"Jack Jones"--A Public Meeting for Ireland--Henry Clay--Other
Speakers--American Feeling in reference to the Irish Famine--A
Slave-Auction.
On that dreadful day, the 28th of January, on which we arrived in New
Orleans, Jack Jones, a Welshman, was drowned in the Mississippi, in a
generous effort to save another man from a watery grave. In that effort
he succeeded, but at the cost of his own life. On the 2nd of February
there was an advertisement in the papers, in which his friends offered
a reward for the recovery of the body. Where was the corporation, or
some one of the municipalities? for the papers make a continual
reference to first, second, and third municipalities. Was there no
public body, either civil or humane, to come forward on such an
occasion? Had "Jack Jones" gone to the war, and butchered a score or
two of harmless Mexicans, he would have been loaded with honours; but
he _saved_ a human being, close to the metropolis of the South, and his
body was left to perish like that of a dog--for aught the citizens
cared. I felt proud of my countryman. All honour to "Jack Jones!" May
none of Cambria's sons perish in a cause less noble!
On the evening of the 4th of February I attended a public meeting for
the relief of the Irish. It was held in the New Commercial Exchange,
and was the first public meeting I had had an opportunity of attending
in America. The Commercial Exchange is a fine large building, supported
by pillars, and containing an area on the ground floor that would
accommodate about 1,500 people. It is but ill-adapted for a public
meeting, having no seats or benches. I found about 800 gentlemen
present, but no ladies. Nor was that to be wondered at; for out of the
800, about 799 were spitting, 600 smoking cigars, 100 chewing tobacco,
and perhaps 200 both chewing and smoking at the same time, for many of
those people chew one end of the cigar while burning the other. There
was a large platform, and a great number of gentlemen were upon it.
Governor Johnson was the president, assisted by lots of
vice-presidents. When I entered, a tall old gentleman, with rather high
cheek bones, and a voice somewhat tremulous and nasal, was speaking. He
descanted, in a second or third rate style, on the horrors of famine in
Ireland,--its horrors especially as seen in the family. Coming to a
period, he said, "It is under these circumstances that I want you to
put your hands into your pockets, and pull out something, and throw it
into the lap of starving Ireland!" This caused the most tremendous
cheering I ever heard,--"bravo--bravo--bravo,--whoo--hoo--whoo!" The
last sound was to me altogether new. Not having learned phonography, I
can give you no adequate notion of it; but it was a combination of the
owl's screech and the pig's scream. The favoured orator continued his
speech a little longer, and at the close there was a storm of applause
ten times more terrific than the former. And who was the speaker? It
was none other, as I subsequently ascertained, than the celebrated
Henry Clay! In departing from the tone of eulogy in which it is
fashionable to speak of him, I may be charged with a want of taste and
discrimination. That I cannot help. My simple object in these letters
is to tell how Transatlantic men and manners appeared to my eye or ear.
Before I went to America my respect for Henry Clay was very great. I am
sorry to say it is not so now. I have closely examined his conduct in
reference to "the peculiar institution," and find it to have been
that--not of a high-minded statesman and true philanthropist--but of a
trimming, time-serving partisan. He has been a main pillar of slavery;
and as the idol of the Whig party, a great stumbling-block in the way
of those who sought the overthrow of that system. The man of whom I
have thus freely, yet conscientiously expressed myself, is nevertheless
thus spoken of in the _New Englander_, a quarterly review of high
character now open before me:--"We intend to speak in the praise of
Henry Clay. His place among the great men of our country is permanently
fixed. He stands forth prominent above the politicians of the hour, in
the midst of the chosen few who are perpetual guardians of the interest
and of the honour [slavery?] of the nation. The foundations of his fame
are laid deep and imperishable, and the superstructure is already
erected. It only remains that the mild light of the evening of life be
shed around it."
The cheering at the close of Mr. Clay's speech merged into an awful
tempest of barking. I could compare it to nothing else,--500 men
barking with all their might! I thought it was all up with the
meeting--that all was lost in incurable confusion; and yet the
gentlemen on the platform looked down upon the raging tempest below
with calmness and composure, as a thing of course. Amidst the noise I
saw a middle-aged gentleman, rising on the platform, deliberately take
off his top-coat, and all was hushed--except at the outskirts of the
assembly, where a great trade in talking and tobacco was constantly
carried on. This gentleman's name was S.S. Prentiss, Esq.; and the
barking, it was now evident, consisted of calling out Prentiss!
--Prentiss!--Prentiss! with all their might, on the top of the
voice, and with an accent, sharp and rising, on the first syllable.
This gentleman gave us to understand that he was a lawyer--that he had
often appeared before his fellow-citizens on former occasions (those
occasions he briefly enumerated); but that the present was the most
painful of all. He expatiated largely, and with great vehemence of tone
and action, on the miseries of famine as experienced in
Ireland,--talked much of their own glorious and free country--("Looking
out for a few niggers this morning?" occurred to me),--and made some
severe reflections--not, I admit, altogether undeserved--on the
Government of England. This man was fluent, though turgid. He seemed
resolved to _act_ the orator throughout, and certainly to me appeared
in point of talent far--far a-head of Henry Clay. Bravos and hoohoos in
abundance greeted Mr. Prentiss. He spoke long; but the noise of the
suburbs prevented my hearing so perfectly as I wished.
The cheering at the close of this speech merged into barking as before.
In this instance it was Hunt!--Hunt!--Hunt! that they called for. The
president (standing) showed them a sheet of paper, containing probably
a list of subscriptions, and smiled coaxingly to intimate that he
wished that to be read. But it would not do. Hunt!--Hunt!--Hunt! was
still the cry; and the democracy, as before, carried the day.
By this time the atmosphere of the room had become so poisoned with
smoking that I could endure it no longer. I had not only the general
atmosphere to bear, but special puffs, right in my face, accompanying
the questions and remarks which, in that free meeting, of free
citizens, in a free country, were freely put to me by the free-and-easy
gentlemen around. The meeting resulted in the raising of 15,000 dollars
for the relief of the Irish. The sum was handed by the American
Minister in London to Lord John Russell; and a note from his Lordship,
acknowledging the gift, has gone the round of the papers on both sides
of the Atlantic. The subject of relief to Ireland was subsequently, in
many ways and places, brought under my notice; and while I have been
delighted in many instances with the display of pure and noble
generosity, it was too evident that much of what was done was done in a
spirit of self-glorification over a humbled and afflicted rival. It was
a fine opportunity to feed the national vanity, and to deal hard blows
to England. Not that I was sorry to see those blows, or to feel them.
They drew no blood, and were a hundred times more efficacious than if
they had. I felt that there was much in the conduct of England towards
her unhappy sister-isle for which she deserved the severest
castigation. But I must protest against the form of putting the case,
which was very common throughout the United States: "You are shocked at
our slavery; and yet you have horrors of ten times greater magnitude,
in the Irish famine at your own doors." In this way the Irish famine,
was a God-sent sort of a salvo for the slave-holder's conscience, so
soothing and grateful to his tortured feelings that he was but too
happy to pay for it by a contribution for the relief of Ireland.
In consequence of the following advertisement in the _Picayune_, I
screwed up my feelings, and resolved for once at least in my life to
see a slave-auction. I was the more disposed to attend this, as it was
distinctly stated that they would be sold in families. I should not
therefore have to behold the wife torn away from the husband, the
husband from the wife, the parent from the child, or the child from the
parent, as is so commonly done.
"COTTON-FIELD HANDS.--By Beard, Calhoun, and Co., auctioneers.--Will be
sold at auction, on Friday, the 5th inst., at 12 o'clock, at Bank's
Arcade, thirty-seven Field Slaves; comprising eighteen from one
plantation, and fourteen from another. All acclimated Negroes. To be
sold in Families. Full particulars at sale."
"F. 4."
Setting off a few minutes before 12, after about half-a-dozen
inquiries, and as many "guessing" answers, I found "Bank's Arcade." It
was very near the Presbyterian church, in which I had heard such
excellent sermons on the preceding Sabbath. It was a large open
building: one side occupied as a bar for the retail of strong drinks,
and the other fitted up for auctioneering purposes,--there being
conveniences for three or four of the trade to exercise their vocation
at the same time. One end was used for the sale of books and other
publications, chiefly novels; and the other for the exhibition of fancy
goods.
As I got in at one end, I heard a voice--with that peculiar, twirling,
rapid, nasal twang, which marks the Transatlantic auctioneer--say, "400
dollars for this fine young woman--only 400 dollars--420, only
420--430--440, only 440 dollars offered for this fine young woman." By
this time I had got in front of the performer, and had a full view of
the whole affair. And sure enough she was a "fine young woman," about
twenty-three years of age, neatly dressed, not quite----But the scene
shall form the subject of my next letter.