From their admission into the Union, the States of Kentucky and
Tennessee have held a relation to the politics of the country somewhat
disproportioned to their population and wealth. As between the two
parties from the Jacksonian era to the War of Sections, each was
closely and hotly contested. If not the birthplace of what was called
“stump oratory,” in them that picturesque form of party warfare
flourished most and lasted longest. The “barbecue” was at once a rustic
feast and a forum of political debate. Especially notable was the
presidential campaign of 1840, the year of my birth, “Tippecanoe and
Tyler,” for the Whig slogan—“Old Hickory” and “the battle of New
Orleans,” the Democratic rallying cry—Jackson and Clay, the adored
party chieftains.
I grew up in the one State, and have passed the rest of my life in the
other, cherishing for both a deep affection, and, maybe,
over-estimating their hold upon the public interest. Excepting General
Jackson, who was a fighter and not a talker, their public men, with
Henry Clay and Felix Grundy in the lead, were “stump orators.” He who
could not relate and impersonate an anecdote to illustrate and clinch
his argument, nor “make the welkin ring” with the clarion tones of his
voice, was politically good for nothing. James K. Polk and James C.
Jones led the van of stump orators in Tennessee, Ben Hardin, John J.
Crittenden and John C. Breckenridge in Kentucky. Tradition still has
stories to tell of their exploits and prowess, their wit and eloquence,
even their commonplace sayings and doings. They were marked men who
never failed to captivate their audiences. The system of stump oratory
had many advantages as a public force and was both edifying and
educational. There were a few conspicuous writers for the press, such
as Ritchie, Greeley and Prentice. But the day of personal journalism
and newspaper influence came later.
I was born at Washington—February 16, 1840—“a bad year for Democrats,”
as my father used to say, adding: “I am afraid the boy will grow up to
be a Whig.”
In those primitive days there were only Whigs and Democrats. Men took
their politics, as their liquor, “straight”; and this father of mine
was an undoubting Democrat of the schools of Jefferson and Jackson. He
had succeeded James K. Polk in Congress when the future President was
elected governor of Tennessee; though when nominated he was little
beyond the age required to qualify as a member of the House.
To the end of his long life he appeared to me the embodiment of wisdom,
integrity and courage. And so he was—a man of tremendous force of
character, yet of surpassing sweetness of disposition; singularly
disdainful of office, and indeed of preferment of every sort; a profuse
maker and a prodigal spender of money; who, his needs and recognition
assured, cared nothing at all for what he regarded as the costly
glories of the little great men who rattled round in places often much
too big for them.
Immediately succeeding Mr. Polk, and such a youth in appearance, he
attracted instant attention. His father, my grandfather, allowed him a
larger income than was good for him—seeing that the per diem then paid
Congressmen was altogether insufficient—and during the earlier days of
his sojourn in the national capital he cut a wide swath; his principal
yokemate in the pleasures and dissipations of those times being
Franklin Pierce, at first a representative and then a senator from New
Hampshire. Fortunately for both of them, they were whisked out of
Washington by their families in 1843; my father into the diplomatic
service and Mr. Pierce to the seclusion of his New England home. They
kept in close touch, however, the one with the other, and ten years
later, in 1853, were back again upon the scene of their rather
conspicuous frivolity, Pierce as President of the United States, my
father, who had preceded him a year or two, as editor of the Washington
Union, the organ of the Administration.
When I was a boy the national capital was still rife with stories of
their escapades. One that I recall had it that on a certain occasion
returning from an excursion late at night my father missed his footing
and fell into the canal that then divided the city, and that Pierce,
after many fruitless efforts, unable to assist him to dry land,
exclaimed, “Well, Harvey, I can’t get you out, but I’ll get in with
you,” suiting the action to the word. And there they were found and
rescued by a party of passers, very well pleased with themselves.
My father’s absence in South America extended over two years. My
mother’s health, maybe her aversion to a long overseas journey, kept
her at home, and very soon he tired of life abroad without her and came
back. A committee of citizens went on a steamer down the river to meet
him, the wife and child along, of course, and the story was told that,
seated on the paternal knee curiously observant of every detail, the
brat suddenly exclaimed, “Ah ha, pa! Now you’ve got on your store
clothes. But when ma gets you up at Beech Grove you’ll have to lay off
your broadcloth and put on your jeans, like I do.”
Being an only child and often an invalid, I was a pet in the family and
many tales were told of my infantile precocity. On one occasion I had a
fight with a little colored boy of my own age and I need not say got
the worst of it. My grandfather, who came up betimes and separated us,
said, “he has blackened your eye and he shall black your boots,”
thereafter making me a deed to the lad. We grew up together in the
greatest amity and in due time I gave him his freedom, and again to
drop into the vernacular—“that was the only nigger I ever owned.” I
should add that in the “War of Sections” he fell in battle bravely
fighting for the freedom of his race.
It is truth to say that I cannot recall the time when I was not
passionately opposed to slavery, a crank on the subject of personal
liberty, if I am a crank about anything.