University of Virginia Library

LIFE IN WASHINGTON;
SHOWING HOW
MR. THOMPSON, SECRETARY'S MESSENGER, SAVED
HIS BACON ON A CERTAIN OCCASION.

None but those who have had an opportunity of
observing the characteristics of official life in
Washington, can have any idea of it; and even
they, unless they are fond of observing human
character in its various developments, would not
note the many scenes of farce, comedy, and
tragedy, to which the pursuit of it gives rise.

Gliddon's mummy was pronounced by the lecturer
to be a woman, an Egyptian priestess; but
lo! after his many lectures and many unfoldings
of the body, it turned out, so the doctors say (?), in
spite of the learned lecturer's prophecy, to be a
man after all. So, many an individual who considers

himself ticketed for an office, by the recommendation
of all his party, and about to be embalmed
at least for four years in official ease, finds
that some other individual has got into his place,
either by mistake or design, and he is left, like the
poor cripple at the pool of Bethesda, waiting for
another movement of the political waters; but, alas,
when it comes he is crowded out, and there is
nobody to put him in. Patience, truly, does its
“perfect work” in religion, but it seldom does in
politics. It is the bustling, active, wide-awake
fellow who generally gets in. And often, after all,
the occupant sometimes continues to keep in from
the press of the very multitude without. While
the Secretary, for instance, who holds the subordinate
place in his gift, is debating with himself to
which of the many he shall give it, he discovers,
maybe, the worth of the occupant who holds it, and
concludes to retain him, at least for a while, until
some urgent member of Congress, who has a casting
vote upon some favorite scheme of the Secretary,
presses the appointment of a personal and
political friend for personal and political reasons.
Glad to put the member under personal obligations
to him, the Secretary makes the removal, no matter
what may be the worth of the occupant. In
Europe, it would be called a state necessity; here
it is a party necessity, we should be told, and the
maxim, “to the victors belong the spoils,” though
denied by one party, is practised by both; and necessity,
the tyrant's plea, becomes a Whig or Democratic
practice, as the case may be. But if the
incumbent chance to be the relative or friend of
the influential member, he is kept in just so long
as that influential member keeps his influence.

I remember the case of a messenger in Washington,
who had, to use his own expression, “an awful
time of it, a monstrous awful time of it,” to keep
his place. He had been made a messenger in the
early times of General Jackson, and he held on by
the force of his politics through many successions
of Secretaries, up to the time of General Harrison's
election, when he began to fear his time had
come.

I had gone on to the inauguration of Gen. Harrison,
and this messenger knew that I was trying
to save the heads of some Democratic friends of
mine; so one day, when he was out of hope, and
had been “keeping his spirits up by pouring spirits
down,” he gave me his confidence.

“I have an awful time of it, sir,” said he;
“awful! It's my duty to be at the Secretary's
door and announce his visitors to him; in that way,
you understand, I make the personal acquaintance
of the Secretary, and he gits to like me, and
I holds on. I have been in at the death of a
great many messengers, clerks, and even Secretaries,
too, but I feel bilious on the present occasion,

though I havn't said a word about politics
since Gen. Harrison has been elected. What kind
of a man is the present Secretary, Mr. —, is he
an abolitionist or not?”

“No, he is not an abolitionist,” I replied;
“though, coming from a free State, he rather leans
that way.”

“He's not in favor of these regular nigger-traders,
is he?”

“No, I should rather suppose he was not; no
gentleman, no man of humanity is in favor of
them.”

In a thoughtful mood Thompson left me. A
few evenings afterwards he came to my room,
a sheet or two in the wind, and, after shaking me
cordially by the hand, he took a seat, observing,
in a very grateful manner—

“Mr. Horace, what you told me the other day
about the Secretary's abolition notions helped me
mightily. Sir, I've had my neck under the guillotine,
hair cut close, hands tied down, and everything
ready for the axe.” And he wiped the perspiration
from his forehead.

“Ah! well, I am glad you are alive and kicking
officially yet,” I rejoined.

“It was just touch and go; it happened this
morning.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. You know Robinson, the nigger-dealer,

who has the pen down town, Mr. ———? Well,
I thought the fellow kind of looked smirking and
consequential at me ever since the election. I sold
him a nigger once; for, messenger as I am, I came
from one of the first families in Virginia, one of the
F. F. V.'s, and I was so long on here, waiting for
office, that I had to sell my last nigger. I had,
that's a fact. I brought the fellow on here to
wait on me. I expected nothing short of a big
clerkship, and talked of a foreign mission; and
here I am, no more than a common messenger.”

“The first shall be last, and the last shall be
first,” I said.

“Fact, sir; good in politics as well as religion.
Well, I had to sell Robinson my last nigger; and
he cheated me in the trade wofully. He cut South,
and sold his gang, with Ben, before I got one cent
of my money; and if I had not caught him in
Baltimore, and put the screws to him, and put him
in the pen there for debt, I never should have got
the money. He had to pay, but he swore vengeance
against me. He's down here, poor as I
was when I sold that last nigger, the last button
on Gabe's coat. He's been several times to see
the Secretary; and as I stand at the door, as you
know, I kind of bluffed him off, till at last he swore
he'd inform on me if he didn't get in; and he came
there yesterday, with a member of Congress, and
I told them that the member had precedence, but

I couldn't let him in. The member wanted to take
him in, but I told him it was the Secretary's express
orders not to let anybody in without announcing
him; but I said, `Sir, you are privileged, being a
member, a thing which I don't exactly agree to
in a free country.'”

“You didn't tell him that?”

“Indeed, I didn't. I let him in, as smiling as
a basket of chips. He hadn't been in two minutes
when the Secretary's bell rings; in I pops, and he
tells me to let in Robinson. So I shows him in.
The fellow had a paper in his hand—an awful-looking
paper. I took close note of it, I am used
to papers.

“It seemed to have a line drawn down the centre
of the paper, and names on each side. Signed as
I live, I thought an application. I'll know you
again, old-fellow, I said to myself (to the paper),
if ever I should see you. Maybe I didn't listen
at that door! Generally, I don't listen over particularly
at anything that's a going on in the Secretary's
room; because I know it's not etiquette;
but who thinks of etiquette with his head under
the guillotine, except some fool of a Frenchman.

“Maybe I didn't listen at that door! I heard
the Secretary say to Robinson that his recommendations
were very strong, and that he would think
of it. Presently, out they came—the member and
Robinson, and the scamp, the rascally nigger dealer,

had no paper in his hand; I smelt a rat, I did
somehow, and that's a fact. So when the Secretary
left that afternoon, and I was dusting round,
hang me if I didn't see that very paper stowed
away back in his drawer: I knowed it the moment
I set eyes on it, just as a revolutioner would have
known a Britisher from his red coat. What do
you think it was? Why, it set forth the petitioner,
Robinson, as a Whig of the first water—had spent
a great deal in the cause—had reduced himself to
poverty—was fit for any situation that could be
bestowed upon him—was most trustworthy—was
most especially recommended to the Secretary's
personal care — had a whole list of signatures,
senators, members, blackguards — couldn't count
'em! That's not all. They made the biggest kind of
charges against me, saying I drank—it's enough
to make a man drink — and recommending him
for my place.

“Well, thinks I, if I am a gone coon—I never was
a coon—I'm a gone sucker.”

“There's many a slip 'tween the cup and the
lip,” I said.

“Yes, sir, but what you told me about Secretary's
abolition notions did the thing. Ever since I sold
that last nigger, I've been a bit of an abolitionist
myself. Says he to me next day—he's getting
very polite to me lately, and always calls me Mister—says
he, `Mr. Thompson what kind of a

man is Robinson, who came here yesterday from
your State?' I pretended not to know what kind
of a man he was. `I mean what is his vocation—
his business?' he said, playing with Robinson's
recommendation, which he had just taken out of
the drawer. `Why, sir,' I replied, looking awful
sorrowful, `he's a nigger-dealer!' `A nigger-dealer!'
he cried. `Yes, sir,' says I, `he keeps
the pen down yonder by the Capitol.' The Secretary
started up, walked up and down the room
two or three times, and just chucked Mr. Robinson's
recommendation in the fire. I stood awhile
till I saw the paper all ablaze, just as Robinson's
soul will be all ablaze some of these days, and I
left the Secretary signing papers.”