“I was still not satisfied.  These generalities did not meet the question.  They were crisp, and vigorous, and delivered with a confidence that almost compelled conviction; but at such a time as this, with a human life at stake, they seemed inappropriate, worldly, and in bad taste.  At any other time I would have been not only glad, but proud, to receive from a man like Mr. Greeley a letter of this kind, and would have studied it earnestly and tried to improve myself all I could; but now, with that poor boy in his far home languishing for relief, I had no heart for learning.

“Three days passed by, and I read the note again.  Again its tenor had changed.  It now appeared to say: 

“Potations do sometimes wake wines; turnips restrain passion; causes
necessary to state.  Infest the poor widow; her lord’s effects will
be void.  But dirt, bathing, etc., etc., followed unfairly, will
worm him from his folly—­so swear not. 

          
                                                                      Yrxwly, HEVACE EVEELOJ.’

“This was more like it.  But I was unable to proceed.  I was too much worn.  The word ‘turnips’ brought temporary joy and encouragement, but my strength was so much impaired, and the delay might be so perilous for the boy, that I relinquished the idea of pursuing the translation further, and resolved to do what I ought to have done at first.  I sat down and wrote Mr. Greeley as follows: 

“Dear sir:  I fear I do not entirely comprehend your kind note.  It cannot be possible, Sir, that ’turnips restrain passion’—­at least the study or contemplation of turnips cannot—­for it is this very employment that has scorched our poor friend’s mind and sapped his bodily strength.—­But if they do restrain it, will you bear with us a little further and explain how they should be prepared?  I observe that you say ‘causes necessary to state,’ but you have omitted to state them.

“Under a misapprehension, you seem to attribute to me interested motives in this matter—­to call it by no harsher term.  But I assure you, dear sir, that if I seem to be ‘infesting the widow,’ it is all seeming, and void of reality.  It is from no seeking of mine that I am in this position.  She asked me, herself, to write you.  I never have infested her—­indeed I scarcely know her.  I do not infest anybody.  I try to go along, in my humble way, doing as near right as I can, never harming anybody, and never throwing out insinuations.  As for ‘her lord and his effects,’ they are of no interest to me.  I trust I have effects enough of my own—­shall endeavor to get along with them, at any rate, and not go mousing around to get hold of somebody’s that are ‘void.’  But do you not see?—­this woman is a widow—­she has no ‘lord.’  He is dead—­or pretended to be, when they buried him.  Therefore, no amount of ‘dirt, bathing,’