University of Virginia Library

ANOTHER PREFACE.

BY THE PUBLISHERS.

In laying before the public a work from so distinguished
a personage as the original Major Jack Downing,
the Publishers feel the importance and the responsibility
of the position in which they are placed, and
the high duty they owe in the matter both to the present
generation and to remote posterity. They would,
therefore, enter on their duties with a formality and a
seriousness, befitting the occasion, and with a just sense
of the delicate relation they hold to the great author
and the great public.

We deem it important, in the prefatory remarks
which we feel it our duty to make on this occasion, to
give a brief history of Downing literature; for we contend
that there is a Downing literature in the country,
of a distinctive character, and that the original Major
Jack Downing, was the founder and the head of the
school. We feel bound to go into this examination the
more, because the matter has been greatly mystified in
the eyes of the public, and unless something is done to
brush away the clouds of error which have been gathered
about it, there is great danger that posterity may
never see the subject in its true light.

To enter at once, therefore, into the merits of the
case, we find it abundantly proved from authentic

records, that Major Jack Downing was born in Downingville,
in the State of Maine. The precise location
of this now somewhat celebrated village, is described
by the Major himself, in the volume of his life and
writings, published about ten years ago in Boston, by
Lilly, Waite & Co., as being “jest about in the middle
of down east.” It is a moderate day's ride from Pooduck,
leaving Spurwink on the left, and is represented
by all travellers who have visited it, as being one of
the most delightful villages in the world, and remarkable
for the quiet and orderly character of its inhabitants,
and their hearty and unaffected hospitality to strangers.

In January, 1830, the Major, who was then only
plain Mr. Jack Downing, made a sort of a professional
visit to Portland, the capital of the State; that is to say,
he “loaded up with axe-handles, bean-poles, and so on,
hitched on the old horse, and driv down to Portland
to sell.” Here, a combination of circumstances, most
fortunately for the world, drew him into the paths of
literature, legislation, and military science. The
market was dull, he could not dispose of his wares,
and held on two or three weeks, having “put up at
Ant Sally's,” to see if prices would not improve.

In the mean time, he visited the Legislature of the
State, which was then in session in Portland, under remarkable
circumstances. The two political parties
were so evenly balanced, that both claimed the ascendancy
in the Legislature, but neither could obtain it.
The House was so nearly divided, that it depended
upon one or two contested seats to turn the scale one
way or the other. The two parties in the Senate
were exactly equal in numbers, and it was not known
who had been chosen Governor, nor could the votes be

counted till the Legislature was organized. In this
state of things the two parties fought valiantly for every
inch of ground, and it was six weeks after the Legislamet
before they succeeded in organizing the government
for the year.

Here was the match which fired the magazine of Mr.
Downing's intellect. Here his first letter to his friends
in Downingville, the first letter he ever wrote, went up
like a rocket, and shed light over the surrounding
country. Here was laid the corner-stone of the temple
of Downing literature. As an interesting and important
record in the history of letters, and belles letters,
in this country, it is deemed highly proper that that letter
should be here inserted. We have accordingly
taken the trouble to procure an exact and authenticated
copy, and here it is.

[The first Downing letter ever written.]

Dear Cousin Ephraim,—I now take my pen in hand to let
you know that I am well, hoping these few lines will find you
enjoying the same blessing. When I come down to Portland
I didn't think o' staying more than three or four days, if I
could sell my load of ax handles, and mother's cheese, and
cousin Nabby's bundle of footings; but when I got here I
found uncle Nat was gone a freighting down to Quoddy, and
ant Sally said as how I shouldn't stir a step home till he come
back agin, which wont be this month. So here I am, loitering
about this great town, as lazy as an ox. Ax handles don't fetch
nothing, I couldn't hardly give 'em away. Tell cousin Nabby
I sold her footings for nine-pence a pair, and took it all in
cotton cloth. Mother's cheese come to five-and-sixpence; I
got her half a pound of shushon, and two ounces of snuff,
and the rest in sugar. When uncle Nat comes home I shall
put my ax handles aboard of him, and let him take 'em to
Boston next time he goes; I saw a feller tother day, that told
me they'd fetch a good price there.—l've been here now a
whole fortnight, and if I could tell ye one half I've seen, I

guess you'd stare worse than if you'd seen a catamount. I've
been to meeting, and to the museum, and to both Legislaters,
the one they call the House, and the one they call the Sinnet.
I spose uncle Joshua is in a great hurry to hear something
about these Legislaters; for you know he's always reading
newspapers, and talking politics, when he can get any body
to talk with him. I've seen him, when he had five tons of hay
in the field well made, and a heavy shower coming up, stand
two hours disputing with Squire W. about Adams and Jackson,
one calling Adams a tory and a fed, and the other saying
Jackson was a murderer and a fool; so they kept it up, till
the rain began to pour down, and about spoilt all his hay.

Uncle Joshua may set his heart at rest about the bushel of
corn that he bet long with the post-master, that Mr. Ruggles
would be Speaker of that Legislater, they call the House;
for he's lost it, slick as a whistle. As I hadn't much to do,
I've been there every day since they've been a setting. A
Mr. White of Monmouth was the Speaker the two first days;
and I can't see why they didn't keep him in all the time; for
he seemed to be a very clever good-natured sort of man, and
he had such a smooth pleasant way with him, that I couldn't
help feeling sorry when they turned him out and put in
another. But some said he wasn't put in hardly fair; and I
dont know as he was, for the first day when they were all
coming in and crowding round, there was a large fat man,
with a round, full, jolly sort of a face, I suppose he was the
captain, for he got up and commanded them to come to order,
and then he told this Mr. White to whip into the chair quicker
than you could say Jack Robinson. Some of 'em scolded
about it, and I heard, some in a little room they called the
lobby, say 'twas a mean trick; but I couldn't see why, for I
thought Mr. White made a capital Speaker, and when our
company turns out you know the captain always has a right
to do as he's a mind to.

They kept disputing most all the time the two first days
about a poor Mr. Roberts from Waterborough. Some said
he shouldn't have a seat, because he ad ourned the town meeting,
and wasn't fairly elected. Others said it was no such
thing, and that he was elected as fairly as any of 'em. And
Mr. Roberts himself said he was, and said he could bring men
that would swear to it, and good men too. But notwithstanding
all this, when they came to vote, they got three or four
majority that he shouldn't have a seat. And I thought it a
needless piece of cruelty, for they want crowded, and there
was a number of seats empty. But they would have it so,
and the poor man had to go and stand up in the lobby.

Then they disputed awhile about a Mr. Fowler's having a
seat. Some said he shouldn't have a seat, because when he
was elected some of his votes were given for his father. But
they were more kind to him than they were to Mr. Roberts;
for they voted that he should have a seat; and I suppose it
was because they thought he had a lawful right to inherit
whatever was his father's. They all declared there was no
party politics about it, and I don't think there was; for I
noticed that all who voted that Mr. Roberts should have a seat,
voted that Mr. Fowler should not; and all who voted that Mr.
Roberts should not have a seat. voted that Mr. Fowler should.
So, as they all voted both ways, they must have acted as their
consciences told them, and I dont see how there could be any
party about it.

It's a pity they couldn't be allowed to have two speakers,
for they seemed to be very anxious to choose Mr. Ruggles
and Mr. Goodenow. They too had every vote, except one,
and if they had had that, I believe they both would have been
chosen; as it was, however, they both came within a humbird's
eye of it. Whether it was Mr. Ruggles that voted for
Mr. Goodenow, or Mr. Goodenow for Mr. Ruggles, I can't
exactly tell; but I rather guess it was Mr. Ruggles voted for
Mr. Goodenow, for he appeared to be very glad that Mr.
Goodenow was elected, and went up to him soon after Mr.
Goodenow took the chair, and shook hands with him as good
natured as could be. I would have given half my load of ax
handles, if they could both have been elected and set up there
together, they would have been so happy. But as they can't
have but one speaker at a time, and as Mr. Goodenow appears
to understand the business very well, it is not likely Mr.
Ruggles will be speaker any this winter. So uncle Joshua
will have to shell out his bushel of corn, and I hope it will
learn him better than to bet about politics again. If he had
not been a goose, he might have known he would loose it,
even if he had been ever so sure of getting it; for in these
politics there's never any telling which way the cat will jump.
You know, before the last September election, some of the
papers that came to our town had found out that Mr. Hunton
would have five thousand majority of the votes. And some
of the other papers had found out that Mr. Smith would have
five thousand majority. But the cat jumped 'tother way to
both of 'em; for I can't find yet as either of 'em has got any
majority. Some say Mr. Hunton has got a little majority, but
as far from five thousand as I am from home. And as for
Mr. Smith they don't think he has any majority at all. You
remember, too, before I came from home, some of the papers

said how there was a majority of ten or fifteen national republicans,
in the Legislater, and the other papers said there
was a pretty clever little majority of democratic republicans.
Well, now every body says it has turned out jest as that queer
little paper, called the the Daily Courier, said 'twould. That
paper said it was such a close rub, it couldn't hardly tell
which side would beat. And it's jest so, for they've been
here now most a fortnight acting jest like two boys playin see-saw
on a rail. First one goes up, then 'tother; but I reckon
one of the boys is rather heaviest, for once in awhile he
comes down chuck, and throws the other up into the air as
though he would pitch him head over heels.

In that 'tother Legislater they call the Sinnet, there has
been some of the drollest carryins on that you ever heard of.
If I can get time I'll write you something about it, pretty
soon. So I subscribe myself, in haste, your loving cousin
till death.

Four days after the date of the above letter, Mr.
Downing wrote another letter to his Uncle Joshua, of
Downingville, who had in the mean time “loaded up”
with turkies and “apple sass,” and pushed off to Boston,
from which place he addressed the following letter
to his nephew in Portland.

Letter from Joshua Downing, in Boston, to his nephew, Jack
Downing, in Portland.

Dear Nephew,—I left home just after your letter to your
cousin Ephraim got there, and I didn't get a sight of your
letter to me that you put into the Courier at Portland, until
I saw it in the Daily Advertiser in Boston, and I guess Mr.
Hale is the only person in Boston who takes that are little
Courier, so you was pretty safe about the letter not being
seen, as the printer promised you. How I happened to see
it here, you will find out before I have got through with this
letter. I guess you wont be a little struck up when you find
out that I'm in Boston—but I had best begin at the beginning
and then I shall get thro' quicker.

After seeing your letter to Ephraim as I said before, I concluded
it wouldn't be a bad scheme to tackle up and take a
load of turkies, some apple-sauce, and other notions that the
neighbors wanted to get to market, and as your uncle Nat
would be in Boston with the ax handles, we all thought best

to try our luck there. Nothing happened worth mentioning
on the road, nor till next morning after I got here and put up
in Elm street. I then got off my watch pretty curiously, as
you shall be informed. I was down in the bar room, and
tho't it well enough to look pretty considerable smart, and
now and then compared my watch with the clock in the bar,
and found it as near right as it ever was—when a feller stept
up to me and ask't how I'd trade? and says I, for what? and
says he, for your watch—and says I, any way that will be a
fair shake—upon that says he, I'll give you my watch and five
dollars.—Says I, its done! He gave me the five dollars, and
I gave him my watch. Now, says I, give me your watch—
and says he, with a loud laugh, I han't got none—and that
kind aturn'd the laugh on me. Thinks I, let them laugh that
lose. Soon as the laugh was well over, the feller thought
he'd try the watch to his ear—why, says he, it dont go—no,
says I, not without its carried—then I began to laugh—he
tried to open it and couldn't start it a hair, and broke his
thumb nail in the bargain. Won't she open, says he? Not's
I know on, says I—and then the laugh seemed to take another
turn.

Don't you think I got off the old Brittania pretty well, considrin?
And then I thought I'd go and see about my load of
turkies and other notions. I expected to have gone all over
town to sell my load, but Mr. Doolittle told me if I'd go down
to the new market, I should find folks enough to buy all I had
at once. So down I goes, and a likely kind of a feller, with
an eye like a hawk and quick as a steeltrap for a trade, (they
called him a 4th staller,) came up to the wagon, and before
you could say Jack Robinson, we struck a bargain for the
whole cargo—and come to weigh and reckon up, I found I
should get as much as 10s6d more than any of us calculated
before I left home, and had the apple-sauce left besides. So
I thought I'd jist see how this 4th staller worked his card to
be able to give us so good a price for the turkies, and I went
inside the market-house, and a grander sight I never expect
to see! But it was the 3d staller instead of the 4th, had my
turkies all sorted and hung up, and looking so much better
that I hardly should know 'em. Pretty soon, a gentleman
asked the 3d staller what he asked for turkies? Why, says
he, if you want something better than you ever saw before,
there's some 'twas killed last night purpose for you. You
may take 'em at 9d, being it's you. I'll give you 12 cents,
said the gentleman, as I've got some of the General Court to
dine with me, and must treat well. I shant stand for half a
cent with an old customer, says he. And so they traded;

and in about the space of half an hour or more, all my turkies
went into baskets at that rate. The 4th staller gave me 6d
a pound, and I began to think I'd been a little too much in a
hurry for trade—but's no use to cry for spilt milk. Then I
went up to the State House to see what was going on there;
but I thought I'd get off my apple-sauce on my way—and seeing
a sign of old clothes bartered, I stepped in and made a
trade, and got a whole suit of superfine black broadcloth from
top to toe, for a firkin of apple-sauce, (which didn't cost much
I guess, at home.)

Accordingly I rigged myself up in the new suit, and you'd
hardly known me. I didn't like the set of the shoulders, they
were so dreadful puckery; but the man said that was all
right. I guess he 'll find the apple-sauce full as puckery
when he gets down into it—but that's between ourselves.
Well, when I got up to the State House I found them at work
on the rail road—busy enough I can tell you—they got a part
of it made already. I found most all the folks kept their hats
on except the man who was talking out loud and the man he
was talking to—all the rest seemed to be busy about their
own consarns. As I didn't see any body to talk to I kept my
hat on and took a seat, and look'd round to see what was going
on. I hadn't been setting long before I saw a slick-headed,
sharp-eyed little man, who seemed to have the principal
management of the folks, looking at me pretty sharp, as much
as to say who are you? but I said nothing and looked tother
way—at last he touched me on the shoulder—I thought he
was feeling of the puckers. Are you a member? says he—
sartin says I—how long have you taken your seat? says he.
About ten minutes, says I. Are you qualified? says he. I
guess not, says I. And then he left me. I didn't know exactly
what this old gentleman was after—but soon he returned
and said it was proper for me to be qualified before I took
a seat, and I must go before the governor! By Jing! I never
felt so before in all my born days. As good luck would have
it, he was beckoned to come to a man at the desk, and as soon as
his back was turned I give him the slip. Jest as I was going
off, the gentleman who bought my turkies of the 4th staller
took hold of my arm, and I was afraid at first that he was going
to carry me to the Governor—but he began to talk as sociable
as if we had been old acquaintances. How long have
you been in the house, Mr. Smith, says he. My name is
Downing, said I. I beg your pardon, says he—I mean
Downing. It's no offence, says I. I haven't been here long.
Then says he in a very pleasant way, a few of your brother
members are to take pot-luck with me to-day, and I should be

happy to have you join them. What's pot-luck, said I. O, a
family dinner, says he—no ceremony. I thought by this time
I was well qualified for that without going to the Governor.
So says I, yes, and thank ye too. How long before you'll
want me, says I. At 3 o'clock, says he, and gave me a piece
of paste board with his name on it—and the name of the
street, and the number of his house, and said that would show
me the way. Well, says I, I dont know of nothing that will
keep me away. And then we parted. I took considerable
liking to him.

After strolling round and seeing a great many things about
the State House and the marble immage of Gin. Washington,
standing on a stump in the Porch, I went out into the street
they call Bacon street, and my stars! what swarms of women
folks I saw all drest up as if they were going to meeting.
You can tell cousin Polly Sandburn, who you know is no
slimster, that she needn't take on so about being genteel in
her shapes—for the genteelest ladies here beat her as to size
all hollow. I dont believe one of 'em could get into our fore
dore—and as for their arms—I shouldn't want better measure
for a bushel of meal than one of their sleeves could hold. I
shant shell out the bushel of corn you say I've lost on Speaker
Ruggles at that rate. But this puts me in mind of the dinner
which Mr. — wants I should help the Gineral Court
eat. So I took out the piece of paste board, and began to inquire
my way and got along completely, and found the number
the first time—but the door was locked, and there was no
knocker, and I thumpt with my whip handle, but nobody come.
And says I to a man going by, dont nobody live here? and
says he yes. Well, how do you get in? Why, says he ring;
and says I, ring what? And says he, the bell. And says I,
where's the rope? And says he, pull that little brass nub;
and so I gave it a twitch, and I'm sure a bell did ring; and
who do you think opened the door with a white apron afore
him? You couldn't guess jor a week a Sundays—so I'll tell
you. It was Stephen Furlong, who kept our district school last
winter, for 5 dollars a month, and kept bachelor's hall, and
helped tend for Gineral Coombs a training day, and make out
muster rolls. We was considerably struck up at first, both of
us; and when he found I was going to eat dinner with Mr.
— and Gineral Court, he thought it queer kind of doings
—but says he, I guess it will be as well for both of us not to
know each other a bit more than we can help. And says I,
with a wink, you're half right, and in I went. There was
nobody in the room but Mr. — and his wife, and not a
sign of any dinner to be seen any where—though I thought

now and then when a side door opened, I could smell cupboard,
as they say.

I thought I should be puzzled enough to know what to say,
but I hadn't my thoughts long to myself. Mr. — has
about as nimble a tongue as you ever heard, and could say
ten words to my one, and I had nothing to do in the way of
making talk. Just then I heard a ringing, and Stephen was
busy opening the door and letting in the Gineral Court, who
all had their hats off, and looking pretty scrumptious, you
may depend. I didn't see but I could stand along side of 'em
without disparagement, except to my boots, which had just
got a lick of beeswax and tallow—not a mite of dinner yet,
and I began to feel as if 'twas nearer supper-time than dinner-time—when
all at once two doors flew away from each other
right into the wall, and what did I see but one of the grandest
thanksgiving dinners you ever laid your eyes on—and
lights on the table, and silver candlesticks and gold lamps
over head—the window shutters closed—I guess more than
one of us stared at first, but we soon found the way to our
mouths—I made Stephen tend out for me pretty sharp, and he
got my plate filled three or four times with soup, which beat
all I ever tasted. I shan't go through the whole dinner again
to you—but I am mistaken if it cost me much for victuals
this week, if I pay by the meal at Mr. Doolittle's, who comes
pretty near up to a thanksgiving every day. There was considerable
talk about stock and manufactories, and lier bilities,
and rimidies, and a great loss on stock. I thought this a good
chance for me to put in a word—for I calculated I knew as
much about raising stock and keeping over as any of 'em.
Says I to Mr. —, there's one thing I've always observed
in my experience in stock—just as sure as you try to keep
over more stock than you have fodder to carry them well into
April, one half will die on your hands, to a sartinty—and
there's no remedy for it—I've tried it out and out, and there's
no law that can make a ton of hay keep over ten cows, unless
you have more carrots and potatoes than you can throw a
stick at. This made some of the folks stare who didn't know
much about stock—and Steve give me a jog, as much as to
say, keep quiet. He thought I was gitting into a quog-mire,
and soon after, giving me a wink, opened the door and got me
out of the room into the entry.

After we had got out of hearing, says I to Steve, how are
you getting on in the world—should you like to come back to
keep our school if I could get a vote for you?—not by two
chalks, says Steve—I know which side my bread is buttered
better than all that—I get 12 dollars a month and found, and

now and then some old clothes, which is better than keeping
school at 5 dollars and find myself, and work out my highway
tax besides—then turning up the cape of my new coat, says
he, I guess I've dusted that before now—most likely, says I,
but not in our district school. And this brings to mind to tell
you how I got a sight of your letter. They tell me here that
every body reads the Boston Daily Advertiser, because there
is no knowing but what they may find out something to their
advantage, so I thought I would be as wise as the rest of
them, and before I got half through with it, what should I find
mixed up among the news but your letter that you put into
that little paper down in Portland, and I knew it was your
writing before I had read ten lines of it.

A thing may sometimes be great from the force of circumstances,
when intrinsically considered, without the
aid of those circumstances, it might not attract unusual
attention. It was so in some degree with the first letter
of Mr. Downing. Here were the elected representatives
of a sovereign State, without law or order, jangling
and quarrelling for weeks without being able to
choose their own presiding officers, and the whole people
were looking on, and holding up their hands in awful
consternation, expecting to be left without a government,
and to be overwhelmed by the turbulent waves
of anarchy and confusion.

At this critical moment the first letter of Mr. Downing
fell upon the Legislature “like a thousand of
brick.” It electrified the people of Portland and the

whole State, as if a flash of lightning had burst upon
them out of a clear sky; it waked up old Boston and
set it in a roar; even the fighting politicians in the Legislature
did not fight with half the grit afterwards, for
whenever they attempted to throw each other “sky-high,”
they would think of the “two-boys see-sawing
on a rail,” and laugh outright in each other's faces.

In short, the Downing literature was planted: the
soil was adapted to the seed, and in the nature of things
it was bound to grow. And it did grow and flourish “like
a green bay horse.” Mr. Downing had to stay in
Portland and write letters all winter; and then he had
to stay and write letters all summer. His popularity
went steadily up. He was nominated in Downingville
for Governor of the State, and at the fall election received
every vote in his native town. Having devoted
his valuable services to his own State for something
more than a year, his patriotism soared higher, and
took a wider range. In May, 1831, having heard of
the disastrous explosion and resignation of President
Jackson's first Cabinet, with the most heroic devotion
to the public interests, Mr. Downing repaired to Washington,
with a view of relieving the embarrassments of
the President by offering to fill one of the vacant Secretaryships.

Unluckily, however, for the public welfare, before he
reached Washington, as he “had to foot it” most of the
way, the places were filled by less efficient and less
worthy men. Nothing daunted, but inspired by a growing
patriotism, Mr. Downing remained at head quarters,
determined that the country should have his services,
whenever they were wanted. He became acquainted
with “the Gineral,” and that sagacious and

keen-sighted warrior and statesman soon penetrated
and appreciated the high qualities of Mr. Downing.
About this time a circumstance occurred which pinned
him to the Gineral's heart forever.

A new quarrel had broken out among the Cabinet
officers. “A lady was in the case,” and the quarrel
was bitter. Major Eaton challenged Mr. Ingham, Secretary
of the Treasury, to settle the matter in a duel;
but the latter gentleman declined the honor. Then
Major Eaton and a gang of other gentlemen went to
Mr. Ingham's house in the evening, and demanded
that he should come out. This he declined also. The
gang of gentlemen were then preparing to burst open
the door and drag him out. At this crisis Mr. Downing
mounted Mr. Ingham's door-steps, threw off his hat
and coat, rolled up his sleeves, struck his fists together,
and told them “to come on, one to time, or all in a
bunch, he didn't care which; but before they should
break open the door of a peaceable man who was staying
in his house as quiet as a lamb, with his wife and
children, they should climb over his dead body.” This
settled the hash; for, according to the history of the
affair given by Mr. Downing at the time, in a letter to
the Portland Courier, “Major Eaton and the whole
gang of gentlemen with him turned right about and
marched away as still as a pack of whipped puppies.”

From this time “the Gineral” hugged Mr. Downing
to his bosom and made him his right hand man ever
afterwards.

In October, 1831, a dark cloud, full of thunder and
war appeared “away down east,” hanging over the
“disputed territory” in the State of Maine, and President
Jackson gave Mr. Downing a Captain's commission

in the Army, with the instructions to raise a company
of volunteers in Downingville, and go down to the
disputed territory, flog the British and make fair weather.
Capt. Downing performed the expedition, and settled
the business to the satisfaction of all parties.

Capt. Downing could now receive any thing from
the President which he chose to ask, for himself and
friends. He was, however, very modest and moderate
in his reception of favors, and only allowed the President
to appoint that staunch patriot, “uncle Joshua
Downing” to the honorable position of Post Master of
Downingville; a position which, much to the credit of
succeeding administrations, he holds to this day.

In December, 1832, the horid monster of Nullificatien
raised its head in South Carolina, and threatened
to bite off the head of the government. President Jackson,
who was always equal to every emergency, at
once gave Captain Downing a Major's commission, and
told him to take care of South Carolina, and drive Nullification
into the Gulf of Mexico. No man understood
the nature of Nullification, or how to cure it, better
than Major Downing, as was abundantly proved in
his celebrated account of carrying a raft of logs over
Sebago pond.

It appears, on receiving a major's commission, that
Mr. Downing's military ambition was satisfied; for
when the President afterwards desired him to take the
appointment of colonel in the army, he declined, saying,
he much preferred the title of Major. However,
it mattered little what his nominal rank might be, he
was the master-spirit that sustained the administration
of “the Gineral” in those trying times, and carried
him safely through the storm of Nullification, the
fight with the bank monster, and many other difficulties.

But we find this subject growing on our hands, and
the father we go the more prolific it becomes. We did
not sit down to write a biography of Major Downing—
we trust that important work will be committed to abler
and better hands—our object was mainly to throw a
little light on the origin and progress of Downing literature,
and to correct certain errors which tradition had
fallen into, and which were in danger of being perpetuated
on the page of history. Suffice it to say here,
that on receiving his commission and the orders from
the President to “take care of South Carolina,” Major
Downing ordered his faithful cousin Sargeant Joel
Downing, to repair immediately to Washington with
his invincible Downingville company.

Having drawn up his Downingville forces at Washington,
the major stood ready at a moment's warning to
pounce upon S. Carolina the first instant that Nullification
attempted to raise its head against the government;
and he used to mount upon the Capitol every day and
listen to see if he could hear the guns cracking in
South Carolina, for he said the President told him not
to strike a single blow till South Carolina struck first.

Luckily, however, Mr. Clay's Tariff Bill put Nullification
to sleep, and the Major never had to come to
the scratch with the South Carolina monster. The
next great movement of the Major was to accompany
“the Gineral” on his famous tour “down east.” In
his letter to Cousin Ephraim, March 10, 1833, he informs
him that a project of that kind was “a brewin”
and says “the President talks of taking a journey down
east this summer, and he wants me to go with him, because
I'm acquainted there, and can show him all
about it. He has a great desire to go as far as Downingville
and get acquainted with Uncle Joshua, who

has always stuck by him in all weathers through thick
and thin. The President thinks that Uncle Joshua,
is one of the republican pillars of New England, and
and says he shall always have the post office of Downingville
as long as he lives, and his children after
him.”

April 20th, the Major writes to his old friend of the
Portland Courier that the thing is all cut and dried, and
he and the Gineral and the two cabinets are going to
make a grand tour down east. There was one difficulty
in the way which he describes as follows:

“There is some trouble among us here a little, to know
how we shall get along among the federalists when we
come that way. They say the federalists in Massachusetts
want to keep the President all to themselves
when he comes there. But Mr. Van Buren says that'll
never do; he must stick to the democratic party; he
may shake hands with a federalist once in awhile if the
democrats don't see him, but whenever there is any
democrats round, he musn't look at a federalist. Mr.
McLane and Mr. Livingston advise him t'other way.
They tell him he'd better treat the federalists pretty
civil, and shake hands with Mr. Webster as quick as
he would with Uncle Joshua Downing. And when
they give this advice Mr. Lewis and Mr. Kendall hop
right up as mad as march hares, and tell him if he
shakes hands with a single federalist while he is gone,
the democratic party will be ruined. And then the
President turns round to me, and asks me what he had
better do. And I tell him that I guess he better go
straight ahead, and keep a stiff upper lip, and shake
hands with whoever he's a mind to.”

Early in June the the grand party got under way,
and on the 10th the Major writes to his Uncle Joshua

from Philadelphia, and tells him “we are coming on
full chisel.” After describing the journey as far as
Philadelphia, the Major proceeds as follows:

“They took us up into a great hall this morning as big
as a meeting-house, and then the folks began to pour in
by thousands to shake hands with the President; federalists
and all, it made no difference. There was such
a stream of em coming in that the hall was full in a
few minutes, and it was so jammed up round the door
that they couldn't get out again if they was to die.
So they had to knock out some of the windows and go
out t'other way.”

The President shook hands with all his might an
hour or two, till he got so tired he couldn't hardly
stand it. I took hold and shook for him once in awhile,
to help him along; but at last he got so tired he had to
lay down on a soft bench covered with cloth, and shake
as well as he could, and when he couldn't shake, he'd
nod to em as they come along. And at last he got so
beat out, he couldn't only wrinkle his forehead and wink.
Then I kind of stood behind him and reached my arm
round under his, and shook for him for about a half an
hour as tight as I could spring. Then we concluded
it was best to adjourn for to-day. And I've made
out to get away up into the garret in the tavern long
enough to write this letter. We shall be off to-morrow
or next day for York, and if I can possibly get
breathing time enough there, I shall write to you
again.”

On the 13th of June, 1833, the party arrived in New
York, and “got a ducking,” by the breaking down of
the bridge at Castle Garden. The Major here wrote again
to his Uncle Joshua, giving a full account of the sad

catastrophe, in which nobody was killed and nobody
hurt, except about fifty things they called “dandies,”
which looked so after they got wet he couldn't tell
whether they were dead or alive; so they “pulled em
out and laid em up on the grass to dry and left em.”

And here we come to an important point, an era in
the Downing literature which requires special notice.
It was now nearly three years and a half that Major
Downing had been serving and enlightening his
countrymen. In all that time his fame had steadily
increased. His letters were copied into every paper
all over the land, and his name was in every body's
mouth. Next to General Jackson he was decidedly the
most popular man in the United States. Perhaps nothing
is more calculated to excite a feeling of envy,
than great popularity. The popular man is like the
child who holds a nice stick of candy in his hand; all
the children around are on tiptoe to get a nibble. It is
not strange therefore, that many in different parts of
the country endeavored to get a taste of Major Downing's
popularity by attempting to imitate his writings.

But one individual at this time made a bold and systematic
rush at the Major, and attempted to strip his
well-earned laurels from his brow and entwine them
round his own head. This was a respectable merchant,
a heavy iron dealer, in Broad street, New York.
Violently seized with the mania a potu of literature,
he sat down and wrote a Downing letter, giving an account
of the arrival of the Presidential party in New
York, signed it with the Major's name, and published it
in the old Daily Advertiser.

As the letter of the genuine Major giving an account
of the same affair, was sent to his Uncle Joshua through

the Portland Courier, it took several days for it to make
the journey down east and back again. In the mean
time the letter of the iron dealer made its appearance
with Major Downing's signature, and was seized upon
by the greedy multitude and passed about as the true
coin. The thousands and tens of thousands who had
been hurrahing for Major Downing for weeks and
months, and some of them for years, of course raised
their voices again as loud as ever.

“God bless me!” said the Broad street merchant;
“why, I've electrified the world! I had no idea I was
such a great writer before. I must go into this business
deep; who cares for trade when he can get popularity
and literary fame?”

Henceforth the Broad street merchant became a man
of letters, and the iron business was turned over to the
other members of the firm. For months afterwards he
earnestly applied himself to writing Downing letters,
and as he could always get them to the New York market
before the letters of the true Major, who was riding about
with the “Gineral,” and sending his epistles through
the Portland Courier, could arrive here, the merchant
thought the run of the trade was all in his favor. And
whenever the clouds in all parts of the country pealed
forth the name of Major Downing, “God bless me!”
said the merchant, “don't you hear my thunder!”

But we are dilating too much for the object we proposed
to ourselves on this occasion, and must draw to a
close. Americus Vespucius filched the name of
America, but Columbus discovered the country. It is the
province of history to set these matters right. In November,
1833, an enterprising and extensive publishing
house in Boston, Messrs Lilly, Waite, Colman, and

Holden, published a volume of the Major's letters with
a brief sketch of his life, which had a very rapid and
wide sale. This afforded another opportunity for the
Broad street merchant to gather fresh laurels, and he
accordingly had his letters collected and published in
a volume in New York.

These circumstances at the time were much commented
upon by the papers of the day. We shall here
quote a couple of paragraphs from the many that appeared,
as applicable to our purpose. The following
was the language of Major Noah's Evening Star.

Major Jack Downing turned author.—The letters which
have just been published in a neat duodecimo volume by Lilly,
Waite, & Co., Boston, and which have obtained a circulation
and celebrity more extended perhaps than any production that
ever issued from the American Press, are written with all the
quaint simplicity of the style of Fielding, and abound in passages
of infinite drollery and exquisite humor. It would appear
that the Major since quitting the peaceful abode of the
little village of Downingville and the company of Aunt
Nabby and Uncle Joshua, has become quite dazzled with the
splendor of our imperial court of Washington, and the intimacy
with the “Gin'ral” and other grandees of the “Kitchin
Kabinet.” He now disdains any longer to grope in the obscure
columns of a newspaper and comes forth accoutered in
all the aristocratic armory of authorship, and we have no
doubt from the imposing and formidable attitude in which he
now appears, and the universal popularity of his writings, that
he will achieve new triumphs in the reputation he has already
acquired.

About the same time, the National Gazette at Philadelphia,
then conducted by the distinguished Robert
Walsh, bore the following high testimony.

[From Walsh's National Gazette.]

It has been the fate of all successful authors to have counterfeits,
who deal with their originals as Hamlet says that some
players imitate nature. The Rabelais, the Swifts, the Voltaires,
suffered in their day by the productions of interlopers
of the sort. Mere bunglers attempted to personate them,
and confounded the less discriminating or critical part of the

reading public. Major Jack Downing has paid in like manner
the penalty of genius and popularity; and he has complained
of the hardship and injustice in a characteristic vein.
We humbly advise him to write over the whole story of President
Jackson's late expedition. It might confidently be predicted
that a full narrative from his pen, duly authenticated,
would obtain as much vogue in these United States, as did
Peter Plymley's Letters in Great Britain.”

So great was the popularity of Major Downing during
the “Gineral's” administration, that the artists all
over the country were in a “terrible taking” to get a
glimpse of him, so that they might make out some kind
of a likeness. One of the most successful efforts of the
artists for this purpose was described in the following
communication published in the New York Journal of
Commerce.

[For the Journal of Commerce.]

While in Boston, I visited the Athenæum Gallery of paintings,
and there I saw the portrait of the immortal Jack Downing,
that wonderful traveller and commentator on the sayings
and doings of our great men, the President's right-hand man,
and the individual on whom it is said the learned fraternity at
Cambridge conferred the title of A. S. S. which Jack says,
being interpreted, means “Amazin Smart Skoller.” Perhaps
your readers might be interested in a brief description
of the person of this singular genius, as represented by the
portrait. It is said to be a phrenological head, of which the
critics in Boston and elsewhere speak very highly. It is the
production of Mr. Harris, a young artist in Portland, Me.
Jack is about forty years old, thick set and stoutly built,—
his features bold and strong,—complexion florid and healthy,—
nose a little aquiline,—yellow hair, with a cow-lick on the top
of the head. But his expression is inimitable. The whole
face, in the words of the Boston Globe, “beams with a characteristic
expression and sly humor of a shrewd, thriving,
and full blooded yankee. It is a sort of humanized Silenus,
with a breadth and vividness of sensual roguery in the expression
of the mouth, which Rubens would have turned to
good account in one of his Bachanalian groups.”

Jack Downing's letters first appeared in the Portland Daily
Courier, about three years since, when he introduced himself
as an honest farmer from Downingville, on a visit to Portland

for the purpose of selling a load of bean-poles; but happening
in at the Legislature then in session, he became interested—
forgot his bean poles, commenced commenting on their proceedings,
(corresponding with “Uncle Joshua,” “Cousin
Ephraim,” “Aunt Nabb,” and others,) and since that time
has continued his letters, which have been as extensively
copied, perhaps, as any correspondence ever known.—The
London papers are now republishing them.

The portrait in the gallery represents him in the attitude of
inditing one of his epistles,—with a copy of the Daily
Courier lying beside him, and a full length engraving of “the
President” before him. Since the appearance of the portrait
in the gallery, there have been a number of other portraits
and engravings got up purporting to be Major Downing, but
these, I believe, are all a hoax.

One of the most prominent shoots from the root of the
Downing literature of the country, aside from the main
tree, sprung up under the name of “Sam Slick.” A
year or two after Major Downing's letters began to appear
in the Portland Courier, the public attention was
attracted by a clever little volume entitled “Sam
Slick, the clockmaker,” which afterwards proved to
be from the pen of Judge Halliburton, of Novia Scotia.
There was no plagiarism about this little volume; it
had a distinct character and a distinct name; but its
general features, air and manner, showed it to be a legitimate
offspring of Downingism. Had Major Downing
never written, the public never would have heard of
Sam Slick. This reference is not intended as the least
disparagement of Judge Halliburton, who acquired no
small fame by his Clockmaker, and a wider reputation
by the subsequent observations of Sam Slick in England.

Our only object is to do a simple act of justice to our
author, Major Downing, and to disabuse the public
mind of certain errors and prejudices, by tracing out
the origin and progress of Downing literature. We

might say much more, and we do not see how our duties
could have permitted us to say less. Were we to follow
the Major through his subsequent career to the close of
the “Gineral's” administration, and his connection
with the press, the Downing Gazette in Portland, the
Bunker Hill in New York, and other periodicals, we
should fill a volume.

But our task is done. We drop the pen with entire
confidence that truth is great and will prevail. In ages
to come, and in all time, amid all the literary revolutions
of the world, when critics shall be confounded
and the nations delighted by the bursting forth of fresh
streams of Downing literature, even then shall remote
posterity look far back upon the page of history, beaming
with the steady light of truth, and with grateful
hearts and laughing eyes exclaim, “the great author
and founder of the Downing school of literature was
Major Jack Downing, of Downingville, away down east
in the State of Maine.”