the soil like rain from heaven. Numerous papers on the same plan sprung
up in various parts of the country; but none attained the standard of
their prototype. Besides his editorial labors, Mr. Fessenden published,
from time to time, various compilations on agricultural subjects, or
adaptations of English treatises to the use of the American husbandman.
Verse he no longer wrote, except, now and then, an ode or song for some
agricultural festivity. His poems, being connected with topics of
temporary interest, ceased to be read, now that the metallic tractors
were thrown aside, and that the blending and merging of parties had
created an entire change of political aspects, since the days of
"Democracy Unveiled." The poetic laurel withered among his gray hairs,
and dropped away, leaf by leaf. His name, once the most familiar, was
forgotten in the list of American bards. I know not that this oblivion
was to be regretted. Mr. Fessenden, if my observation of his
temperament be correct, was peculiarly sensitive and nervous in regard
to the trials of authorship: a little censure did him more harm than
much praise could do him good; and methinks the repose of total neglect
was better for him than a feverish notoriety. Were it worth while to
imagine any other course for the latter part of his life, which he made
so useful and so honorable, it might be wished that he could have
devoted himself entirely to scientific research. He had a strong taste
for studies of that kind, and sometimes used to lament that his daily
drudgery afforded him no leisure to compose a work on caloric, which
subject he had thoroughly investigated.

In January, 1836, I became, and continued for a few months, an inmate of
Mr. Fessenden's family. It was my first acquaintance with him. His
image is before my mind's eye at this moment; slowly approaching me with
a lamp in his hand, his hair gray, his face solemn and pale, his tall
and portly figure bent with heavier infirmity than befitted his years.