A shade, as of disappointment, appeared for a moment upon his
countenance, but instantly recovering himself, he said, "Well,
if they nominate him, we will give him the usual majority in our
precinct, but don't you think, Mr. Stevenson, _it is a leetle airly
to bring old Jeff out?"_
XXVI
A STATESMAN OF A PAST ERA
ZEBULON B. VANCE, THE IDOLIZED GOVERNOR OF NORTH CAROLINA--HIS
LEARNING AND HIS HUMOR--HE RECALLS MEN AND MATTERS OF THE OLDEN
TIME--HE SUITS HIS CREED TO HIS AUDIENCE--HIS SPEECH IN FAVOR OF
HORACE GREELEY.
A name to conjure with in the old North State is Zeb Vance. What Lee
was to Virginia, Hendricks to Indiana, Clay to Kentucky, and Lincoln
to Illinois, Zebulon B. Vance was for a lifetime to North Carolina.
He was seldom spoken of as Governor, or Senator, but alike in piny
woods and in the mountains, he was familiarly called "Zeb Vance."
He was the idol of all classes and conditions. A decade has
gone since he passed to the grave, but his memory is still green.
A grateful people have erected a monument to commemorate his public
services, while from the French Broad to the Atlantic, alike in
humble cabin and stately home, his name is a household word.
"He had kept the whiteness of his soul,
And thus men o'er him wept."
The expression "rare," as given to Ben Jonson, might with equal
propriety be applied to Senator Vance. Deeply read in classic
lore, a profound lawyer, and an indefatigable student from the
beginning in all that pertained to human government, he was the
fit associate of the most cultured in the drawing-room or the
Senate. None the less, with the homely topics of everyday life
for discussion, he was equally at home, and ever a welcome guest
at the hearthstone of the humblest dweller in pine forest and
mountain glen of his native State.
Of all the men I have ever known, Vance was _par excellence_ the
possessor of the wondrous gift of humor. It was ingrained; literally
a part of his very being. He once told me that he thought his fame
for one generation, at least, was secure, inasmuch as one-half
of the freckled-faced boys and two-thirds of the "yaller" dogs
in North Carolina had been named in his honor.
Upon one occasion in the Senate, a bill he had introduced was
bitterly antagonized by a member who took occasion in his speech, while
questioning the sincerity of Vance, to extol his own honesty of
purpose. In replying to the vaunt of superior honesty by his
opponent, Vance quoted the old Southland doggerel:
"De darky in de ole camp ground
Dat loudest sing and shout
Am gwine to rob a hen-roost
Befo' de week am out."
The summer home of Senator Vance during the later years of his life
was in his native county of Buncombe, about twenty miles from
Asheville, where for some days I was his guest, many years ago.
Leaving the cars at the nearest station and following the trail
for a dozen miles, I found the Senator snugly ensconced in his
comfortable home at the top of the mountain. He was alone, his
family being "down in the settlements," as he told me. An old
negro man _to whom Vance once belonged,_ as he assured me, was
housekeeper, cook, and butler, besides being the incumbent of
various other offices of usefulness and dignity.
The first inquiry from Vance as, drenched with rain, I entered his
abode and approached a blazing fire, was, "Are you _dry?"_ It
would only gratify an idle curiosity to tell how the first moments
of this memorable visit passed. Suffice it to say that old-time
Southern hospitality was at its best, and so continued till the
morning of the fifth day, when I descended in company with my host
to the accustomed haunts of busy men.
The days and evenings passed with Vance at the cheerful fireside
of his mountain home still live in my memory. He literally "unfolded
himself," and it was indeed worth while to listen to his description
of the quaint times and customs with which he was familiar in
the long ago, to hear of the men he had known and of the stormy
events of which he had been a part.
His public life reached back to a time anterior to the war. He
was in Congress when its Representatives assembled in the Old Hall,
now the "Valhalla" of the nation. Events once of deep significance
were recalled from the mists of a long past; men who had strutted their
brief hour upon the stage and then gone out with the tide were made
to live again. Incidents once fraught with deep consequence but
now relegated to the by-paths of history, were again in visible
presence, as if touched by the enchanter's wand.
The scenes, of which he was the sad and silent witness, attendant upon
the withdrawal of his colleagues and associates from both chambers
of the Capitol, and the appeal to the sword--precursors of the
chapter of blood yet to be written--were never more graphically
depicted by mortal tongue.
I distinctly recall, even at this lapse of time, some of the
incidents he related. When first he was a candidate for Congress,
far back in the fifties, his district embraced a large portion
of the territory of the entire western part of his State. Fully
to appreciate what follows, it must be remembered that at that time
there was in the backwoods country, and in the out-of-the-way
places, far off from the great highways, much of antagonism between
the various religious denominations. At times much of the sermons
of the rural preachers consisted of denunciations of other churches.
By a perusal of the autobiography of the Rev. Peter Cartwright, it
will be seen that western North Carolina was only in line with
other portions of the great moral vineyard. The doctrines peculiar
to the particular denomination were preached generally with
great earnestness and power. "Blest be the tie that binds our
hearts in Christian love," was too seldom heard in the rural
congregations. In too many, indeed, Christian charity, even in
a modified form, was an unknown quantity.
Under the conditions mentioned, to say that seekers of public place
obeyed the Apostolic injunction to be "all things to all men" is
only to say that they were--_candidates._
It so fell out that our candidate for Congress at the time mentioned
was quietly threading his way on horseback to meet his appointment.
Far out from the county seat, in a wild and sparsely populated
locality, at a sudden turn in the road he found himself in the
immediate presence of a worshipping congregation in God's first
temple. It was what is known in mountain parlance as a "protracted
meeting." The hour was noon, and the little flock had just been
called from labor to refreshment. The cloth was spread in the
shade of a large tree, and liberally supplied with ham, fried
chicken, salt-rising bread, corn dodgers, cucumber pickles, and
other wholesome edibles. When Vance appeared upon the scene,
the leader of the little flock at once greeted him with cordial
invitation to "light and take a bite with us." The candidate
accepted the invitation, and fastening his horse to a convenient
tree, approached the assembled worshippers, introducing himself as
"Zeb Vance, Whig candidate for Congress." The thought uppermost
in his soul as he shook hands all around and accepted the proffered
hospitality was, "What denomination is this? Methodist? Baptist?
_What?"_ As soon as this inquiry could be satisfactorily answered,
he was, of course, ready to join; his "letter" was ready to be
handed in. But as he quickly scanned the faces about him, he could
get no gleam of light upon the all-important question. Suddenly
his meditations were ended, the abstract giving way to the concrete,
by the aforementioned leader abruptly inquiring, "Mr. Vance,
what persuasion are you of?"
The hour had struck. The dreaded inquiry must be answered
satisfactorily _and at once._ That Vance was equal to the emergency
will be seen from the sequel.
Promptly laying down the chicken leg, the chunk of salt-rising
bread, and cucumber pickle with which he had been abundantly supplied
by one of the dear old sisters, and assuming an appropriate oratorical
pose, with his eyes intent upon his interrogator, he began:
"My sainted grandfather was, during the later years of his long
and useful life, a ruling elder in the Presbyterian Church."
The gathering brow and shaking head of the local shepherd would
even to a less observing man than the candidate have been sufficient
warning that he was on the wrong trail. "But," continued the
speaker, "my father during long years of faithful service in the
Master's cause was an equally devout member of the Methodist
Episcopalian Church."
The sombre aspect of the shepherd, with the no less significant
shake of the head, was unmistakable intimation to our candidate
that danger was in the very air. Rallying himself, however, for
the last charge, with but one remaining shot in his locker, the
orator earnestly resumed: "But, when _I_ came to the years of
maturity, and was able, after prayer and meditation, to read and
understand that blessed book myself, I came to the conclusion _that
the old Baptist Church was right."_
"Bless God!" exclaimed the old preacher, seizing Vance by the hand.
"He is all right, brethren! Oh, you'll get all the votes in these
parts, Brother Vance!"
Talking along religious lines at the time of the visit mentioned, he
illustrated the difference between profession and practice. "Now,
there is my brother Bob," referring to General Robert B. Vance;
"he is, you know, a Methodist, and believes in falling from grace,
_but he never falls,_ while I am a Presbyterian, and don't believe
in falling from grace, _but I am always falling!"_
The first wife of Senator Vance was a Presbyterian. Some years
after her death, he was married to an excellent lady, a devoted
member of the Roman Catholic Church. Soon thereafter, he was taken
to task by an old Presbyterian neighbor, who expressed great surprise
that he should marry a Catholic. "Well," replied the Senator with
imperturbably good humor, "the fact is, Uncle John, as I had tried
Rum, and tried Rebellion, I just thought I would try Romanism too!"
Many years ago, near the western border of Buncombe County, lived an
old negro who had in early life been a member of the family of the
father of Senator Vance. In a little cabin at the foot of the
mountain, "Uncle Ephraim," as the old negro was familiarly called,
was, as he had been for two or three decades, "living on borrowed time."
How old he was no man could tell. When in confidential mood, he
would sometimes tell of the troubles he and his old master used to
have with the Tories during the Revolutionary War.
Mr. Vance, in his first race for Congress, having finished his
speech at the cross-roads near by, visited the old man, from whom,
of course, he received a warm welcome. In reply to the inquiry of
his visitor as to how he was getting along, the old negro slowly
replied:
"Mighty po'ly, mighty po'ly, Mause Zeb, mighty po'ly forninst
the things of dis world, but it's all right over yander, over
yander."
"What church do you belong to, Uncle Ephraim?" said Vance.
"Well, Mause Zeb, I's a Presbyterian."
"Uncle Ephraim," said Vance with great solemnity, "do you believe in
the doctrine of _election?"_
After a pause and with equal solemnity, the old man responded:
"Mause Zeb, I don't pertend to understand fully the ins and outs
of dat doctrine, but 'cordin' to my understandin', it's de doctrine
of de Bible, and I bleebes it."
"Uncle Ephraim," said Vance, "do you think I have been _elected?"_
"Mause Zeb," said the old man in pathetic tone, "ef it's jest de
same to you, I would a leetle ruther you would wifdraw dat question.
I's poorty ole and gittn' a little too near de grabe to tell a lie,
but de fac am, I bin livin' round in dese parts nigh onto a hundred
years and knowed a heap of de big mens dat's dead and gone, and
I neber yet knowed nor hear tell of no man bein' 'lected, _what
wan't a candidate."_
Like many other orators of his party, Senator Vance found the
position of champion of the Democratic nominee for President in
1872 one of extreme embarrassment. A story he occasionally
told, however, relieved the situation greatly. He said: "My
fellow-citizens, I am somewhat in the position of an old-time
illiterate backwoods preacher, who was with great difficulty able to
read off, after a fashion, one favorite hymn at which his book
always opened at the opportune moment. One Sunday morning, just
before the beginning of the services, some mischievous boys, not
having the fear of the Lord before their eyes, got hold of the book
and pasted 'Old Grimes' over the favorite hymn. At the auspicious
moment the book opened at the accustomed place, and the old preacher,
after properly adjusting his glasses, slowly began: 'Old Grimes
is dead, that good old man.' Amazed beyond description, the preacher
instantly suspended the reading, carefully wiped off his glasses, looked
appealingly to the congregation, and again solemnly and slowly
began: 'Old Grimes is dead, that good old man.' The congregation
now equally astonished with himself, the aged pastor suspended the
reading, carefully removed his glasses, and laying down the
book, solemnly observed: 'My beloved friends, I have been a-readin'
and a-singin' outen this blessed book for nigh onto forty year,
and I never seed this hymn in thar before; but it's _in thar,_
brethren, and we'll sing it through if it smashes up this meetin!'
"Now," continued Vance, "my beloved brethren, I have been a-readin'
and a-votin' of the Democrat ticket nigh onto forty year, and I
never seed the name of old Horace Greeley on a Democrat ticket
before; but it's _on thar,_ brethren, and we'll vote it through if
it kills us--_and it does come devilish near killing the most of
us!"_
XXVII
NOT GUILTY OF PREACHING THE GOSPEL
THE "DRAKE CONSTITUTION" IN MISSOURI--THE CRIME OF PREACHING THE
GOSPEL--A PROVISION OF THIS CONSTITUTION FOUND TO BE A VIOLATION
OF THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES--MINISTERS OF VARIOUS
SECTS TRIED FOR PREACHING WITHOUT FIRST TAKING AN OATH TO SUPPORT
THE "DRAKE CONSTITUTION"--THE JUDGE FINDS THAT NOT ONE OF THEM HAS
PREACHED THE GOSPEL.
The "holding" of a _nisi prius_ judge upon one of the western
circuits of Missouri, near the close of the Civil War, is without a
precedent, and it is quite probable that no occasion will ever
arise for citing it as an authority. It will remain, however, a
case in point of how a "horse-sense" judge can protect the innocent
against unusual and unjust prosecution.
What is known in Missouri history as the "Drake Constitution"
had then but recently supplanted the organic law under which the
State had for a long time had its being. No counterpart of the
Constitution mentioned has ever been framed in any of the American
States. It could have been only the product of the evil days when
"judgment had fled to brutish beasts, and men had lost their reason."
Possibly at no time or place in our history has there been more
emphatic verification of the axiom, "In the midst of arms, the laws
are silent."
The "Drake Constitution" was formulated at a time when fierce
passion was at its height, when the sad consequences of civil
war were felt at every fireside, when neighbor was arrayed against
neighbor, the hand of brother uplifted against brother, and "a
man's foes were they of his own household." As is well known,
certain provisions of this Constitution were, at a later day--upon
a writ of error--set aside by the Supreme Court of the United States
as being in violation of the Federal Constitution. One of the
thirty distinct affirmations or tests of the Drake Constitution was
to the effect that, if any minister or priest should be guilty of
the crime of preaching the Gospel, or of solemnizing the rite of
marriage, without first having taken an oath to support said
Constitution, he should, upon conviction, be subjected to a fine
of not less than five hundred dollars, imprisonment for six months
in the common jail, or both.
Under the provision indicated, a Catholic priest was convicted
in one of the circuit courts of Missouri, and duly sentenced to
fine and imprisonment. Upon his appeal, the Supreme Court of
the United States reversed the decision of the lower court, and
virtually abrogated the provision of the Constitution under which the
accused had been convicted. The great court of last resort decided
the test oath, imposed as above mentioned, to be a violation of
that provision of the Constitution of the United States which
declares, "No State shall pass any bill of attainder, or _ex
post facto_ law." It held a bill of attainder to be "a legislative
act which inflicts punishment without a judicial trial"; and an
_ex post facto_ law "one which imposes a punishment for an act
which was not punishable at the time it was committed; or imposes
additional punishment to that then prescribed." The court said:
"The oath thus required is, for its severity, without any precedent
that we can discover. In the first place, it is retrospective; it
embraces all the past from this day; and if taken years hence,
it will also cover all the intervening period. . . . It allows no
distinction between acts springing from malignant enmity, and acts
which may have been prompted by charity, or affection, or relationship.
. . . The clauses in question subvert the presumption of innocence,
and alter the rules of evidence which heretofore, under the
universally recognized principles of the common law, have been
supposed to be fundamental and unchangeable. They assume that the
parties are guilty; they call upon the parties to establish
their innocence; and declare that such innocence can only be shown
in one way--by an inquisition in the form of an expurgatory oath
into the consciences of the parties." And then, as preliminary to
the discharge of the priest from long imprisonment, the court
concluded its opinion with a pertinent question from the writings of
Alexander Hamilton: "It substitutes for the established and legal
mode of investigating crimes and inflicting forfeitures, one that is
unknown to the Constitution, and repugnant to the genius of our
law."*
[*Footnote: Fourth Wallace Reports.]
During the period extending from the promulgation of the Drake
Constitution to the setting aside of some of its obnoxious provisions
as heretofore mentioned, an old-time judge still held court on one
of the Missouri circuits. He had somehow been overlooked in the
political upheaval to which the State had been subjected. He
had come down from a former generation, and, unabashed by the clash
of arms, still served sturdily on his wonted way. The rife spirit
that boded destruction to ancient landmarks had passed him by;
Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights were to him abiding verities.
Now it so fell out that during the period mentioned, while presiding
in one of the border counties of his circuit, he was greatly
astonished, at the opening of his court upon a certain morning, to
find half a dozen ministers of the Gospel, all of whom were personally
known to him, snugly seated in the prisoners' box.
With characteristic brusqueness, the judge at once demanded of the
attorney for the Commonwealth why these men were under arrest.
The not unexpected reply was, that they had been indicted for
preaching without first taking an oath to support the Constitution
of the State of Missouri.
"Ah, Mr. Prosecutor, a very serious offence, a very serious offence
indeed. The makers of our fundamental law have wisely provided
that no man shall be permitted to preach the Gospel until he has
first taken an oath to support the Constitution of the State of
Missouri. It is the duty of this court to see to it that this
wholesome provision of our Constitution is duly enforced."
Addressing himself now to the prisoner nearest him, His Honor
inquired: "Is it possible, sir, that you have been guilty of
the crime of preaching the Gospel without having first taken an
oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri?" The
prisoner, a tall, venerable-appearing gentleman, in typical black,
quietly replied that he could not conscientiously take the required
oath, but had only continued in the pastoral work in which he
had been for a lifetime engaged.
"A mere subterfuge, a mere subterfuge, Mr. Prosecutor," observed
the judge, as with apparent fierceness his eyes were fixed upon
the offender. "This prisoner cannot be permitted, sir, to interpose
his conscience as a barrier against the enforcement of this salutary
provision of our most excellent Constitution. He must be punished,
sir, he must be punished."
After reading aloud the penalty imposed for the commission of
the offence mentioned, and with pen in hand as if about to make
the appropriate entry upon the docket, His Honor again turned to
the prisoner and inquired:
"Of what church are you a minister?" The steady reply, as of
one prepared for the worst, was,
"I am a Presbyterian, Your Honor."
"Presbyterian! Presbyterian!" quickly observed the sage interpreter
of the law. "Oh, you preach the tenets and doctrines of the
Presbyterian Church, do you?" An affirmative reply was modestly
given.
"You preach," continued His Honor in apparent amazement, "the
doctrine of infant baptism, and of the final perseverance of the
saints, do you?" An answer like the last being given, the judge
remarked:
"You appear to be a man of intelligence, but don't you know,
sir, that _that_ isn't the Gospel? He has not been guilty of
preaching the Gospel, Mr. Prosecutor, _and will have to be discharged._
You can go, sir, but if this court ever hears that you have been
actually guilty of preaching _the Gospel,_ you will be punished to
the full extent of the law."
Addressing himself now to the comparatively youthful occupant of
the lately vacated seat, His Honor inquired:
"What is _your_ church, sir?"
In a manner by no means aggressive, and with tones the counterpart
of the humblest that ever came from an Amen corner, the reply was,
"I am a Methodist, may it please the Court."
Eying the prisoner keenly, and with a manner expressive of surprise
to which all that had gone before seemed indifference itself,
his Honor, with apparent difficulty, at length ejaculated:
"A Methodist, a Methodist, Mr. Prosecutor. Oh, you preach the
doctrine of the Methodist Church, do you?--infant baptism, and
falling from grace?" To these hurried interrogatories, an affirmative
was meekly but distinctly given.
"Well, don't you know that _that_ isn't the Gospel? He is not
guilty of preaching the Gospel, Mr. Prosecutor, and will have to
be discharged. You can go, sir, but if this Court ever learns that
you have been really guilty of preaching the Gospel without
first taking an oath to support the Constitution of the State of
Missouri, you will have to be punished, sir; the Court will see
that there is no evasion of this salutary provision of our most
excellent Constitution. _Go, sir."_
A clean-shaven, benevolent-looking gentleman of middle age was next
in evidence. He had but recently assumed his present pastorate
and was a deeply interested and attentive observer of all that was
happening. In reply to the inquiry from the bench, he answered
that he was a Universalist.
"A Universalist!" replied the judge, almost astounded beyond the
power of expression. Recovering himself, he at length inquired:
"You preach the doctrine of universal salvation, do you?"
A slight bow indicated such to be the fact.
"You preach," continued his Honor, with warmth well suited to
the subject-matter, "that there is no hell?"
A bow, much more emphatic, was unmistakable evidence that its author
was a man who had the courage of his convictions.
"He doesn't believe that _there is any hell,_ Mr. Prosecutor,"
thundered the judge, "he will have to be discharged; it is no
violation of the Constitution of the State of Missouri to preach
such infernal nonsense as that."
The official admonition, "Depart, sir," was promptly obeyed, and
the apostle of the broad highway followed quickly in the wake of
the aforementioned disciples of Calvin and Wesley, in the "narrow path"
which led straightway out of the crowded court-room.
In rapid succession the two remaining prisoners on the front bench
were questioned, and each in turn found "not guilty" of preaching the
Gospel. An avowal of his belief in the tenet of "the Apostolic
succession" instantly resulted in the acquittal of the first, while
the second was with equal promptness found "not guilty" upon his
admission that he preached the doctrine of "regeneration by ----"
There was much confusion in the court-room at this moment, and
the reporter failed to catch the concluding words of the confession.
Finding himself, moreover, getting into _deep water,_ he thoughtfully
left on record that both the Episcopalian and the Christian pastor
left the court-room with the admonition ringing in their ears, that
if they were ever actually found guilty _of preaching the Gospel_
they should be duly punished.
A lone prisoner remained in the dock. The days of the years of
his pilgrimage were not few, and quite probably, except in a
figurative sense, not evil. He was of sturdy build, quiet manners,
and his countenance was indicative of great sincerity. In a voice
extremely deferential he stated that he had once ministered to a
dying Confederate, and it was impossible for him to take the required
oath that he had never expressed any sympathy for any person who
had ever been engaged in the Rebellion.
"Of what church are you a minister?" interrupted the judge.
"The Baptist Church," was the answer.
"The Baptist Church," instantly repeated the judge, and looking
very earnestly at the accused, he asked;
"Do you preach the doctrines of the Baptist Church?"
An affirmative answer having been given, His Honor said:
"Upon his own confession he is guilty, Mr. Prosecutor: the
Court holds the Baptist _to be the true church,_ and this defendant
has been guilty of preaching the Gospel without first taking the
oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri. He will
have to be punished."
Addressing the prisoner, he said: "You will have to be punished, sir;
this Court can permit no excuse or evasion."
The graveyard stillness that now fell upon the little assemblage
was at length broken by His Honor reading aloud the prescribed
punishment for preaching the Gospel without first having taken the
required oath.
"Yes, a fine of five hundred dollars or six months in the common
jail, _or both._ A clear case, Mr. Prosecutor, this prisoner must
be made an example of; hand me the docket, Mr. Clerk. Yes, the
full penalty."
Then, before making the fatal entry, suddenly turning to the
prisoner, he demanded:
"How long have you been preaching the Gospel?"
In hardly audible accents, the answer tremblingly given was,
"I have been trying to preach the Gospel ----"
"Only _trying_ to preach the Gospel, only _trying_ to preach the
Gospel!" exclaimed the judge. "There is no law, Mr. Prosecutor,
against merely _trying_ to preach the Gospel. You can go, sir;
but if this Court ever hears that you have succeeded in actually
_preaching_ the Gospel, you will be punished, sir!"
XXVIII
AMONG THE ACTORS
THE GIVING OF PLEASURE THE ACTOR'S AIM--PRAISE OF NOTABLE ACTORS
--BARRETT, FORREST, McCULLOUGH, EDWIN BOOTH, WILKES BOOTH, JEFFERSON,
IRVING--MACBETH'S PRAISE OF SLEEP.
On the evening of October 27, 1908, a meeting was held in the Grand
Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, in the interest of the Democratic
candidates in the campaign then pending. The meeting began a few
minutes after midnight, and the immense audience consisted, in a
large measure, of actors and actresses and their attendants from
the various theatres of the city.
After an eloquent political speech of the Hon. Samuel Alschuler
and a stirring recitation by one of the actors, I was introduced, and
spoke as follows:
"I am grateful for the opportunity under such happy auspices, to
bid you _good-morning._ I would count myself fortunate, indeed,
could I contribute even the smallest mite to the enjoyment of those
who have in such unstinted measure dispensed pleasure to so many
of the human family, to the representatives of a profession which,
struggling up through the centuries, has at last found honored and
abiding place in a broader civilization, a calling whose sublime
mission it is to give surcease to harassing care, to smooth out
the wrinkles from the brow, bring gladness to the eye, to teach that
'Behind the clouds is the sun still smiling';
in a word, to add to the sum of human happiness.
"It has been my good fortune, in the happy years gone by, to have had
the personal acquaintance of some of the most eminent of your
profession. Under the witchery of this inspiring presence, 'the
graves of memory render up their dead.' Again I hear from the lips
of Barrett: 'Take away the sword; States can be saved without it!'
'How love, like death, levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's
crook beside the sceptre!'
"Who that ever saw Forrest 'sitting as if in judgment upon kings' could
forget that superb presence? In the silent watches, even yet,
steal upon us in ominous accents the words, 'Put out the light,
and then put out the light!' Complimented upon the manner in which
he played Lear, he angrily exclaimed: 'Played Lear, played Lear?
I _play_ Hamlet, I _play_ Macbeth, I _play_ Othello; but I _am_
Lear!' Possibly the art of the tragedian has known no loftier
triumph than in Forrest's rendition of Lear's curse upon the
unnatural daughter:
'Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;
With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;
Turn all her mother's pains and benefits
To laughter and contempt!'
"A third of a century ago, I made the acquaintance of John McCullough,
then at the very zenith of his fame. In even measure as was the
elder Booth Richard the Third, Forrest, King Lear, or Edwin Booth,
Hamlet, so was McCullough the born Macbeth. When I first saw
him emerge with dishevelled hair and bloody hands from the apartment
of the murdered king, I was, I confess, in mortal dread of the
darkness. I have heard another since of even greater repute in
that masterful impersonation, but with me to the last, John McCullough
will remain the veritable Macbeth. His are the words that linger:
'I go, and it is done; the bell invites me,
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is the knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.'
"Edwin Booth has stepped from the stage of living men, and when in
the tide of time will such a Hamlet again appear? To him Nature
had been prodigal of her choicest blessings. Every gift the
gods could bestow to the full equipment of the interpreter, the
actor, the master, was his.
'He was a man, take him for all in all,
We shall not look upon his like again.'
Many moons will wax and wane before from other lips, as from
his, will fall:
'Or that the Everlasting had not fixed
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter.'
or, giving expression to thoughts from the very depths, which have
in all the ages held back from such dread ending:
'To die, to sleep;
To sleep! perchance to dream; aye, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.'
"The ever-abiding memory that his brother was the real actor in
a tragic scene that gave pause to the world, burdened the heart
and mellowed the tone of Edwin Booth, and no doubt linked him in
closer touch with what has, as by the enchanter's wand, been
portrayed of the 'melancholy Dane.'
"Two years before the assassination of President Lincoln I heard
Wilkes Booth as Romeo at the old McVicker. The passing years have
not wholly dimmed his
'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,'
and then, as if forecasting a scene to strike horror even in 'States
unborn and in accents yet unknown,' the exclamation:
'I must be gone and live,
Or stay and die!'
"High on the list of the world's benefactors write the name of Joe
Jefferson, as one who loved his fellow-men. Whatever betide,
his fame is secure. 'Age cannot wither'; it was in very truth high
privilege to have known him; to have met him face to face.
"There come moments to all when we gladly put aside the masterpieces
of the great bard, and find solace in simpler lays; such as, it
may be, appear of kinship with the happenings of daily life.
The mighty thoughts of the former unceasingly suggest life's endless
toil and endeavor.
"In words that have touched many hearts our own poet suggests:
'Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart;
. . . . . . .
Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care.'
"And so, there are times when the stately rendition of the
masterpieces, even with the greatest tragedians in the role, weary
us, and we give glad welcome to Bob Acres with 'his courage oozing
out at his finger ends,' or to dear old Rip and 'Here's to yourself
and to your family. Jus' one more; _this one won't count!'_
"The superb acting of Irving in Louis the Eleventh; the grandeur
of Forrest with 'Othello's occupation gone'; of McCullough in
Macbeth, 'supped full with horrors'; even of Booth with the
ever-recurring 'To be, or not to be,' the eternal question, all
pass with the occasion. But who can forget the gladsome hours
of mingled pathos and mirth with glorious Joe Jefferson, the star!
His life was hourly the illustration of the sublime truth:
'There is nothing so kingly as kindness.'
"Upon his tablet might truly be written:
'He never made a brow look dark,
Nor caused a tear but when he died.'
"It is ever an ungracious task to speak in terms of disparagement of
a lady. There is one, however, of whom, even in this gracious
presence, I am constrained to speak without restraint. To the
splendid assemblage before me she was unknown; possibly, however, some
veteran upon this platform may have enjoyed her personal
acquaintance. I refer to the late Mrs. Macbeth. I would not be
misunderstood. My criticism of the conduct of this lady has no
reference to her share in the 'taking off' of the venerable Duncan.
Even barring her gentle interposition, he would long ere this have
'paid his breath to time and mortal custom.' My cause of complaint
is more serious and far-reaching. It will be remembered that
her high-placed husband upon a time was the victim of insomnia.
In his wakeful hours, as he tossed upon his couch, he even made
the confession, now of record, that
'Glamis hath murdered sleep.'
"He apparently drew no comfort from the reflection that his late
benefactor, the murdered king,
'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.'
"Burdened with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, the
sometimes Thane of Cawdor indulged in an apostrophe to 'the dull
god' which has enduring place in all language:
'Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in Life's feast, ----'
"At this crucial moment, came the untimely interruption of Mrs.
Macbeth, demanding of her husband, _'What do you mean?'_
"The spell was broken, and for all time the sublime apostrophe
to sleep unfinished. What he might next have said, whose lips can
tell? Words possibly to be spoken by every tongue, to be crystallized
into every language. Her ill-fated interruption can never be
forgiven. The practical lesson to be drawn, one for all the ages,
is the peril involved in a wife's _untimely interruption_ of the
wise observations and sage reflections of her husband.
"This coming together to-night may justify the remark that satire upon
the proverbial caution of candidates in expressing an opinion _upon
any subject_ was perhaps never better illustrated than in the
incident now to be related. Upon a time many years ago, when
approaching the Capitol from Pennsylvania Avenue in company with
my friend Proctor Knott, a tall, solemn-appearing individual
addressed the latter as follows; 'Mr. Knott, I would like to have
your opinion as to which is the best play, "Hamlet" or "Macbeth."'
With a characteristic expression of countenance, Knott, with
deprecatory gesture, slowly replied:
"'My friend, don't ask me that question; I am a politician, a
candidate for Congress, and my district is about equally divided; Hamlet
has his friends down there, and Macbeth has his, and _I will take no
part between them.'_
"This observation recalls an incident of recent occurrence in a
neighboring city. A friend of mine, a minister of the Gospel--you
will bear in mind that my friends are not _all_ actors--and this
recalls the dilemma of a candidate who, upon inquiry as to the
comparative merits of heaven and its antipode, cautiously declined
to express an opinion, on the ground that _he had friends in
both places_--this minister, upon being installed in a new pastorate,
was almost immediately requested to preach at the funeral of a
prominent member of his congregation. Unacquainted as he was with
the life of the deceased, he made inquiry as to his last utterances.
"He recalled the last words of Webster, 'I am content'; of John
Quincy Adams, 'This is the last of earth'; and even the cheerless
exclamation of Mirabeau, 'Let my ears be filled with martial music,
crown me with flowers, and thus shall I enter on my eternal sleep.'
Charged with these reflections, and hoping to find the nucleus of a
funeral sermon, the minister made inquiry of the son of the deceased
parishioner, 'What were the last words of your father?' The unexpected
reply was 'Pap he didn't have _no last words;_ mother she just stayed
by him till he died.'
"And now, my friends, as the curtain falls, my last words to you:
'Say not Good-night,
But in some brighter clime
Bid me Good-morning!'"
XXIX
THE LOST ART OF ORATORY
DANIEL WEBSTER'S SPEECHES--HIS PATRIOTIC SERVICE IN FORMULATING
THE ASHBURTON TREATY--PRENTISS'S DEFENCE OF THE RIGHT OF MISSISSIPPI
TO REPRESENTATION--THE EFFECT OF HIS ELOQUENCE ON A MURDERER--HIS
PLEA FOR MERCY TO A CLIENT--WEBSTER WINS AN APPARENTLY HOPELESS
CASE--INGERSOLL'S REVIEW OF THE CAREER OF NAPOLEON--HON. ISAAC
N. PHILLIPS'S EULOGY UPON ABRAHAM LINCOLN--SENATOR INGALLS'S TRIBUTE
TO A COLLEAGUE--A SINGLE ELOQUENT SENTENCE FROM EDWARD EVERETT--
SPEECH OF NOMINATION FOR WILLIAM J. BRYAN--MR. BRYAN'S ELOQUENCE
--CLOSING SENTENCES OF HIS "PRINCE OF PEACE."
One of the must cultured and entertaining gentlemen I have ever
known was the late Gardner Hubbard. His last years were spent
quietly in Washington, but earlier in life he was an active member
of the Massachusetts bar.
In my conversations with him he related many interesting incidents
of Daniel Webster, with whom he was well acquainted. In the early
professional life of Hubbard, Mr. Webster was still at the bar;
his speech for the prosecution in the memorable Knapp murder trial
has been read with profound interest by three generations of lawyers.
As a powerful and eloquent discussion of circumstantial evidence, in
all its phases, it scarcely has a parallel; quotations from it have
found their way into all languages. How startling his description
of the stealthy tread of the assassin upon his victim! We seem to
stand in the very presence of murder itself:
"Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim and on all beneath
his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet, and the
first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong
embrace. The assassin enters through the window, already prepared,
into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the
lonely hall, half lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of
the stairs, and reaches to door of the chamber .... The face of
the innocent sleeper is turned from the murderer, and the beams of
the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, show him
where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim
passes, without a struggle, from the repose of sleep to the repose
of death. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to
the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes.
He has done the murder. No eye has seen him, no ear has heard him.
The secret is his own, and it is safe."
The speech throughout shows Webster to have been the perfect master
of the human heart,--of its manifold and mysterious workings. What
picture could be more vivid than this?
"Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has
neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it and say
it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which pierces through all
disguises and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon,
such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection even by men.
True it is, generally speaking, that murder will out. True it is,
that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things,
that those who break the great law of Heaven by shedding man's
blood seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Meantime the guilty
soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or rather,
it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself.
It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do
with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such
an inhabitant."
The closing sentences of the speech--which resulted in the conviction
and execution of the prisoner--will endure in our literature
unsurpassed as an inspiration to duty:
"There is no evil that we cannot either face or fly from but the
consciousness of duty disregarded. A sense of duty pursues us
ever. It is omnipresent like the Deity. If we take to ourselves the
wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the
sea, duty performed, or duty violated, is still with us, for our
happiness or our misery. If we say, 'the darkness shall cover us,'
in the darkness as in the light our obligations are yet with us.
We cannot escape their power, nor fly from their presence. They
are with us in this life, will be with us at its close; and in that
scene of inconceivable solemnity which lies yet farther onward, we
shall still find ourselves surrounded by the consciousness of duty,
to pain us wherever it has been violated, and to console us so far
as God may have given us grace to perform it."
Upon one occasion, when in Boston, Mr. Hubbard and I visited together
Faneuil Hall. He pointed out the exact place upon the platform
where he saw Mr. Webster stand when he delivered his speech in
vindication of his course in remaining in the Cabinet of President
Tyler after all his Whig colleagues had resigned. The schism in
the Whig ranks, occasioned by the veto of party measures, paramount
in the Presidential contest of 1840, and the bitter antagonism
thereby engendered between Henry Clay and President Tyler, will
readily be recalled. The rupture mentioned occasioned the retirement
of the entire Cabinet appointed by the late President Harrison,
except Mr. Webster, the Secretary of State. His reasons for
remaining were in the highest degree patriotic, and his speech
in Faneuil Hall a triumphant vindication. The enduring public
service he rendered while in a Cabinet with which he had not partisan
affiliation was formulating, in conjunction with the British
Minister, the Ashburton treaty. If Mr. Webster had rendered no
other public service, this alone would have entitled him to the
gratitude of the country. This treaty, advantageous from so
many points of view to the United States, adjusted amicably the
protracted and perilous controversy--unsettled by the convention
at Ghent--of our northeastern boundary, and possibly prevented a
third war between the two great English-speaking nations. The
words once uttered of Burke could never with truth be spoken of
Webster: "He gave to party that which was intended for his
country."
Mr. Hubbard insisted that the speech mentioned stood unrivalled in
the realm of sublime oratory. He declared that the intervening
years had not dimmed his recollection of the appearance of "the
God-like Webster" when he exclaimed "The Whig party die! The Whig
party die! Then, Mr. President, _where shall I go?"_
Some years before, I heard Wendell Phillips allude to the above
speech in his celebrated lecture upon Daniel O'Connell. He said, when
the startling words, "Then, Mr. President, where shall I go?" fell
from the lips of the mighty orator, a feeling of awe pervaded
the vast assemblage; something akin to an awful foreboding that
the world would surely come to an end when there was no place in
it for Daniel Webster.
This seems a fitting place to allude to possibly the highest tribute
ever paid by one great orator to another--in the loftiest sense,
a tribute of genius to genius. Mr. Hubbard told me he was one
of the immense audience gathered in Faneuil Hall to ratify the
nomination of Harrison and Tyler soon after the adjournment of the
Whig National Convention in 1840. Edward Everett presided; and
among the speakers were Winthrop, Choate, Webster, and the gifted
Sargent S. Prentiss of Mississippi. The eloquence of the last
named was a proverb in his day. He had but recently delivered a
speech in the House, vindicating his right to his seat as a
Representative from Mississippi, which cast a spell over all who
heard it, and which has come down to the present generation as one
of the masterpieces of oratory. The closing sentence of this
wondrous speech--a thousand times quoted--was: "Deny her representation
upon this floor; then, Mr. Speaker, strike from yonder escutcheon the
star that glitters to the name of Mississippi--and leave only
the stripe, fit emblem of her degradation!"
Upon the conclusion of Prentiss's Faneuil Hall speech, just mentioned,
amidst a tumult of applause such as even Faneuil Hall had rarely
witnessed, Mr. Everett, turning to Mr. Webster, inquired: "Did
you ever hear the equal of that speech?" "Never but once," was
the deep-toned reply, "and then from Prentiss himself."
Judge Baldwin, his long-time associate at the bar of Mississippi, has
given a vivid description of the effect of the power of Mr. Prentiss
before the jury in the prosecution of a noted highwayman and murderer
in that State:
"Phelps was one of the most daring and desperate of ruffians.
He fronted his prosecutor and the court not only with composure,
but with scornful and malignant defiance. When Prentiss arose
to speak, and for some time afterwards, the criminal scowled upon him
a look of hate and insolence. But when the orator, kindling with his
subject, turned upon him and poured down a stream of burning
invective like lava upon his head; when he depicted the villainy
and barbarity of his bold atrocities; when he pictured, in dark
and dismal colors, the fate which awaited him, and the awful judgment
to be pronounced at another Bar upon his crimes when his soul be
confronted with his innocent victims; when he fixed his gaze of
concentrated power upon him, the strong man's face relaxed; his
eyes faltered and fell; until, at length, unable to bear up
under self-conviction, he hid his head beneath the bar, and exhibited
a picture of ruffianly audacity cowed beneath the spell of true
courage and triumphant genius."
In his early practice in Mississippi, in closing a touching and
eloquent appeal to the jury on behalf of a client whose life was
trembling in the balance, Prentiss said:
"I have somewhere read that when God in His eternal councils
conceived the thought of man's creation, he called to him the three
ministers who wait constantly upon the throne, Justice, Truth, and
Mercy, and thus addressed them:
"'Shall we make man?'
"Then said Justice, 'O God, make him not, for he will trample upon
Thy laws.'
"Truth made answer also, 'O God, make him not, for he will pollute
Thy sanctuaries.'
"Then Mercy, dropping upon her knees and looking up through her
tears, exclaimed, 'O God, make him. I will watch over him through
all the dark paths he may have to tread.'
"Then God made man and said to him: 'Thou art the child of Mercy;
_go and deal in mercy with thy brother.'"_
In speaking of Mr. Webster's marvellous power over a jury, Mr.
Hubbard told me that he was present during the trial of a once
celebrated divorce case in one of the courts of Boston. The husband
was the complainant, and the alleged ground the one of recognized
sufficiency in all countries. Mr. Webster was the counsel for the
husband; Rufus Choate for the wife. As an advocate, the latter has had
few equals, no superiors, at the American bar. In the case mentioned,
with a distressed woman for a client, what was dearer than life, her
reputation, in the balance, it may well be believed that the wondrous
powers of the advocate were in requisition to the utmost.
At the conclusion of Choate's speech, as Mr. Hubbard assured me,
the case of the injured husband appeared hopeless. It seemed
impossible that such a speech could be successfully answered.
The opening sentence, in deep and measured tones, of Webster in
reply, the prelude to an unrivalled argument and to victory, was:
"Saint Paul in the twenty-fourth verse of the seventh chapter of
his wondrous Epistle to the Romans says: 'O wretched man that I
am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?' You alone,
gentlemen, can deliver this wretched man _from the body of this
dead woman!"_
What in word-painting can exceed the following from an address
by Robert G. Ingersoll?
"A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon--a
magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, almost fit for a dead deity--
and gazed upon the sarcophagus of black Egyptian marble where rest
the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade
and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern
world.
"I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine contemplating suicide.
I saw him at Toulon; I saw him putting down the mob in the streets
of Paris; I saw him at the head of the army in Italy; I saw him
crossing the bridge at Lodi with the tricolor in his hand; I saw
him in Egypt in the shadow of the Pyramids; I saw him conquer
the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the
crags; I saw him at Marengo, at Ulm, and at Austerlitz; I saw him in
Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild
blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves; I saw
him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster--driven by a million bayonets
back upon Paris--clutched like a wild beast--banished to Elba.
I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius.
I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and
Fortune combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king, and
I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing
out upon the sad and solemn sea.
"I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that
had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him,
pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition; and I said I
would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes; I
would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door,
and the grapes growing purple in the rays of the autumn sun; I
would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my
side, knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children
about my knee and their arms about me; I would rather have been
that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust,
than have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder."
In his eloquent eulogy upon Abraham Lincoln, my neighbor and friend,
Hon. Isaac N. Phillips, said:
"He lived with Nature and learned of her. He toiled, but his toil
was never hopeless and degrading. His feet were upon the earth
but the stars shining in perennial beauty were ever above him to
inspire contemplation. He heard the song of the thrush, and the
carol of the lark. He watched the sun in its course. He knew the
dim paths of the forest, and his soul was awed by the power of the
storm."
The closing sentences of Senator Ingalls's tribute to a departed
colleague were sombre indeed:
"In the democracy of Death all men are equal. There is neither
rank, nor station, nor prerogative, in the republic of the grave.
At that fatal threshold the philosopher ceases to be wise, and the
song of the poet is silent. There Dives relinquished his riches
and Lazarus his rags; the creditor loses his usury, and the debtor
is acquitted of his obligation; the proud man surrenders his dignity,
the politician his honors, the worldling his pleasures. Here
the invalid needs no physician, and the laborer rests from unrequited
toil. Here at last is Nature's final decree of equity. The wrongs
of time are redressed, and injustice is expiated. The unequal
distribution of wealth and honor, capacity, pleasure, and opportunity,
which makes life so cruel and inexplicable a tragedy, ceases in
the realms of Death. The strongest has there no supremacy, and
the weakest needs no defence. The mightiest captain succumbs to
the invincible adversary who disarms alike the victor and the
vanquished."
In his day Edward Everett was the most gifted of American orators.
His style, however, to readers in "these piping times of peace,"
seems a trifle stilted. What orator of the twentieth century would
attempt such a sentence as the following from Everett's celebrated
eulogy upon Washington:
"Let us make a national festival and holiday of his birthday;
and ever, as the twenty-second of February returns, let us remember
that, while with these solemn and joyous rites of observance we
celebrate the great anniversary, our fellow-citizens on the Hudson,
on the Potomac, from the Southern plains to the Western lakes, are
engaged in the same offices of gratitude and love. Nor we, nor
they alone; beyond the Ohio, beyond the Mississippi, along that
stupendous trail of immigration from the East to the West,
which, bursting into States as it moves westward, is already
threading the Western prairies, swarming through the portals of
the Rocky Mountains and winding down their slopes, the name and
the memory of Washington on that gracious night will travel with
the silver queen of heaven through sixty degrees of longitude, nor
part company with her till she walks in her brightness through the
Golden Gate of California, and passes serenely to hold midnight
court with her Australian stars. There and there only in barbarous
archipelagos, as yet untrodden by civilized man, the name of
Washington is unknown; and there, too, when they swarm with
enlightened millions, new honors shall be paid with ours to his
memory."
In my judgment the greatest living orator is William J. Bryan.
I have never known a more gifted man. A thorough scholar--having like
Lord Bacon taken all knowledge for his province--a fearless champion
of what he deems the right, he is in the loftiest sense "without
fear and without reproach."
In introducing him to an immense audience in Bloomington when he
was first a candidate for the Presidency, I said:
"The National Democracy in the Chicago convention selected for the
Presidency a distinguished statesman of the great Northwest.
For the first time in more than one hundred years of our history, a
candidate for the great office has been taken from a State lying
west of the Mississippi.
"In the nomination of our standard-bearer, the convention builded better
than it knew. Each passing hour has but emphasized the wisdom
of its choice. Truly it has been said: 'When the times demand
the man, the man appears.' The times demanded a great leader--the
great leader has appeared! His campaign is the marvel of the age.
From the Atlantic seaboard, two thousand miles to the westward,
his eloquent words have cheered the despondent, given new hopes and
aspirations to the people, touched the hearts of millions of his
countrymen. In advocating his election we have kept the faith.
We have not departed from the teachings of our fathers. We sacredly
preserve the ancient landmarks--the landmarks of all previous
Democratic conventions."
Rarely has a speech been uttered so effective in its immediate
results as that of Mr. Bryan in the Democratic National Convention
of 1896. The occasion was one never to be forgotten. When Mr.
Bryan began his speech he had not been mentioned as a candidate
for the Presidency; at its close there was no other candidate.
The closing sentences of the memorable speech were:
"Our ancestors, when but three millions in number, had the courage
to declare their political independence of every other nation;
shall we, their descendants, when we have grown to seventy millions,
declare that we are less independent than our forefathers? No, my
friends, that will never be the verdict of our people. Therefore,
we care not upon what lines the battle is fought. If they say
bimetallism is good, but that we cannot have it until other nations
help us, we reply that, instead of having a gold standard
because England has, we will restore bimetallism, and then let
England have bimetallism because the United States has it. If they
dare to come out in the open field and defend the gold standard as
a good thing, we will fight them to the uttermost. Having behind us
the productive masses of this nation and the world, supported by the
commercial interests, the laboring interests, and the toilers
everywhere, we will answer their demand for a gold standard by
saying to them: 'You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this
crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of
gold.'"
The closing sentences of his "Prince of Peace" have been read in
all languages:
"But this Prince of Peace promises not only peace but strength.
Some have thought His teachings fit only for the weak and the timid
and unsuited to men of vigor, energy, and ambition. Nothing could
be farther from the truth. Only the man of faith can be courageous.
Confident that he fights on the side of Jehovah, he doubts not the
success of his cause. What matters it whether he shares in the
shouts of triumph? If every word spoken in behalf of truth has
its influence and every deed done for the right weighs in the final
account, it is immaterial to the Christian whether his eyes behold
victory or whether he dies in the midst of the conflict.
'Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,
When they who helped thee flee in fear,
Die full of hope and manly trust,
Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.'
"Only those who believe attempt the seemingly impossible and, by
attempting, prove that one with God can chase a thousand and two
can put ten thousand to flight. I can imagine that the early
Christians who were carried into the arena to make a spectacle for
those more savage than the beasts, were entreated by their doubting
companions not to endanger their lives. But, kneeling in the centre
of the arena, they prayed and sang until they were devoured.
How helpless they seemed and, measured by every human rule, how
hopeless was their cause! And yet within a few decades the
power which they invoked proved mightier than the legions of the
emperor, and the faith in which they died was triumphant o'er
all that land. It is said that those who went to mock at their
sufferings returned asking themselves, 'What is it that can enter into
the heart of man and make him die as these die?' They were greater
conquerors in their death than they could have been had they
purchased life by a surrender of their faith.
"What would have been the fate of the Church if the early Christians
had had as little faith as many of our Christians now have? And, on
the other hand, if the Christians of to-day had the faith of the
martyrs, how long would it be before the fulfilment of the prophecy
that every knee shall bow and every tongue confess?
"Our faith should be even stronger than the faith of those who
lived two thousand years ago, for we see our religion spreading
and supplanting the philosophies and creeds of the Orient.
"As the Christian grows older he appreciates more and more the
completeness with which Christ fills the requirements of the heart
and, grateful for the peace which he enjoys and for the strength
which he has received, he repeats the words of the great scholar, Sir
William Jones:
'Before thy mystic altar, heavenly truth,
I kneel in manhood, as I knelt in youth.
Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay,
And life's last shade be brightened by thy ray.'"
XXX
THE COLONELS
A CONVIVIAL MEETING OF LAWYERS--HILARITY SMOTHERED BY THE MAINE
LAW--A FAINTING WAYFARER IS REFUSED A DRINK IN A MAINE VILLAGE--
THE APOTHECARY DEMANDS A PHYSICIAN'S PRESCRIPTION--SNAKE-BITES
IN GREAT DEMAND.
Some years ago, I spent a few weeks of inclement weather in a
beautiful village in southern Georgia. Upon calling at his office
to renew my acquaintance with a well-known lawyer, he soon invited
in the remaining members of the local bar. Everything was propitious,
and the conversation never for a moment flagged, many experiences
of the legal practitioners of the South and of the North being
related with happy effect.
I at length remarked that since my arrival, I had, somewhat to
my surprise, learned that "local option" had been adopted in their
county. An aged brother, in a tone by no means exultant, assured me
that such was the fact. I then observed that I was not a hard
drinker, but being a total stranger and liable to sudden sickness,
I asked what I would do under such circumstances.
An equally venerable brother, who bore the unique title of "Colonel,"
slowly responded, "Have to do without, sir, _have to do without;_ not
a drop to be had in the county, absolutely not a drop, sir."
The brief silence which followed this announcement was broken by
the corroborative testimony of a more youthful associate of similar
official distinction, and a genial and hospitable expression of
countenance, somehow suggesting memories of old cognac.
"Yes, sir, the use of spirituous liquors is now only a tradition
with us; but I have heard my father say, that before the war,
the indulgence in such hospitality was not uncommon among
gentlemen."
At the conclusion of still further cumulative testimony of the same
tenor, I remarked that something about the general situation reminded
me of an incident that occurred in a State far to the north while the
"Maine Law" was in operation.
A dilapidated-looking pedestrian, with a pack on his back, early
one afternoon of a hot July day pulled up in front of the post-office
in a small village in the interior of Maine. Humbly addressing
a citizen who was just coming out with his copy of the _Weekly
Tribune_ in hand, he inquired,
"Where can I get a drink?"
"The Maine Law is in force," was the reply, "and it is impossible for
you to get a drink in the State."
The heart of the wayfarer sank within him.
"Would you let a man die right here on your streets, for lack of
a drink?"
The "better angel" of the citizen being touched thereat, he replied,
"My friend, I am very sorry for you, but no liquor is ever sold
here, except by the apothecary, and then only as a medicine."
Upon further inquiry, the important fact was disclosed that the
shop of the apothecary was three-quarters of a mile away, on the
left-hand side of the road. With an alacrity indicating something
of hope, the pedestrian immediately gathered up his pack, and
through the dust and heat at length reached the designated place.
Sinking apparently exhausted upon the door-step, he feebly requested
the man behind the counter to let him have something to drink. The
immediate reply of the apothecary was that the Maine Law was in
force, and no spirituous liquors could be sold except upon the
prescription of a physician. After earnest inquiry, it was
ascertained that the nearest doctor's office was one mile away,
and the man with the pack again betook himself to the weary highway.
Returning an hour later, in tone more pitiful than before, he begged
the apothecary, as he hoped for mercy himself, to let him have a
drink. Upon inquiry as to whether he had procured the required
certificate, he said, "No, the doctor wouldn't give me any."
The assurance of the apothecary that the case appeared hopeless
only added to the distress of the poor man, whose sands seemed now
indeed to be running low.
Stirred to the depths by the agony of his visitor, the apothecary at
length said,
"My friend, I would be glad to help you, but it is impossible for me
to let you have a drink of spirituous liquor unless you have a
doctor's certificate _or have been snake-bit."_
At the last-mentioned suggestion, the face of the man of
repeated disappointments measurably brightened, and he eagerly
inquired where he could find a snake. The now sympathetic man
of bottles told him to follow the main road three miles to the
forks, and then a few hundred yards to the west, and he would find
a small grove of decayed tress, where there still lingered a few
snakes, and by the exercise of a reasonable degree of diligence he
might manage _to get bit,_ and thereby lay the foundation for
the desired relief. With bundle again in place, and evincing a
buoyancy of manner to which he had been a stranger for many hours,
the traveller resumed the quest.
Hours later, when the shadows had lengthened, and the fire-flies
were glistening in the distance,
"With a look so piteous in purport,
As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors,"
he re-entered the apothecary's shop, threw down his bundle, and in
tones suggestive of the agony of lost souls, again begged for a
drink.
"Did you get snake-bit?" was the feeling inquiry of the man at the
helm.
"No," was the heart-rending reply, _"every snake I met had engagements
six months ahead, for all the bites he could furnish!"_
XXXI
REMINISCENCES
A BARBECUE AT THE BLUE SPRING, KY.--NOTABLE NATIVES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD
--THE SCHOOLHOUSE CHURCH--SOME OF THE PREACHERS--THE TEACHER OF
SINGING--HOW THE SCHOOLMASTER WAS PAID--MANNERS AND DISCIPLINE--THE
DEBATING SOCIETY--THE WRITER'S SPEECH TO HIS OLD NEIGHBORS--SOME
BOYHOOD FRIENDS.
Soon after my nomination for the Vice-Presidency, in 1892, I attended
a barbecue at the Blue Spring, a stone's throw from my father's
old home in Kentucky. This was in the county of Christian, in the
southwestern part of the State. It is a large and wealthy county,
its tobacco product probably exceeding that of any other county in
the United States.
Christian County was the early home of men distinguished in the
field, at the bar, and in the State and National councils.
Hopkinsville, the county-seat, had been the home of Stites, the
learned Chief Justice of the Court of Appeals; of Jackson, who fell
while gallantly leading his command at the battle of Perryville;
of Morehead, an early and distinguished Governor of the Commonwealth;
of Sharp, whose legal acumen would have secured him distinction at
any bar; of McKenzie, whose wit and eloquence made him the long-time
idol and the Representative in Congress, of the famed "Pennyrile"
district; of Bristow, the accomplished Secretary of the Treasury
during the administration of President Grant; of the Henry brothers,
three of whom, from different States, were at a later day Representatives
in Congress, and one the Whig candidate against Andrew Johnson for
Governor of Tennessee.
Hon. Gustavus A. Henry, well known as the "Eagle Orator of Tennessee,"
was the Whig candidate for Governor of the State in opposition
to Andrew Johnson, at a later day President of the United States.
The latter was at the time an old-fashioned, steady-going mountain
orator with none of the brilliancy of his gifted antagonist. At
the close of a series of joint debates Johnson said: "This speech
terminates our joint debates. I have now encountered the 'Eagle
Orator' upon every stump in the State, and come out of the contest
with no flesh of mine in his claws--no blood of mine upon his beak."
To which Henry instantly replied: "The eagle--the proud bird of
freedom--never wars upon a corpse!"
A few miles from the Blue Spring, in the same county, were the
early homes of Senator Roger Q. Mills of Texas, Governor John M.
Palmer of Illinois, and Jefferson Davis of the Southern Confederacy.
Less than a score of miles to the southward, upon the banks of the
Cumberland in Tennessee, stood historic Fort Donelson; while a few
hours' journey to the northward stands the monument which marks
the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln.
Following the earliest westward trail from Iredell County, North
Carolina, across the Blue Ridge Mountains, for a great distance
along the banks of the romantic French Broad my grandfathers,
"Scotch-Irish Presbyterians," James Stevenson and Adlai Ewing, with
their immediate families and others of their kindred, had in the
early days of the century, after a long and perilous journey,
finally reached the famous Spring already mentioned. Near by,
their tents were pitched, and in time permanent homes established in
the then wilderness of southwestern Kentucky.
The first public building constructed was of logs, with puncheon
floor, and set apart to the double purpose of school-house and
church for the use of all denominations. Its site was near the
spot where the speaker's stand was now erected for the barbecue
which I have mentioned.
From the pulpit of this rude building, the early settlers had more
than once listened spell-bound to the eloquence of Peter Cartwright,
Henry B. Bascom, Nathan L. Rice, Finis Ewing, and Alexander
Campbell.
In this old church the time-honored custom was for some one of its
officers to line out the hymn, two lines at a time, and then lead the
singing, in which the congregation joined. Among my earliest
recollections is that of my uncle, Squire McKenzie, one of the best
of men, standing immediately in front of the pulpit, and faithfully
discharging this important duty after the hymn had been read in
full by the minister. I distinctly recall the solemn tones in
which, upon communion occasions, he lined out, in measured and
mellow cadence, the good old hymn beginning:
"'T was on that dark, that doleful night,
When powers of earth and hell arose."
Mr. Sawyer, too, the old-time singing-school teacher, has honored place
in my memory. Once a month, in the old church, the singing-school
class of which we were all members regularly assembled. The school
was in four divisions, Bass, Tenor, Counter, and Treble; each member
was provided with a copy of the "Missouri Harmony," with "fa,"
"sol," "la," "mi," appearing in mysterious characters upon every
page; the master, magnifying his office, as with tuning-fork in
hand he stood proudly in the midst, raised the tune, and as it
progressed smiled or deeply frowned upon each of the divisions
as occasion seemed to require. His voice has long been hushed,
but I seem again to hear his cheery command, "Attention, class!
Utopia, page one hundred!"
Looking back through the long vista of years, it is my honest belief
that such singing as his, at home or abroad, I have never heard.
Upon his tablet might appropriately have been inscribed:
"Sleep undisturbed within this sacred shrine,
Till angels wake thee with notes like thine."
To this old field school came in the early time the "scholars" for
many miles around. It was in very truth the only Alma Mater,
for that generation, of almost the entire southern portion of
the county. My father in his boyhood attended this school, as did
his kinsmen, John W. and Fielding N. Ewing; the last named of whom
was, at a much later period, the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church
of Bloomington, Illinois, and his elder brother was the Mayor of
that city.
At that early day, and later when I attended the same school, there
were no salaries provided for the teachers, The schoolmaster
visited the families within reasonable distance of the schoolhouse
with his subscription paper, and the school was duly opened when
a sufficient number of pupils had subscribed.
The ways of the old field school and the methods of the old-time
teachers belong now to the past. Once experienced, however,
they have an abiding place in the memory. The master, upon his
accustomed perch near the spacious fire-place, with his ever-present
symbol of authority, the rod--which even Solomon would have considered
fully up to the orthodox standard--in alarming proximity; the boys
"making their manners" by scraping the right foot upon the floor
and bowing low as they entered the school-room; the girls upon like
occasions equally faithful in the practice of a bewitching
little "curtsey" which only added to their charms; the "studying
aloud," the hum of the school-room being thereby easily heard a
mile or two away; the timid approach to the dreaded master with
the humble request that he would "mend a pen," "parse a verb,"
or "do a sum."
An hour, called recess, was given for the dinner from the
baskets brought from home, and then the glorious old games, marbles,
town-ball, and "bull pen," to the heart's content! At the sound
of the ominous command, "Books!" each scholar promptly resumed his
seat, the merry shout of the playground at once giving way to
the serious business of "saying lessons." In those good old days,
the slightest act of omission or commission upon the part of the
pupil was confronted with a terrible condition instead of a harmless
theory. In very truth the uncomfortable effect of the punishment
unfailingly administered--"doing his duty to your parents," as the petty
school-room tyrant was wont to observe--was in small degree lessened
by the comforting assurance that the victim "would thank him for
it the longest day he lived!"
Then, to crown all, came the debating society, with the schoolmaster
presiding, and the entire neighborhood, sweethearts and all, in
attendance, and the boys for the first time testing their oratorical
powers. Vigilant preparations having been made for the discussion
of such momentous questions as: "Which deserves the most
credit, Columbus for discovering America, or Washington for defending
it?" or "Which brings the greatest happiness to mankind, pursuit
or possession?"
In "Georgia Scenes" is an amusing account of a debate in a backwoods
"Academy" nearly a century ago. The two brightest boys, after
anxious preparation, succeeded in formulating for debate a question
utterly meaningless, but which appeared upon hurried reading to
touch the very bed-rock of human government. The "conspirators"
mentioned were the respective leaders in the debate which closed the
public exercises of the annual "Exhibition" of the Academy. The
leaders had made careful preparation for the contest, and appeared
fully to understand the question, and each in turn highly complimented
the able argument of his rival. Much amusement was caused by
the remaining speakers, when called in order, who candidly admitted
that they didn't understand the question, and patiently submitted
to the fine imposed by the rules of the Society. That a boy of but
mediocre talents should have failed to participate in the debate, will
not be considered remarkable when the question is stated: "Whether,
in public elections, the vote of faction should prevail by internal
suggestions, _or the bias of jurisprudence?"_
The late General Gordon related to me the above incident, and added
that the leaders mentioned were at a later day well known to the
country, one the learned Bishop Longstreet of Georgia, the other
the eloquent Senator McDuffie of South Carolina.
Events almost forgotten, forms long since vanished, were vividly
recalled as, after long absence, I revisited the spot inseparably blended
with the joyous associations of childhood. The platform from which
I was to speak had been erected near the ruins of the old church
above mentioned, of which my grandfather had been a ruling elder, my
father, mother, and other kindred the earliest members.
Upon my introduction to the vast assemblage--the good things
suggested by "barbecue" having meanwhile given to all an abundant feeling
of contentment--I began by brief reference to the pleasure I
experienced in again visiting, after the passing of the years which
separated childhood from middle age, scenes once so familiar,
and meeting face to face so many of my early associates and friends,
and remarked, that in the early days in Illinois the not unusual
reply of the Kentucky emigrant, when asked what part of the Old
Commonwealth he came from was, "From the Blue Grass," or "From near
Lexington," but that my invariable answer to that inquiry had even
been, "From the Pennyrile!"
Some mention I made of Mr. Caskie, the dreaded school-master of
the long ago, caused a momentary commotion in the audience, and
immediately a man of white hairs and bowed by the weight of more
than fourscore years, was lifted to the front of the platform.
With arm about my neck, he earnestly inquired: "Adlai, I came
twenty miles to hear you speak; don't you remember me?" The audience
apparently appreciated the instant reply: "Yes, Mr. Caskie, _I
still have a few marks left to remember you by!"_
The venerable and long ago forgiven schoolmaster was fearfully
deaf, and to prevent the possibility of a single word escaping him,
he stood close beside me, and with his hand behind his ear and the
other resting tenderly on my shoulder, faithfully followed me in
my journeyings to and fro across the stage during the two-hours'
speech which followed.
My speech at length concluded, I was warmly greeted by scores of
old neighbors and friends. Just forty years had passed since my
father had removed his family to Illinois, and it may well be
believed that it was difficult to recall promptly all the names
and faces of those I had known in childhood. Even a candidate has,
at such times, "some rights under the Constitution"; one of which,
I honestly believe, is total exemption from the tormenting
inquiries: "Do you know me? Well, what is my name?" The laurels,
even of Job, had he ever been a candidate, would probably have
turned to willows.
I am here reminded of an experience of one of my early competitors
for Congress. It was his happy forte to remember instantly all
his old acquaintances; not only that, but to know their full names.
To call out in friendly and familiar tone, in and out of season,
"Bill," "Dick," "Sam," "Bob," a hundred times a day, was as natural
to him as to breathe.
Upon one occasion, however, the fates seemed slightly untoward.
At the close of one of our joint debates, in the southern part
of the district, he was greeted by a demure-looking individual with
the salutation, "How are you, Judge?"
"My dear sir," exclaimed the regular candidate, grasping the
interrogator warmly by the hand, "how are you, and how is the
old lady?"
"I am not married, Judge," was the deliberate response, as of
one assuming the entire responsibility.
"Certainly not, certainly not, my dear sir; I meant you mother.
How is that excellent old lady?"
"My mother has been dead twenty years, Judge," was the mournful
reply.
A trifle embarrassed, but not entirely off his base, the judge
looked earnestly into the face of the bereaved, and said:
"My friend, excuse me, your countenance is perfectly familiar to
me, but I do not at this moment remember exactly who you are."