as paving-stones, electricity, oysters, and something which I took to be
‘absolution’ or ‘agrarianism,’ I could not be certain which; still,
these appeared to be simply casual mentions, nothing more; friendly in
spirit, without doubt, but lacking the connection or coherence necessary
to make them useful.—I judged that my understanding was affected by my
feelings, and so laid the letter away till morning.
“In the morning I read it again, but with difficulty and uncertainty
still, for I had lost some little rest and my mental vision seemed
clouded. The note was more connected, now, but did not meet the
emergency it was expected to meet. It was too discursive. It appeared to
read as follows, though I was not certain of some of the words:
“Polygamy dissembles majesty; extracts redeem polarity; causes hitherto
exist. Ovations pursue wisdom, or warts inherit and condemn. Boston,
botany, cakes, folony undertakes, but who shall allay? We fear not.
Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.’
“But there did not seem to be a word about turnips. There seemed to be
no suggestion as to how they might be made to grow like vines. There was
not even a reference to the Beazeleys. I slept upon the matter; I ate no
supper, neither any breakfast next morning. So I resumed my work with a
brain refreshed, and was very hopeful. _Now_ the letter took a different
aspect—all save the signature, which latter I judged to be only a
harmless affectation of Hebrew. The epistle was necessarily from Mr.
Greeley, for it bore the printed heading of The _Tribune_, and I had
written to no one else there. The letter, I say, had taken a different
aspect, but still its language was eccentric and avoided the issue. It
now appeared to say:
“Bolivia extemporizes mackerel; borax esteems polygamy; sausages wither
in the east. Creation perdu, is done; for woes inherent one can damn.
Buttons, buttons, corks, geology underrates but we shall allay. My
beer’s out. Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.’
“I was evidently overworked. My comprehension was impaired. Therefore I
gave two days to recreation, and then returned to my task greatly
refreshed. The letter now took this form: