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CHAPTER II.
Modern Antiquarians -- A Dartmouth Collegian -- A pioneer on the shore of Lake Erie -- Relics of the past --
Vagaries of an over excited brain -- An Author -- "Manuscript Found" -- A model Publisher -- Truth in a Printing
Office -- Modern morals -- Notorious imbecility of Authors -- Wisdom of Publishers -- Literature and Tobacco --
Death of an Author -- Manuscript for waste paper -- Copy preserved by an admiring Publisher -- Death of a Publisher
-- Copy falls into the hands of an Ishmaelite -- Encounter of the Ishmaelite and Embryo Prophet --
Cemented Friendship.
BETWEEN the years 1809 and 1816, when all savandom was exercised in regard to the origin
of the swarthy aborigines of America, when Catlin, armed with pen and pencil, started on his pilgrimage to bring to
light from their wild fastness, all that could solve the mystery of their ancestry -- when Major Noah shook hands
with their haughty chieftains and claimed them as brethren descended from the same father, Israel, and the onward
march of civilization was leveling the primitive forests, an unearthing the hidden sepulchers and relics of extinct
nations, Solomon Spaulding, settled in Salem, Ashtabula County, Ohio. The now rich cultivated fields,
were then dark forests, among which beasts of prey prowled, and aborigines, driven to desperation by the
gradual extinction of their race and hunting grounds, lurked in ambush
RELICS FOUND.
31
to await the unguarded moment when they could in safety sally forth and hurl dire vengeance on the pale faces who
had usurped their all. At their feet and rolling away to the north lay Lake Erie, a broad inland sea, majestic and
imperious in the storm when its angry billows lashed its rugged shores, but beautiful as a sleeping tiger in its
hours of repose.
As the axe of the hardy pioneer disencumbered, and the plowshare furrowed the earth, beneath which slept all that
remained of the unknown past of America's once cherished hearth-stones and sacred groves, spots hallowed by noble
deeds and the graves of a lost nation, whose origin and name in the age in which they flourished sleep alike with
those who bore it, and with it has dissolved back to the elements from which they arose, were brought to light.
Skeletons of the people, jars of earthen ware, terra-cotta vases beautifully carved, thin sheets of brass covered
with hieroglyphics, held together by rings at their backs, with numerous articles elegantly carved in stone, were of
common occurrence, unearthed to reward the research of the pioneer.
"It is well enough" he cried one day, when after divesting some of the plates of rust, the hieroglyphics come out
bold and clear, "for the Professors of New York, Philadelphia and London, to advance such opinions on a subject,
upon which they have about as much practical knowledge as an Indian has about a sawmill; but, to ask
32
BAFFLED CURIOSITY.
those who have seen different and know better, is simply preposterous."
"You are positive the characters are not Hebrew or Egyptian?" queried Mrs. Spaulding, who deprecated this research,
as she was not sure but that by increasing mental irritation, which in her husband's case, it was desirable to allay,
he would become incapable of either mental or physical labor.
"Positive!" he cried with roused pride, "could I not read them if they were, and these are like so much Chinese to
me. No! no; though they may be Chaldaic," he added thoughtfully, as he gazed longingly on the thin sheets of metal,
covered with what had been bold, characters, but now had lost much of the beauty of outline by corroding time.
"It is not worth the trouble, if you could," returned his more matter-of-fact companion. "It will, if deciphered
neither till the soil, nor put money into your pockets, but on the contrary will lead to a close mental application
which you have been strictly forbidden to indulge in by physicians."
"Forsooth! I am to let my talents rust, because a man who never had any does not see the utility of those who have
using them! About the money, I do not think myself it will bring any -- I never knew a useful invention that did
the inventor, but the future ages to come, may do me the justice that our own age is now doing to the
AUTHOR IN EMBRYO.
33
names of Newton, Franklin, and a host of others, who are long since dead," answered the enthusiastic collegian.
A cloud settled on the brow of Mrs. Spaulding, as she turned away to conceal the anxiety of her heart, which she
knew full well could be traced on her brow.
The vagaries that had flitted through the brain of the antiquarian as he communed with himself, developed into form;
and surrounding himself with all the antiquities he had been able to collect, he seized his pen and paper, and heading
it "Manuscript Found," transcribed thereon the fantastic beings to which it had given birth. Conversant with the
abstruse tomes of biblical research, he imitated its chronological theme, names, and style. Still, it was but an
imitation, lacking the fire of inspiration, although it bore the trace of brilliant genius and intense thought.
Mrs. Spaulding seeing the evil his present course of life was doing him, and thinking how futile was every endeavour
to break the fascinating chain that enthralled him, while surrounded by what had awakened and wove him in its toils,
urged a removal from the vicinity. Woman's wit was brought into requisition for devices without awakening suspicion
in his sensitive mind as to the real cause; and in a few weeks she had induced him to abandon his forest home, which
had aided in fostering his imagination, until it had assumed an alarming symptom,
34
AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER.
for the busy, active life among his fellows in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Here as he daily encountered the living throne as they pursued the every day actualities of life, his mind assumed
a more healthy tone, its morbid sensitiveness gave place to genial humour, and instead of pursuing his former
vagaries, was so far cured of them as to bring out his manuscripts and read them for his friends' amusement, laughing
heartily himself at their absurdities. Their originality and oddities struck the fancy of a Mr. Patterson who made
application to him for the manuscript for publication.
"But, my dear sir," said the author in amazement, "they are the greatest absurdities an overwrought imagination ever
penned; there is not a word of truth in them."
"So much the better," returned the publisher, coolly; "they will, for that very reason, tickle the fancy of the wise,
while the simple will gulp them down as they gape for more, and cry, 'how wonderful!'"
"But to publish such unblushing falsehoods as truth is downright dishonesty," persisted the author.
"Why, man, do you think all that is published is veritable truth? Poor time of it we publishers would have if we had
nothing more to tickle the public brain with!"
"But to publish for truth what was not even a foundation
LITERATURE AND CIGARS.
35
in it; no, no, I cannot consent so to mislead my fellow men."
"Really, Spaulding, you never should have left the pulpit; you would have made a capital preacher of morality; you
make such nice points where common men see none."
"If you will publish it as an effort of imagination, not as truth, I will not object," replied the collegian, as
what he was destined for was thus forcibly recalled to memory with all its bright anticipations crumbled to ashes
in his hand.
"That would spoil the whole; you are too fastidious, Spaulding; give me the manuscript for perusal, and if it is
all as rich as what you have read to me, it will, if published, make your fortune."
"I would rather never have a fortune than have it made at the expense of truth," returned the author as he gave the
manuscript into the hands of the printer and turned away.
"That man is a fool, and I never knew an author that was not," muttered Patterson impatiently, as he settled himself
in an easy position for the perusal of the manuscript; that is, he tilted his chair back, elevated his feet at an
angle of forty-five degrees, deposited them on a window ledge, and placed a cigar in his mouth, from which he
alternately knocked the ashes and withdrew to deposit its concomitant in the direction of the spittoon,
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DEATH OF AN AUTHOR.
but which oftener hit the wall beyond, or the files of papers around it.
Patterson saw and acknowledged the genius that could invent such a plot and carry it so triumphantly through, as was
disclosed in the perusal of the manuscript, although he failed to obtain it for publication on any other than
Spaulding's own terms; and these would not answer his purpose, he contented himself with the privilege given by
Spaulding, of taking a copy of it for his amusement; and he was wont to read copious extracts from this to others.
One of his journeymen, Sidney Rigdon, who was a young itinerant Campbellite preacher, became fascinated by its oddity,
and protested it sounded vastly like reality with all its absurdities. Patterson laughed at the credulity of his
employee, while Spaulding shook his head, and was more than ever resolved to adhere to his first decision, either to
retain forever so gross a tissue of falsehoods, or give it to the world such as it was, a romance.
Spaulding's pecuniary affairs, never very flourishing, demanded his removal to Amity, Washington County, New York,
where a disease, under which he had long suffered, and which at times had nearly dethroned his reason, gained the
mastery, and he died in 1816. Mrs. Spaulding, collected the original copy of the "Manuscript Found," together with
other waste papers of her husband, and packing them away in a trunk, left them with his relatives in Otsego County,
New York, where they were
RIGDON SEEKS EMPLOYMENT.
37
destroyed as waste and worthless papers. Rigdon soon after, left Patterson's employment for other printing offices
in the city, occasionally borrowing the copy of Spaulding's manuscript in the possession of Patterson, for the
amusement of his fellow workmen. In 1826, Patterson died, leaving the manuscript in the possession of Rigdon, who
had borrowed it a few days previously, and who now, that no one demanded it, had not the manliness to return it to
its rightful owners. He, however, kept it no secret, and there are many at this hour living in that city, who have
seen and heard Rigdon read from the "Manuscript Found." Rigdon in the year after the death of Patterson, wandered
away in search of work and a congregation ignorant enough to appreciate his talents. During this tour, which the
state of his finances obliged him to perform in the primitive mode so congenial to good digestion, as he was taking
the nearest way from one village to another in the eastern part of the State, his path led down a ridge, at whose
base murmured a mountain stream thickly shaded by the forest that shut out the noon-day sun. Weary and hungry, he
threw himself on its mossy bank, drank from its gurgling depth, then taking a lunch from his bundle commenced his
meal. While thus engaged he surveyed the scenery around; but before his eye had wandered far, it fell on a youth
on the opposite bank surveying him with looks of distrust. He stood erect with his hat swept back from his forehead,
a rifle
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HE ENCOUNTERS THE PROPHET.
resting in the bend of his left arm, while his right hand played nervously with its hammer. A keen, bold, searching
eye surveyed him, with a look not at all comfortable to a man of Rigdon's temperament, and he turned to fly in
dismay, when an imperious voice cried in a tone of command, "stop!"
Trembling with affright, he paused and turned towards the youth who had raised his rifle and was glancing along its
barrel.
"Don't shoot! for heaven's sake don't shoot! I have never done anybody any harm!" cried the alarmed Rigdon; and in
truth a more courageous man than he would have felt like showing the white feather with that bold eye glancing at
him across the rifle's barrel.
"Stand still then, for I want to know what you are here for, if you are afraid of a rifle?" returned the youth,
advancing, as he lowered his weapon again to his arm.
"I did not come for anything; I was only crossing over the ridge to the village beyond, and stopped to rest. Let me
go now; you surely do not want to hurt one of the Lord's Anointed? -- I am a preacher." pleaded Rigdon in a
frightened tone.
"You a preacher?" cried his persecutor as he burst into a loud laugh that would have frightened any denizens of the
forest that had been within hearing. Then he continued as he surveyed him from head to foot, "it strikes me you
look like one, or a constable which is about the
THE ISHMAELITE'S CREDENTIALS.
39
same. Come man, don't make a fool of yourself; out with it, and tell me who you are in search of?"
"I a constable!" returned the now astonished and somewhat re-assured Rigdon: "I am nothing of the sort. I am a
respectable man, a minister of the gospel."
"That won't do, covey. Ministers never go rambling through the woods carrying bundles and eating cold dinners. They
always ride, and are fed like the governor. Come, quibbling won't do; tell me who you are after."
"I was never after anybody, sir, never!"
"Nonsense; you are a constable after Joe Smith; you know you are; and I want you to take back a message to those
that sent you, from me, for I happen to be that individual."
"There has no one sent me, nor am I a constable; neither did I ever hear of Joe Smith," persisted the victim.
This last assertion staggered his persecutor who demanded in a softened tone:
"Why don't you say who you are, then, and what you are doing here? you are not hunting, for you have no gun; and
to tell me you are a minister is folly. I am not so easily gulled as that."
"I have my credentials with me, and if that don't convince you, I can do no more," he returned, as he drew from an
old leather wallet a tattered slip of paper, and handed it over to his tormentor.
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TRAMMELED GENIUS.
"Humph," he growled, as he glanced over its surface, and a feeling of bitterness filled his heart as he surveyed it,
for it might as well have been written in the Carib tongue as his own, for all the benefit it was to him, so
perfectly untrammeled by art had the sire led his hopeful progeny in his own footsteps. He, in his vagabond careless
life, had never felt the want of it; but his sons, whether they had more ideas to communicate, or whether what they
had were kept in agitation by a lurking envy and ambition is not very clear, often had. The mood of Rigdon's
tormentor, therefore, did not improve as he gazed longingly on the bit of paper covered over with a scrawl, and
flinging it passionately from him, he cried:
"You are one of the book learned rascals, are you? Now," he continued, as he planted the butt of his rifle angrily on
the ground, "I want to know wherein it makes you better than I am who cannot even read a word of your writing. You
are no better dressed, nor have you a rifle like this, and if you had, I do not believe you would know how to fire it
any better."
"I am no better than you," returned the victim humbly, "and may be," he added depreciatingly, "I am not so good
looking; nor yet have as good clothes, or a rifle, but I can fire one, and if I don't hit the mark every time, then
I give you leave to call me a constable or anything else you please."
AN UNEXPECTED MARKSMAN.
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"Done," cried the rifleman, and placing a piece of paper the size of a dollar eighty yards distant, he gave the rifle
into the hands of Rigdon, who examined it closely a moment, then raised it to his shoulder, glanced along its barrel
and fired. Handing it to the owner who was eyeing him with a curious look which was gradually displaced by one of
admiration, he said:
"The upper edge of the paper is marked -- load it again and I will fetch it next time."
Silently the rifle was loaded, and again placed in Rigdon's hands who once more drew it deliberately to bear on the
paper, fired, and it fell to the ground.
"Drove the pin, by Heaven! you are the boy for me," cried Smith exultingly, as he seized Rigdon's hand, and shook it
with an iron grasp.
"You are satisfied, are you?" replied Rigdon coolly, as he returned the rifle.
"No, not quite; I want to know who and what you are -- where you came from, and where you are going."
Chequered as Rigdon's life had been, it was soon told, and as he warmed on his subject, in speaking of his
intercourse with Patterson, he took from his bundle the copy of the original "Manuscript Found," made by Patterson
of Spaulding's romance, and read pages from it to amuse his eager listener, whose whole soul was wrapt in the local
romance which placed angels, patriarchs, and even God himself among the scenes of which he was familiar. The
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A BOND OF FRIENDSHIP.
superstitious awe which had held him so often heretofore in its fetters, together with the pall of ignorance that
hemmed him around, made it appear so like truth that he yielded to it a willing homage, and when told by Rigdon,
it was all fiction, it sounded harshly and jarred with the newly awakened cord it had vibrated in his heart
Hours were thus spent, during which every barrier was broken down between the two, and when night came on, they were
sworn brothers through future time. The imperious, daring, headstrong tone of Smith's temperament, together with the
superstitions that enthralled him, suited the dreamy biblical disputant, and the credulity with which his vagaries
were received pleased him, while the Ishmaelite's roving nature and versatility, together with his varied abilities,
won the confidence of the then fugitive from justice; and when a few weeks later he emerged from his covert, his
friends having procured the withdrawal of the prosecution against him, he was accompanied by the Ishmaelite.
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