There flourished in the village life of Washington two old blokes—no
other word can properly describe them—Jack Dade, who signed himself
“the Honorable John W. Dade, of Virginia;” and Beau Hickman, who hailed
from nowhere and acquired the pseudonym through sheer impudence. In one
way and another they lived by their wits, the one all dignity, the
other all cheek. Hickman fell very early in his career of sponge and
beggar, but Dade lived long and died in office—indeed, toward the close
an office was actually created for him.
Dade had been a schoolmate of John Tyler—so intimate they were that at
college they were called “the two Jacks”—and when the death of Harrison
made Tyler President, the “off Jack,” as he dubbed himself, went up to
the White House and said: “Jack Tyler, you’ve had luck and I haven’t.
You must do something for me and do it quick. I’m hard up and I want an
office.”
“You old reprobate,” said Tyler, “what office on earth do you think you
are fit to fill?”
“Well,” said Dade, “I have heard them talking round here of a place
they call a sine-cu-ree—big pay and no work—and if there is one of them
left and lying about loose I think I could fill it to a T.”
“All right,” said the President good naturedly, “I’ll see what can be
done. Come up to-morrow.”
The next day “Col. John W. Dade, of Virginia,” was appointed keeper of
the Federal prison of the District of Columbia. He assumed his post
with _empressement_, called the prisoners before him and made them an
address.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said he; “I have been chosen by my friend, the
President of the United States, as superintendent of this eleemosynary
institution. It is my intention to treat you all as a Virginia
gentleman should treat a body of American ladies and gentlemen gathered
here from all parts of our beloved Union, and I shall expect the same
consideration in return. Otherwise I will turn you all out upon the
cold mercies of a heartless world and you will have to work for your
living.”
There came to Congress from Alabama a roistering blade by the name of
McConnell. He was something of a wit. During his brief sojourn in the
national capital he made a noisy record for himself as an all-round,
all-night man about town, a dare-devil and a spendthrift. His first
encounter with Col. John W. Dade, of Virginia, used to be one of the
standard local jokes. Colonel Dade was seated in the barroom of Brown’s
Hotel early one morning, waiting for someone to come in and invite him
to drink.
Presently McConnell arrived. It was his custom when he entered a saloon
to ask the entire roomful, no matter how many, “to come up and licker,”
and, of course, he invited the solitary stranger.
When the glasses were filled Dade pompously said: “With whom have I the
honor of drinking?”
“My name,” answered McConnell, “is Felix Grundy McConnell, begad! I am
a member of Congress from Alabama. My mother is a justice of the peace,
my aunt keeps a livery stable, and my grandmother commanded a company
in the Revolution and fit the British, gol darn their souls!”
Dade pushed his glass aside.
“Sir,” said he, “I am a man of high aspirations and peregrinations and
can have nothing to do with such low-down scopangers as yourself. Good
morning, sir!”
It may be presumed that both spoke in jest, because they became
inseparable companions and the best of friends.
McConnell had a tragic ending. In James K. Polk’s diary I find two
entries under the dates, respectively, of September 8 and September 10,
1846. The first of these reads as follows: “Hon. Felix G. McConnell, a
representative in Congress from Alabama called. He looked very badly
and as though he had just recovered from a fit of intoxication. He was
sober, but was pale, his countenance haggard and his system nervous. He
applied to me to borrow one hundred dollars and said he would return it
to me in ten days.
“Though I had no idea that he would do so I had a sympathy for him even
in his dissipation. I had known him in his youth and had not the moral
courage to refuse. I gave him the one hundred dollars in gold and took
his note. His hand was so tremulous that he could scarcely write his
name to the note legibly. I think it probable that he will never pay
me. He informed me he was detained at Washington attending to some
business in the Indian Office. I supposed he had returned home at the
adjournment of Congress until he called to-day. I doubt whether he has
any business in Washington, but fear he has been detained by
dissipation.”
The second of Mr. Polk’s entries is a corollary of the first and reads:
“About dark this evening I learned from Mr. Voorhies, who is acting as
my private secretary during the absence of J. Knox Walker, that Hon.
Felix G. McConnell, a representative in Congress from the state of
Alabama, had committed suicide this afternoon at the St. Charles Hotel,
where he boarded. On Tuesday last Mr. McConnell called on me and I
loaned him one hundred dollars. [See this diary of that day.] I learn
that but a short time before the horrid deed was committed he was in
the barroom of the St. Charles Hotel handling gold pieces and stating
that he had received them from me, and that he loaned thirty-five
dollars of them to the barkeeper, that shortly afterward he had
attempted to write something, but what I have not learned, but he had
not written much when he said he would go to his room.
“In the course of the morning I learn he went into the city and paid a
hackman a small amount which he owed him. He had locked his room door,
and when found he was stretched out on his back with his hands
extended, weltering in his blood. He had three wounds in the abdomen
and his throat was cut. A hawkbill knife was found near him. A jury of
inquest was held and found a verdict that he had destroyed himself. It
was a melancholy instance of the effects of intemperance. Mr. McConnell
when a youth resided at Fayetteville in my congressional district.
Shortly after he grew up to manhood he was at my instance appointed
postmaster of that town. He was a true Democrat and a sincere friend of
mine.
“His family in Tennessee are highly respectable and quite numerous. The
information as to the manner and particulars of his death I learned
from Mr. Voorhies, who reported it to me as he had heard it in the
streets. Mr. McConnell removed from Tennessee to Alabama some years
ago, and I learn he has left a wife and three or four children.”
Poor Felix Grundy McConnell! At a school in Tennessee he was a roommate
of my father, who related that one night Felix awakened with a scream
from a bad dream he had, the dream being that he had cut his own
throat.
“Old Jack Dade,” as he was always called, lived on, from hand to mouth,
I dare say—for he lost his job as keeper of the district prison—yet
never wholly out-at-heel, scrupulously neat in his person no matter how
seedy the attire. On the completion of the new wings of the Capitol and
the removal of the House to its more commodious quarters he was made
custodian of the old Hall of Representatives, a post he held until he
died.