[Thomas Fitch, Recollections and Reflections No. 9, San Francisco Call, 15 November 1903:14]

 

RECOLLECTIONS AND REFLECTIONS OF THOMAS FITCH

WASHINGTON REMINISCENCES

            FERNANDO WOOD, ex-Mayor of New York City, and for many years one of its representatives in Congress, was, in graciousness of manner, in courteousness of deportment and in costume a gentleman of the old school.

            After the strictest of his sect he lived and died a Democrat, but all the darkies employed about the Federal Capitol loved him for his kindly spirit and for the size and frequency of his tips. Among his favorites was a colored barber, who attended in the cloakroom of the House of Representatives. Learning that Johnson— for so was he named—had a mother and sister in slavery in Maryland and that he was saving money to purchase their freedom, Mr. Wood passed the hat among his associates, collected $300, added $200 from his own pocket and presented it to Johnson, who, with his own savings was then the possessor of $800, which he deposited with Riggs & Co. Mr. Wood next interested himself to secure for Johnson a lease at the barber shop at a Saratoga hotel, from which it was estimated that $400 could be derived during the season, thus making up the sum of $1200 necessary to purchase the woman and her daughter.

            Before the season opened at Saratoga Fort Sumter was tired upon, an extra session of Congress was called and Johnson relinquished his Saratoga lease and was back in his place at Washington ready to wait upon his Congressional friends.

            "This is too bad," said Mr. Wood, as he seated himself in the barber's chair. "We will have to make up a little more money for you to buy your mother and sister. Cannot you get master to take a little less than $1200 for them? "Oh, yes, Massa Wood," was the cheerful reply. "He done offers to take $800 for them now." "Well, you have got $800, haven't you? You haven't spent any of that money, have you?" "No indeed," replied the colored man, "it is all safe in Massa Higgs' bank." "Well, why don't you buy your mother and sister with it?" queried Mr. Wood. The barber applied the lather vigorously to the Congressman's chin and replied, "Dar's no hurry, Massa Wood, dar's no hurry. Niggers is going to be mighty cheap befo' dis wah is ovah."

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            Of all latter-day American statesmen none so occupied public attention in his lifetime or died so utterly when he died as James G. Blaine. He impressed his individuality strongly upon those about him, but it did not extend to those with whom he did not come in personal contact. He had quickness of perception to a remarkable degree, but lacked breadth and depth and prescience. With every appearance of unselfish devotion to public interests, he estimated and dealt with measures and with men in their bearing upon his own fortunes, rather than the public welfare. He did not lower his helmet when the fight was on, but he did not hesitate to stoop to conquer, and he was a lukewarm friend and a placable enemy. He was a born diplomat. He was powerful and dramatic, and often eloquent in speech, but his addresses were for his immediate audience, and he indorsed Sir Boyle Roach In saying, "What has posterity done for us?" His motto was that of Danton, "L'audace, l'audace, toujours l'audace." If he had lived longer and had possessed more robust health he might have reached the goal of his ambition, for he was surely a great partisan leader, and neither his power nor his opportunities had passed their zenith when he was called away. Mr. Blaine was a capital raconteur, and never suppressed a good story because the joke was on himself. He related on one occasion how an old farmer had vindicated him at a town meeting in Maine. "The habit that some folks has," said the old man, "of lyin' about public men is distressin' and mean. They do say that Blaine swears. Now I happen to know that t'aint so. My gal is attendin' an academy at Augusty where Blaine's gal goes, and she and Blaine's gal are great cronies, and often she goes home with Blaine's gal and stops all night with her, and she's been at supper and breakfast lots of times when Blaine was at the table, and she tells me that she never heerd Blaine swear--not once. Now, it stands to reason that a man who can keep from swearln' in his own home and at his own wife can keep from swearin' anywhere."

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            When the novel "Robert Elsmere " was first published it was the topic of tea table conversation in New England ad nauseam. Mr. Baline [sic] told of a neighbor who had a silver collar duly engraved and placed on the neck of his large good natured house dog. When a visitor examined the inscription he read: "Please do not mention the name of Robert Elsmere in the hearing of this dog. He will not stand everything.

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            Roscoe Conkling was in oratory what a Corinthian column is in architecture. His was the lofty port, the dignity, the power, the high disdain of littleness, the kingly graciousness of Olympian Jove. If he had been able to dictate the manner of his departure from the scene of human activities he would not have died from an encounter with a blizzard, but he would have draped himself in a toga, commanded the band to play a triumphant march and bowed patronizingly to Gabriel and his attending angels as he entered the celestial sates. He was an athlete both physically and intellectually. He scorned trickery and would never take undue advantage of an enemy. He never struck a foul blow, but he had no capacity to smilingly endure punishment. His high estimate of himself was not lowered by adverse criticism, but it hurt him, and he could not conceal the hurt. He was imperial and dictatorial in manner and often offended his clansmen even when he served them. A member of the New York Legislature who had voted for both Conkling and Fenton desired a small South American Consulship, and he sought the good offices of both Senators to secure the appointment from President Grant. The applicant went to the door of the United States Senate chamber and sent in his card to Senator Fenton. That gentleman came into the lobby, politely greeted his constituent, listened to his story, took his petition, promised to present it to the President and urge the appointment and left the office seeker full of hope. A card was then sent to Senator Conkling, who in a few minutes came striding into the lobby and, approaching his constituent, exclaimed. "Well, sir, what can I do for you?" The gentleman responded, stating his wishes, and requesting the efforts and influence of the Senator. Mr. Conkling glowered at the unhappy man and, drawing himself to his full height, exclaimed: "Sir, your conduct is indecent. How dare you call a Senator of the United States from his seat for such a purpose as this?" and thereupon the Senator turned his back upon the crestfallen applicant and walked away.

            And, would you believe it?" said the subject of this incident, "Senator Fenton never presented my petition or said a word in my favor, while Roscoe Conkling went to General Grant and asked the appointment as a personal favor to himself, and I got the place."'

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            General Benjamin F. Butler so hated shams and hypocrites and pretenders that he would sometimes, for the sake of an epigram, depreciate his own truthfulness and integrity. "I never," said he on one occasion, "really began to enjoy life until I had lost the last scrap of my reputation." His wit was as keen as a razor, and as merciless. Of Judge Ebenezer R. Hoar, Grant's first Attorney General, he said: "His most prominent characteristic is his ungeniality. When he was on the Supreme Judicial Bench in Massachusetts his constant grief was that he could not decide against both the appellant and appellee." Of a Southern Senator who was generally accredited with selling his vote whenever a market could be found, he said: "His statesmanship fits the definition that the Chinese give to geometry—the science of the how much."

            Once, however, Butler was worsted in repartee. It was during a session of the House Committee on Reconstruction, of which he was chairman. There had been a heated discussion, and General John F. Farnsworth of Illinois had bitterly opposed a radical measure favored by Butler, who sharply criticized Farnsworth for his alleged abandonment of Republican doctrine. Farnsworth replied excitedly: "The chairman questions my Republicanism. Why, I was a Republican when he was chasing fugitive slaves all over the State of Massachusetts." Butler rejoined: "There are people who prefer Judas Iscariot to Paul, on the ground that Judas was the oldest of the original disciples." "I question the statement," said Farnsworth, "that Judas was the oldest of the original disciples and I shall dispute it unless the gentleman from Massachusetts is in possession of family papers that will throw light upon the subject."

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            Captain Hooper, banker, politician, Mormon elder and for many terms Territorial Delegate to Congress from Utah, was a gentleman who lived and dressed well. He was a charming conversationalist and knew intimately many public men. Hooper would defend polygamy, preach it, prove its scriptural sanction, in brief, do everything except practice it. He was the husband of one wife until the day of his death, and in spite of church influence always had a plausible excuse for not increasing his store of domestic felicity.

            Brigham Young used his authority in vain up to the verge of the "command" to induce Hooper to enter polygamy. But "the command" was not issued, for Hooper was wealthy and influential and too strong in every way to make it advisable for Brigham to assail him. But the Mormon prophet was not without resource and one day he sent for the captain and said to him bluntly, "Brother Hooper, you must live your religion. Your persistent refusal to enter polygamy is injuring the church as well as yourself." "But, President Young, I have reasons," said Hooper. "Yes," interrupted Brigham, "I know all about that, but I have reasons also. Now there is Sister Thompson, who died last year, and Sister Brown, who passed away a month ago and Sister Jones, who has just left us. None of these sisters were sealed to anybody before their departure and I propose, Brother Hooper, to seal them to you." "Why, certainly, President Young," replied the relieved and delighted Hooper, "certainly—just as many dead ones as you like."

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            Horace Greeley is a great historic figure. He was surely the most prolific and potential editorial writer of his generation. Defeated by the several managers for a seat in the Republican National Convention of 1860 from New York, he appeared duly accredited as a delegate from Oregon, and he was a powerful factor in procuring the defeat of Seward for the nomination. He was the idol of hundreds of thousands of voters who were interested in political success, not to secure the triumph of men, but the establishment of principles. It is an undecided question, whether the white hat on the back of the bald head, the long white coat and the trousers tucked in the boot leg were deliberate or accidental eccentricities. But there was no question as to the power of the man when with pen in hand he assailed or upheld practices and principles. He was ambitious, but until the last months which preceded his tragical end he ever seemed philosophical in adversity. Some friends who were indignant at his defeat for a seat in Congress by John Morrissey endeavored to induce him to contest the election. "Tut, tut, gentlemen," said he, "ours is a representative government. There is no obligation resting upon a community of thieves and vagabonds to choose a gentleman to represent them in Congress. The slums of New York have preferred a pugilist and a gambler to me for their Congressman. That is their right, and I shall not dispute it."

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            Mr. Greeley cordially hated the administration of James Buchanan for its subservience to the slave power, but his patriotism was superior to his politics. At a Fourth of July banquet given in London before the Civil War by the British Anti- Slavery Society, Mr. Greeley was selected to reply to the toast, "The United States." He commenced his speech by saying, "What the United States most needs is a good licking—" He was interrupted by a burly Briton, who, rapping his approval with his knife upon the table, cried, "Hear! hear!" and exclaimed, "that's right. Mr. Greeley, that's what the United States most needs." The Tribune philosopher grew red with indignation and turning on the interrupter he finished his sentence by saying, "But unfortunately no nation on the face of the earth, not even the country of the gentleman who interrupted me, is able to give it to her."

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            The nomination of Greeley for President by the Democrats in 1872, though tragical in its outcome, had many amusing features. I happened to be one of a stage load of passengers dining at a wayside station in Eastern Nevada, when the Austin stage arrived, bringing the glad tidings, Among our passengers was a stalwart old Democrat, a member of the State Senate. One or two of his companions of opposite political faith gleefully asked him how he liked the nomination. "Gentlemen," said he, "I will answer by telling a little story. In 1849 I was one of a company of forty co-operative gold seekers who came around the Horn. Arrived at the scene of our labors, in Placer County, we built a large cabin and agreed to take turn about in cooking, the cook to be selected by lot and to serve three months, unless complaint was made, and then the grumbler was to take the place of the cook and serve his unexpired term. It was no sinecure to cook for forty hungry miners and any of us preferred to labor with pick and shovel. The first week the lot of cooking fell to an inexperienced youth from New York City, and he certainly did serve some horrible messes. An old mackerel fisher from Massachusetts burst into a torrent of profanity at the youth merely because he had split some whale oil into the codfish.

            "The Gloucester was, under the rules, promoted to the place of cook. He was a good cook, too, and we lived well for a week: then he got tired of his job and plotted to relinquish it. He served us coffee "too weak to walk unblamed," and beans that needed to be pounded on the back before they could be eaten and pork with the bristles on. But we put up a syndicate to praise everything he did and he remained as chief culinary artist. One day, driven desperate, he baked a batch of bread about half salt and served it to us for dinner— hot. I was one of the first at the table, and breaking off a piece o£ the bread, was nearly strangled in attempting to eat it. After I had cleared my throat I exclaimed indignantly, 'Well, of all the salty messes I ever tasted this is the —.' Then I caught sight of the joyful face of the cook and caught myself in time; but said I in the same breath, 'Don't misunderstand me. I like salt. I never could get bread salt enough to suit me before.' Well, that's what, as a Democrat, I have to say about the nomination of Horace Greeley."