noticed with great kindness by the press, but was not warmly received by
the public. Mr. Fessenden imputed the failure, in part, to the
illiberality of the "trade," and avenged himself by a little poem, in
his best style, entitled "Wooden Booksellers"; so that the last blow of
his satirical scourge was given in the good old cause of authors against
publishers.

Notwithstanding a wide difference of age, and many more points of
dissimilarity than of resemblance, Mr. Fessenden and myself soon became
friends. His partiality seemed not to be the result of any nice
discrimination of my good and evil qualities (for he had no acuteness in
that way), but to be given instinctively, like the affection of a child.
On my part, I loved the old man because his heart was as transparent as
a fountain; and I could see nothing in it but integrity and purity, and
simple faith in his fellow-men, and good-will towards all the world.
His character was so open, that I did not need to correct my original
conception of it. He never seemed to me like a new acquaintance, but as
one with whom I had been familiar from my infancy. Yet he was a rare
man, such as few meet with in the course of a lifetime. It is
remarkable, that, with such kindly affections, Mr. Fessenden was so
deeply absorbed in thought and study as scarcely to allow himself time
for domestic and social enjoyment. During the winter when I first knew
him, his mental drudgery was almost continual. Besides "_The New
England Farmer_," lie had the editorial charge of two other journals,--
"_The Horticultural Register_," and "_The Silk Manual_"; in addition to
which employment, he was a member of the State legislature, and took
some share in the debates. The new matter of "Terrible Tractoration"
likewise cost him intense thought. Sometimes I used to meet him in the
street, making his way onward apparently by a sort of instinct; while
his eyes took note of nothing, and would, perhaps, pass over my face