THE DOCTOR'S PRIZE-RING ILLUSTRATION.
But at last the Doctor gave his spell-bound audience the benefit of
a prize-ring illustration, which ran on this wise: He said "that the
Southern champion had choice of ground, and the corner in the ring with
his back to the sun, which compelled the Northern pugilist to face
the fiery orb, which he regarded quite an advantage, as he thought
'Sam' could not long endure the hot blaze in his face. He described
'Sam' as a man of giant frame and strength, but awkward movements, and
questionable powers of endurance, a Goliath in appearance, fearful to
look upon or to hear, his voice like that of his Philistine prototype.
But he had not the pluck, the heroism, the chivalry of his antagonist,
and, indeed, could not have, for he was descended from the Roundheads
of England, who in all their generations had been a pestilent and
meddlesome race of fanatics wherever found, at home and abroad. Not
so with the Southern champion. 'Johnny' came down from the Olympic
heavens of the English Cavaliers, brave, chivalrous, with small but
compact frame, agile, confident, the very David of the Southern house
of Israel."
He said "the prize was the grandest ever battled for among the battling
nations. The fight in the first few rounds was a regular stand-up
give-and-take. The first knock-down and first blood were awarded to
'Johnny' at Bull Run, or Manassas. After that he feinted, dodged and
retreated, till at Richmond he got in a stunning blow on the giant,
and 'sent him to grass.' After being well sponged up in the Washington
corner, by Abraham and Mac, his seconds, the giant came to time again,
and a few more rounds were had, at Gettysburg, Fort Donaldson, Shiloh,
Perryville, New Orleans and Vicksburg, where the little man of the
South was repeatedly knocked down and roughly handled in chancery.
'Johnny' tried once to suddenly flank 'Sam' and get first to the
Washington corner, which well-nigh proved fatal to his resources of
strength and endurance.
"After this the programme of the little David was changed to dodging,
retreating, falling, _a la_ Tom Sayers; but he was to put in a telling
blow when he could, tapping the wind, closing the sight, and drawing
blood as much as possible, and when he couldn't, to depend mainly on
avoiding blows, but keep on provoking them, thus leaving 'Sam' to
exhaust himself in 'beating the air,' as heavy blows given in the air
are more hurtful and exhausting to the striker than when delivered upon
an object. David was to make feints and dodge, which would set the
Northern Philistine in a rage after him around the ring, the one giving
prodigious blows in the air, the other keeping out of harm's way."
This sort of negative policy the learned, pious and patriotic Doctor
claimed would "give victory to the Southern champion, and he would bear
the giant's head in triumph to the camp of Israel."
Save the want of rhetorical dignity in the illustration, it was all
well enough, only so it had been true to the facts, but unfortunately
subsequent events went to show that the little wiry man of the South
became exhausted by the dodging and retreating policy first, and went
under at last, and the bloody sponge was thrown up in token of his
defeat.
Some time before this appearance of the divine orator a card appeared
in the Houston press, over the Doctor's name, threatening dire
vengeance upon his slanderers, according to the _code duello_. In his
speech he referred to the card, and then giving a Randolphian angle and
shake to his dexter index finger said, with bitter venom, "that card
is to _stand_ till after the war, when there will be time to settle
with my enemies." The moral disgust we felt at this vile utterance was
simply unutterable.
The next day a certain widow lady, owner of a large plantation and a
hundred negroes, was in the store; she was tall and straight, with
sharp angular features, a dark Southern complexion, black hair and
eyes in keeping, a masculine business turn of mind, and occupied
perpendicular space in air, about five feet nine inches. Taken
undivided her presence was rather commanding. Approaching us at the
counter, with quizzing eye, and an air of triumph, she said:
"Well, Sir, how did you like the speech yesterday?"
Generally we had to think twice before speaking once, frequently three
times, and then again keep up a heavy thinking, and not speak at all.
As near as we can calculate we had about three thinks: First, who was
the Doctor? second, who was the lady addressing us? and third, who were
we? Then we replied:
"Madam, I have no fault to find with the speech as a Confederate
speech; it was all well enough in that regard. As a piece of oratory
I admired many portions of it; as the effort of a politician on the
stump, or of a jury advocate, I thought very well of it, but I did not
approve the animus of the speaker when judged from the standpoint of a
Christian divine."
"Why, Sir, what do you mean?" said the lady.
"I mean, Madam, that the spirit of dueling is not the spirit of Christ."
"The Doctor's remarks about the dueling card pleased me more than
anything else," rejoined the lady.
"That part of the Doctor's remarks I disapproved most," we rejoined.
"Well," she continued, "I am a professing Christian, and a member of
the Baptist Church. I have several sons, and have always taught them
to defend their characters according to the _code of honor_, and, Sir,
if your ideas are correct then I confess I know very little about
Christianity."
"Very likely, Madam, and I think none of us know much about the
true spirit of it, the way we are going on. But, my dear lady, what
are the Doctor's grievances when compared with those of Christ and
his Apostles? and yet what would you think of the idea that they
carried deadly weapons to defend their characters and persons with?
Preposterous, do you say? 'The servant is not above his Lord.' If the
Master might not do so how much less the servant. And furthermore, how
does the Doctor's case stand in the constellated light of the Master's
declaration, 'My kingdom is not of this world, else my servants would
fight.'"
"Well," said the lady again, in a half desponding tone, "if that's the
true doctrine I don't know what we should do if we should undertake to
carry it out in this world. But then I can't believe it, and that's all
there is about it with me, I can't believe it."
"There's the trouble, Madam, we don't really and practically believe
what we profess except when the truth conserves our self-interest,
or our convenience. When otherwise we can not trust God for results,
but take matters out of his hands and control them ourselves, and for
ourselves. And behold what dirty, wicked work we make of it sometimes."
Just then the wealthy planteress left, as though with a new idea in her
head and heart.
But to quote the Doctor a little more. He said: "After the war I intend
giving myself to the legal profession, and shall not return to the
pulpit. I am keeping a _spotted book_. All persons who refuse to go
into the army, or evade the conscript law by any dodge or subterfuge
whatever, their names shall go down in the spotted book, to receive
my special attention after the war, personally, professionally, and
politically, and I swear it here and now; they shall be hunted in
town, in the city, through the wilderness, out of the country, and
peradventure a worse fate may befall them!"
He said: "If Southern independence can not be achieved I would prefer
to go under the English or French flag. I could bear being whipped
by the Mexicans, by England, by France, or by any other people under
the sun--even by the Hottentots--but to be subjugated by a meddlesome
pusillanimous race that says _ceow_ for cow, is intolerable to the last
degree."
Two years after this speech, when the war was over, we met the Doctor
at the dinner-table of the City Hotel in New Orleans, most slouchfully
dressed, and with an equally slouchful look; at least so imagination
played through our optics. He was on a pilgrimage to Washington to
swallow the hated "iron-clad," and obtain his pardon. We thought
appearances indicated that he needed a pardon bad, both from Washington
and from a higher source. No man in Texas had done more to promote
secession. He was a violent denunciator of all who did not succumb to
his way of thinking, and tacitly, at least, gave countenance to the mob
spirit against them.
We say, is it strange that laymen should hold human life of little
value when their spiritual leaders do the same. Here was a man who bore
the tri-colored character of divine, educator and military captain,
merging the whole in the low, despicable and intensely wicked character
of duelist.
It is only two years since the writer was back in Texas a few months,
and while there a political meeting was held at the city of H., one
night. At that meeting Judge ---- was one of the speakers, and in his
speech made some caustic allusions to "scallawags" which the Doctor
construed as intended by the speaker for him, whereupon the next day
he addressed a note to the Judge, by the hand of his friend, demanding
an explanation, which was refused because of the arrogant tone of the
language in which the demand was made. A second note was dispatched,
repeating the demand, and closing in case the Judge again declined
explanation, with a challenge to fight, conceding to him choice of
weapons and place. To this he declined as before, and for similar
reasons; also, declined acceptance of the challenge on the grounds
that, first, he had conscientious scruples, and second, it was a
violation of the laws of the land, but that if attacked he should
defend himself in accordance with the law and right of self-defense.
Now, at this stage of the affair the Doctor was reduced to the
alternatives of yielding the point of honor or shooting on sight. He
chose the latter. So, with divers and sundry weapons of death--a rifle,
a double-barreled shot-gun, a six-shooter, and a pair of derringers,
with, perhaps, a bowie-knife, meaning by the medley of arms to observe
the nice point of using the same weapon the Judge might have when
they met--he took position on Main Street, where his game had to pass
in going from his house to his office, and waited there two or three
hours, but the Judge did not appear. By this time a large crowd of the
Doctor's friends and neutral spectators had gathered round, and the
enraged divine--or colonel, as he was then called--stepped upon a dry
goods box and harangued the excited crowd, closing up with the historic
and threadbare denunciation of the Judge as "a scoundrel, a liar and a
coward," and he would shoot him when and wherever he saw him. He then
retired to private quarters, to be flattered by a few friends for his
brave and chivalrous conduct. Of course the Judge was a scoundrel a
liar and a coward, because the Colonel said so, in the God-defying
spirit of hate and murder. He could not be a good man, an honest man,
or a brave or true man, after this; no, the Colonel had said it before
men and angels, and laughing devils, and the universe was bound to
credit his _ipse dixit_. The parties, however, were soon reconciled by
the good and pacific offices of the Masonic fraternity, of which they
proved to be members. The Judge said he did not intend his remarks on
scalawags for the Colonel, and did not know the Colonel was a Mason.
And the Colonel said he did not know the Judge was a Mason, or he
might have acted differently; that the Judge was a gentleman, and he
certainly felt bound to make the _amende honorable_. How changed! The
furious madman would have killed him but a few hours ago, but suddenly
he becomes as "gentle as a sucking dove." O, poor deluded devotee of
the dueling code, thou wouldst have imbrued thy hands in the blood of
thy fellow, and on thine own mistaken suspicion! Well, God pity thee
till thou learnest better, and ceasest thy barbarity of soul!