WHITELAW REID.
EDITOR OF THE NEW YORK “TRIBUNE.”
HERE is an old adage which declares “fortune favors the brave.” This seems to be eminently true in the case of Whitelaw Reid, than whose life few in American literature are more inspiring to the ambitious but poor youth struggling upward for recognition among his fellow-men; for it was by dint of hard work, heroic energy and unflagging perseverance that he has worked himself from the ranks of obscurity to one of the most prominent and honorable positions in modern journalism.
Whitelaw Reid was born near Xenia, Ohio, October 27, 1837. The principle of industry was early inculcated in his life; and, besides doing his share in the work of the family, he found so much time for study that he graduated from the Miami University before he was twenty years of age and was actively engaged in journalism and politics before his majority,—making speeches in the Fremont campaign on the Republican side,—and was made editor of the “Xenian News” when only twenty-one years of age. When the Civil War began, he had attained such a reputation as a newspaper writer that the “Cincinnati Gazette” sent him to the field as its special correspondent. He made his headquarters at Washington, and his letters concerned not only the war, but dwelt as well on the current politics. These attracted attention by their thorough information and pungent style. He made excursions to the army wherever there was prospect of active operation, was aide-de-camp to General Rosecrans and was present at the battles of Shiloh and Gettysburg. In 1863, he was elected Librarian of the House of Representatives at Washington, in which capacity he served until 1866. After the war, he engaged for one year in a cotton plantation in Louisiana and embodied the result of his observations in his first book entitled “After the War” (1867).
One of the most important of all the State histories of the Civil War is Mr. Reid’s “Ohio in the War,” which was issued in two volumes in 1868. It contained elaborate biographies of the chief Ohio participants of the army and a complete history of that State from 1861 to 1865. This work so attracted Horace Greeley, of the New York “Tribune,” that he employed Mr. Reid as an editorial writer upon his paper, and the latter removed to New York City in 1868, and after Mr. Greeley’s death, in 1872, [♦]succeeded as editor-in-chief and principal owner of the “Tribune.” “Schools of Journalism” appeared in 1871, and “Scholars in Politics” in 1873.
[♦] ‘succeded’ replaced with ‘succeeded’
The Legislature of New York in 1878 manifested the popular esteem in which Mr. Reid was held by electing him to be a regent of the State University for life. He was also offered by President Hayes the post of Minister to Germany and a similar appointment by President Garfield, both of which he declined, preferring rather to devote his attention to his paper, which was one of the leading organs of the Republican Party in the United States. In 1879, Mr. Reid published a volume entitled “Some Newspaper Tendencies,” and in 1881 appeared his book, “Town Hall Suggestions.” During President Harrison’s administration, though he had already twice declined a foreign portfolio, he accepted, in 1889, the United States mission to France. At the Republican Convention which met at Chicago in 1892, he was nominated for Vice-President of the United States and ran on the ticket with President Harrison.
Mr. Reid has a magnificent home in the vicinity of New York, where he delights with his charming family, consisting of a wife and several children, to entertain his friends. He has traveled extensively in foreign countries and many of the celebrities of Europe have enjoyed the hospitality of his palatial home. In 1897, Whitelaw Reid was appointed a special envoy to represent the United States at the celebration of the Queen’s Jubilee. His wife attended him on this mission, and, in company with the United States Ambassador, Colonel John Hay, they were the recipients of many honors, among which was an invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Reid to visit the Queen on the afternoon of July 6, when they dined with Her Majesty, and, at her special request, slept that night in Windsor Castle. It may be of interest to state in this connection that, though Mr. Reid was the United States’ special envoy, he and his secretaries are said to have paid their own expenses. This statement, if it be true, notwithstanding the fact that Mr. Reid is a very wealthy man, evinces a liberality in the service of the government which should not pass unnoticed.
“PICTURES OF A LOUISIANA PLANTATION.”[¹]
(FROM “SOME SOUTHERN REMINISCENCES.”)
[¹] Copyright, Wm. F. Gill & Co.
SPENT a year or two, after the close of the war in the Southern States, mostly on Louisiana and Alabama cotton-plantations; and I shall try to revive some recollections of that experience.
It was one of those perfect days which Louisianians get in February, instead of waiting, like poor Massachusetts Yankees, till June for them, when I crossed from Natchez to take possession of two or three river plantations on which I dreamed of making my fortune in a year. The road led directly down the levee. On the right rolled the Mississippi, still far below its banks, and giving no sign of the flood that a few months later was to drown our hopes. To the left stretched westward for a mile the unbroken expanse of cotton land, bounded by the dark fringe of cypress and the swamp. Through a drove of scrawny cattle and broken-down mules, pasturing on the rich Bermuda grass along the levee, under the lazy care of the one-armed “stock-minder,” I made my way at last down a grassy lane to the broad-porched, many-windowed cottage propped up four or five feet from the damp soil by pillars of cypress, which the agent had called the “mansion.” It looked out pleasantly from the foliage of a grove of China and pecan trees, and was flanked, on the one hand by a beautifully cultivated vegetable garden, several acres in extent, and on the other by the “quarters,”—a double row of cabins, each with two rooms and a projecting roof, covering an earthen-floored porch. A street, overgrown with grass and weeds, ran from the “mansion” down between the rows of cabins, and stopped at the plantation blacksmith and carpenter shop. Behind each cabin was a little garden, jealously fenced off from all the rest with the roughest of cypress pickets, and its gate guarded by an enormous padlock. “Niggers never trust one another about their gardens or hen-houses,” explained the overseer, who was making me acquainted with my new home.
A COTTON FIELD IN LOUISIANA.
I rode out first, that perfect day, among the gang of a hundred and fifty negroes, who, on these plantations, were for the year to compromise between their respect and their newborn spirit of independence by calling me Mistah instead of Massa, there were no forebodings. Two “plough-gangs” and two “hoe-gangs” were slowly measuring their length along the two-mile front. Among each rode its own negro driver, sometimes lounging in his saddle with one leg lodged on the pommel, sometimes shouting sharp, abrupt orders to the delinquents. In each plough-gang were fifteen scrawny mules, with corn-husk collars, gunny-bags, and bedcord plough-lines. The Calhoun ploughs (the favorite implement through all that region, then, and doubtless still, retaining the name given it long before war was dreamed of) were rather lazily managed by the picked hands of the plantation. Among them were several women, who proved among the best laborers of the gang. A quarter of a mile ahead a picturesque sight presented itself. A great crowd of women and children, with a few aged or weakly men among them, were scattered along the old cotton-rows, chopping down weeds, gathering together the trash that covered the land, and firing little heaps of it, while through the clouds of smoke came an incessant chatter of the girls, and an occasional snatch of a camp-meeting hymn from the elders. “Gib me some backey, please,” was the first salutation I received. They were dressed in a stout blue cottonade, the skirts drawn up to the knees, and reefed in a loose bunch at the waists; brogans of incredible sizes covered their feet, and there was a little waste of money on the useless decency of stockings, but gay bandannas were wound in profuse splendor around their heads.
The moment the sun disappeared every hoe was shouldered. Some took up army-blouses or stout men’s overcoats, and drew them on; others gathered fragments of bark to kindle their evening fires, and balanced them nicely on their heads. In a moment the whole noisy crowd was filing across the plantation towards the quarters, joining the plough-gang, pleading for rides on the mules, or flirting with the drivers, and looking as much like a troop flocking to a circus or rustic fair as a party of weary farm-laborers. At the house the drivers soon reported their grievances. “Dem women done been squabblin ’mong dei’ selves dis a’ternoon, so I’s hardly git any wuck at all out of ’em.” “Fanny and Milly done got sick to-day; an’ Sally heerd dat her husban’s mustered out ob de army, an’ she gone up to Natchez to fine him.” “Dem sucklers ain’t jus’ wuf nuffin at all. ’Bout eight o’clock dey goes off to de quarters of deir babies, an’ I don’ nebber see nuffin mo’ ob ’em till ’bout elebben. Den de same way in de a’ternoon, till I’s sick ob de hull lot. De moody (Bermuda grass) mighty tough ’long heah, an’ I could’nt make dem women put in deir hoes to suit me nohow.” Presently men and women trooped up for the ticket representing their day’s work. The women were soon busy preparing their supper of mess pork and early vegetables; while the plough-gang gathered about the overseer. “He’d done promise dem a drink o’ wiskey, if dey’d finish dat cut, and dey’d done it.” The whiskey was soon forthcoming, well watered with a trifle of Cayenne pepper to conceal the lack of spirit, and a little tobacco soaked in it to preserve the color. The most drank it down at a gulp from the glass into which, for one after another, the overseer poured “de lowance.” A few, as their turns came, passed up tin cups and went off with their treasure, chuckling about “de splendid toddy we’s hab to-night.” Then came a little trade with the overseer at “the store.” Some wanted a pound or two of sugar; others, a paper of needles or a bar of soap; many of the young men, “two bits’ wuf” of candy or a brass ring. In an hour trade was over, and the quarters were as silent as a churchyard. But, next morning, at four o’clock, I was aroused by the shrill “driber’s horn.” Two hours later it was blown again, and, looking from my window just as the first rays of light came level across the field, I saw the women filing out, with their hoes, and the ploughmen leisurely sauntering down to the stables, each with corn-husk collar and bedcord plough-lines in his hands. The passion for whiskey among the negroes seemed universal. I never saw a man, woman or child, reckless young scapegrace or sanctimonious old preacher, among them, who would refuse it; and the most had no hesitancy in begging it whenever they could. Many of them spent half their earnings buying whiskey. That sold on any of the plantations I ever visited or heard of was always watered down at least one-fourth. Perhaps it was owing to this fact, though it seemed rather an evidence of unexpected powers of self-restraint, that so few were to be seen intoxicated.
During the two or three years in which I spent most of my time among them, seeing scores and sometimes hundreds in a day, I do not remember seeing more than one man absolutely drunk. He had bought a quart of whiskey, one Saturday night, at a low liquor shop in Natchez. Next morning early he attacked it, and in about an hour the whiskey and he were used up together. Hearing an unusual noise in the quarters, I walked down that way and found the plough-driver and the overseer both trying to quiet Horace. He was unable to stand alone, but he contrived to do a vast deal of shouting. As I approached, the driver said, “Horace, don’t make so much noise; don’t you see Mr. R.?” He looked around as if surprised at learning it.
“Boss, is dat you?”
“Yes.”
“Boss, I’s drunk; boss, I’s ’shamed o’ myself! but I’s drunk! I ’sarve good w’ipping. Boss,—boss, s-s-slap me in de face, boss.”
I was not much disposed to administer the “slapping;” but Horace kept repeating, with a drunken man’s persistency, “Slap me in de face, boss; please, boss.” Finally I did give him a ringing cuff on the ear. Horace jerked off his cap, and ducked down his head with great respect, saying, “T’ank you, boss.” Then, grinning his maudlin smile, he threw open his arms as if to embrace me, and exclaimed, “Now kiss me, boss!” Next morning Horace was at work with the rest, and though he bought many quarts of whiskey afterwards, I never saw him drunk again.
