Letters of Major Jack Downing, of the Downingville Militia Part 11

Then grandfather Welles got up, an sed he didn't like to have fault found because his gun-boats warn't reddy. He sed he would like to see eny one who had worked harder than he had. He sed he hadn't slept but fourteen hours a day for six months, while his naturel rest required eighteen. He hed sacrificed all that for the good of his country, and he didn't believe one of the Committy hed done as much. Blair got up and said he didn't keer how quick they turned him out. He was reddy to go eny time, as he thought the thing was about played out. Bates sed he thought things looked more cheerful than ever before, as he hed jest discovered that n.i.g.g.e.rs could be citizens, and that the Dred Scott decision was a humbug. When they all got thru, there was a ginnerel talk all around, and they finally c.u.m to the conclus.h.i.+n that there warn't eny reason for a change after all, an they all went off in a pretty good humor.

So the great Cabbynet crysis ended, and the Kernel feels like a new man. My idee of gettin them all together face to face, the Kernel ses, saved the nashun. That nite we set up till after midnight, and finally, after takin a good swig of Old Rye, went to bed. The next morning the Kernel was as merry as a lark, and could tell stories as well as ever.

Yours till deth,

MAJER JACK DOWNING.

LETTER XXIV.

_The Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation--The Way to Get Richmond--Splitting the Union--The Major Tells a Story about Splitting--The President Gets Indignant--Seizes the Boot-Jack--The Major Pacifies Him--A Dream--The Major Returns to Downingville._

DOWNINGVILLE, State of Maine,

February 4th, 1863.

_To the Editers of The Cawcas.h.i.+n:_

Surs:--I expect you have bin kinder puzzled to know why you ain't heered from me in so long a time. I expect you'll wonder, too, why my letter is dated Downingville instead of Was.h.i.+ngton. Wal, I'll have to narrate the hull story:--You know the last letter I rit you was jest afore the first of Jinewary, when the Kernel had promised to issoo his Free n.i.g.g.e.r Proclamas.h.i.+n. I was allers teetotally down on it, an I thought I should persuade him out of it, an tharby save the great disgrace an stane it would be on our country. But the truth is, the Kernel an I had a row about it, an I left. The story I'll tell jest as it tuk place: The mornin after New Year's I c.u.m down stairs, an the Kernel was settin in his cheer with his feet on the tabil. "Wal," ses he, "I've done it." "Done what?" ses I. "Why," ses he, "I've signed the Proclamas.h.i.+n." "Wal," ses I, "you had better have signed your own deth warrant, for that is the deth warrant of the Union." Ses he, "Majer, I'm sorry you're so hard on that." "Wal," ses I, "Kernel, I ain't too hard on it, as you'll find out to your sorror." "Now, Majer, let me ask you one thing. We must take Richmond, an ain't we tried every way but this? Ain't we gone by the Shanandore Vally, by Jeemes River, by Mana.s.ses, an yet we can't get to Richmond? We must weaken the rebils afore we can do it, an this is the way to effect it."

Ses I, "Kernel, don't you know there is one way to get to Richmond that you ain't tried yet?" "No," ses he, "I didn't know it." "Wal," ses I, "there is." "Wal," ses he, "what on arth is it?" "Wal," ses I, "it is the _Const.i.tus.h.i.+nal way_!" Ses I, "You've bin tryin to git there agin the Const.i.tus.h.i.+n, an you can't do it that way. Ef you hadn't called out 75,000 men to whip South Caroliny, old Virginny would never have left you, an you could have got to Richmond jest as easy as old grandfather Welles kin go to sleep."

"Wal," ses he, "Majer, mebby that's so, but you can't dip up spilt milk. Ef the thing is wrong, it's gone so far now that we may as well drive it thru an see ef we can't clinch it on tother side." "But," ses I, "there ain't eny tother side to this quests.h.i.+n, eny more than there is a white side to a n.i.g.g.e.r or black side to a white man, an you may drive on and on, an you won't get thru." "Wal," ses the Kernel, "what will come of it then, Majer?" "Wal," ses I, "you will _split_ the Union, but that is all you kin do." "Wal," ses he, "Majer, that would be jest like my tarnel luck. I never got hold of but one thing in my life that I didn't split." Ses I, "What was that?" Ses he, "A taller candle, an I defy all creas.h.i.+n to split that." Ses I, "Kernel, I guess you must be some relas.h.i.+n to the feller out West who split up all the churches." Ses he, "How was that?" "Wal," ses I, "ef I tell you the story, you must not get mad, for I'm afeered it will set putty clus."

Ses he, "Majer, I can stand a joak better than eny other feller you ever see." "Wal," ses I, "here goes: There was a feller out West who got converted, or thought he did, an jined the Episcopal church. He hadn't bin in it long afore he got the members by the ears, an split it all up an broke it down. After he had done all the hurt he could, he went an jined the Presbyterian church, an he hadn't bin there long afore he split that all up. Then he went an united with the Baptist church. It warn't long afore they were all split up an broke to pieces.

Being turned out from there, he went an jined the Methodist church. He soon got that church into hot water. One day, when the ministers were consultin as to what to do with him, ses one of them, ses he, 'I've bin prayin most fervently that that man may go to h.e.l.l!' 'Tut, tut, brother,' says the Elder, 'how can you do so? You should pray for him that he may be better, and be fitted to go to Heaven.' 'No,' ses he, 'I don't think so. I've prayed earnestly that he might go to h.e.l.l, an I'll tell you why. He has split up an broken up every church an neighborhood he was ever in, an ef he should go to Satan's dominions, I think he might split an break up that place, an you know what a blessing that would be.'"

I hadn't more than got the last word out of my mouth, wen the Kernel jumped up from his cheer, and ketchin hold of his boot-jack, he flourished it rite over his head in a savage style. I thought he was stark mad. I got my hickery an backed up agin the door. I seed he was tarin mad, but I didn't say a word. I knew he'd work off the bile in his own way. Finally ses he, "Majer, wat are you standin there for?"

"Why," ses I, "I was waitin to see what you was goin to do with that boot-jack." Ses he, "Have I got the boot-jack?" "Wal," ses I, "you've got sumthin in your hand that looks a mity site like one." "Wal," ses he, "Majer, I want to know whether you mean to apply that story to me?"

"No," ses I, "Kernel. Didn't I tell you at the outset that I didn't; but you was tellin about what you had done in the way of splittin things, an I was reminded of that story. But I told you to keep your temper, an not take it as personal, but only as a joak?" "Wal," ses he, "Majer, I'll forgive you; but ef I thought you meant that story for me, I'd arrest you for disloyal practices, an put you in the Old Capital Prison."

Then the Kernel asked me to take some Old Rye with him an make up friends. So I did; but I noticed, after that, that the Kernel watched me very clus. The very next day I had an awful attack of rumatiz, an I also felt sick an discurraged. Thigs never looked so black afore. I had a dream that nite, an I thought I saw the old Ginneral, an he told me, ses he, "This ain't any place for you now. The abolitionists have got full sway, an they will ruin the country as sure as my name is Andrew Jackson." I also dreamed that I saw thousands of dyin men, an weepin wimmin, an cryin children. I thought the doors of the houses all over the North looked red with blood, an a black cloud hung over the hull land. People seemed to be runnin first one way an then tother, askin what they should do. Finally, I heered a grate noise, like an arthquake, that woke me up, an I laid awake the rest of the nite.

The next mornin I was eenamost down sick with trubbel an rumatiz, an I telled the Kernel I must go hum, where I could get good keer taken of me. The Kernel didn't say much agin it, for, after all, he didn't kinder like that story. So ses I, "Mr. President, I've been with you now for about a year, an I've got a clean conscience, for I've tried to tell you the rale truth jest as it is. Ef all who have c.u.m around you had done the same, you would not be where you are; but," ses I, "I ain't got any feelin on the subject, an whenever I can be of any sarvice to my country, jest let me know, an I will come to Was.h.i.+nton agin."

The Kernel ses he, "Majer, I know you are a patriot, and I feel bad to have you go. I wish now I had taken your advice. But," ses he, "Majer,"

an here he giv my hand a tight squeeze, "you know I've only been a boat in a current, an yet like the boat I'll be jest the one that will get the worst smashed to pieces when the precipice is reached." I couldn't help feelin' kinder sorry for the Kernel as I bid him good-bye, but I felt still more sorry for my country that it had ever made him President.

I got hum all safe, an sense then I've been laid up four weeks with the rumatiz. I never had such a long pull afore. As for writin with it on me, why I can't any more do it than a shad can climb a bean-pole. I expect you've been wonderin why you didn't hear from me, but I think this letter will explain the resin. If the rumatiz don't come on agin, an I think I kin say anything that would of sarvice in this awful and solemn crysis of our country's fate, I will drop you a line. I feel as if the nas.h.i.+n was dyin, however, an that we all orter put on mournin an sack-cloth, but come what will, I'm for my country

Till deth,

MAJER JACK DOWNING.

LETTER XXV.

_The Major Feels Sorrowful over the Fate of His Country--The Story of the Black Heifer--The Man who Made a "Siss"--The Union--"Insine"

Stebbins Again--His Reception at Downingville--"The Insensibles"--A Provoking Accident._

DOWNINGVILLE, March 28, 1863.

_To the Eddyters of The Cawcas.h.i.+n:_

SURS:--You may wonder why you ain't heered from me afore; but the rale truth is, that I didn't feel like ritin in these times. I went to Was.h.i.+nton about a year ago, out of pure patriotism. I didn't want a contrack, nor a commission, nor enything. I went to give the Kernel good advice, jest as I did Ginneral Jackson; but it warn't no go.

Somnure an Greeley, an Wendil Fillips, an sech stay-at-hum fiten ginnerals got the advantage of me, an Linkin does jest wat they want him to. To an old man like me, these are tryin times. I had almost said _cryin_ times; I can't bear to think of 'em. I dream o'nights of my country, wen it was all peace an happiness--wen ther warn't any sojers nor standin army to pay, nor no debt, nor no hospitals full of sick sojers, nor no sorrow or misery in the land; an wen I wake up an think how different it is now, I wish I could sleep all the time. The other day old Deacon Jenkens came over to see me. The Deacon, you know, was with me in Was.h.i.+nton a short time, wen I first went there, and his darter Jerusha Matilda went down to Port Royal to teach the contrybands their primmers. Wal, the Deacon ain't much wiser now than he was a year ago. He still thinks that by prayin an fightin the rebels will yet be whipped. He used to like the _Tribune_, but lately he ses he prefers the _Herald_, as it is more truthful. The old man, however, has been very blue for some time past, and now ses that prayin an fightin hain't accomplished much. "Wal," ses I, "Deacon, there hadn't orter been eny war at all; but," ses I, "while the South have had a single end an purpose, we've been all at odds and ends. The war has been carried on by us jest like old Sol Pendergrast's boy ploughed. Old Sol took his oldest boy, Adam, a thick-heded feller, out one Spring, an set him to ploughin. He told him to go to work an strike a furrow across a field to a _black heifer_, an then keep on. After givin this direcs.h.i.+n, old Sol went off to the house an left Adam alone. The boy started his oxen in a bee line for the _black heifer_, but wen he got pretty clus to her, she threw up her tail an ran off in another direcs.h.i.+n. Adam thought he must foller the heifer, no matter where she went; so he struck another bee line for her, and with jest the same result. Wen he got clus to her, the heifer give another frisk to her tail, an off she went. Adam geed his oxen around, and struck for her agin; an so he kept on all day. At nite the old man c.u.m out to see how Adam had got along.

He found the field all cut up with furrows, zig-zag, criss-cross, an in every direcs.h.i.+n, an asked Adam wat on arth it ment. 'Wal,' ses the thick-headed numskull, 'you told me to steer for the _black_ heifer, an I've done it all day, but the denied critter wouldn't stand still, an so the furrows are a kinder criss-cross, you see.' Now," ses I, "that is jest wat Linkin has been doin. Greeley told him to steer for the n.i.g.g.e.r, an the result is jest like Adam Pendergrast's ploughing.

There's a considerable fightin ben done, but it is all criss-cross, zig-zag, an don't amount to nothin, an so it will be to the end of the chapter." Wen I sed this, the Deacon knocked the ashes out of his pipe, an ses he, "Wal, Majer, wat do you think the war will amount to, enyhow?" "Wall," ses I, "I guess it will end a good deal like the feller who thought he could make a horse-shoe jest as well as a blacksmith." Ses the Deacon, ses he, "How was that, Majer?" "Wal," ses I, "one day a feller in a blacksmith's shop made a bet that he could make a horse-shoe jest as well as the blacksmith himself, though he hadn't never heated an iron nor struck a blow on an anvil. The feller sed it didn't require any great gumption to make a horse-shoe. So he took a piece of iron an at it he went. He put it in the fire, heated it an commenced poundin it, but the more he pounded, the more it didn't look like a horse-shoe. He finally gave up the job, an said if he couldn't make a horse-shoe he _could_ make a wagon-bolt. So at it he went, but the more he pounded an the more he heated his iron, the less it grew, an finally he found that he couldn't make even a wagon-bolt.

Then he declared that he had iron enough left for a horse-shoe nail, and that he _would_ make, but upon trying, he found that the most difficult job of all. Finally, giving up in despair, ses he, 'Wal, one thing I can do enyhow, I can make a _siss_!' an plunging the tongs an what was left of the iron in the water, he did get up a very respectable 'siss.' Now," ses I, "when he started out, Linkin sed he was goin to restore the old Union. That has been given up long ago, and now they say they are goin to conquer the Southern States, that is, make a despotism, but the war will turn out jest like the horse-shoe business. Linkin will, after all, neether make a Union, or a despotism, or an Empire by it, but it will end with a great big 'siss.' That's all he will accomplish by it, an a dear 'siss' it will be for many a poor fellow. A dear 'siss' it will be for the fatherless and the widows, and a wonderful dear 'siss' it will be for the people who will have to pay the taxes and foot the bill of war." Wen I said this, the Deacon drew a long breth, an lookin down on the floor, didn't say enything for some minutes. Finally, ses he, "Wal, Majer, will we have to give up the Union after all?" Ses I, "I don't see eny necessity for that, providin that we kin only stop the war an talk over matters a little. But," ses I, "ef the Union is goin to be a Union wherein a white man hasn't the right to express his opinions, then I must say I don't love such a Union as that, an I'm as strong a Union man as old Ginneral Jackson, an that was strong enough. I am for the old Union, but ef the Union is to mean despotism, then I'm for breakin it all to smash, as soon as possible. Wen a man begins to humbug me by callin things by their wrong names to try an deceive me, it allus riles me onaccountably. I ain't a very larned man, but I kin generally see through one of these college chaps. Wen he talks Union to me, an all the time means despotism, I allus feel jest like haulin up my old hickory, an givin him a sockdologer. Why," ses I, "Deacon, the feller who wants to turn this government into a despotism, an keeps all the time hollerin 'Union,'

while he is doin it, is not only a traitor, but a hypocrite an coward.

He is afeerd to speak his rale sentiments, an so goes around tryin to deceive the people, jest as the false prophets in the Saviour's time.

I'm teetotally down on such fellers, an I mean to be to the end of the chapter."

I almost forgot to tell you that Insine Stebbins, who went off to the war, has jest got hum. He had a recepshun by the military of Downingville wen he arriv. Col. Doolittle called out the Downingville Insensibles an the Maroon artillery, an all Downingville was in a blaze of glory. The Insine has been promoted to be Captin sense he went off, for ritin a pome for the contrybands at Port Royal, where the Insine was stas.h.i.+oned. The Insine is not a bad poet. But you orter seen the turnout in Downingville to receive him. Colonel Doolittle rode down the street on old Elder Dusenberry's sorrel mare, an jest as the cannon was blazin forth the joyous news of the Captin's arrival on the ground, old sorrel's colt, that the elder thought he had locked up safe in the stable, come tarein through the street, an fairly mowed a swath rite through the women. Such a yellin an screachin ver never heered afore. A good many people thought the rebils were comin. Elder Dusenberry's wife tore her best silk dress, an the Insine who had primed himself for a big speech on the occas.h.i.+n, had it all scart out of him. If it hadn't been for that rascally young colt, I think that the celebras.h.i.+n would have been the greatest day Downingville had seen sence the time General Jackson visited it. The Insine brings the news from Was.h.i.+ngton that the Kernel thinks some of payin a visit to the North, an maybe to the East, afore long. Ef he does, he says he wants me to go along with him to help him make speeches and keep off the offis-seekers. Ef he sends for me, I spose I shall have to go, though I hate to do it.

Yourn till deth,

MAJER JACK DOWNING.

LETTER XXVI.

_The Democratic Party Whipped--Things as bad as they can be--A Story in Point--Mr. Lincoln sends for the Major again--The Major writes him a Letter--The Return of "Kernel" Stebbins, formerly "Insine"--His Reception at Downingville--"Kernel" Doolittle's Speech--"Kernel"

Stebbins' Reply--Elder Sniffles' Preaches a Sermon._

DOWNINGVILLE, Oct. 26, 1863.

_To the Editers of The Dabook:_

SURS:--'Cause your readers hain't herd from me lately, I 'spose they think I'm ded, or gone over to the Abolis.h.i.+nists, which is a tarnal sight wus: but I ain't in neither fix. I'm pretty well jest now. The hot wether, durin the summer, kinder tried me, but I carry eighty years jest about as well as any man ever did. The resin you ain't herd from me is jest this: I've been feelin oncommon gloomy and down-sperited all summer. Everything seemed to be goin from bad to wus. Linkin wouldn't take my advice an c.u.m out agin the Abolitionists, but issued his free n.i.g.g.e.r proclamashun rite agin the law an the Const.i.tus.h.i.+n both. Wal, things have gone down hill rapid sence then. The Demmycratic party didn't c.u.m out bluntly agin this proclamas.h.i.+n, but kept on supportin the war, an the consequence is, it has whipped all round. Politics are gettin down to first principles.

Things are jest as bad as they kin be, and that is what encourages me.

I shall never forget Hezekiah Stebbins, who lived away up in the upper part of Pen.o.bscot. One winter it had been awful cold weather, and 'Kiah had wonderful bad luck, and towards spring it seemed to get worse instead of better. He had lost his horse, and his cow, and his chickens, and all his pigs but one. Finally, that died, and the next day I happened to go up to his house to see how he was gettin along. I found the old man happy as a lark. He was singin and shoutin as if nothing had happen'd. When I went in, ses I, "'Kiah, what on airth is the matter?" "Oh," ses he, "the last pig is ded," and he went to jumpin and clappin his hands, as if he was the happiest man in the universe.

Ses I, "What possesses you to act so?" "Wal," ses he, "things _can't_ be no wus. The last pig is ded! anything that happens now must be for the better." And just so it is with the Dimmycratic party. Anything now that happens to it _must_ be for the better. And I must confess that I feel a good deal like 'Kiah. I don't feel a bit like settin down and cryin like a sick baby over spilt milk, because we've been whipt in the late elecs.h.i.+ns. That ain't the way the old Ginral Hickory Jackson taught me Dimmocracy.

The other day I got a letter from Linkin, askin me to c.u.m on to Was.h.i.+nton. He ses he is gettin into a heep of trouble about his next messidge, all on account of the diffikilty which Blair an Chase air kickin up about what is to be dun with the suthrin States after the rebelyon is put down. He ses he wants me to help git up the messidge, and kinder fix things up ginrally. I writ back that cold wether was c.u.min on, and my rumatiz would probably trouble me, so I could not tell exactly what I would do, but if I could be of any service to my country, as long as life lasted, I would do my duty. I wrote him, also, about that matter of the southern States, an I told him that it reminded me of the old receipt for cooking a rabbit. "_First catch your rabbit._" I told him they had not got the southern States yet, that they sartainly wouldn't get them this year, an I didn't see any great likelihood of gettin them next year. In fact, the times of the soldiers were mostly out, an I didn't believe they would ever get another sich an army, an if he followed my advice he would get up a Peace this winter without fail. I ain't got any answer to this letter, but I shall wait for one before I go. If the Kernel talks huffy, I won't stir a step, for he knows I allers tell him the plain, blunt truth, as I believe it. Wen I can't talk that way to a man, I won't have nothing to do with him. The old Ginneral allers wanted everybody around him to speak there rale sentiments. Nothing made him so mad as to suspect any body of flatterin him, or shaming in any way.

The other day Kernel Stebbins c.u.m hum from the war. The Kernel has been down to Morris Island with Ginneral Gilmur. He ses that the sand on that island is kinder onaccountable. The Kernel reckons that he has eat nigh about a bushel. The Kernel used to be very good on writin poetry, but he says all the flatus has oozed out of him, an he don't believe he could write a line to save his life. We had a grand receps.h.i.+n for the Kernel on his arrival. The Downingville Insensibles turned out as usual on sich occas.h.i.+ns. You recollect that the Kernel went off as an Insine, an when he was promoted to be Captain he c.u.m hum an we giv him a receps.h.i.+n. Now he is raised to Kernel he c.u.ms hum agin. He c.u.ms every time he gets promoted, to let his old naybors see how he looks in his new uniform. I never see the Kernel look so well. He has got a span new suit of blue uniform, all covered with gold b.u.t.tons, an gold lace an gold shoulder-straps. I tell you, the people looked astonished, and the Downingville folks feel very proud of him. The Kernel expects before long to be a Ginneral, and then to be called to the command of the Army of the Potomac! Wen the Kernel was received at the Town Hall, Kernel Doolittle, who commands the Downingville Insensibles, made the receps.h.i.+n speech. The following is the speech, with the Kernel's reply:

"Kernel Stebbins: I am deputed by the citizens of Downingville to welcome you once more to your native town and hum. We have heard of your gallant exploits, your glorious bravery, your never-dyin devos.h.i.+n to the Star-Spangled Banner. Comin as you do, covered with the dust and blood of the battle-field, we hail you as the friend of the oppressed African and the savior of your country."