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Updated: June 1, 2025
Frisbie had no time to move his family-vault from the degrading proximity of the negro graves. And Fessenden's still lived, an orphan, yet happy, in the family of blacks which had adopted him; while the parents of those children, who had loved them, were left alone in the costly house, desolate. Was it, as some supposed, a judgment upon Frisbie for his pride? I cannot tell.
Fessenden's interest. He produced the model of an ingenious contrivance for grinding corn. A patent had already been obtained; and a company, with the lord-mayor of London at its head, was associated for the construction of mills upon this new principle.
"Hollo!" "What, child?" asked Mrs. Williams. "The old man!" said Fessenden's. "Comin' into the door! Don't ye see him?" Nobody saw him but the lad; and of course all were astonished by his earnest announcement of the apparition. The old grandmother hastened to look out. There sat her father still, on the bench by the apple-tree, leaning against the trunk. But the sight did not satisfy her.
It was further declared by Mr. Fessenden's committee "that the evidence of an intense hostility to the Federal Union, and an equally intense love for the late Confederacy, nurtured by the war, is decisive.
To get a bow, and perhaps a kind word, from the illustrious Gingerford, was glory enough for one day, and the old man invariably hurried into the house to tell of it. But one morning a singular thing occurred. To all appearances to the eyes of all except one he remained sitting out there in the sun after the Judge had gone. But Fessenden's, looking up suddenly, and staring at vacancy, cried,
"I supposed Gingerford would be delighted to take him in," grins Stephen. "Instead of that, he turns him out in the storm! Did you ever hear of such sham philanthropy? By George!" cries Frisbie, in his indignation against the Judge, "there's more real philanthropy in these niggers" checking himself, and glancing again at the workmen on the roof. "What's philanthropy?" asks Fessenden's.
But nobody showed me the way, and I couldn't find it." "Where did you come from? Who are you?" "Fessenden's." "Who is Fessenden?" "The man that owns me. But he whipped me and shet me up, and I wouldn't stay." "Where does he live?" "Don't know. Away off." "You'd better go back to him, hadn't you?" "No! I like these folks. Best folks I ever seen!" avers the earnest youth.
Had I anticipated being Mr. Fessenden's biographer, I might have drawn from him many details that would have been well worth remembering. But he had not the tendency of most men in advanced life, to be copious in personal reminiscences; nor did he often speak of the noted writers and politicians with whom the chances of earlier years had associated him.
But as Fessenden's couldn't tell him loud enough, Joe screamed the news. "Say?" asked the old man, raising a feeble hand to his ear, and stooping and smiling. "Put th' ole house on wheels, an' dror it!" shrieked Joe. "Yes, yes!" chuckled the old man. "I remember! Six hills in a row.
And now the deaf old patriarch in the corner-became suddenly aware that something exciting was going forward; but being unable clearly to comprehend what, and chancing to see Fessenden's coming in, he gave expression to his exuberant emotions by rising, and shaking the lad's passive hand, with the usual highly polite salutation. "Tell him we're all a-gunter have a ride," said Joe.
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