"Fortune sometimes brings in boats that are not steered."
At the auspicious moment, from the rear of the crowd Tom Hullinger
called out, "Doctor Rogers, Doctor Rogers!" The hour had struck.
Without waiting further call, the Doctor promptly took the stand
and waiving the formality of an introduction, began:
"I am deeply gratified to have this opportunity to explain to my
fellow-citizens who have known me from my early manhood my vote
upon the Lake Front Bill," _and a two-hour vindication immediately
followed._ No allusion being made to the object of the meeting,
or the change of school-books, of which the Doctor knew as little and
cared as little as he did of the thirteenth century controversy
between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, with the waning hours the
excitement subsided. The change of readers became a dead issue;
the era of good feeling was restored; and to this blessed hour,
except in a spirit of mirth, _the school-book question has never
been mentioned._
XX
A LAWYER OF THE OLD SCHOOL
JUDGE ARRINGTON, THE IDEAL LAWYER--EULOGIZED BY OTHER JUDGES--BOOKS
HIS EARLY COMPANIONS--BECOMES SUCCESSIVELY A METHODIST PREACHER,
A LAWYER, AND A JUDGE--WRITES SOME SKETCHES OF LIFE IN THE SOUTHWEST
--HIS APOSTROPHE TO WATER RECITED BY GOUGH.
In the old Supreme Court-room at Ottawa, almost a half-century ago,
I saw and heard Judge Alfred A. Arrington for the first time. For
two hours I listened with the deepest attention to his masterly
argument in a cause then exciting much interest because of the
large amount involved. The dry question of law under discussion, "as
if touched by the enchanter's wand," was at once invested with
an interest far beyond its wont. As I listened to the argument of
Judge Arrington, and witnessed the manner of its delivery, he
appeared in the most comprehensive sense the ideal lawyer. He
seemed, indeed, as he probably was, the sole survivor of the school
of which Wirt and Pinckney were three generations ago the
typical representatives. His dignified bearing, old-time apparel,
and lofty courtesy toward the Court and opposing counsel, all
strengthened this impression. He had a highly attractive appearance,
and as was said by a contemporary, "to crown all, a massive
Websterian forehead, needing no seal to give the world assurance of
a man."
"Sage he stood,
With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear
The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look
Drew audience and attention still as night
Or summer's noontide air."
Since then I have listened to advocates of national renown in
our great court and in the Senate sitting as a High Court of
Impeachment, but at no time or place have I heard an abler, more
scholarly, or more eloquent argument than that of Judge Arrington in
the old court-room at Ottawa, Illinois, on that day long gone by.
The most eminent members of the Chicago bar were the eulogists
of Judge Arrington when he passed to his grave, near the close
of the great Civil War. Judge Wilson, in presenting resolutions
in honor of the deceased, voiced the sentiments of his associates when
he said:
"For more than thirty years at the bar and upon the bench, I
have been associated with the legal profession; and I may say
without offence that of the many able men I have known I regard
Judge Arrington, take him all in all, as the ablest."
The venerable Judge Drummond said:
"I have rarely heard a man whose efforts so constantly riveted the
attention from the beginning to the close of his discourse. For
while he trod with firm and steady steps the path of logic, his
vivid imagination was constantly scattering on each side flowers
of fragrant beauty, to the wonder and delight of all who heard him.
He was a great lawyer in the highest and largest sense of the term
--great in the extent and thoroughness of his legal learning, in
the vigor and acuteness of his reasoning, and in the power of
his eloquence."
The Hon. Melville W. Fuller, the present Chief Justice of the United
States, said:
"When he arose to discuss a question, he exhibited a perfect
knowledge of every phase in which it could be presented; and men
never grew weary (especially if the argument involved Constitutional
construction, in which department he stood _primus inter illustres_)
of admiring the amplitude of his legal attainments, the accuracy
of his learning, the compactness of his logic, and the majestic
flow of his eloquence, and more than all, that firmness and breadth
of mind which lifted him above the ordinary contest of the forum.
"It is a source of the deepest consolation that he found peace
at the last; that the grand spirit, before it took its everlasting
flight, reposed in confidence on the Book of Books; that its
departure was illumined by that precious light which ever
renders radiant the brief darkness 'twixt mortal twilight and
immortal dawn."
And yet, alas, his name has now almost passed from the memories of
men; the veil of time has settled over him; no distinct image is
recalled by the mention of his name. How suggestive this, of
the ephemeral fame of even a great lawyer:
"Swift as shadow, short as any dream
Brief as the lightning in the collied night."
Words long since uttered by an eminent jurist have not lost
their significance:
"There is, perhaps, no reputation that can be achieved amongst men
that is so transitory, so evanescent, as that of a great advocate.
The very wand that enchants us is magical. Its effects can be
felt; it influences our actions; it controls and possesses us; but
to define it, or tell what it is, or how it produces these effects,
is as far beyond our power as to imprison the sunbeam. In the
presence of such majestic power we can only stand awed and silent."
There was much of romance, and somewhat of mystery, that gathered about
the life of Judge Arrington. Born of humble parentage in the pine
forests of North Carolina, with no advantages other than those
common in the remoter parts of our country a century ago, from the
beginning he apparently dwelt apart from the conditions surrounding
him. At an early age he removed with his father's family to the
then wilds of the Southwest.
There, upon the very border line of civilization, his associates
for a time were the advance guard, the adventurers and soldiers of
fortune that in a large measure constituted the civilization of
the southwestern frontier during the early years of the last century.
With his early environment, his subsequent career seems a marvel.
It can only be explained upon the supposition that through with
them, he was not of them.
"His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart."
His companions were his books. Denied the advantages of early
scholastic training, he was, from the beginning, an omnivorous
reader. He cared little for the allurements and excitement of
society. At the age of seventeen, he joined the Methodist Episcopal
Church, and was soon after licensed to preach. For four years
he rode the circuit, enduring all the discomforts and dangers then
and there incident to his calling. His field may be called the
_Ultima Thule,_ bordering upon the Rio Grande and inhabited by
Indians. Untutored audiences were stirred to the depths by his
fervid appeals. Church buildings were yet in the future; the
congregations assembled in God's first temples, and listened
with rapt attention to the fiery eloquence of the delicate, youthful
messenger, whose soul seemed on fire.
A gentleman who had heard Arrington writes:
"He was then young, delicate, as brilliant as a comet, and almost as
erratic. Without research or mental discipline, he could electrify
an audience beyond all living men, and arouse in the minds of those
who heard him the wildest enthusiasm."
For some cause, possibly never to be explained, he suddenly abandoned
the ministry, began the study of the law, and when a little past
the age of twenty-one, was admitted to the bar. After some years of
successful practice in the rude frontier courts of Arkansas, he
removed to Texas, where he was soon appointed a judge, and assigned
to the Rio Grande circuit. In addition to his judicial labors, he
now wrote and published some graphic and interesting sketches of
border life, vivid pictures of conditions then existing in the
Southwest among a people the like of which we shall not see agin,
a people upon whom the restraints and amenities of civilized life sat
but lightly, who were in large degree a law unto themselves, and
with whom revenge was virtue.
One of his publications, "Paul Denton," still has a place in many of
our libraries. It is, in part, a narrative of the thrilling
experiences of an early Methodist circuit-rider--presumably himself
--upon the southwest border. In this will be found his marvellous
apostrophe to water, which, as was said by Judge Dent, "was so
familiar to the lecture-going public of the last generation owing to
its frequent declamation from the rostrum by the temperance lecturer,
Gough."
The hero of the book, Paul Denton, had been announced to preach at
a famous Spring, where "plenty of good liquor" was promised to all
who would attend. During the sermon, a desperado demanded:
"Mr. Denton, where is the liquor you promised?"
"There!" answered the preacher in tones of thunder, and pointing
his motionless finger at a spring gushing up in two strong columns
from the bosom of the earth with a sound like a shout of joy.
"There," he repeated, "there is the liquor which God the Eternal
brews for all his children. Not in the simmering still over the
smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with stench of
sickening odors and corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare
the precious essence of life--pure cold water; but in the green
glade and grassy dell, where the red-deer wanders and the child
loves to play, there God brews it; and down, low down, in the
deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur, and the rills sigh, and
high upon the mountain-tops where the naked granite glitters
like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the
thunder-storms crash; and far out on the wide, wild sea, where the
hurricane howls music and the big waves roll the chorus, sweeping the
march of God--there he brews it, the beverage of life, health-giving
water.
"And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty--gleaming in
the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice gem
till the trees all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden
veil over the sun or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting
in the glacier; folding its bright snow-curtain softly about the
wintry world; and weaving the many-colored bow whose warp is the
rain-drops of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all
checkered over with the mystic hand of refraction.
"Still it is beautiful, that blessed life-water! No poisonous
bubbles are on its brink; its foam brings not murder and madness;
no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans
weep not burning tears into its depths; no drunkard's shrieking
ghost from the grave curses it in the world of eternal despair.
Beautiful, pure, blessed, and glorious. Speak out, my friends,
would you exchange it for the demon's drink, alcohol?"
In Calvary Cemetery, Chicago, rests all that is mortal of Judge
Arrington.
"Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius, for
he was your kinsman!
Weed clean his grave, ye men of goodness, for
he was your brother!"
XXI
HIGH DEBATE IN THE MOUNTAINS
COLONEL WOOLFORD, A HERO UNDER GENERAL ZACHARY TAYLOR--HIS MANNER OF
FIGHTING--HIS DEFENCE OF A YOUTH CHARGED WITH MURDER--HE MAKES A
SPEECH THAT INFURIATES GENERAL FRY.
One of the men not easily forgotten was the Hon. Frank Woolford,
a member of Congress from the mountains of Kentucky nearly a quarter
of a century ago. He was without reservation a typical mountaineer.
He practised law in the local courts, and was prominent in the
politics of his State. His style of oratory bore little resemblance
to that of the British House of Lords. He had been a soldier in two
wars, and his dauntless courage and inexhaustible good humor made him
the idol of his comrades. He had been of the heroic band of
"Old Rough and Ready" that repelled the charge of twenty thousand lancers
under Santa Ana at Buena Vista. He was as brave as Marshal Ney,
and it was said of him that the battle-field was his home as the
upper air was that of the eagle.
He promptly espoused the cause of the Union at the outbreak of the
Civil War and was chosen Colonel of a mounted regiment gathered
from his own and adjacent counties. He knew how to fight, but
of the science of war as taught in the schools he was as ignorant as
the grave. It was said that his entire tactics were embraced in
two commands: "Huddle and fight," and "Scatter." When the
first was heard his men "huddled and fit"; and when retreat was the
only possible salvation, the command to "scatter" was obeyed
with equal alacrity. Each man was now for himself, and "devil take
the hindmost" for a time, but the sound of Woolford's bugle
never failed to secure prompt falling into line at the auspicious moment.
"Woolford's cavalry" was the synonym for daring, even at the
time when the recital of the deeds of brave men filled the world's
great ear.
Woolford and his troopers were in the thickest of the fight at Mill
Spring, where Zollicoffer fell; later, they hung upon the flanks
of Bragg on his retreat southward from the bloody field of Perryville.
More than once during those troublous times our hero was a "foeman
worthy the steel" of John Morgan, Forrest, and the gallant Joe
Wheeler of world renown.
At the close of the war, Colonel Woolford returned to his mountain
home and was in due time elected a Representative in Congress.
Years later, with life well rounded out, he met the only foe to
whom he ever surrendered, and lamented by all, passed to the beyond.
Some faint idea of Colonel Woolford's style of eloquence at the
bar may possibly be gathered from the following. He was retained to
defend a half-grown, illiterate youth under indictment for murder.
The crime was committed near "Jimtown," but by a change of venue
the trial took place at Danville, in the neighboring county of
Boyle. Danville, it must be remembered, was the Athens of Kentucky.
It was the seat of Centre College, of a Presbyterian theological
Seminary, and of more than one of the public institutions of the
State. It was the home of men of prominence and wealth, and for
three generations had been renowned for the high character,
attainments, and culture of its people.
In his speech to the jury in behalf of his unfortunate client, the
Colonel insisted that the poor boy at the bar of justice, born and
reared in the mountains, without any of the advantages of churches
and schools, was not to be held in the same degree responsible
as if his lot had been cast in Danville. In his argument he said:
"Here you have your schools, your Centre College, your Theological
Seminary, your churches. Every third man you meet on the streets is
a minister of the Gospel, and the others are all teachers in the
Sunday school. Here you have your great preachers, Young,
Green, Humphreys, Yerkes, Robertson, Breckenridge--in fact,
Presbyterianism to your hearts' content in the very air. But this
poor boy has known nothing of these things. O gentlemen, what
might not this poor boy have been, and what might not poor Jimtown
have been, with all these advantages?"
Throwing up his arms, in tragic tones he exclaimed:
"Oh, Jimtown! Jimtown! Had the mighty things that have been done
in Danville been done in thee, thou wouldst long since have repented
in sackcloth and ashes!"
The incident which I shall now relate was told me by my kinsman,
General S. S. Fry of Danville. He and Colonel Woolford were friends
from boyhood, and comrades in the Mexican and Civil wars. Their
party affiliations, however, were different, General Fry being a
Republican, and Colonel Woolford a Democrat.
During the reconstruction period, soon after the close of the Civil
war, a barbecue was given to the Colonel, then a candidate for
Congress, in one of the mountain counties of his district. As a
matter of course, the Colonel was to be the orator of the occasion.
In order, if possible, to counteract the evil effect of his speech,
the Republican State Committee requested General Fry to attend the
barbecue, and engage Colonel Woolford in public debate. In compliance
with this request, General Fry, after a horseback ride of many
hours, put in an appearance at the appointed time and place.
The attendance was general; the people of the entire county, of
both sexes and of all ages and conditions, were there. The barbecue
was well under way when General Fry arrived. A table of rough
boards and of sufficient length had been constructed, and was
literally covered with savory shote and mutton just from the pit
where barbecued. These viands were abundantly supplemented with
fried chicken, salt-rising bread, beaten biscuit, "corn dodgers," and
cucumber pickles. To this add several representatives of the highly
respectable pie family, and possibly an occasional pound cake, and
the typical barbecue is before you.
General Fry, upon his arrival, was warmly greeted by Colonel
Woolford, whose hearty invitation _to partake_ was not limited
to the viands mentioned. The feast being at length happily concluded,
and the crowd assembled around the speaker's stand, Colonel Woolford
said to his old-time comrade; "Now, General Fry, you just go ahead
and speak just as long as you want to. The boys have all heard me
time and again, and I have nothing new to tell them, but they will
be glad to hear you. When you get through, of course, if there is
a little time left, I may say 'howdy' to the boys, and talk a little
while, but you just go ahead."
After formal introduction by the Colonel, General Fry did "go
ahead," and discuss the financial question, the tariff, reconstruction,
and dwelt earnestly and at length upon the magnanimity of the
Republican party toward the men lately in rebellion against the
Government. Since the surrender at Appomattox, no life had been
taken, no one punished, no man ever put on his trial. It was
without a parallel in history, and as a matter of simple gratitude,
the Republican party was entitled to the support of the entire
Southern people for such magnanimity.
The speech at length concluded, Colonel Woolford arose and without
even the formality of saying "howdy," or honoring finance or tariff
with the briefest mention, proceeded:
"General Fry has dwelt long and loud upon the magnanimity of the
Republican party. He has told you that when the war was over
and the last rebel had laid down his arms, a hand-shaking took
place all around, everybody was forgiven, and the peace of heaven came
down like a dove upon the whole Southern people. Yes--a hell of
a magnanimity it was! How did they show the magnanimity that
General Fry talks so much about? You all remember Stonewall Jackson,
one of the grandest men God ever made. This same magnanimous
Republican party took him prisoner, tried him by a drumhead
court-martial, and shot him down like a mad dog after he had
surrendered up his sword."
At which Colonel Fry interposed:
"Why, Colonel Woolford, you ought not to make such a statement
as that. Stonewall Jackson was accidentally shot by one of his
own men in battle, and his memory is honored by all the people
North and South."
To this the Colonel replied:
"Don't try to deceive these people. We don't put on style and wear
store clothes like you big folks down about Danville, but we live in
our plain way, wear our home-spun and eat our hog and hominy; but if
there is anything on earth that these people do love, it is the
_truth._ What did this same magnanimous Republican party that
General Fry had told you so much about do with General Robert E.
Lee? I knew General Lee, I served with him in Mexico, and although
we fought on different sides in the last war, I always respected
him as a brave soldier. Well, after he had surrendered at Appomattox,
and his men had all laid down their arms, what did this same
magnanimous party that General Fry talked so much about do with
General Lee? Why, they tried him by a drumhead court-martial _and
shot and quartered him right on the spot!"_
Again interrupting, General Fry indignantly exclaimed:
"It is an outrage, Colonel Woolford, to attempt to deceive these
people by such statements. General Lee was never even imprisoned,
and is still alive, the president of a college in Virginia, and
highly esteemed by everybody."
The Colonel answered:
"Now, General Fry, you have been treated like a gentleman ever
since you came to these mountains; we gave you the best we had
to eat, gave you the last drop out of the bottle, and listened
quietly to you just as long as you wanted to speak. We don't wear
Sunday clothes, General Fry, like you do down in Danville, but just
live in our plain way in our log cabins, and eat our hoe-cake, and
say our prayers, but if there is anything on God's earth that we
do love, it is the _truth._ It is wrong for you, General Fry,
to try and fool these people. Yes, this same magnanimous party
that General Fry has been telling you about, what did they do with
poor old Jeff Davis after he was captured? Now, I never was fond of
old Jeff myself, and I fought four years against him in the last
war. But I was on the same side with him in Mexico, I saw him head
the charge of the Mississippi rifles, and drive back the Mexican
lancers after McKee and Clay and Hardin had been killed at Buena
Vista, and I know he was no coward. Well, after he was in prison and
as helpless as a child, what did they do with him? Why, they just
took him out, and without even giving him a drumhead trial, tied
him up and _burned him to ashes at a stake!"_
Fry sprang to his feet, exclaiming:
"Great God! Jeff Davis is still alive, at his home in Mississippi,
and has never even been tried; it is damnable to make such statements
to these people, Colonel Woolford!"
The Colonel thereupon, with a deeply injured air, said:
"General Fry, you and I have been friends a life-time. We
hooked watermelons, hunted coons, and attended all the frolics
together when we were boys. We slept under the same blanket,
belonged to the same mess, and fought side by side at Palo Alto
and Cerro Gordo; we shed our blood on the same battlefields when
fighting to save this glorious Union. I have loved you, General
Fry, like a brother, but this is too much, it is putting friendship
to a turrible test; it is a little more than flesh and blood can
stand."
Pausing for a moment, he apparently recovered himself from the deep
emotion he had just shown, then quietly resuming, he said, "What
I have said about the way they treated old Jeff is true, and here is
my witness." He called out, "Bill, tell the General what you
saw them do with old Jeff."
Bill, a tall, lank, one-gallowsed mountaineer, leaning against a
sapling near by, promptly deposed that he was present at the time,
saw old Jeff led out, tied to a stake and finally disappear in a
puff of smoke. At this, General Fry, without the formality of a
farewell, immediately shook the mountain dust from his feet, mounted
his horse, and, looking neither to the right nor to the left,
retraced his steps to Danville, and without delay informed the
State Committee that if they wanted _any further joint debates with
old Frank Woolford,_ they would have to send some one else.
Years after, seated at my desk in the Postoffice Department in
Washington, after I had appointed a few cross-road postmasters for
Congressman Woolford, I ventured to inquire of him whether he
had ever had a joint debate with General Fry. With a suppressed
chuckle, and a quaint gleam of his remaining eye, he significantly
replied, _"It won't do, Colonel, to believe everything you hear!"_
XXII
THE SAGE OF THE BAR
WITTY SAYINGS OF MR. EVARTS--HE DEFENDS PRESIDENT JOHNSON BEFORE
THE COURT OF IMPEACHMENT--DIFFERENT OPINIONS AS TO THE REAL CHARACTER
OF THAT TRIBUNAL--MR. BOUTWELL'S ATTEMPT TO INDICATE THE PUNISHMENT
MERITED BY THE PRESIDENT--MR. EVARTS'S REPLY--EXCHANGE OF COURTESIES
BY MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE.
The late William M. Evarts, at one time the head of the American
bar, said many things in his lighter moments worthy of remembrance.
Upon his retirement from the bar to accept the position of Secretary
of State, a farewell dinner was given him by prominent lawyers
of New York. The appointments, viands, etc., it is needless to
observe were all after the most approved style. Somewhat out of
wont, however, a magnificent goose with all its appurtenances
and suitably dished was placed immediately in front of the guest
of honor.
The grosser part of the feast concluded, the toast was proposed:
"The Sage of the Bar." Slowly arising, Mr. Evarts surveyed for
a moment the dish before him, and began: "What a wonderful
transition! An hour ago you beheld a goose stuffed with sage; _you
now behold a sage stuffed with goose!"_
It is not entirely forgotten that during the administration of
which Mr. Evarts was a part, total abstinence was faithfully enforced
in the great dining-room of the Executive Mansion upon all occasions.
To those who knew the Secretary of State, it is hardly necessary
to say that he had little sympathy with this arrangement, that
to him it was a custom "more honored in the breach than the
observance."
Now it so happened that at a state dinner, upon a time, a mild
punch in thimbleful instalments was served to the guests in lieu
of more generous beverages. Raising the tiny vessel and bowing to
the Austrian Ambassador at his side, Mr. Evarts in undertone significantly
observed, "Life-saving station!"
To a "candid friend"--from whom God preserve us--who once took him
to task for his lengthy and somewhat involved sentences, Evarts
replied, "Oh, you are not the first man I ever encountered _who
objected to a long sentence."_
During his official term above mentioned, Mr. Evarts accompanied
a prominent member of the British Parliament to Mount Vernon.
Standing in front of the old mansion, so dear to all American
hearts, the distinguished visitor, looking across to the opposite shore,
remarked: "I read in a history that when Washington was a boy
he threw a dollar across the Potomac; remarkable indeed that he
could have thrown a dollar so far, a mile away across the Potomac;
very remarkable indeed, I declare." "Yes," replied Evarts, "but you
must remember that _a dollar would go a great deal farther then
than it does now."_
This incident being told to a member of Congress of Hibernian
antecedents, he immediately replied: "Yes, he might have told the
Britisher that when Washington was a boy he sure enough threw a
dollar across the Potomac, and when he got to be a grown-up man,
_he threw a sovereign across the Atlantic."_
Mr. Evarts was counsel for President Johnson in his famous arraignment
before the Senate, sitting as a High Court of Impeachment. His
speech, lasting many hours, was an able and exhaustive discussion of
the salient questions involved in the trial. The leading managers
upon the part of the House of Representatives were Benjamin F.
Butler, George S. Boutwell, and John A. Bingham. The retort
courteous was freely indulged in many times by the managers and
counsel from the beginning to the close of the long-drawn-out
prosecution.
It is a singular fact, and to this generation renders the entire
proceeding measurably farcical, that the managers upon the part of
the House, and the counsel for the impeached President, were at
cross-purposes from the beginning as to the real character of
the tribunal before which they were appearing. The latter regarded
it as a court, and constantly addressed its presiding officer, the
Chief Justice of the United States, as "Your Honor"; while the
former insisted that it was only the Senate, and continually
addressed the Chief Justice as "Mr. President."
The issues involved were likewise argued by the opposing counsel
from wholly different standpoints. The contention of the defence as
stated by counsel was:
"We are then in a court. What are you to try? You are to try the
charges contained in these articles of impeachment, and nothing
else. Upon what are you to try them? Not upon common fame; not
upon the price of gold in New York, or upon any question of finance;
not upon newspaper rumor; not upon any views of party policy;
you are to try them upon the evidence offered here and nothing
else, by the obligation of your oaths."
The contrary contention as stated by one of the managers was as
follows:
"We define, therefore, an impeachable high crime or misdemeanor,
to be one in its nature or consequences subversive of some fundamental
or essential principle of government, or highly prejudicial to the
public interest; and this may consist of a violation of the
Constitution, of law, or of duty by an act committed or omitted,
or without violating positive law, by the abuse of discretionary
powers from improper motives, or for any improper purpose."
With gulf as broad between managers and counsel as that separating
Dives and Lazarus, not only as to the issues to be tried, but as
to the nature of the functions and designation of the tribunal
before which they were appearing, and with the decision of the
Chief Justice upon questions of law arising continually over-ruled
by the majority of the Senators, it may reasonably be supposed that
there was much in the way of "travelling out of the record" in the
heated discussion which followed.
The associates of Mr. Evarts--Stanberry, Curtis, Groesbeck, and
Nelson--were the most solemn of men, and whatever there was "bright
with the radiance of utterance" to lessen the tension of the
protracted struggle, came from his own lips.
Near the close of his speech, Manager Boutwell, in attempting to
indicate the punishment merited by the accused, said:
"Travellers and astronomers inform us that in the southern heavens
near the Southern Cross there is a vast space which the uneducated
call a hole in the sky, where the eye of man, with the aid of
the telescope, has been unable to discover nebula, or asteroid,
planet, comet, star or sun. In that dreary, cold, dark region
of space, which is only known to be less than infinite by the
evidences of creations elsewhere, the Great Author of celestial
mechanism has left the chaos which was in the beginning. If
this earth were capable of the sentiments and emotions of justice and
virtue which in human mortal beings are the evidences and the pledge
of our divine origin and immortal destiny, it would heave and throw
with the energy of the elemental forces of nature, and project this
enemy of two races of men into that vast region, there forever
to exist in a solitude eternal as life, or as the absence of life,
emblematical of, it not really, that outer darkness of which the
Saviour of Man spoke in warning to those who are the enemies of
themselves, of their race, and of their God."
To the above Mr. Evarts replied:
"I may as conveniently at this point of the argument as at any
other pay some attention to the astronomical punishment which
the learned and honorable manager, Mr. Boutwell, thinks would be
applied to this novel case of impeachment of the President. Cicero,
I think it is, who says that a lawyer should know everything,
for sooner or later there is no fact in history, in science, or of
human knowledge, that will not come into play in his argument.
Painfully sensible of my ignorance, being devoted to a profession which
sharpens and does not enlarge the mind, I yet can admit without
envy the superior knowledge evinced by the honorable manager.
Indeed, upon my soul, I believe he is aware of an astronomical fact
of which many professors of that science are wholly ignorant.
Nevertheless, while some of his honorable colleagues were paying
attention to an unoccupied and unappropriated island on the surface
of the seas, Mr. Manager Boutwell, more ambitious, had discovered an
untenanted and unappropriated region in the skies reserved, he
would have us think, in the final counsels of the Almighty as
the place of punishment for convicted and deposed American
Presidents. At first I thought that his mind had become so enlarged
that it was not sharp enough to discover that the Constitution had
limited the punishment, but on reflection I saw that he was as
legal and logical as he was ambitious and astronomical, for the
Constitution has said 'removal from office,' and has put no distance
to the limit of removal, so that it may be, without shedding a drop
of his blood, or taking a penny of his property, or confining
his limbs, instant removal from office, and transportation to
the skies. Truly this is a great undertaking and if the learned
manager can only get over the obstacles of the laws of nature, the
Constitution will not stand in his way. He can contrive no method
but that of a convulsion of the earth, that shall project the
deposed President to this infinitely distant space; but a shock of
nature of so vast energy and for so great a result on him, might
unsettle even the footing of the firm members of Congress. We
certainly need not resort to so perilous a method as that. How
shall we accomplish it? Why, in the first place, nobody knows
where that space is but the learned manager himself, and _he is
the necessary deputy to execute the judgment of the court."_
Two of the managers, Butler and Bingham, were at sword's points,
and had but recently assailed each other with great bitterness
in the House. How all this was turned to account by the counsel
will now appear. In vindicating the President against the charge of
undignified utterances and impropriety of speech in recent
public addresses, Mr. Evarts candidly admits that the Executive,
whose early educational advantages had been meagre indeed, and who
was confessedly untaught of the schools, "had gotten into trouble by
undertaking to be logical with a metaphor."
He insisted, however, that the President should be bound by no
higher standard of propriety of speech than that set by the House of
which the Honorable Managers were members. The rule governing the
House in such matters will readily appear from a recent exchange
of courtesies between the two distinguished members referred to
above, Mr. Bingham and Mr. Butler. The former said:
"I desire to say, Mr. Speaker, that it does not become a gentleman
who recorded his vote fifty times for Jefferson Davis as his candidate
for President of the United States, to undertake to damage this
cause by attempting to cast an imputation either upon my integrity
or my honor. I repel with scorn and contempt any utterance of that
sort from any man, _whether he be the hero of Fort Fisher, not
taken, or of Fort Fisher, taken!"_
To which Mr. Butler replied:
"But if during the war, the gentleman from Ohio did as much as I
did in that direction, I shall be glad to recognize that much done.
But the only victim of the gentleman's prowess that I know of was an
innocent woman on the scaffold, one Mrs. Surratt. I can sustain
the memory of Fort Fisher if he and his present associates can
sustain him in shedding the blood of a woman tried by a military
commission _and convicted, in my judgment, without sufficient
evidence!"_
To which Mr. Bingham replied: "I challenge the gentleman, I dare him
anywhere, in this tribunal or any tribunal, to assert that I
spoliated or mutilated any book. Why, sir, such a charge without one
tittle of evidence is only fit to come from a man _who lives in
a bottle, and is fed with a spoon!"_
"Now, what under heavens that means," protested Evarts, "I do
not know, but it is within the common law of courtesy in the judgment
of the House of Representatives."
XXIII
"THE GENTLEMAN FROM MISSISSIPPI"
JOHN ALLEN, MEMBER OF CONGRESS--HE PAYS A COMPLIMENT TO GENERAL
WHEELER--HIS MODEST LUNCH--A SOUTHERNER'S VIEW OF PREDESTINATION
--A SKULKER'S OBJECTION TO BE SHOT BY A "LOW-DOWN YANKEE"--JOHN
ALLEN'S TILT WITH COLONEL FELLOWS.
The subject of this brief sketch is still in life, very much so;
and that he
"Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath
To time and mortal custom"
is the prayer of friends and political foes alike. Who does not
know or has not heard of "Private John Allen," the sometime member
of Congress from Mississippi? A more charming gentleman or delightful
companion for the hours of recreation and gladness has rarely
appeared in this old world. He was, while in his teens, a private
soldier in the Confederate army, later was a practising lawyer,
and in time "reluctantly yielding to the earnest solicitations
of his friends," generously consented to serve a few terms in
Congress. From his first entrance into the House, he was well
known to all its members. No one needed an introduction--they all
knew John Allen.
Upon the conclusion of his first speech, which possibly referred
to the improvement of the Tombigbee River, he modestly remarked:
"Now I am through my speech for this time, Mr. Speaker, _and
will immediately retire to the cloak-room to receive the congratulations
of my friends."_
Speaker Reed, with whom he was a great favorite, never failed to
"recognize" John, and in fact by common consent he was always
entitled to the floor. This fact will shed some light upon the
following incident. During the roll-call of the House upon a motion
to adjourn at a late hour of a night session, Mr. Allen passed down
the aisle, with hat and overcoat upon his arm, and, stopping
immediately in front of the Clerk's desk, said "Mr. Speaker, ----"
"For what purpose," said Reed, "does the gentleman from Mississippi
interrupt the roll-call?"
"Mr. Speaker," continued Allen, "I rise to a parliamentary inquiry.
I want to know how General Wheeler voted on this motion." To this
"parliamentary inquiry" the Speaker after ascertaining the fact
replied that the gentleman from Alabama had voted "aye."
"Well, then, Mr. Speaker," said John, "just put me down the same
way with General Wheeler; I followed him four years, and _he never
led me into danger yet."_
Seated one day in the Senate restaurant, I observed Mr. Allen
standing at the entrance. Upon my invitation, he took a seat at
my table. "What will you have, John?" said I. With an abstracted
air, and the appearance of being extremely embarrassed by his
surroundings, he replied, "It makes mighty little difference about
me anyway," and turning to a waiter he slowly drawled out, "Bring me
some terrapin and champagne." Then, in an apologetic tone he
quietly observed, "I got used to that durin' the Wah."
After a moment's pause, he continued, "By the way, did you ever
hear the expression 'before the Wah'?" I intimated that the
expression had not wholly escaped me.
"I heard it once under rather peculiar circumstances," said John.
"Down in the outskirts of my deestrict, there is an old-time
religious sect known as the 'hard-shell' or 'iron-jacket' Baptists;
mighty good, honest people, of course, but old-fashioned in their ways
and everlastingly opposed to all new-fangled notions, such as having
Temperance societies, Missionary societies, and Sunday schools.
They would, however, die in their tracks before they would ever
let up on the good old church doctrines, especially predestination.
Oh, I tell you they were predestinarians from away back. John
Calvin with his vapory views upon that question would not have been
admitted even on probation. Sometimes the preacher during his
sermon, turning to the Amen corner would inquire: 'When were you,
my brother, predestinated to eternal salvation, or eternal
damnation?'
"Well, the answer that had come down from the ages always was,
'From the foundation of the world.'
"When I was making my first race for Congress, I spoke in that
neighborhood one Saturday, and stayed all night with one of the
elders, and on Sunday of course I went to church. During the
sermon, the preacher while holding forth as usual on his
favorite doctrine, suddenly turning to a stranger who had somehow got
crowded into the Amen corner, said: 'My brother, when were you
predestinated to eternal salvation or eternal damnation?' To which
startling inquiry the stranger, terribly embarrassed, hesitatingly
answered: 'I don't adzactly remember, Parson, but _I think it was
befo' the Wah.'"_
A comrade of John in Company G was a tow-headed, lantern-jawed
fellow who never failed somehow to get to the rear and to a place of
comparative safety at the first intimation of approaching battle.
He was proof alike against the gibes of his comrades and the threats
of his officers. Upon one occasion the approach of the enemy
was heralded by a few shells bursting suggestively near the spot
where Company G was stationed. The tow-headed veteran immediately
began preparations to retire. With threatening mien, levelled
revolver, and oaths that would have done no discredit to "our army
in Flanders," the Captain ordered the skulker back into line, upon
pain of instant death. Leaning upon his musket, and with familiar
gaze upon his irate superior, the culprit slowly drawled: "I don't
mine bein' muddered by a high-tone Southern gentleman like you,
Cappen, but dam if I'm gwyen to eternally disgrace my family by
lettin' one of them low-down Yankees shoot me!"
Allen was no exception to the rule that men gifted like himself
are subject to occasional seasons of gloom, but his greeting usually
came as a benediction. At the banquet table, when dull care was
laid aside and he was surrounded by genial companions,--"for
'tis meet that noble minds keep ever with their likes"--his star
was at its zenith. Then indeed, all rules were suspended; no point
of order suggested--"The man and the hour had met." His marvellous
narratives of quaint incidents and startling experiences, his
brilliant repartee, sallies of wit, banter, and badinage have rarely
been heard since the days of the Round Table or the passing of "the
Star and Garter."
Once, however, John Allen confessedly met his match in the person of
the Hon. John R. Fellows, who had been Colonel of an Arkansas
regiment in the Confederate service; later a prominent leader of
Tammany Hall, and was at the time mentioned, a Representative in
Congress from New York. He was the "Prince Rupert of Debate," and
was gifted with eloquence rarely equalled. At a banquet given
in his honor upon his retirement from Congress, a hundred or more of
his associates were guests, including, of course, the subject of
this sketch. Men high in councils of State, leaders of both parties,
and of both Houses, had gathered around the board, and good-fellowship
and mirth reached the high-water mark. By common consent Fellows and
Allen were in undisputed possession of the floor. Such passages-at-arms
no pen can describe. Even "John Chamberlain's" in its palmiest days
has never known the like.
Near the close Allen said:
"There is one thing I would like to have Colonel Fellows explain.
He was captured the first year of the war, and never exchanged,
but held as a prisoner by the Federals until the war was over.
I was taken prisoner five times, and always promptly exchanged.
I would like Colonel Fellows to explain how it was that he was kept
in a place of safety, while I was always at the front?"
When the applause which followed had subsided, Colonel Fellows
arose and said:
"I am grateful to my friend from Mississippi for giving me an
opportunity to explain that part of my military record which I
apprehend has never been sufficiently clear. It is true. I was
taken prisoner the first year of the war, and the enemy, well
knowing the danger of my being at large, persistently refused to
release me until peace was restored. Had I been promptly exchanged,
_the result of that war might have been different!_ But why it
was, that my friend from Mississippi was so repeatedly and promptly
exchanged is a question that until yesterday I have never been able
to understand. It has given me deep concern. I have pondered over
it during the silent watches of the night. Yesterday, however, my
mind was completely set at rest upon that question by reading
the correspondence--to be found in Volume 748, page 421 of the
'Record of the War of the Rebellion'--between President Lincoln
and President Davis relating to the exchange of Private John Allen
of Company G, Fourteenth Mississippi Volunteers. The correspondence
covers many pages of this valuable publication, but I will read
only the closing communication."
And while John with a new supply of terrapin before him was listening
intently, Fellows carefully adjusting his eye-glasses and taking
a letter from his pocket, continued:
"The letter I will read from President Lincoln concluded the
correspondence, and is as follows: _'Dear Jeff:_ With this I
return you Private John Allen of Company G, Fourteenth Mississippi.
I require no prisoner in exchange. The Lord's truth is, Jeff,
_I had rather fight John than feed him!'"_
XXIV
AN OLD-TIME COUNTRY DOCTOR
THE WRITER AT HIS INN, THE TRAVELLER'S HOME--DOCTOR JOHN, ONE OF
HIS EARLIEST ACQUAINTANCES--THE DOCTOR'S LIBERALITY IN ADMINISTERING
MEDICINE--A DISAPPOINTMENT IN EARLY LIFE--THE DOCTOR'S IGNORANCE OF
THE "SOLAR SYSTEM"--A DIFFICULTY WITH THE LANDLADY--A QUESTION
OF ORTHOGRAPHY--THE DOCTOR AS A MEMBER OF A TOTAL-ABSTINENCE
SOCIETY.
Upon my admission to the bar in 1858, I located at Metamora, a
village of five hundred inhabitants, about forty miles northwest
of Bloomington. It was beautifully and _quietly_ situated,
eight miles from the railroad, and was at the time the county-seat
of Woodford County, one of the finest agricultural portions of
Illinois.
Metamora contained many delightful families, and a cordial welcome
was accorded me. The old tavern, "Traveller's Home," was mine inn,
and as a hostelry it possessed rare advantages. The one that
chiefly recommended it to me was its extremely moderate charges.
Two dollars and a half per week for board and lodging, "washing
and mending" included, were the inviting terms held out to all
comers and goers. There was much, however, in the surroundings,
appointments, etc., of this ancient inn, little calculated to
reconcile delicately toned mortals to things of sense. It was
of this place of entertainment that Colonel Ingersoll spoke when, in
his description of the tapestry of Windsor Castle, he said that it
reminded him of a Metamora table-cloth _the second week of court._
The dear old tavern has fallen a victim to the remorseless tooth
of time, but, in the palmy days of Metamora, when it was the
county-seat, and the Spring and Fall terms of court were as regular
in their coming as the seasons themselves, the old tavern was in
its glory, and for all "transients" and "regulars" it was the chief
objective point. For a decade or more its walls gave shelter to
Judge Treat, Judge Davis, Mr. Lincoln, General Gridley, Judge
Purple, and more than once to General Shields and Stephen A. Douglas.
At a later date it was upon like occasion the stopping place of
Colonel Ingersoll, John Burns, Judge Shaw, James S. Ewing, Robert E.
Williams, Judge Richmond, and other well-known members of the bar.
One of my earliest acquaintances in Metamora, and one not soon
to be forgotten, was Doctor John--familiarly called "Doc," except upon
state occasions. As I write, the vision of the Doctor arises before
me out of the mists of the shadowy past. His personal appearance was
indeed remarkable. Standing six feet six in his number elevens,
without an ounce of superfluous flesh, a neck somewhat elongated
and set off to great advantage by an immense "Adam's apple," which
appeared to be constantly on duty, head large and features a trifle
exaggerated, and with iron gray locks hanging gracefully over
his slightly stooped shoulders, the Doctor would have given pause to
the McGregor, even with foot upon his native heather. He first
saw the light of day in the "Panhandle" of the Old Dominion; the
part thereof afterwards detached for the formation of the new State.
How this all came about was to the Doctor as inexplicable as the
riddle of the Sphinx; but he scouted the thought that he had
ever ceased to be a son of "the real old Virginny." He claimed to
be a descendant of one of "the first families," and there lingered
about him in very truth much of the chivalric bearing of the old
cavalier stock. No man living could possibly have invited a
gentleman "to partake of some spirits" or "to participate in a
glass of beer," in a loftier manner than did the Doctor. Not
himself a member of the visible church, nor even an occasional
attendant upon its service, the heart of the Doctor nevertheless,
like that of the renowned Cave Burton, responded feelingly to every
earnest supplication "for the preservation of the kindly fruits of
the earth to be enjoyed in due season." And with the Doctor, as
with Cave, the question of the _quantity_ of the kindly fruits thus
preserved was of far greater moment than any mere matter of sentiment
as to their _quality._
The intellectual attainments of the Doctor, it must be admitted,
were not of the highest order. He was a student of men rather than
of books. He had journeyed but little along the flowery paths
of literature. He never gave "local habitation or name" to the
particular Medical College which had honored him with its degree.
He was, as he often asserted, of the "epleptic" school of medicine.
In reply to my inquiry as to what that really was, he solemnly
asservated that it was the only school which permitted its
practitioners to accept all that was good, and reject all that was
bad, of all the other schools. In his practice he had a supreme
contempt for what he called "written proscriptions," and often
boasted that he never allowed one of them to go out of his office.
He infinitely preferred to compound his own medicines, which, with
the aid of mortar and pestle, he did in unstinted measure in his
office. On rainy days and during extremely healthy seasons, his
stock was thereby largely augmented. In administering his "doses"
his generous spirit manifested itself as clearly as along other
lines. No "pent-up Utica" contracted his powers. It has been many
times asserted, and with apparent confidence, that no patient of
his ever complained of not having received full measure. There were
no Oliver Twists among his patients. It was a singular fact in
all the professional experience of this eminent practitioner, that
his patients, regardless of age or sex, were all afflicted with
a like malady. Many a time as he returned from a professional
visit, mounted on his old roan, with his bushel measure medicine
bag thrown across his saddle, in answer to my casual inquiry as to
the ailment of his patient, he gave in oracular tones, the one
all-sufficient reply, _"only a slight derangement of the nervous
system."_
He never quite forgave Mr. Lincoln the reply he once made to an
ill-advised interruption of the Doctor during a political speech.
"Well, well, Doctor," replied Mr. Lincoln, good-humoredly, "I will
take anything from you _except your medicines."_
The Doctor was a bachelor, and his "May of life" had fallen into
the sear and yellow leaf at the time of which we write. He was
still, however, as he more than once assured me, an ardent admirer
of "the opposing sect."
In one of his most confidential moods, he disclosed to me the
startling fact that he had in early life been the victim of a
misplaced confidence. In an unguarded moment he entrusted the idol
of his heart to the safe keeping of a friend, in the whiteness
of whose soul he trusted as in a mother's love, while he, the
confiding Doctor, journeyed westward to seek a home.
"He knew not the doctrine of ill-doing,
Nor dreamed that any did."
Alas for human frailty, "the badge of all our race." Upon his
return after an absence of several moons, he found to his unspeakable
dismay that that same "friend" had taken to wife the idol whose
image had so long found lodgment in the Doctor's own sad heart.
Too late he realized, as wiser men have done before and since, that
"Friendship is constant in all other things
Save in the office and affairs of love."
The Doctor was much given at times to what he denominated "low down
talks" such as are wont when kindred souls hold close converse.
Seated in my office on one occasion, at the hour when churchyards yawn,
and being as he candidly admitted in a somewhat "reminiscent" mood,
he unwittingly gave expression to thoughts beyond the reaches of
our souls, when I made earnest inquiry, "Doctor, what in your
judgment as a medical man is to be the final destination of the
human soul?" The solemn hour of midnight, together with the no
less solemn inquiry, at once plunged the Doctor into deep thought.
First carefully changing his quid from the right to the left jaw, he
slowly and as if thoughtfully measuring his words, replied: "Brother
Stevenson, _the solar system are one of which I have given very
little reflection."_
It is a sad fact that in this world the best of men are not wholly
exempt from human frailties. Even in the noble calling of medicine
there have been at times slight outcroppings of a spirit of
professional jealousy. That the subject of these brief chronicles
was no exception to this infirmity will appear from a remark he
once made in regard to a professional contemporary whose practice had
gradually encroached upon the Doctor's beat. Said he: "They talk a
good deal about this Doc Wilson's practice; but I'll 'low that
my books will show a greater degree of mortality than what hisn
will."
The Doctor was one of the regular boarders at the historic inn
already mentioned. By long and faithful service he had won the
honored position of chief boarder, and his place by common consent
was at the head of the table. No one who ever sat at that delightful
board could forget the dignified manner in which the Doctor would take
his accustomed seat, and without unnecessary delay proceed to
appropriate whatever viands might be within his reach. As a matter
of especial grace upon the part of the good landlady, an
old-fashioned corn pone and a pitcher of sweet milk appeared
occasionally upon the supper table of this most excellent inn. Such
visitations were truly regarded, even by the veterans, as very
oases in the desert of life. Now, it so happened, that upon a cold
December evening, between the first and second tolling of the supper
bell, the boarders in anxious expectancy were awaiting the final
summons, in a small chamber hard by the dining-room. To this
assembly the writer hereof remarked: "It seems to me, gentlemen, that
it has been a long time since we have been favored with pone bread
and sweet milk. I therefore move that Doctor John be appointed
a committee of one to request Mrs. Sparks to have these delicacies
for supper to-morrow night."
A hearty second was immediately given by Whig Ewing, Esq., at a
later day distinguished both as an orator and a Judge. Without
shadow of opposition the resolution was adopted, and upon summons the
boarders were almost immediately thereafter in their accustomed
places at the table. Turning to the landlady as she slowly approached
with a platter of cold biscuits, the Doctor in most conciliatory
tones said: "Mrs. Sparks, at a regular meeting of the borders held
this evening I was appointed a committee of one to invite you to
have corn pone and sweet milk to-morrow evening." A deep frown at
once encircled the fair brow of our hostess. Unlike that of the
late Mrs. Tam O'Shanter, her wrath needed no nursing to keep it
warm. Advancing a step, and with apparent effort suppressing
her emotion, she slowly articulated _"What did you say, Doctor?"_
Presaging danger in the very air, the Doctor repeated in husky
tones, "At a regular meeting of the boarders held this evening,
I was appointed a committee of one to invite you to have corn bread
for supper to-morrow evening." At the repetition the frown upon
the brow of the fair one darkened and deepened. Advancing a
step nearer the object of her wrath, she said, "If _you_ or any of
the _other_ boarders are dissatisfied with my house, you can leave,
_and leave now!"_
With the thermometer at zero and Peoria seventeen miles away,
and the Illinois out of its banks, there was little that was
comforting in her words. The stillness of the grave was upon that
little assembly. At length, to relieve the strain of the situation,
if possible, the writer inquired, "What was your remark, Doctor
John?" to which the Doctor, in a tome somewhat hopeful but by no
means confident, replied, "I was just remarking to our beloved
landlady, brother Stevenson, that at a regular meeting of the
boarders held this evening I was appointed a committee to invite
her to have corn bread for supper to-morrow night." To which I
modestly replied, "Well, if any such meeting as that was ever held,
_it is very strange that I heard nothing about it."_ This kindly
observation only deepened the gloom, and perceptibly lessened the
distance between the irate hostess and the chief boarder. The
latter in sheer desperation at length appealed for succor to Ewing,
who until this moment, strangely enough, had been an attentive
listener. Thus appealed to, the latter, with Prince Albert buttoned
to the very top, and with the statesman's true pose, said:
"I beg to assure you, Mrs. Sparks, that I am profoundly ignorant
of any such meeting of the boarders as has been indicated. Had
I been apprised that such meeting was contemplated I would have
attended and used by utmost endeavor to secure the defeat of its
ill-timed resolution. Let me say further, madam, that I am not
fond of corn bread. The biscuits with which we are nourished from
day to day are exactly to my taste, and even if they were a few
degrees colder I would cherish them still the more fondly. In the
years gone by, madam, I have been a guest at the Astor, the Galt, the
St. Charles, and at the best hotels in London and upon the continent
of Europe. None of them in my humble judgment are comparable to
this. I assure you solemnly, madam, that I have lingered in
this village month after month only because of my reluctance to
tear myself away from your most excellent hotel."
With finger raised, step advanced, and eye fixed uncharitably upon
the offending physician, the gentle hostess in voice little above a
whisper, said, _"Doc, I think you made that up out of whole cloth."_
The crisis was reached; flesh and blood could endure no more. The
Doctor rose, and waiving all formalities and farewells, "stood not
upon the order of his going."
For reasons unnecessary to explain, I did not seek the Doctor that
evening nor the following day. Morning and noon came and went,
but the chief boarder did not appear. The vacant chair was to
those who lingered a pathetic reminder of the sad departure. When,
upon the following evening, the surviving boarders gathered to
their accustomed places, they beheld in wonderment a splendid pone,
savory and hot, flanked upon its left by the old yellow pitcher
filled to its brim with rich, sweet milk.
A moment later, and all eyes were turned to the open door through which
a once familiar figure moved to his seat. Suddenly stretching both
arms to the middle of the table, with one hand the good Doctor
grasped the pone, and with the other the pitcher, and holding both
aloft as he gazed upon each boarder in turn, exclaimed, "I understand
the boarders are not fond of corn bread." In the twinkling of
an eye, the Doctor, _the pitcher, the pone had all disappeared from
the dining-room,_ and the latter two were ne'er heard of more.
The poetic justice of the situation, however, was so complete, that
no word of complaint was ever uttered.
Some weeks after the events last narrated, I heard the sound of
many voices accompanied by peals of laughter coming from the office
of Doctor John. Stopping at his door, I soon learned that the
tumult was occasioned by a discussion as to whether the Doctor
could spell "sugar" correctly. The faction adverse to the physician
was led by one William Hawkins, a country schoolmaster. The latter
and his allies bantered and badgered the old Doctor to their hearts'
content. Rendered desperate at length by their merciless gibes,
the Doctor, taking from his vest pocket a five-dollar bill--one
I had loaned him an hour before with which to pay a couple of weeks'
boards--he offered to bet the full amount that he could spell
the word correctly. A like amount being at length raised by the
adverse faction, the question at once arose as to who should be
the arbiter. Observing me for the first time as I stood at the
door, the Doctor declared his willingness to accept me as "empire."
It may here be remarked that the honorable office to which I was
thus nominated is sometimes called "umpire." Webster, Worcester, and
possibly other lexicographers give the latter pronunciation the
preference. But the Doctor being "an old settler" and much better
acquainted in that locality than either of the other authorities, his
preference will be recognized, and "empire" it will be to the end of
this chapter. At all events my nomination--for the first and only
time--was unanimously concurred in. Stepping at once into the
office and confronting the leaders of the opposing faction, I stated
candidly that while I highly appreciated the distinction tendered,
still I was unwilling to accept the responsible position of "empire"
save upon the explicit agreement that, _whatever the decision,_
there should be no complaint or grumbling upon the part of the
disaffected or disgruntled hereafter; that "empires" after all were
only men and liable to the mistakes and errors incident to our poor
humanity. To the end, therefore, that an "empire" act with proper
independence, it was all important that his decision pass unchallenged.
These reasonable requirement being readily acquiesced in, the office
was accepted and the money hazarded by each faction carefully
deposited in the "empire's" vest pocket. The arbiter now solemnly
addressing the principal actor said: "Doctor, the word is, 'sugar';
_proceed to spell."_
The Doctor immediately stood up. The psychological question, if
it be such, is here presented whether _standing_ is the more eligible
position for the severe mental effort indicated above. Waiving
all discussion upon this interesting point, the fact is here
faithfully chronicled that the Doctor stood up. Looking neither
to the right nor to the left, but standing majestically in the
middle of the room, and presenting in some of its characteristics the
beauty and symmetry of an inverted L, the Doctor began, "S-h-o-o-g
----" whereupon the little schoolmaster burst into loud laughing.
Solemnly warning him against the repetition of such conduct, the
arbiter reminded him that such manifestations in the very presence
of the "empire," were in some countries punished with immediate
death, and again significantly warned him against its recurrence.
At the same time the Doctor was reminded that he had not yet
completed the spelling of the word. The Doctor replied, "If it is
all the same to you, Mr. Empire, I believe I will begin all over
again." Permission being granted, the spelling was resumed:
"S-h-o-o-g-o-r." To this the arbiter responded, "You have spelled
the word correctly, Doctor," and _immediately handed him the
stakes._
One of the interesting events occurring during my residence in
Metamora, was a noted temperance revival under the auspices of "the
Grand Worthy Deputy" of a well-known temperance organization. A
lodge was duly organized, and a profound interest aroused in the
good work. During the visit of the excellent lady who bore with
becoming modesty the somewhat formidable title above given, the
interest deepened, meetings were of nightly occurrence, and
large numbers were gathered into the fold. For many days ordinary
pursuits were suspended, and the grand cause was the only and
all-absorbing topic of conversation.
Chief among the initiated was our old friend Doctor John. His
conversion created a profound sensation, and it veritably seemed
for a time as though a permanent breach had been effected in the
ramparts of Satan. It was even boasted that the Presbyterian
clergyman, one saloon keeper, and the writer of these truthful
annals were, as Judge Tipton would say, "substantially" the only
adherents remaining to His Satanic Majesty. The pressure was,
however, soon irresistible, and the writer, deserting his sometime
associates, at length passed over to the _un_silent majority.
The Doctor was the bearer of my petition, and in due time and as
the sequel will show, for only a short time, I was in good and
regular standing. As explanatory of the sudden termination of what
might under happier auspices have proved an eminently useful career,
it may be casually mentioned that upon the writer's first introduction
into the lodge, in answer to the official inquiry solemnly propounded,
"Why do you seek admission into our honorable order?" he unwittingly
replied, _"Because Doctor John joined."_
This was for the moment permitted to pass, and the exercises of
the session reached the high-water mark of entertainment. At some
time during the evening, by way of "exemplifying the work," Doctor
John had for the second time taken the solemn vow henceforth and
forever to abstain from the use of all fluids of alcoholic, vinous,
or fermented character.
The hour for separation at length drew nigh. Thus far all had gone
merry as a marriage bell. All signs betokened fair weather.
Barring the temporary commotion occasioned by the uncanonical reply
of the writer above given, not a ripple had appeared upon the
surface. It was at length announced that this was the last evening
that the Grand Worthy Deputy could be with us, as she was to leave
for her distant home by the stage coach in the early morning.
Splendidly set off in her great robes of office, her farewell words
of instruction, encouragement, and admonition, were then most
tenderly spoken. Before pronouncing the final farewell--"that word
which makes us linger"--she calmly remarked that this would be her
last opportunity to expound any constitutional question that might
hereafter arise pertaining to the well-being of the order, and that
she would gladly answer any inquiry that any brother or sister
about the lodge might propose. Her seat was then resumed, and
silence for the time reigned supreme. At length, amid stillness
that could no longer be endured, she arose and advancing to the
front of the platform, repeated, in manner more solemn than before,
the invitation above given. Still there was no response. It
all seemed formidable and afar off. In the hope that he might
in some measure dispel the embarrassment, the unworthy chronicler of
these important events, from his humble place in the northwest
corner of the lodge, for the first and last time addressed the
chair. Permission being graciously given him to proceed, he candidly
admitted that he had no constitutional question himself to propound,
but that Brother John was in grave doubt touching a question
upon which he would be glad to have the opinion of the chair.
"I understand," continued the speaker, "from the nature of the
pledge that if any brother, or sister even for that matter, should
partake of liquors alcoholic, vinous, or fermented, he or she would
be liable to expulsion from the order. Am I correct?"
"That is certainly correct, Brother Stevenson," was the prompt
reply in no uncertain tone.
"I so understand it," continued the speaker, "and so does Brother John.
What he seeks to know is this: If in an unguarded moment he should
hearken to the voice of the tempter, and so far forget his solemn vows
as to partake of alcoholic, vinous, or fermented liquors, and be
expelled therefor, would he thereby be wholly beyond the pale of
the lodge, or would he _by virtue of his second obligation taken
this night,_ have another chance, and still retain his membership in
the order?"
The official answer, in tone no less uncertain than before, was
instantly given.
"No, sir, if Brother John _or you either,_ should drink one drop
of the liquors mentioned and be expelled therefor, you would both be
helplessly beyond the pale of the lodge, even though you had _both
taken the obligation a thousand times!"_
As the ominous applause which followed died away, Brother John,
half arising in his seat, vehemently exclaimed,
"Mrs. Worshipful Master, _I never told him to ask no such damn fool
question!"_
XXV
A QUESTION OF AVAILABILITY
A POLITICAL BANQUET IN ATLANTA, GA.--GENERAL GORDON PROPOSED
"THE DEMOCRACY OF ILLINOIS"--THE WRITER'S RESPONSE--A DESIRE IN
ILLINOIS TO NOMINATE THE HON. DAVID DAVIS FOR PRESIDENT.
About the year of grace 1889, a number of distinguished statesmen were
invited to attend a political banquet to be given by the local
Democratic Association of the splendid city of Atlanta, Georgia.
Among the guests were Representative Flower of New York and General
Collins of Massachusetts; the chief guest of the occasion was the
Hon. David B. Hill, then the Governor of New York. The banquet
was under the immediate auspices of the lamented Gordon, and of
Grady of glorious memory. The board literally groaned under the
rarest viands, and Southern hospitality was at its zenith. It was,
all in all, an occasion to live in memory. I was not one of the
invited guests of the committee, but being in a neighboring city
was invited by Mr. Grady to be present.
At the conclusion of the feast, a toast was proposed to "The Gallant
Democracy of New York." Glasses were touched and the enthusiasm
was unbounded. The toast was of course responded to by the
distinguished Governor of the Empire State. He was at his best.
His speech, splendid in thought and diction, was heard with
breathless interest.
The keynote was struck, and speech after speech followed in the
proper vein. There was no discordant note, the burden of every
speech being the gallant Democracy and splendid statesmanship of
the great State of New York.
When the distinguished guests had all spoken, the master of
ceremonies, General Gordon, proposed a toast to "The Democracy
of Illinois," and called upon me to respond. I confessed that I
was only an average Democrat from Illinois; that way out there
we were content to be of the rank and file, and of course to follow
the splendid leadership and the gallant Democracy of which we
had heard so much. To vote for a New York candidate had by long
usage become a fixed habit with us, in fact, we would hardly know how
to go about voting for a candidate from any other State; and I then
related an incident on the question of supporting the ticket, which
I thought might be to the point.
In 1872, in the portion of Illinois in which I live, there was
an earnest desire on the part of conservative Democrats and liberal
Republicans, to elect the Hon. David Davis to the Presidency.
He had been a Whig in early life, brought up in the school of
Webster and Clay, and was later the devoted personal and political
friend of Mr. Lincoln. An earnest Union man during the war, he
had at its close favored the prompt restoration to the Southern
people of all their rights under the Constitution. As a judge
of the Supreme Court, he had rendered a decision in which human
life was involved, in which he had declared the supremacy of the
Federal Constitution _in war as well as in peace._ Believing that
he would prove an acceptable candidate, I had gladly joined the
movement to secure his nomination at the now historic convention
which met at Cincinnati in May, 1872. For many weeks prior to the
meeting of that convention, there was little talked of in
central Illinois but the nomination of Judge Davis for President.
Morning, noon, and night, "Davis, Davis, Davis," was the burden of
our song.
He did not, as is well known, receive the nomination, that honor, of
course, passing to a distinguished Democratic statesman of New York.
Two or three days before I was to leave my home for the Cincinnati
convention, an old Democratic friend from an adjoining county came
into my office. He was an old-timer in very truth. He was born
in Tennessee, had when a mere boy fought under Jackson at Talladega,
Tallapoosa, and New Orleans, had voted for him three times for
the Presidency, and expected to join him when he died. He had
lived in Illinois since the "big snow," and his party loyalty was
a proverb.
As I shook hands with him when he came into my office, he laid
aside his saddle-bags, stood his rifle in the corner, took off his
blanket overcoat, and seating himself by the fire, inquired how my
"folks" all were. The answer being satisfactory, and the fact
ascertained by me that his own "folks" were well, he asked.
"Mr. Stevenson, who are you fur fur President?"