Surs:—I expect you have bin kinder puzzled to know why you ain't heered from me in so long a time. I expect you'll wonder, too, why my letter is dated Downingville instead of Washington. Wal, I'll have to narrate the hull story:—You know the last letter I rit you was jest afore the first of Jinewary, when the Kernel had promised to issoo his Free Nigger Proclamashin. I was allers teetotally down on it, an I thought I should persuade him out of it, an tharby save the great disgrace an stane it would be on our country. But the truth is, the Kernel an I had a row about it, an I left. The story I'll tell jest as it tuk place: The mornin after New Year's I cum down stairs, an the Kernel was settin in his cheer with his feet on the tabil. "Wal," ses he, "I've done it." "Done what?" ses I. "Why," ses he, "I've signed the Proclamashin." "Wal," ses I, "you had better have signed your own deth warrant, for that is the deth warrant of the Union." Ses he, "Majer, I'm sorry you're so hard on that." "Wal," ses I, "Kernel, I ain't too hard on it, as you'll find out to your sorror." "Now, Majer, let me ask you one thing. We must take Richmond, an ain't we tried every way but this? Ain't we gone by the Shanandore Vally, by Jeemes River, by Manasses, an yet we can't get to Richmond? We must weaken the rebils afore we can do it, an this is the way to effect it."
Ses I, "Kernel, don't you know there is one way to get to Richmond that you ain't tried yet?" "No," ses he, "I didn't know it." "Wal," ses I, "there is." "Wal," ses he, "what on arth is it?" "Wal," ses I, "it is the Constitushinal way!" Ses I, "You've bin tryin to git there agin the Constitushin, an you can't do it that way. Ef you hadn't called out 75,000 men to whip South Caroliny, old Virginny would never have left you, an you could have got to Richmond jest as easy as old grandfather Welles kin go to sleep."
"Wal," ses he, "Majer, mebby that's so, but you can't dip up spilt milk. Ef the thing is wrong, it's gone so far now that we may as well drive it thru an see ef we can't clinch it on tother side." "But," ses I, "there ain't eny tother side to this questshin, eny more than there is a white side to a nigger or black side to a white man, an you may drive on and on, an you won't get thru." "Wal," ses the Kernel, "what will come of it then, Majer?" "Wal," ses I, "you will split the Union, but that is all you kin do." "Wal," ses he, "Majer, that would be jest like my tarnel luck. I never got hold of but one thing in my life that I didn't split." Ses I, "What was that?" Ses he, "A taller candle, an I defy all creashin to split that." Ses I, "Kernel, I guess you must be some relashin to the feller out West who split up all the churches." Ses he, "How was that?" "Wal," ses I, "ef I tell you the story, you must not get mad, for I'm afeered it will set putty clus." Ses he, "Majer, I can stand a joak better than eny other feller you ever see." "Wal," ses I, "here goes: There was a feller out West who got converted, or thought he did, an jined the Episcopal church. He hadn't bin in it long afore he got the members by the ears, an split it all up an broke it down. After he had done all the hurt he could, he went an jined the Presbyterian church, an he hadn't bin there long afore he split that all up. Then he went an united with the Baptist church. It warn't long afore they were all split up an broke to pieces. Being turned out from there, he went an jined the Methodist church. He soon got that church into hot water. One day, when the ministers were consultin as to what to do with him, ses one of them, ses he, 'I've bin prayin most fervently that that man may go to hell!' 'Tut, tut, brother,' says the Elder, 'how can you do so? You should pray for him that he may be better, and be fitted to go to Heaven.' 'No,' ses he, 'I don't think so. I've prayed earnestly that he might go to hell, an I'll tell you why. He has split up an broken up every church an neighborhood he was ever in, an ef he should go to Satan's dominions, I think he might split an break up that place, an you know what a blessing that would be.'"
I hadn't more than got the last word out of my mouth, wen the Kernel jumped up from his cheer, and ketchin hold of his boot-jack, he flourished it rite over his head in a savage style. I thought he was stark mad. I got my hickery an backed up agin the door. I seed he was tarin mad, but I didn't say a word. I knew he'd work off the bile in his own way. Finally ses he, "Majer, wat are you standin there for?" "Why," ses I, "I was waitin to see what you was goin to do with that boot-jack." Ses he, "Have I got the boot-jack?" "Wal," ses I, "you've got sumthin in your hand that looks a mity site like one." "Wal," ses he, "Majer, I want to know whether you mean to apply that story to me?" "No," ses I, "Kernel. Didn't I tell you at the outset that I didn't; but you was tellin about what you had done in the way of splittin things, an I was reminded of that story. But I told you to keep your temper, an not take it as personal, but only as a joak?" "Wal," ses he, "Majer, I'll forgive you; but ef I thought you meant that story for me, I'd arrest you for disloyal practices, an put you in the Old Capital Prison."
Rye with him an make up friends. So I did; but I noticed, after that, that the Kernel watched me very clus. The very next day I had an awful attack of rumatiz, an I also felt sick an discurraged. Thigs never looked so black afore. I had a dream that nite, an I thought I saw the old Ginneral, an he told me, ses he, "This ain't any place for you now. The abolitionists have got full sway, an they will ruin the country as sure as my name is Andrew Jackson." I also dreamed that I saw thousands of dyin men, an weepin wimmin, an cryin children. I thought the doors of the houses all over the North looked red with blood, an a black cloud hung over the hull land. People seemed to be runnin first one way an then tother, askin what they should do. Finally, I heered a grate noise, like an arthquake, that woke me up, an I laid awake the rest of the nite.
The next mornin I was eenamost down sick with trubbel an rumatiz, an I telled the Kernel I must go hum, where I could get good keer taken of me. The Kernel didn't say much agin it, for, after all, he didn't kinder like that story. So ses I, "Mr. President, I've been with you now for about a year, an I've got a clean conscience, for I've tried to tell you the rale truth jest as it is. Ef all who have cum around you had done the same, you would not be where you are; but," ses I, "I ain't got any feelin on the subject, an whenever I can be of any sarvice to my country, jest let me know, an I will come to Washinton agin."
The Kernel ses he, "Majer, I know you are a patriot, and I feel bad to have you go. I wish now I had taken your advice. But," ses he, "Majer," an here he giv my hand a tight squeeze, "you know I've only been a boat in a current, an yet like the boat I'll be jest the one that will get the worst smashed to pieces when the precipice is reached." I couldn't help feelin' kinder sorry for the Kernel as I bid him good-bye, but I felt still more sorry for my country that it had ever made him President.
I got hum all safe, an sense then I've been laid up four weeks with the rumatiz. I never had such a long pull afore. As for writin with it on me, why I can't any more do it than a shad can climb a bean-pole. I expect you've been wonderin why you didn't hear from me, but I think this letter will explain the resin. If the rumatiz don't come on agin, an I think I kin say anything that would of sarvice in this awful and solemn crysis of our country's fate, I will drop you a line. I feel as if the nashin was dyin, however, an that we all orter put on mournin an sack-cloth, but come what will, I'm for my country
Till deth,
Majer Jack Downing.