Pine to Potomac

by E. K. Cressey

Mr. Blaine attended strictly to his work, and that meant the people,—strangers, and townspeople, one and all. He never, I am credibly informed, bought a pound of steak in his life, nor a barrel of flour; never went to a grocery store to buy anything. He has had no time or thought for things like these. He has been a student and teacher all his life; a close, deep, careful reader and thinker. He had never been in a printing-office in his life until he became editor, and had to learn the people, study them, get politics from their ways of thinking and looking at things; and it was a matter of principle with him to make the thing go. It is not a half-dozen things, but “This one thing I do,” with him, and he does it. But he has always been regular at his meals, as a matter of health, and so a law of life. He was no epicurean; cared only for the more substantial things of diet, and never seemed to be particular about what he ate, except one thing, and that he liked, and always wanted them in their season, and always had them. It was baked sweet apples and milk at the close of every meal. And then he would sit and read, and read, and read, especially after supper, and Mrs. Blaine, if she wanted him to move from the table, would say, “James! James!” and again, “James!” like enough half a dozen times before he would hear, and she pleasant and careful of him all the time. She has had mind and heart to know his worth, and has needed no one to tell her that teaching school in Kentucky has paid her a handsome dividend and is full of promise for the future. He has made no move but what she has seconded the motion. Her life is in his, and not a thing independent and apart from it.

One who knew her well in those early years, and knows her well to-day, said of Mrs. Blaine, “She is just as lovely as she can be; of superior culture, and a real, true mother.”

The gentleman who was Mr. Blaine’s foreman, and for a year and a half made his home with them, is most enthusiastic in their praise. He tells what a real mother Mrs. Blaine was to him if he was sick, or anything the matter with him, how she would take the best of care of him. Every winter they published a tri-weekly during the session of the legislature, and this kept him at the office late every-other night, and she would be “worried about him because he had to work nights,” and Mr. Blaine would say, “Howard, you are worth a dozen boys (shiftless, good-for-nothing boys, he meant), but you must not work so hard.” The humanities of life were the amenities to them.

This same man, who has since been editor and proprietor of Mr. Blaine’s old paper, said with depth of feeling, and strong emphasis, “I wish every voter in America had had my opportunity for eighteen months, right in his own home, to see and know Mr. Blaine, they would find out then what a royal man he is.”

In less than ten days after his nomination, parties of prominence, connected with a paper favorable to his election, but located in quite a city where a leading Republican paper affects to oppose him, visited Augusta, and called upon his political enemies, and enquired into his private, social, and domestic life, and they finally confessed there was no lisp or syllable of aught to tarnish his name or cause a blush. It is all pure, and sweet, and clear.

When Mr. and Mrs. Blaine first entered their Augusta home, a bright and beautiful baby boy was in the arms of Mrs. Blaine. He was the pride and joy of the home, their first-born. His name was Stanwood Blaine, taking his mother’s maiden-name. One short, bright year of sunshine, and prattle, and glee, and a dark cloud rested on that home; a deep sorrow stung the life of that father, and heavy grief oppressed the heart of the mother,—their little Stanwood was gone; he was among the jewels on high, and there he is to-day, while a lovely picture of him adorns the present home.

Since then, six children have been born to them,—John Walker, a graduate of Yale college, and a member of the Alabama Court of Claims; Robert Emmons, a graduate of Harvard college, now connected with the North-western Railroad, in Chicago; Alice, the wife of Colonel Coppinger; Margaret; James Gillespie, Jr., and Hattie, named for her mother, Harriet. Walker, the oldest, is about thirty-one years old, and unmarried. Hattie, the youngest, is fourteen years of age. All of the children have been born in Augusta, and with but two or three exceptions, in the old home on Green Street.

Mr. Blaine has been accustomed to sit up quite late at night with books, papers, and letters, and make up his sleep in the morning. He loves a good story, and keeps a fund on hand constantly, and they serve his purpose well. There is one he has enjoyed telling to knots of friends here and there, and especially when friends have gathered at his table. The Maine law, in the interest of temperance, was a leading issue in the state during Mr. Blaine’s connection with the Journal. It fell to the lot of his partner, John L. Stevens, who had been a minister, to write the temperance articles, and he would write them long and strong. It was a custom with Mr. Blaine to go around among the workmen and chat with them, a few words of good cheer. Among them was an Irishman named John Murphy, who loved his glass. He was a witty fellow, and generally had something to say. One day while Mr. Blaine was around, Murphy had a large, long manuscript from Mr. Stevens, on temperance, which he was setting up in type. It was a hard job, and the day was hot. He was about half through, when he called out to the foreman,—

“Owen, have you a quarter?”

“Yes, sir! What do you want of it?”