Between the idiot and the man of sense, the lunatic and the man of
genius, there are degrees—streaks—of idiocy and lunacy. How many
expectant politicians elected to Congress have entered Washington all
hope, eager to dare and do, to come away broken in health, fame and
fortune, happy to get back home—sometimes unable to get away, to linger
on in obscurity and poverty to a squalid and wretched old age.
I have lived long enough to have known many such: Senators who have
filled the galleries when they rose to speak; House heroes living while
they could on borrowed money, then hanging about the hotels begging for
money to buy drink.
There was a famous statesman and orator who came to this at last, of
whom the typical and characteristic story was told that the holder of a
claim against the Government, who dared not approach so great a man
with so much as the intimation of a bribe, undertook by argument to
interest him in the merit of the case.
The great man listened and replied: “I have noticed you scattering your
means round here pretty freely but you haven’t said ‘turkey’ to me.”
Surprised but glad and unabashed the claimant said “I was coming to
that,” produced a thousand-dollar bank roll and entered into an
understanding as to what was to be done next day, when the bill was due
on the calendar.
The great man took the money, repaired to a gambling house, had an
extraordinary run of luck, won heavily, and playing all night,
forgetting about his engagement, went to bed at daylight, not appearing
in the House at all. The bill was called, and there being nobody to
represent it, under the rule it went over and to the bottom of the
calendar, killed for that session at least.
The day after the claimant met his recreant attorney on the avenue face
to face and took him to task for his delinquency.
“Ah, yes,” said the great man, “you are the little rascal who tried to
bribe me the other day. Here is your dirty money. Take it and be off
with you. I was just seeing how far you would go.”
The comment made by those who best knew the great man was that if
instead of winning in the gambling house he had lost he would have been
up betimes at his place in the House, and doing his utmost to pass the
claimant’s bill and obtain a second fee.
Another memory of those days has to do with music. This was the coming
of Jenny Lind to America. It seemed an event. When she reached
Washington Mr. Barnum asked at the office of my father’s newspaper for
a smart lad to sell the programs of the concert—a new thing in artistic
showmanry. “I don’t want a paper carrier, or a newsboy,” said he, “but
a young gentleman, three or four young gentlemen.” I was sent to him.
We readily agreed upon the commission to be received—five cents on each
twenty-five cent program—the oldest of old men do not forget such
transactions. But, as an extra percentage for “organizing the force,” I
demanded a concert seat. Choice seats were going at a fabulous figure
and Barnum at first demurred. But I told him I was a musical student,
stood my ground, and, perhaps seeing something unusual in the eager
spirit of a little boy, he gave in and the bargain was struck.
[Illustration: Henry Clay—Painted at Ashland by Dodge for The Hon.
Andrew Ewing of Tennessee—The Original Hangs in Mr. Watterson’s Library
at “Mansfield”]
Two of my pals became my assistants. But my sales beat both of them
hollow. Before the concert began I had sold my programs and was in my
seat. I recall that my money profit was something over five dollars.
The bell-like tones of the Jenny Lind voice in “Home, Sweet Home,” and
“The Last Rose of Summer” still come back to me, but too long after for
me to make, or imagine, comparisons between it and the vocalism of
Grisi, Sontag and Parepa-Rosa.
Meeting Mr. Barnum at Madison Square Garden in New York, when he was
running one of his entertainments there, I told him the story, and we
had a hearty laugh, both of us very much pleased, he very much
surprised to find in me a former employee.
One of my earliest yearnings was for a home. I cannot recall the time
when I was not sick and tired of our migrations between Washington City
and the two grand-paternal homesteads in Tennessee. The travel counted
for much of my aversion to the nomadic life we led. The stage-coach is
happier in the contemplation than in the actuality. Even when the
railways arrived there were no sleeping cars, the time of transit three
or four days and nights. In the earlier journeys it had been ten or
twelve days.