Part 13

In the spring of 1834, Crockett made his famous “starring tour” through the East. From Philadelphia to Portland, and back to Washington, it was a continuous ovation. Crockett and the populace were mutually astonished; he at his receptions, and they at the actions, appearance, and utterances of the man who had been represented to them by his political opponents as a buffoon and semi-savage. He was more than all impressed with the developments of wealth and enterprise in the North; he frankly confessed the prejudices he had formed against the Yankees, and praised their thrift and principles. He spoke well and appropriately on each occasion, though—strange change in him!—with evident confusion at the lionizing. He wrote of the ovation he received on landing in Philadelphia:

“It struck me strangely to hear a strange people huzzaing for me; it took me so uncommon unexpected, as I had no idea of attracting attention. The folks came crowding around me, saying, ‘Give me the hand of an honest man.’ I thought I had rather be in the wilderness with my gun and dogs, than to be attracting all that fuss.”

In a happy little speech here, from the hotel balcony, he said:

“I am almost induced to believe this flattery—perhaps a burlesque. This is new to me, yet I see nothing but friendship in your faces.”

At a grand banquet in New York City, Crockett having been toasted as “The undeviating supporter of the constitution and the laws,” made this neat and characteristic hit, as he reports it:

“I made a short speech, and concluded with the story of the red cow, which was, that as long as General Jackson went straight, I followed him; but when he began to go this way, and that way, and every way, I wouldn’t go after him; like the boy whose master ordered him to plough across the field to the red cow. Well, he began to plough, and she began to walk; and he ploughed all forenoon after her. So when the master came, he swore at him for going so crooked. ‘Why, sir,’ said the boy, ‘you told me to plough to the red cow, and I kept after her, but she always kept moving.’”

Most enthusiastic of all was his reception in Boston, where President Jackson’s policy was most unpopular. It was even proposed to confer on Crockett the degree of LL.D., an honor that had been awarded to Jackson: but, unlike Jackson, Crockett had the wit to decline an honor which neither of the two deserved.

The more he saw and heard the more humble he became. When called up for an after-dinner speech in Boston he burst out in his honest way—“I never had but six months’ schooling in all my life, and I confess I consider myself a _poor tyke_ to be here addressing the most intelligent people in the world.” If he had not culture, he had what was far more rare in that age of truckling to one-man power—_manhood_. It seemed as if unlettered David Crockett was the only man in public life to stand up straight, and people acknowledged the power of true character. The culture and wealth of the East bowed to unspoiled manhood; it was a revelation fresh from Nature’s hand.

A few extracts from one of his more sustained and dignified efforts will illustrate the development Crockett had attained by simple observation. After praising New England he said:

“I don’t mean that because I eat your bread and drink your liquor, that I feel so. No; that don’t make me see clearer than I did. It is your habits, and manners, and customs; your industry; your proud, independent spirits; your hanging on to the eternal principles of right and wrong; your liberality in prosperity, and your patience when you are ground down by legislation, which, instead of crushing you, whets your invention to strike a path without a blaze on a tree to guide you; and above all, your never-dying, deathless grip to our glorious Constitution. These are the things that make me think you are a mighty good people.

“I voted for Andrew Jackson because I believed he possessed certain principles, and not because his name was Andrew Jackson, or the ‘Hero,’ or ‘Old Hickory.’ And when he left those principles which induced me to support him, I considered myself justified in opposing him. This thing of man-worship I am a stranger to; I don’t like it; it taints every action of life.

“I know nothing, by experience, of party discipline. I would rather be a raccoon-dog, and belong to a Negro in the forest, than to belong to any party, further than to do justice to all, and to promote the interests of my country. The time will and must come, when honesty will receive its reward, and when the people of this nation will be brought to a sense of their duty, and will pause and reflect how much it cost us to redeem ourselves from the government of one man. It cost the lives and fortunes of thousands of the best patriots that ever lived. Yes, gentlemen, hundreds of them fell in sight of your own city.

“Gentlemen, if it is for opposing those high-handed measures that you compliment me, I say I have done so, and will do so, now and forever. I will be no man’s man, and no party’s man, other than to be the people’s faithful representative: and I am delighted to see the noble spirit of liberty retained so boldly here, where the first spark was kindled; and I hope to see it shine and spread over our whole country.”

He took his seat in Congress, a central object in the political field. His position was anomalous. Party ties were closely drawn, and party rancor bitter as it can be only when nothing but plunder is at stake between parties. The Democrats could not claim Crockett so long as he antagonized their god, Jackson; and the alliance of the Whigs he most distinctly repudiated. He was an independent, an “unattached statesman;” the prototype of an element which has now become formidable in our politics, but a character for whom there was no place in those times. He was, like all eccentrics, ahead or apart from his age, and was at first feared, then shunned, and then called crazy by the great body of public men, whose standard of sanity was to sacrifice manhood to party, to betray the Republic for spoils.

It was during this Congress that he created a sensation by antagonizing benevolence of representatives at government expense. A bill had been reported and was about to pass, appropriating a gratuity to a naval officer’s widow. Crockett made an unanswerable argument on the unconstitutionality of this and other such appropriations, and closed by offering, with other friends of the widow, to give her a week of his salary as congressman. Not a member dared to answer or to vote for the bill, and not one followed Crockett’s example of charity at his own expense.

But the independent, honest eccentric had reached the end of his public career. In the next congressional election he was beaten by tricks such as would not be tolerated at this time. One of these devices was to announce fictitiously a large number of public meetings in Crockett’s name on the same day. When he failed to appear, as announced, speakers of the Jackson party, who would always arrange to be present, denounced Crockett as afraid to face his constituents upon his “treacherous and corrupt record in Congress.” The defeat was a surprise to him; more, it almost broke his heart. He wrote, manfully, but pathetically, “I have suffered myself to be politically sacrificed to save my country from ruin and disgrace.” I may add, like the man in the play, “Crockett’s occupation’s gone.”

Shortly after he made a farewell address to his constituents, into which he compressed a good deal of plain speaking, or as he says, “I put the ingredients in the cup pretty strong, I tell you: and I concluded by telling them that I was done with politics for the present, and that they might all go to hell and I would go to Texas.”

“When I returned home,” he adds, “I felt sort of cast down at the change that had taken place in my fortunes; sorrow, it is said, will make even an oyster feel poetical. Such was my state of feeling that I began to fancy myself inspired; so I took my pen in hand, and as usual, I went ahead.” This is

CROCKETT’S FAREWELL TO HOME.

“Farewell to the mountains whose mazes to me Were more beautiful far than Eden could be; No fruit was forbidden, but Nature had spread Her bountiful board, and her children were fed. The hills were our garners—our herds wildly grew And Nature was shepherd and husbandman too. I felt like a monarch, yet thought like a man, As I thanked the Great Giver, and worshiped his plan.

“The home I forsake where my offspring arose; The graves I forsake where my children repose. The home I redeemed from the savage and wild; The home I have loved as a father his child; The corn that I planted, the fields that I cleared, The flocks that I raised, and the cabin I reared; The wife of my bosom—Farewell to ye all! In the land of the stranger I rise or I fall.

“Farewell to my country! I fought for thee well, When the savage rushed forth like the demons from hell. In peace or in war I have stood by thy side— My country, for thee I have lived, would have died! But I am cast off, my career now is run, And I wander abroad like the prodigal son— Where the wild savage roves, and the broad prairies spread, The fallen—despised—will again go ahead.”

We can not follow our hero—for he was a moral hero—in his adventures while going across the country to Texas. Only one incident have we room for. On the way he rode apace with a circuit preacher, a man not less a hardy adventurer than himself. He narrates this:

“We talked about politics, religion, and nature, farming, and bear-hunting, and the many blessings that an all-bountiful Providence had bestowed upon our happy country. He continued to talk on this subject, traveling over the whole ground, as it were, until his imagination glowed, and his soul became full to overflowing; and he checked his horse, and I stopped mine also, and a stream of eloquence burst forth from his aged lips, such as I have seldom listened to: it came from the overflowing fountain of a pure and grateful heart. We were alone in the wilderness, but as he proceeded, it seemed to me as if the tall trees bent their tops to listen; that the mountain stream laughed out joyfully as it bounded on like some living thing; that the fading flowers of autumn smiled, and sent forth their fresher fragrance, as if conscious that they would revive in spring; and even the sterile rocks seemed to be endued with some mysterious influence. We were alone in the wilderness, but all things told me that God was there. The thought renewed my strength and courage. I had left my country, felt somewhat like an outcast, believed that I had been neglected and lost sight of. But I was now conscious that there was one watchful eye over me; no matter whether I dwelt in the populous cities, or threaded the pathless forests alone; no matter whether I stood in the high places among men, or made my solitary lair in the untrodden wild, that eye was still upon me. My very soul leaped joyfully at the thought. I never felt so grateful in all my life. I never loved my God so sincerely in all my life. I felt that I still had a friend.

“When the old man finished, I found that my eyes were wet with tears. I approached and pressed his hand, and thanked him, and says I, ‘Now let us take a drink.’ I set him the example, and he followed it, and in a style too that satisfied me, that if he had ever belonged to the temperance society, he had either renounced membership, or obtained a dispensation.”

Crockett reached Texas just in time to take part with the American filibusters in the famous defense of the fortress of the Alamo, against Santa Anna’s army. On the 6th of March, 1836, the citadel was carried by the Mexicans by assault, only six of the little garrison surviving, of whom Crockett was one. When captured he stood at bay in an angle of the fort, his shattered rifle in one hand and a bloody bowie-knife in the other; twenty Mexicans, dead or dying, were at his feet. His face was covered with blood flowing from a deep gash across his forehead. Santa Anna ordered the prisoners to be put to the sword. Crockett, hearing the order, though entirely unarmed, sprang like a tiger at the throat of the Mexican general, but a dozen swords interrupted him and cut off his life.

Thus in its prime was thrown away a life that in many respects was one of the most extraordinary in our annals. If he had enjoyed early advantages, he would have been one of the greatest of Americans. Nay, it is possible that if he had not been so deeply wounded by ingratitude, treachery and defeat, and had remained at home, he, instead of General Harrison, would have been the one to lead the popular revolution, when came the reaction from the unlicensed _regime_ of Jackson and Van Buren.

David Crockett’s courage, independence, honesty, goodness of heart, made him shine “like a good deed in a naughty world.” He ought not to be forgotten by his countrymen, for a noble illustration of the capabilities that may be found among the common people, and of the career possible to even the lowliest-born American citizen.

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WHEN a man is called feeble, what is meant by the expression? Feebleness denotes a relative state; a relative state of the being to whom it is applied. He whose strength exceeds his necessities, though an insect, a worm, is a strong being; he whose necessities exceed his strength, though an elephant, a lion, a conqueror, a hero, though a god, is a feeble being.—ROUSSEAU.

FOOTNOTE:

[H] Abbott.

ETIQUETTE.

Etiquette is from the French word for ticket, and its present use in English suggests the old custom of distributing tickets or cards on which the ceremonies to be observed at any formal proceedings are fully set forth—a kind of program for important social gatherings of distinguished persons. Modern usage has given the word a much wider significance. It means the manners or deportment of cultured people; their bearing toward, or treatment of others.

The suggestions in a recent number of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, respecting “street etiquette,” or things proper to be observed in riding, driving and walking, will not now be repeated, though many of our younger readers might profit by having, on so familiar a subject, “line upon line, precept upon precept.”

The etiquette proper for the home and every-day life, in town and country, is quite as important, and embraces more things than there is space to notice.

CALLS AND CARDS.

Home, the dearest spot on earth, would be no fit abode for social beings if closed against the entrance and friendly offices of those without. The courtesies and kindness of neighbors must be received and reciprocated to make the home comforts complete. By simple methods the most important amicable relations in society are established and maintained.

Calls may be distinguished as ceremonious or friendly. The latter among intimate friends may, and ought to be quite informal, and for them no rules need be prescribed. Common-sense may be safely trusted, as to their manner, frequency, and the time spent in making them. But well-disposed, cultured people will usually have friendly relations with a much larger number than can be received on terms of close intimacy. As a means of establishing and maintaining such relations, mere formal calls are made. In the country and in small towns residents are expected to call on new-comers without having any previous acquaintance with them, or even having met them before. Ordinarily the new-comer, of whatever rank, should not call formally on a resident first, but wait till the other has taken the initiative. If after the first meeting, for any reason, the resident does not care to pursue the acquaintance, it will be discontinued by not leaving cards or calling again. The newcomer in like manner if not wishing to extend or continue the acquaintance, will politely return the first call, leaving cards only if the neighbors are not at home.

In some sections of the country calling on newcomers is done rather indiscriminately and with little regard to the real, or supposed social standing of the persons. This accords best with our American ideas of equality, and is consistent for those whose friendships are decided by character and personal accomplishments, rather than by the accidents of birth or wealth. The good society for which all may rightly aspire claims as among its brightest jewels some who financially rank with the lowly—rich only in the nobler qualities of mind and heart. The etiquette that, in any way, closes the door to exclude them is more nice than wise.

Those in high esteem in their community and most worthy will naturally, if circumstances permit, take the responsibility of first calls on strangers who come to reside among them. The call itself is a tender of friendship, and friendly offices, even though intimacy is not found practicable or desirable.

Custom does not require the residents of large cities to formally call on all new-comers in their neighborhood, which would be impracticable, only those quite near and having apparently about the same social status are entitled to this courtesy. Some discrimination is not only allowable but necessary.

A desirable acquaintance once formed, however initiated, is maintained by calls more or less frequent, as circumstances may decide, or by leaving cards when for either party that is more convenient.

Visiting cards must be left in person, not sent by mail or by the hand of a servant, unless in exceptional cases. Distance, unfavorable weather or delicate health might be sufficient reasons for sending the cards, but, as a rule, ladies leave their cards themselves, this being found more acceptable.

A lady’s visiting card should be plain, printed in clear type, with no ornamental or old English letters. The name printed on the middle of the card. The place of residence on the left-hand corner.

A married lady would never use her christian name on a card, but that of her husband after Mrs., before her surname.

In most places it is customary and considered in good taste for husbands and wives to have their names printed on the same card: “Mr. and Mrs.,” but each would still need separate cards of their own.

The title “Honorable” is not used on cards. Other titles are, omitting the “The” preceding the title.

It is not in accordance with etiquette in most places for young ladies to have visiting cards of their own. Their names are printed beneath that of their mother, on her card, either “Miss” or “the Misses,” as the case may be. If the mother is not living, the daughter’s name would be printed beneath that of her father, or of her brother, in case of a brother and sister residing alone.

If a young lady is taken into society by a relative or friend, her name would properly be written in pencil under that of her friend.

If a lady making calls finds the mistress of the house “not at home” she will leave her card and also one of her husband’s for each, the mistress and her husband; but if she have a card with her own and her husband’s name on it, she leaves but one of his separate cards.

If a lady were merely leaving cards, and not intending to call she would hand the three cards to the person answering at the door, saying, “For Mrs. ——,” without asking whether she is at home or not.

If a lady is sufficiently intimate to call, asks for and finds her friend at home, she should, on leaving the house, leave two of her husband’s cards in a conspicuous place on the table in the hall. She should not drop them in the card-basket or hand them to the hostess, though she might silently hand them to the servant in the hall. She will on no account leave her own card, having seen the lady which removes all occasion for leaving her card.

If the lady were accompanied by her husband and the lady of the house at home, the husband would leave one of his own cards for the master of the house, but if he also is at home no cards are left. A lady leaves her card for a lady only, while a gentleman leaves his for both husband and wife.

A gentleman when calling takes his hat in his hand into the room and holds it until he has met the mistress of the house; he may then either place it on a chair or table near him, or hold it in his hand till he takes his leave.

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DREAMS, books, are each a world: and books we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good; Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, Matter wherein right voluble I am, To which I listen with a ready ear; Two shall be named, preëminently dear,— The gentle lady married to the Moor; And heavenly Una, with her milk-white lamb.

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares— The poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

—_Wordsworth’s “Personal Talk.”_

NAPOLEON’S MARSHALS.

Napoleon’s marshals were twenty-six in number, of whom seven only were born in a rank which would have entitled them to become general officers under the old Monarchy. These were Kellermann, Berthier, Davoust, Macdonald, Marmont, Grouchy, and Poniatowski, a Pole. Of the others, Murat was the son of an innkeeper, Lefèbvre of a miller, Augereau of a mason, Bernadotte of a weaver, and Ney of a cooper. Masséna’s father, like Murat’s, kept a village wine-shop; Lannes was the son of an ostler, and was himself apprenticed to a dyer; Victor, whose real name was Perrin, was the son of an invalided private soldier, who after leaving the service became a market-crier; while Soult’s mother kept a mercer’s shop, and Oudinot’s a small _cafè_ with a circulating library. The marshals sprung from the _bourgeoisie_ or middle class were Serrurier, whose father was an officer, but never rose above the rank of captain; Bessières, whose father, though a poor clerk in a lawyer’s office, was the son of a doctor; Suchet, who was the son of a silk-merchant; Moncey, the son of a barrister; Gouvion, who assumed the name of Saint-Cyr, and whose father practiced as an attorney; and Brune, who started in life as a journalist. It is curious to trace through the lives of the different men the effect which their earliest associations had upon them. Some grew ashamed of their parentage; whilst others bragged overmuch of being self-made men. Only one or two bore their honors with perfect modesty and tact.