LETTER LXXX.
REPORTING OUR UNCLE ABE'S LATEST LITTLE TALE; OUR CORRESPONDENT'S HISTORICAL CHAUNT; THE BOSTON NOVEL OF "MR. SMITH;" AND A FUNERAL DISCOURSE BY THE DEVOUT CHAPLAIN OF THE MACKEREL BRIGADE.
WASHINGTON, D.C., Jan. 4th, 1863.
The more I see of our Honest Abe, my boy,--the more closely I analyzethe occasional acts by which he individualizes himself as a unitdistinct from the decimals of his cabinet,--the deeper grows my faithin his sterling wisdom. Standing a head and shoulders above the othermen in power, he is the object at which the capricious lightnings ofthe storm first strike; and were he a man of wax, instead of the grandold rock he is, there would be nothing left of him but a shapeless andinert mass of pliable material by this time. There are deep traces ofthe storm upon his countenance, my boy; but they are the sculpture ofthe tempest on a natural block of granite, graduating the features ofyoung simplicity into the sterner lineaments of the mature sublime, andshaping one of those strong and earnest faces which God sets, asindelible seals, upon the ages marked for immortality. Abused andmisrepresented by his political foes, alternately cajoled andreproached by his other foes,--his political friends,--he still pursuesthe honest tenor of the obvious Right, and smiles at calumny. Hisgood-nature, my boy, is a lamp that never goes out, but burns, with asteady light, in the temples of his mortality through all the darkhours of his time:
"As some tall cliff that rears its awful form, Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm; Though round its base the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head."
They tell a story about the Honest Abe which this good pen of minecannot refrain from writing. A high moral, political chap from theSixth Ward, having learned that there was a pleasing clerical vacancyin the Treasury Department, sought a hasty interview with the HonestAbe, and says he:
"I am a member of our excellent National Democratic Organization, whichis at this moment eligible for office, on the score of far more trueloyalty to the Union of our forefathers than can be found in any otherorganization of the present distracting period. I will admit," says thegenial chap, in a fine burst of honesty, "that our Organization hasdone much for the sake of the South in times past; I will admit that wehave seemingly sided with the sunny South for the sake of our party. Iwill admit," says this candid chap, with a slight cough, "that ourexcellent Democratic Organization has at times seemed to sympathizewith our wayward sisters for the sake of itself _as_ an Organization.But now," says the impressive chap majestically, "having heard therecent news from Sumter, the excellent Organization of which I am apart, stands ready to sacrifice everything for the sake of the Union,and demands that it shall be admitted to all the privileges ofundisguised loyalty."
Here the excited chap blushed ingenuously, and says he:
"Any offices which you might have to dispose of would be acceptable tothe Organization of which I am a prominent part."
The Honest Abe was wiping the blade of his jack-knife with his thumb atthe time, and says he:
"What you say about the present willingness of the Organization tosacrifice everything for the sake of the Union, neighbor, reminds me ofa small tale. When I was beating the prairies for clients in Illinois,"says the Honest Abe, smiling at the back of the hand in which he heldthe jack-knife,--"when I was stalking for clients, I knew an old 'unnamed Job Podger, who lived at Peoria."
Here the honest Abe leaned away over the arm of his chair toward theattentive political chap, and says he--
"Podger didn't know as much as would fill a four-inch spelling-book;but he had enough money to make education quite dispensable, and hiswife knew enough for all the rest of the family. This wife was a verygood woman in her way," says the Honest Abe, kindly,--"she was a verygood woman in her way, and made my friend Podger so happy at home thathe never dared to go away from home without her permission. Hertemper," says the Honest Abe, putting one of his feet upon the sill ofthe nearest window,--"her temper was of the useful nature to keep myfriend Podger and the children sufficiently warm all the year round,and I don't think she ever called Job Podger an Old Fool except whencompany was present. If she had one peculiarity more than another, itwas this: she was always doing something for Podger's sake."
Here the political chap was seized with a severe cough; but the HonestAbe only smiled pleasantly at his jack-knife, and went on:
"She was always doing something for Podger's sake. Did she buy a newdress, it was for Podger's sake; did she have a tea-party and aquilting-bee, it was solely for the sake of Podger; did she refuse tocontribute for the fund of the heathen, it was solely on account of Mr.Podger. But her strong point in this matter," says the Honest Abe,leaning back in his chair against the wall, and scraping the sole ofhis left boot with his knife, "her strong point was, that she endured agreat deal of suffering for Podger's sake. Did she sprain her ankle onthe cellar-stairs, she would say: 'Just see what I suffer for _your_sake, Podger;' did she have a sick headache from drinking too muchYoung Hyson, she would tie up her face in camphor, and say: 'Only see,Podger, how much I bear for _your_ sake;' did she catch cold fromstanding too long before a dry-goods shop window, she would go and sitin a dark room with a flannel stocking round her neck, murmuring: 'Iwas a goose ever to marry such a fool of a man as you be,--but I amwilling to suffer even this for _your_ sake.' In fact," says the HonestAbe, commencing to cut his nails,--"in truth, that woman was alwayssuffering for Podger's sake, and Podger felt himself to be a guiltyman.
"One day, I remember, my friend Podger and his wife were going toChicago to buy a new set of furs for Podger's sake, and just as Podgergot comfortably nested in his seat in the car, the suffering woman atea lozenge, and says she: 'I shan't be fit to live, Podger, if you don'tgo out to the baggage car again, and make certain sure that they'll getall our baggage.'
"Now Podger had been out six times before to see about the same thing,"says the Honest Abe, earnestly; "he'd been out six times before, andbegan to feel wrathy. '_Our_ baggage!' says he, 'OUR baggage! Mrs.Podger.' Here my friend Podger grew very red in the face, and says he:'I rather like that, you know,--OUR baggage!--two brass-bound trunksand covers, belonging to Mrs. Podger; three carpet-bags and onereticule with steel lock, the property of Mrs. P.; two bandboxes and agreen silk umbrella, belonging to Mary Jane Podger; three shawls tiedup in a newspaper, and two baskets, owned by Mrs. M. J. Podger; oneclean collar and a razor, carried by Job Podger. OUR baggage!'
"Here my friend Podger attempted to laugh sardonically behind hiscollar, and came near going straight into apoplexy. Would you believeit," says the Honest Abe, poking the political chap in the ribs withhis jack-knife, "would you believe it? Mrs. Podger burst at once intobitter tears, and says she: 'Oh, o-h! a-hoo-hoo-hoo! to think I shouldhave to suffer in this way for my husband's sake!' It wasn't long afterthat," says the Honest Abe, lowering his tone, "it wasn't very longafter that, when Mrs. P. took a violent cold on her lungs, fromstanding too long on the damp ground at a camp-meeting for Podger'ssake, and was soon a very sick woman.
"What particularly frightened my friend Podger was, that she didn't saythat this was for his sake for two whole days, and in his horror ofmind he went and brought a clergyman to see her. This clergyman," saysthe Honest Abe, with reverence of manner, "this clergyman was not oneof those sombre, forlorn pastors, who would make you think that it is agrievous thing to be a priest unto your benignant Creator; he ratherindicated by his ever-cheerful manner that the only perpetual happinessis to be found in a life of pious ministrations. When he followed myfriend Podger to the bedside, he smiled encouragingly at the sick Mrs.P., and rubbed his hands, and says he: 'How do we find ourselves now,my dear madam? Are we about to die this pleasant morning?' She answeredhim feebly," says the Honest Abe, feelingly, "she answered him feebly,for she was very weak. She said that she feared she had not spent herlife as she should, but trusted that the prayers she had breathedduring her hours of pain would not be unanswered. 'Ah!' said she, 'Ifeel that I could suffer still m
ore than I have suffered, for myIntercessor's sake!'
"The moment she uttered these last words," says the Honest Abe, "themoment she uttered these words, my friend Podger, who had been standingnear the door, the very picture of misery, suddenly gave a start,brightened up with a look of intense joy, beckoned the clergyman tofollow him into the kitchen, and fairly danced down stairs. In fact,the good minister found him dancing about the kitchen like onepossessed, and says he:
"'Mr. Podger! Job Podger! I am shocked. What can you mean by suchconduct?'
"My friend Podger caught him around the neck, and says he:
"'She's going to get well--she's going to get well! I knew she wouldn'tgo and leave her poor old silly Job in that way. Oh, an't I a happy oldfool, though!'
"The clergyman stepped back in alarm, and says he:
"'Are you mad, sir? How do you know your wife will get well?'
"Poor Podger looked upon the parson with a face that fairly beamed, andsays he: 'How do I _know_ it? Why, didn't you hear her yourself? _She'scommenced to call me names!_'"
Here the Honest Abe smiled abstractedly out of the window, and says he:
"She did get well, too, and lived to suffer often again for Podger'ssake: You see," says the Honest Abe, turning suddenly upon thepolitical chap, as though he had not seen him before,--"you see, Mrs.Podger had been so much in the habit of suffering everything for myfriend Podger's sake, that when she spoke of suffering even for thenoblest cause, he naturally thought she was only calling names. Andthat's the way," says the Honest Abe, cheerfully, "that's the way withyour Democratic Organization. It has been so long in the habit ofsacrificing everything for the sake of the sunny South and Party, thatwhen it talks of sacrificing both for the sake of the holy cause ofUnion, it seems to me as though it is only calling names!"
Immediately upon the termination of this wholesome domestic tale, thepolitical chap sprang from his seat, smiled feebly at the ceiling for aminute, crammed his hat down over his eyes, and fled greatlydemoralized.
The New Year, my boy, dawns blithely upon our distracted country asaccurately predicted by the Tribune Almanac; and having given much deepthought to the matter, I am impressed with the conviction that thefirst of January is indeed the commencement of the year. There issomething solemn in the idea; it is the period when our tailors send intheir little bills, and when fresh thoughts of the negro race stealupon our minds. How many New Years have arrived only to find theunoffending American, of African descent, a hopeless bondman, toilingin hopeless servitude, and wearing coarse underclothing! Occasionally,my boy, he would wear a large seal ring, but it was always brass; andnow and then he would exhibit a large breastpin, but it was alwaysgalvanized. When I see my fellow-men here wearing much jewelry, I thinkof the unoffending negro, and say to myself, "from the same shop, byall that's bogus!"
'Twas on New-Year's Eve that I took prominent part in a great literaryentertainment at the tent of Captain Villiam Brown, near the shore ofDuck Lake; and responded to universal mackerel desire by sweetlysinging an historical Southern
ROMAUNT.
I.
'Tis of a rich planter in Dixie I tell, Who had for his daughter a pretty dam-sel; Her name it was Linda De Pendleton Coates, And large was her fortune in treasury notes.
CHORUS.--Concisely setting forth the exact value of those happy treasury notes:
The treasury note of the Dixian knight Possesses a value that ne'er comes to light,-- Except when the holder, too literal far, May bring it to light as he lights his segar.
II.
Miss Linda's boudoir was a sight to behold: A Northern man's breast-bone a shelf did uphold; Of dried Yankee ribs all her boxes were full; Her powder she kept in a Fire Zouave's skull.
CHORUS.--Beautifully explaining Southern taste for Northern bones, and proving that an author's bones are sacred in the sight of Southern damsels:
Your soft Southern maidens (like nations at large, Who take the dear bones of their authors in charge) Are so literary, they'd far rather scan A Norther's dead bones than the best living man.
III.
She played the piano; embroidered also, And worked worsted poodles and trees in a row; Made knitting-work slippers that no one could wear, And plastered pomatum all over her hair.
CHORUS.--Satisfactorily revealing to the curious fair sex why she used pomatum when Bandoline was in fashion:
Though Bandoline surely excels all pomade, The Southern supply couldn't run the blockade; At first it _did_ bring an exorbitant sum, And then contrabandoline straight did become.
IV.
As Linda was practising "Norma," one day, Her father came in in his usual way; And having first spat on the carpeted floor, Went on to address her as never before:
CHORUS.--Showing conclusively why this tender parent had never done so before:
On Southern plantations when money is flush Paternal affection comes out with a gush: But when, as in the war times, the cash is _non est_, The Father is lost in the planter distressed.
V.
"My daughter, my Linda," he tenderly said, "Your mother for several years has been dead; But not until now could I muster the strength To tell you what all must have found out at length."
CHORUS.--Casually demonstrating how it must really have been found out at length:
The Dixian feminines, true to their sex, To each other's precedents pay their respects; And if there's a secret in any girl's life, They're bound to disclose it before she's a wife.
VI.
"That you are my child, it were vain to deny; But who was your mother? There, darling, don't cry. The truth must be told, though it harrows me sore, Your ma was an Octoroon slave,--nothing more."
CHORUS.--Analytical of morals in the sunny South, and touchingly illustrative of the Institution affected by the Emancipation Proclamation:
Your slave is your property, therefore 'tis clear The child of your slave is your chattel fore'er; Though you the child's father may happen to be, That child is a slave,--otherwise, prop-er-ty.
VII.
"I've bred you, my darling, as ladies are bred, You've got more outside than inside of your head; But now, that your pa can no longer afford A daughter to keep, you must go by the board."
CHORUS.--Concerning the manner of going by the board generally adopted in the land of Chivalry:
The planter on finding his funds getting low, Right straight to an auctioneer's shambles doth go; And "Find me a ready-cash buyer," says he, "To take his own pick out of my fam-i-ly."
VIII.
Miss Linda sprang up with a look of dismay: "You surely don't mean, dear papa, what you say?" Then spake the stern parent, nowise looking blue, But smiling, in fact: "Well, I reckon I do."
CHORUS.--Calculated to account for the complacency of the tender parent on this trying occasion:
Now what, after all, is a sale to the chit? Some gallant may buy her and love her a bit; One half of the women in marriages sought Are simply and plainly and formally bought.
IX.
"Dear father," said Linda, "step out for a while, I'll think the thing over, and merit your smile; For if what I'd bring would relieve you the least, I'll bring it myself, though I'm sold like a beast."
CHORUS.--Tending to deprecate any imputation on the maiden's refinement that might follow her use of that last expression:
The culture of woman, as known in the South, Tends greatly to widen and quicken the mouth; And if a fair Southerner's language is coarse, 'Tis because nothing finer her style would endorse.
X.
The parent went out, and he stayed for an hour, Having taken some punch and a Hennessey--sour; And when he came back, 'twas his daughter he fou
nd Slain by her own scissors, and dead on the ground.
CHORUS.--Suggesting facts to the coroner's jury, and clearing up all mystery as to the lamentable suicide:
Since scissors for ripping out stitches are made, A girl in extremity finds them an aid; She's only to open them fairly and wide, And give them a cut at the stitch in her side.
XI.
Beside the dead body a billet displayed, Said, "See, dearest father, the mischief you've made; I couldn't survive to be sold; for you know, I'd far rather die than a sell-ibate go."
CHORUS.--Commenting genially on the idiosyncrasy of female character evidenced in this revelation:
All over the world it is plain to espy That woman a husband has e'er in her eye; And if no fine fellow her husband can be, She'll even take up with a _felo de se_!
XII.
The neighbors came in. "What a pity!" said they, "To lose such a daughter, and in such a way." "My daughter be hanged!" said the parent sublime,-- "_It's one thousand dollars I'm euchred this time!_"
CHORUS.--Deducing a beautiful and useful moral from this burst of paternal agony:
My dear fellow-citizens, lay it to heart: Who'd sell a young woman must work it up smart: Or else, like the planter, whose story I've told, He'll only go selling to find himself sold.
When I had finished singing, Captain Samyule Sa-mith exhibited a smallmanuscript, and says he:
"The noise having ceased, I will proceed to read a small moral tale,written by a young woman which lives in Boston, and is destined tobecome an eddycator of mankind. The fiction is called
"MR. SMITH.[1]
"The first of April. You know the day. A point of time, an unit oftwenty-four hours, with a night on each side of it, and the sun laid ontop to keep it in its place. You have undoubtedly passed the day in NewEngland at some period of your miserable life. You have felt yourcoarse nature repulsed, too, when some weary and desolate little childhas dreamily pinned a bit of paper to the hinder-most verge of thegarment men call a coat, and then called the attention of passers-by toyour appearance. You have despised that little, weary, hollow-eyedchild for it. Beware how you strike that child; for I tell you that thechild is the germ of the thing they call man. The germ will develop; itwill grow broadly and largely into the full entity of Manhood. Instriking the present Child you strike the future Man. Ponder thisthought well. Let it fester in your bosom.
[1] The idea that this moral and exciting tale appeared originally in the _Atlantic Monthly_, is scornfully repelled by the Editor of this work.
"John Smith sat at his table, in the lowest depths of a dreamycoal-mine, and helped himself to some more pork and beans. I know notwhat there was way down in the black recesses of the man's hidden soulto make him want so much pork and beans. I look into my heart to findan answer to the question, but no answer comes. Providence does notreveal all things to us. Is it not well it should be so?
"He was a hard, iron-looking, adamantine man. His eyes were glowingfurnaces for the crucibles of thought. You felt that he saw you when helooked at you. His nose was like a red gothic tower built amidst brokenangles of sullied snow, and his mouth was the cellar of that tower. Hishair was of the sort that resists a comb. You have seen the same sorton the heads of men of great thought. It is the tangled bush in whichthe goat of Thought loses itself.
"John Smith hiccupped, as he helped himself to some more pork andbeans. He did not notice that the foot which he had semi-consciouslyplaced on a pale, sickly child, was beginning to move. But it did move,and there crawled from under it the shape of a diseased dwarf ofwomanhood. This timid, pallid thing, uplifted itself to its bleedingfeet, and nestled to the side of John Smith.
"'Y'o hae been separated by unspeaking space from dis humble leetleplace for some hours longer that zis boosom could uncomplaininglyindure,--y'o have.'
"The child meant to say, in its coarse, brutal, unlettered way, thatthe man had been absent too long.
"John Smith helped himself to some more pork and beans. He was a man,you know, and could not answer without deep thought. He took his knifeand wiped it thoughtfully upon her head, and then sawed off a sicklyyellow curl. When he placed that curl on the same plate with the porkand beans, its coils seemed like those of some golden snake.
"'Girletta,' he said, with the ring of iron in his tones, 'why is itthat the beasts never want to marry? God made them as He made us; yetthey never ask priests to make them slaves to each other.'
"The sickly little waif cringed closer to that inscrutable great heartwhich underlaid a soul of eternal questioning. She shuddered like awounded hog, but could not answer. An inward fever was devouring her.
"The man took some more pork and beans. 'Girletta,' he said, almostfiercely, 'the beasts teach me a lesson; but I will not, dare not,SHALL not heed it. I want a home; my heart demands some one to work forme; to support me. I am weary of labor, and want some one to labor andtoil and suffer for me, and do my washing. I love you. Have me.'
"The atom of womanhood contorted her diseased features into the paletwist of agony, and her bosom heaved with stormy wavings, like the sideof a tortured and choking brute. Falling to the ground, she writhed,and struggled, and kicked convulsively, as though seized with someinward pang. Then she rose slowly to her shattered little feet, anddrew an old cupboard to the middle of the wretched cave and beat herhead against it.
"It was the child's first taste of that great mystery of perfect lovewhich woman is doomed to share with the thing called Man.
"'Yo'air indulging in secret cachinnation, at the expense of my sairheart.'
"The child meant that he was laughing at her.
"John Smith helped himself to some more pork and beans, and sat back inhis stern, dark chair. What were his thoughts as he looked down on thatminiature fragment of womanly humanity? Perhaps he thought that theremight be angels way up in heaven just like her. Bright seraphs, withruby eyes, and silver wings, and golden harps, and just such pale,haggard, gaunt, sunken, bleared little faces.
"'Girletta,' he said, 'I hereby make thee mine. Take some of these porkand beans.'
"She fell upon his bosom.
"There let us leave them. Do you think they were any less happy,because they were way down in a dreamy, rayless coal-mine, where menwork their souls away to give others warmth? If you think so, you havenever felt what true love is. Your degraded and starless nature hasnever had one true soul to lean upon. When you lean upon a soul, yousee everything through that soul, which gives its own hue toeverything. Man's love is a pane in his bosom, and through that panethe eyes of woman look forth to see the new world. The medium is theultimatum. God gives us love that we may live more cheaply and happilytogether than if we were separate. A bread-pudding is richer wherethere are two hearts, than plum-pudding is to one alone. The world willlearn this yet, and then the lion will lie down with the lamb, and evenyou will be less depraved. The First of April found John Smithunmarried, but it left him nearly wedded. Let us think of this when thespring birds sing again. It will make us more human, more charitable,and fitter to be blest."
As Samyule finished reading this excellent religious tale, my boy, Istole from the tent to meditate in silence upon the terrible revelationof human nature. Are there not dozens of Smiths in this world,--ay,even John Smiths? I should think so, my boy,--I should think so.
On Friday morning, I went to Accomac, to attend the funeral of a youngchap who had finished with delirium tremens, and was deeply affected bythe funeral sermon of the Mackerel Chaplain, who had kindly volunteeredfor the occasion.
Having shaken hands with the parents of deceased, the worthy mancommenced the service.
He said that man was born to die. He had known a number of men to die,and believed that death was every man's lot. If our dear brother herecould speak, he would say that it was his lot. What was death, afterall, but an edict of liberty? Death was the event that set us free, an
dfreedom was a priceless blessing. Political demagogues pretended tobelieve that certain men should be the slaves of other men, becausetheir skins were a little darker than the others. What a brightargument was this! If dark skins disentitled men to freedom, he (thespeaker) could point out more than one Democrat who certainly ought tobe a slave. (Great laughter.) Freedom was plainly the conditionProvidence intended for all men, without regard to color, no matterwhat Tammany Hall might say to the contrary. It was because we hadpermitted a violation of this condition in the cases of four millionsof fellow-beings, that this terrible war had come upon us. We couldonly conquer by declaring the slaves, now and forever, FREE!(Tumultuous and enthusiastic applause.) It was the duty of every loyalman to see that this principle was carried out, even as they were aboutto carry their departed brother out: though it must not be inferredthat he meant it should be carried out on _beer_. (Great laughter.)When we had once settled this matter at home, we could afford to say toJohn Bull and Louis Napoleon: "Interfere if you dare. We are ready foryou both." [Male parent of the deceased--"Why don't you go and fightyourself?"] That gentleman who spoke then, is as bad as the patient whosaid to the doctor who was recommending some wholesome medicine to him:"Why don't you take it yourself, if it's good?" (Great laughter andapplause.) But he would detain them no longer, or the papers would saythat he had talked politics.
At the conclusion of this discourse, my boy, the male parent of thedeceased offered the following preamble and resolution:
WHEREAS, It has pleased an inscrutable and all-wise Providence to freeour departed brother from the bonds of life; and
WHEREAS, Freedom is the normal condition of all mankind: therefore, beit
RESOLVED, That we will vote for no man who is not in favor of UniversalLiberty, without respect to color.
Passed, unanimously.
Politics, my boy, are, in themselves, a distinct system of life anddeath; and when we say that a man is politically dead, we mean thateven his en-graving is forgotten; and that the brick which he carriesin his hat is a species of head-stone.
Yours, post obit,
ORPHEUS C. KERR.