CHAPTER XIII.

THE POOR WHITE MAN.

THERE are two classes of poor southern whites, of marked and decidedly opposite characteristics. The type of the one is of low stature, with abbreviated body, elongated arms and legs, dull heavy eyes, coarse carroty hair, saffron-hued skin, and a small head, shaped like a cocoa-nut. The type of the other is tall, and well formed, with a gaunt, loose-jointed frame, a rough dark skin, wiry black hair, keen restless eyes, and an artless, confiding manner, which, with a certain air of self-possession, indicates that he knows little of the world, but feels fully able to cope with what little he does know. The first is physically and intellectually a "bad job," and it might sensibly be questioned why he was created, for he appears incapable of either mental or moral culture; but the other possesses all the " raw material" of manhood-and manhood, too, of the noblest type. Education, discipline, social advantages, and political freedom are needed to bring out his nature, but when it is brought out he shows himself a Man. The first class, who are few in number, and fast melting away before the advance of a stronger race, and a more robust civilization, are found principally on the Sandhills of North Carolina, and in the mountain regions of Lower Virginia and Upper Georgia. There, a little above "the brutes that perish," and a "long way lower down dan de darkies," they build their pole cabins, and glean a sorry subsistence from hunt

ing, fishing, and a few sterile acres. The other class, who are counted by millions, and are scattered from the Potomac to the Rio Grande, are the bone and sinew of the South, the prop of Slavery, and the hope and expectation of Freedom, for on them, more than on immense armies or garrisoned cities, will depend the safety and perpetuity of the Union. An unprincipled aristocracy has robbed them of knowledge, and moulded them to its own base uses, but whenever truth has reached them they have shown an unselfish devotion to it, and to the Union, which we time-servers and money-lovers of the North know nothing of. In East Tennessee, where Parson Brownlow has been their great apostle, and The Knoxville Whig their Bible and spelling-book, they have exhibited a heroic patriotism which the world-I say this with a very small smattering of history-has seldom witnessed. The deeds they have done, the sacrifices they have made, the sufferings they have endured for a Government which has closed its eyes to their sorrows, and its ears to their complaints, will be read of and wondered at, when this generation has passed away. Their story is not yet told, but when it is told, many a cheek will mantle with shame-as mine has to hear of what these poor, unlettered men, women, and children have done and suffered for their country, while we have been growing fat on its necessities, and looking idly on, as it seemed tottering to its ruin.

From this latter class sprang Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, Henry Clay, John C. Calhoun, Andrew Johnson, Parson Brownlow, President Lincoln, and—Long Tom, whom "the captain" told the reader something about in my last chapter.

The "native" gentleman entered the tent with a quick, ener

getic step, and bowing respectfully to the parson, and giving me a grasp of the hand and a cordial “How dy'ge, stranger?" turned suddenly on the old negro, with:

"Wall, old thundergast, how's ye?"

"I'se well 'nuff," replied the black, giving his shoulder a petulant shrug.

"Go to the colonel's, Jule, and borrow a chair for the lieutenant," said the captain.

The negro glanced inquiringly at the parson, but seeing no answering look in his face, turned his head away, and, again shrugging his shoulders, replied:

"Leff him gwo hisseff; Jule 'tends on gemmen: he doan't 'tend on no poo' white trash-he doan't."

"Thet's yer Christun sperret, ye black hyppercrit," rejoined the native, laughing, and at the same time drawing the captain's traveling trunk from the corner, and seating himself upon it. "One of these days I'll show ye how we white Christus guvs good fur evil, fur I'll tend on ye—I'll bury ye! an I woan't pile more'n six inches o' sile on yer bones, so ye'll hev a right easy time gittin up ter the resumrection."

As the "native" took his seat I glanced at his appearance. He seemed somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, and was about six feet three inches high, with well-formed limbs, finely developed frame, clear, dark eyes, and a broad, full forehead. His face was open, frank, and manly, and there played about it a mingled expression of kindness and sadness, which was strangely blended with a latent mirth, that seemed ready to break out on the slightest provocation.

As he seated himself he turned to me, and in an abrupt, energetic tone, said:

"Wall, stranger, the capt'n sez ye'd loike ter luck at me; so; I's yere. I's six foot three, without leathers, weigh a hun'red an' eighty, kin whip twice my heft in Secesh, bars, or rattlesnakes, an' uvry inch on me ar yourn ter komand, ef ye gwoes in, body an' boots, fur the Union; an' the capt'n reckons ye does, though he sez ye gwoes it the talkin', an' not the fightin' way: an' I ruther 'spect ye Yankees 'ud gin'rally 'bout as lief talk as fight." "I had much rather," I replied, laughing; "but I reckon you might do a little talking, if you tried.”

"My old muther allers said I hed suthin' uv a tongue. She use ter 'clare ter gracious it war hung in the middle, an' hed a way uv gwine at both eends; an' yet somehow, it nuver done me no good. But whar dy'ge b'long, stranger ?”

"In New York."

"Oh, yas, I's hearn uv thet place. Up thar Nurth, clus ter the Nurth Pole, hain't it?"

"Not very close to the Pole, but in that direction."

"An' hes ye uver seed the Nurth Pole ?"

"No, I never saw it, but I believe there is such a thing," "An' whar mought it be?"

"It 'mought' be here, but it is'nt;" I replied, smiling "Boston is the hub of the universe'-I reckon it's there."

"It mus' be a rantankerous Pole. How big d'ye 'spose it ar'? Big as thet ar maple ?" pointing to the tree under which the parson had preached his sermon, and which was visible from the doorway of the tent.

"Larger than ten of that placed one on the other, and spliced at top and bottom."

“Jerusalamm! but it ar a pole! D'ye know I's made out whot the yerth has sech a thing fur ?"

"No, why is it?"

"Fur steerin'! I's bin on the Big Drink (Mississippi) an' seed how they does it. But, Parson, it upsots whot ye sez 'bout the yerth bein' round."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the chaplain, laughing; "and if the earth isn't round, how is it shaped ?"

"Loike a steambut, ter be shore," replied the native, with a gravity so well assumed that, for a time, it deceived even the parson; "hain't ye seed them ar big poles at the fore' as they call it, uv the buts on the Big Drink; an' how them fellers at the wheel plumbs thar coorse by 'em. Now, ef the yerth hev' un' o' them, doan't it nat'rally foller thet it's shaped loike a steambut? An' I knows it ar', 'case I's bin whar I c'ud luck slap down over the side, right onter the most relarmin', purpindiclar presurpiss ye uver seed, even in yer dreams."

Amid the general laugh which followed, I asked: "And how did you get a sight at that 'relarmin', presurpiss' ?"

"I'd tell ye, but it'r a mighty long story."

"Never mind its length, Tom," said the chaplain, "tell it." "Wall, ye sees," said Tom, taking a 'swig' at the toddy, and coolly lighting one of the captain's cigars; "I war a livin' long uv dad, over thar in Bladsoe, whar I war raised; an' un' mornin' dad sez ter me, sez he, 'Tom, hitch up the two-yarold he'ffer, an' fotch a load o' light-'ood frum the mounting.' Now, dad hed a small dead'nin' up thar thet we wus a clarin' uv timber; so I hitched up the cow-brute, an' piked fur the mounting. I'd wuckd till 'bout a hour by sun, an' hed got the cart chock heapin' with pine knots an' timber, when I sot down onter it ter eat up whot war left uv my dinner-fur I know'd ef