Although the subject of our memoir was early taken from the shelter of home and placed outside of the usual sphere of the protecting influence of family love, he did not seem to come into very intimate contact with the world at large; he was in the world, but not of it.
He had a theory, without doubt, that all men are liable to do wrong, both ignorantly and perversely; but he had not what might be called a realizing faith in the fact, if the idea did not debase and contaminate a noble term. That assured confidence in the existence of evil not actually known to exist, which is the dark counterpart of a good man’s faith in good not yet revealed, formed no part of Walter Aimwell’s character.
It was his own way to try to do what he thought was right; and, moreover, to endeavor, to the extent of his ability, to examine a purpose on all sides, and probe it to its central motive, before he acted; and in this manner to do everything possible to make sure that his thought concerning the morality of his act was a correct thought. He was not satisfied to have his act right according to his thought; but he strove to have his thought agree with the eternal thought of God upon the same subject.
He seemed to expect something of the same moral and mental qualities in others, until, in each individual case, it was plainly proved that there was little or nought of these traits in them. He appeared to know comparatively nothing of the blurred moral vision, the hasty, headlong conscience, the flabby, flimsy purpose, which are to be met on every side.
Had he undertaken only such purposes as can be accomplished mainly without the coöperation of others, it is likely he would have easily succeeded, even giving to success the worldly interpretation. But working in connection with, and therefore in some degree of dependence upon, others, he was continually balked; and the object that he could have carried with comparative ease, if he could have carried it alone, almost pulled him to the earth when some, assuming to be helpers, hung upon it as so much dead weight to be also earned along.
Well, it was carried, dead weight and all. The “Rambler” kept an excellent reputation for moral tone, for sprightliness, for intelligence, for literary finish.
Often had the aching soul cried out as a child to the father in whom he confides. Now, the overtasked body told, in a terrible way, of the anguish it had sympathized with and the vigils it had kept.
On the 13th of June, 1850, before rising in the morning, Walter Aimwell was suddenly seized by a fit of bleeding at the lungs. He was alone, but soon succeeded in calling the attention of the family. The usual remedies were applied, and a physician sent for. The hemorrhage was not of long duration, and at noon he was getting along very well.
The next day the doctor told him that he thought his lungs not yet diseased, though they were not in a condition to be tested; but he assured his patient that his life would be a short one unless he changed his habits; that he must not so closely confine himself to business, and that he needed more exercise and more sleep.
Six days after this, the invalid, though still very weak, went down-stairs for the first time, and prepared a little copy for his paper. Ten days afterwards, in company with the family, he rode to his office in Boston, and found things there “in fine shape,—Mr. G. having had the counting-room cleaned, painted, carpeted, etc.”
His monetary troubles continuing, in spite of continual improvement in the real condition of his property, and a deadly disease threatening him, it seemed expedient for him to accept an offer made by the proprietors of the “New England Farmer.” Accordingly, in November, 1850, a bargain was concluded, by which the “Rambler” was merged in the “New England Farmer,” and Walter Aimwell was employed as general editor at a fixed salary. This arrangement, while it diminished the amount of his property, in greater ratio diminished his perplexities, and took from his mind a great responsibility, giving him both more leisure and more freedom; and much of his time was now spent at his pretty home in Melrose. “Rather a hard finale,” he says, “for five years of incessant devotion to business; but I doubt not it is all for the best; and as long as I have my health and a chance to work, I will not complain.”
Having now some leisure that he can honestly take from his business, he begins to stimulate the young church in his neighborhood to greater activity. He cannot be idle and contented; and he has so much practical knowledge, and his abilities are so varied, that when industry is checked in one direction, he can readily turn it to some other channel.
Here is his record for Friday and Saturday of the first week in February, 1851:—
“Friday. A very cold day. Having decided to stereotype enough more pages of the ‘Library’ to make a good-sized volume, I had my type, cases, stand, etc., brought home this afternoon, and I intend to do the composition at my leisure, with assistance from A. [his wife], who intends to learn the art. I spent the principal part of the evening in writing.
“Saturday. Saw Mr. N. again to-day about an organ for our church.... Have written up considerable matter ahead this week, and have also kept an account of the time spent in various duties during the week, with the view of systematizing my work. I find that I have spent seventeen hours in preparing editorial, twelve hours in examining exchanges, seven and a half in preparing news, four and a half in reading proof, and one in preparing outside copy. Deducting the extra editorial written, this would make a total of thirty-six hours, or six hours per day required by my editorial duties.”
See how his youthful habits of industry and systematic employment of time cling to him through all trials and changes.
One day in June he was much affected to find in his reading, in a letter from a missionary in Iowa, the following allusion to “The Sinner’s Friend,” the second book he had published:—
“The title of one of the invaluable works of this kind is ‘The Sinner’s Friend.’ I wish we had a few more copies of it. It does show the evils of sin as no other human publication does, according to my opinion. It leads a man to feel that he is a sinner, and that there is no help but in the merits of Christ. In fine, it humbles the creature, and exalts the Creator.”
This passage, perhaps, had its influence in determining him to finish “Thoughts for the Thoughtless,” a book commenced several years before. On the first day of November he offered the manuscript to the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, and on the twentieth of the same month he received a line from Mr. Dean, conveying “the welcome intelligence” that it was accepted, and would be published before the first of the coming year. A few days after, Rev. Mr. Bullard was in the office of the “Farmer,” and told him that those who had read the manuscript of his new book “spoke highly of it.”
On the fifth of December, in the forenoon, he read the proof of the fourth sheet of his new book; and learning from the printer that twelve more pages were needed to make a full form, he came home at noon, and had them fully completed before he retired for the night. On Christmas-day he went down to Charlestown to carry his mother a copy of his new book.
In February, he was pleased to learn that his new book was attracting considerable attention in his native city, although its authorship was unknown. “Nothing,” he says, “gives me greater satisfaction than to learn that I am exerting a good influence through the medium of my little books.”
A few days after “Thoughts for the Thoughtless” was published, he commenced writing another book for the young, entitled “The Boy’s own Guide.” As soon as this was completed, it was accepted by the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, and by them shortly afterwards published; so that on Christmas of this year, as at the same time in the year preceding, he had the pleasure of carrying to his mother a new book of his own writing.
His place of residence in Melrose, although a pleasant house, prettily situated, was on such low ground that, on account of the delicacy of his lungs, it was deemed advisable for him to remove to a more elevated and drier locality. Accordingly, he purchased an estate in Winchester, upon a dry hill-side. He removed there in the spring of 1852, and immediately commenced making improvements upon both house and land, which he continued to do as long as he lived. It is pleasant now to read of his light labors and useful pleasures in his garden, alternating with the congenial business of the editor and author.
This little home in Winchester is one of the prettiest of the many witnesses that stand up in favor of a republican government and a New England community,—the modest, but tasteful and commodious cottage, the sunny slope whose terraces are gay with home-flowers and exotics, and fragrant with various fruits,—the thoughtful master of the premises, now in his study penning the “words of truth and soberness” that are yet to move far-away hearts toward heaven; now straying across the afternoon shadows and sunshine of his garden; now, in the twilight, seated at the organ in his drawing-room, intrusting unspeakable yearnings to its breezy harmonies,—and ever attended by one, gentle and devoted, who shared, as she could, his toil in the study, his pastime in the garden, his walk in the field or wood, or his worship (for it was indeed of the nature of worship) with the organ.
The sun shines there still; still the vines climb and the flowers bloom and the fruits ripen; but, alas! to the eyes that look out from its lonely chambers the best glory and brightness are gone.