Part 12

A prevalent tone of _heimweh_ is in the air; eyes are filling, and memory is stretching longing hands over the ocean, when fortunately comes the summons to _table d’hote_. At our plates we find programs in very bad English of a concert to be given this evening upon the great organ in the cathedral. Thither we go at dusk, pausing a moment to look at the grotesque carving of the last judgment over the great door. Thereon the good, with most satisfied faces, are being admitted to heaven by St. Peter, a stout old gentleman in a short gown, jingling a bunch of keys; while the wicked are being carried in Swiss baskets to a great cauldron over a blazing fire, therein to be deposited, and to be stirred up by devils armed with pitchforks for that purpose. We enter. Without, the ceaseless drip of the rain; within, gloom, darkness—save for the never-ceasing light before the altar, decay. The air is chill and damp. Around us stretch dark, shadowed aisles. Tombs of those long dust are on every hand. The air seems peopled with ghosts. We are seated, and patiently wait for life to be breathed into that mighty monster looming up in the darkness, above our heads. Suddenly, with a crash that shakes the building, the organ speaks. Silenced, overwhelmed, we listen, possessing our souls in patience for the “Pastorale,” representing a thunder storm among the Alps, which is to close the evening’s entertainment. We have but recently come from the everlasting hills, and our souls are still under their magic enchantment. At last the moment comes. A pause, and there steals upon the ear a light, sweet refrain. It is spring, the old, ideal spring; the trees are budding; flowers are smiling from the meadows; we feel warm south winds blowing; afar in the woods we hear the sylvan pipe of the shepherd and the songs of birds. A peace is upon everything. Nature is calm, happy, and full of promise of glad fruition. To this succeeds a languid, dreary strain—it is a drowsy summer afternoon. A delicious languor pervades the air; we hear the trees whispering to each other of their perfect foliage; we hear the laughing waters leaping and calling to each other through their rocky passes; the flocks are asleep in the shade; the shadows are stealing and playing over the sides of the mountains, and the whole world swims in a misty, golden haze. Now listen closely. Do not we catch the mutter of distant thunder? And again, do not we hear that clear, bell-like bird-call for rain? The distant muttering grows louder, a stronger breeze sways the trees; still we hear distinctly that bird-call. Now louder rolls the thunder, the wind has arisen, the trees are bending to meet it, and in rage are tossing their boughs to the overcast sky; and ah! here comes the rain. Patter, patter, at first, now fast and faster, and now with a mad rush down it comes in one tremendous, outpouring sheet, and now with a terrific rumble and crash,

“From peak to peak the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder: Not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers from her misty shroud Back to the joyous Alps who call on her aloud.”

The wind shrieks and howls, and yet above all this tumult and roar of the elements, clearly and unmistakably rings that sweet flute-like bird-call. The storm rages, spends its fury, and dies away, and from a neighboring cloister come the voices of an unseen choir, raising a “Te Deum” to him who holds the storms in his hands. Silently we rise and go, a great peace upon us, for divine notes from the soul of the organ have entered into ours.

* * * * *

IT is not the nature of man to be always moving forward; it has its comings and goings. Fever has its cold and hot fits, and the cold shiver proves the height of the fever quite as much as the hot fit. The inventions of man from age to age proceed much in the same way. The good nature and the malice of the world in general have the same ebbs and flows. “Change of living is generally agreeable to the rich.”—_Pascal._

ECCENTRIC AMERICANS.

By COLEMAN E. BISHOP.

II.—THE STATESMAN IN A STATE OF NATURE.

David Crockett was born in the wilds of Tennessee, August 17, 1786. He toughened rapidly, like a bear’s cub, but he showed in addition to the usual woodsman’s instincts the unusual qualities of great tenderness of feeling and generosity, with a remarkable gift of wit and love of fun. The incredible stories of his hardships at the age of twelve and thereafter we have not room to recount. In the best sense he was a tough boy. The closing scene of his home life—if a hut presided over by a drunken father, and a mother who left no impression on the boy’s character that showed itself in after years can be by any courtesy called a home—was a dissolving view of a ragged, bare-footed urchin of fourteen chased through the brush by a father with a large goad and a large load of liquor. Thus David Crockett set out upon the world for himself.

With Crockett’s story as a bear-hunter, nomadic woodsman, soldier and Indian-fighter, exciting and marvelous as are these incidents of the first thirty years of his life, we shall not much concern ourselves. But I do wonder that his life-like, quaint narrative of these has not become standard juvenile literature, along with Robinson Crusoe and Mayne Reid’s stories of adventure. Through all these exciting though isolated years, the young woodsman picked up a good deal of practical knowledge, not one scrap of which he ever forgot; and withal was developing a strange quality of unpretentious self-esteem. “The idea seemed never to have entered his mind that there was any one superior to David Crockett, or any one so humble that Crockett was entitled to look down upon him with condescension. He was a genuine democrat, and all were in his view equal. And this was not the result of thought, of any political or moral principle. It was a part of his nature, like his stature or complexion. This is one of the rarest qualities to be found in any man.”[H]

He also was developing oratorical powers. He acquired unbounded popularity at musters and frolics, in camp and in the chase by his fun-making qualities, his homely, kindly, keen wit. His retentive memory was an inexhaustible store-house of anecdote, and he always had an apt illustration for any point he wanted to make. He began to taste the sweet consciousness of power over his fellows, and to easily fall into the position of leadership, for which nature designed him.

His first official position came to him at about the age of thirty. There were a good many outlaws in the region where he at that time had his cabin and claim, and society began to cohere for self-protection. The settlers convened and appointed Crockett and others to be justices of the peace, and a corps of stalwart young men to be constables. These justices were really provost-marshals in power. There were no statute laws nor courts; but there was authority enough, and Crockett says everybody made laws according to his own notions of right. For shooting and appropriating a hog running at large, for instance, the sentence was to strip the thief, tie him to a tree and give him a flogging, burn down his cabin and drive him out of the country. Soon after, the new territory was organized into counties and Crockett was regularly commissioned a justice by the legislature. His account of his administration is interesting:

“I was made a squire according to law; though now the honor rested on me more heavily than before. For, at first, whenever I told my constable, says I, ‘catch that fellow and bring him up for trial!’ away he went, and the fellow must come, dead or alive. For we considered this a good warrant, though it was only in _verbal writing_. But after I was appointed by the Assembly, they told me my warrants must be in _real_ writing and signed; and that I must keep a book and write my proceedings in it. This was a hard business on me, for I could just barely write my own name. But to do this, and write the warrants too, was at least a huckleberry over my persimmon. I had a pretty well informed constable however, and I told him when he should happen to be out anywhere and see that a warrant was necessary and would have a good effect, he needn’t take the trouble to come all the way to me to get one, but he could just fill one out, and then on the trial I could correct the whole business if he had committed any error. In this way I got on pretty well, till by care and attention I improved my handwriting in such a manner as to be able to prepare my warrants and keep my record books without much difficulty. My judgments were never appealed from: and if they had been they would have stuck like wax, as I gave my decisions on the principles of common justice and honesty between man and man, and relied on natural born sense, and not on law learning, to guide me; for I had never read a page in a law-book in all my life.”

Crockett made his first stump speech when he was about thirty-four years old. A militia regiment was to be organized, and a Captain Mathews, after promising Crockett the majority of the regiment if he would support him for its colonel, turned against Crockett in favor of his own son. At a great muster prepared by Mathews, he made a stump speech in his own and his son’s favor. Crockett, entirely unabashed, mounted the stump as soon as Mathews finished, and on the captain’s own grounds proceeded to expose his duplicity and argue the total unfitness of both him and his son for the command. The speech was fluent, witty, full of anecdote, and carried the rude audience by storm. It effectually beat both father and son. The fame of this maiden effort traveled fast in a community where oratory was the great, if not the only engine of popular control, and the result was that a committee soon waited on Crockett and asked him to stand for the legislature then about to be elected (1821). Some of his first electioneering adventures illustrate the frankness and tact so queerly combined in him, and also show how he got his education in politics. Hickman county wanted to change its county seat. He says: “Here they told me that they wanted to move their town nearer to the center of the county, and I must come out in favor of it. I did not know what this meant, or how the town was to be moved, and so I kept dark, going on the same identical plan that I now find is called _non-committal_.”

On one occasion the candidates for governor of the State, Congress, and several for legislature, some of them able stump-speakers, were announced. As he listened, a sense of inferiority for the first time, probably, penetrated him; he drank in all they said, and remembered it. He says:

“The thought of having to make a speech made my knees feel mighty weak, and set my heart to fluttering almost as bad as my first love scrape with the Quaker’s niece. But as luck would have it, these big candidates spoke nearly all day, and when they quit the people were worn out with fatigue, which afforded me a good apology for not discussing the government. But I listened mighty close to them, and was learning pretty fast about political matters. When they were all done I got up and told some laughable story and quit.”

He was elected, and in the legislature proved a good story-teller, a formidable antagonist in repartee, and above all a good listener. He says the first thing that he took pains to learn was the meaning of the words “judiciary” and “government,” as up to that time he had “never heard that there was any such thing in all nature as a judiciary.” The halls of the Tennessee legislature were again brightened in 1823-24 by the wit and good sense of “the gentleman from the cane” as an opponent derisively dubbed him, very much to his subsequent regret.

Crockett was now so well known that he was put forward for Congress. His rapid advancement staggered even his self-sufficiency, and he objected, saying he “knowed nothing about Congress matters.” Fortunately, perhaps, he was given time to learn more, for he was beaten at the polls this time. It was claimed by his supporters the result was obtained by fraud, and as the adverse majority was small, he was urged to contest the election; but he declined, saying he did not care enough for office to take it unless the clearly expressed will of the people called him thereto. From hunting for men he turned with zest to hunting for bears; his endurance, hardihood and success, and the never-failing benevolence with which he divided the fruits of the hunt with poor settlers, or lent a helping hand in many other ways, made him more political capital than the best stump speeches could have done. He killed one hundred and five bears one season. Two years later (1827) he ran for Congress again and was triumphantly elected over two strong opponents. Thus the bear-hunting, Indian-fighting “gentleman from the cane,” barely able to write his name, so poor that he had to borrow money to pay his traveling expenses to Washington, became a law-maker of a great nation by sheer force of native talent and goodness of heart.

His fame preceded him to Washington. His prowess in arms, his dexterity in politics, and his quaint wit had been in the papers; all his sayings had been, as is the style of American journalism, exaggerated and embellished and distorted, until the general impression of him was that of a coarse, outlandish, swaggering yahoo. His appearance in Washington dispersed these illusions thence, but the misrepresentations did not cease in the prints. As in the case of Lincoln, every profane and vulgar thing that cheap wit could invent was attributed to Crockett, and received as his. Many of these false impressions survive to this day; it is therefore proper here to give a picture of the man as he was seen at home. It is thus reported by an intelligent gentleman who visited his cabin just after his election. The visitor penetrated to Crockett’s cabin eight miles through unbroken wilderness by a path blazed on the trees. He says:

Two men were seated on stools at the door, both in their shirt-sleeves, engaged in cleaning their rifles. As the stranger rode up, one of the men came forward to meet him. He was dressed in very plain homespun attire, with a black fur cap upon his head. He was a finely proportioned man, about six feet high, apparently forty-five years of age, and of very frank, pleasing, open countenance. He held his rifle in his hand, and from his right shoulder hung a bag made of raccoon-skin, to which there was a sheath attached containing a large butcher-knife.

“This is Colonel Crockett’s residence, I presume,” said the stranger.

“Yes,” was the reply, with a smile as of welcome.

“Have I the pleasure of seeing that gentleman before me?” the stranger added.

“If it be a pleasure,” was the courteous reply, “you have, sir.”

“Well, Colonel,” responded the stranger, “I have ridden much out of my way to spend a day or two with you, and take a hunt.”

“Get down, sir,” said the Colonel, cordially. “I am delighted to see you. I like to see strangers. And the only care I have is that I can not accommodate them as well as I could wish. I have no corn, but my little boy will take your horse over to my son-in-law’s. He is a good fellow, and will take care of him.”

Leading the stranger into his cabin, Crockett very courteously introduced him to his brother, his wife, and his daughters. He then added:

“You see we are mighty rough here. I am afraid you will think it hard times. But we have to do the best we can. I started mighty poor, and have been rooting ’long ever since. But I hate apologies. What I live upon always, I think a friend can for a day or two. I have but little, but that little is as free as the water that runs. So make yourself at home.”

He seemed to have a great horror of binding himself to any man or party. “I will pledge myself to no administration,” he said. “When the will of my constituents is known, that will be my law; when it is unknown my own judgment shall be my guide.” So clear and lofty an idea had this unlearned man formed of the duties of a representative! Well for the country if as high a standard of political duty even now prevailed among the best and wisest legislators!

Nothing is recorded of his first term in Congress except that he “brought down the house” every time he spoke, and once so discomfited a colleague that a duel was talked of; upon which Crockett gave out that if any one challenged him he should select as their weapons _bows and arrows_.

He was re-elected in 1829. This was the Jackson tidal wave—the inauguration of that craze of hero-worship and spoils-grabbing which entailed its curse upon our politics, even to this day. During this term came the turning point in Crockett’s career and a triumphant test of the strength of his character. At first he supported Jackson’s administration and acted with the party. But when that “constitutional democrat” blossomed out into an unconstitutional autocrat, one man of his party was found manly enough to act upon his own convictions. One of these unconstitutional measures was an act to vote half a million of dollars for disbursements made without color of law, and Crockett opposed it. The result is best told in his own words:

“Soon after the commencement of this second term, I saw, or thought I did, that it was expected of me that I would bow to the name of Andrew Jackson, and follow him in all his motions, and mindings, and turnings, even at the expense of my conscience and judgment. Such a thing was new to me, and a total stranger to my principles. I know’d well enough, though, that if I didn’t ‘hurrah’ for his name, the hue and cry was to be raised against me, and I was to be sacrificed, if possible. His famous, or rather I should say his _infamous_ Indian bill was brought forward, and I opposed it from the purest motives in the world. Several of my colleagues got around me, and told me how well they loved me, and that I was ruining myself. They said this was a favorite measure of the President, and I ought to go for it. I told them I believed it was a wicked, unjust measure, and that I should go against it, let the cost to myself be what it might; that I was willing to go with General Jackson in everything I believed was honest and right; but, further than this, I wouldn’t go for him or any other man in the whole creation.

“I had been elected by a majority of three thousand five hundred and eighty-five votes, and I believed they were honest men, and wouldn’t want me to vote for any unjust notion, to please Jackson or any one else; at any rate, I was of age, and determined to trust them. I voted against this Indian bill, and my conscience yet tells me that I gave a good, honest vote, and one that I believe will not make me ashamed in the day of judgment. I served out my term, and though many amusing things happened, I am not disposed to swell my narrative by inserting them.

“When it closed, and I returned home, I found the storm had raised against me sure enough; and it was echoed from side to side, and from end to end of my district, that I had turned against Jackson. This was considered the unpardonable sin. I was hunted down like a wild varment, and in this hunt every little newspaper in the district, and every little pin-hook lawyer was engaged. Indeed, they were ready to print anything and everything that the ingenuity of man could invent against me.”

It proved as he had anticipated; he failed of re-election, but only by a majority of seventy votes. Two years of bear-hunting followed, during which Crockett thirsted for the nobler pursuit of ambition of which he had had a taste. Some of his predictions as to Jackson’s course had been verified, and many things conspired to open his constituents’ eyes to the high character of their representative’s course. In the canvass of 1833 he was elected the third time, winning one of the most remarkable political triumphs ever known in this country. He had against him all the education, talent and wealth of his district; the administration made it a test vote, and all that promises of reward, threats of punishment, political and social, unlimited money, the influence of the national banks, and every appliance that the most tyrannical disposition ever dominant in our affairs could bring to bear were used. Men of genius, eloquence, influence and fortune rode the district; whiskey was free as water. The entire press opposed Crockett with the ingenuity and abandon which only “patronage” can inspire. More than all this the common people of the district, with whom lay Crockett’s influence, if he had any, worshiped “Old Hickory,” under whom many of them had fought. Against these odds the impoverished, uneducated hunter, with no aid but his natural gifts and a clean record, canvassed the district of seventeen counties and 100,000 inhabitants and won. This remarkable victory in Jackson’s own State, when his popularity was at its height, gave Crockett a new and better title to respect than any he had before presented; and it increased the mystery hanging about this strange, uncultured genius. The world abandoned its preconceived notions of the back-woodsman when it saw his power; but it was at loss to conceive a true idea of him.

During this session of Congress (1833-34) Crockett wrote his autobiography. As might be expected, it is a very unique work. Its style is simple and vigorous; the language is Shaksperian in its monosyllables and short sentences, but the _ensemble_ is graphic, and as the events narrated are of the most extraordinary kind, it makes very exciting reading. On the title page appears his famous motto:

“I leave these words for others when I’m dead; Be always sure you’re right, then GO AHEAD!”

Crockett submitted the manuscript of this work to a critic for revision; but he declared afterward that the reviser had not improved the work—probably because he toned down its vigorous language. Such expressions as “my son and me went,” occur, and spelling like this: “hawl,” “tuff,” “scaffled,” “clomb” (for climbed); “flower” (for flour). But he positively objected to some of the orthographical corrections, as he said “such spelling was contrary to nature.” He brought the narrative of his life up to the date, and concluded it as follows:

“I am now here in Congress, this 28th day of January, in the year of our Lord 1834; and, what is more agreeable to my feelings, as a free man. I am at liberty to vote as my conscience and judgment dictate to be right, without the yoke of any party on me or the driver at my heels with the whip in hand commanding me to ‘gee-wo-haw!’ just at his pleasure. Look at my arms: you will find no party handcuffs on them! Look at my neck: you will not find there any collar with the engraving,

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MY DOG.—ANDREW JACKSON. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But you will find me standing up to my rack as the people’s faithful representative, and the public’s most obedient, very humble servant,

“DAVID CROCKETT.”

What would not senators and representatives of to-day give for the same independence? What health and manliness it would impart to public life, if every legislator were thus free of handcuffs and collars!