"Jack Jones"—A Public Meeting for Ireland—Henry Clay—Other
Speakers—American Feeling in reference to the Irish Famine—A
Slave-Auction.

On that dreadful day, the 28th of January, on which we arrived in New Orleans, Jack Jones, a Welshman, was drowned in the Mississippi, in a generous effort to save another man from a watery grave. In that effort he succeeded, but at the cost of his own life. On the 2nd of February there was an advertisement in the papers, in which his friends offered a reward for the recovery of the body. Where was the corporation, or some one of the municipalities? for the papers make a continual reference to first, second, and third municipalities. Was there no public body, either civil or humane, to come forward on such an occasion? Had "Jack Jones" gone to the war, and butchered a score or two of harmless Mexicans, he would have been loaded with honours; but he saved a human being, close to the metropolis of the South, and his body was left to perish like that of a dog—for aught the citizens cared. I felt proud of my countryman. All honour to "Jack Jones!" May none of Cambria's sons perish in a cause less noble!

On the evening of the 4th of February I attended a public meeting for the relief of the Irish. It was held in the New Commercial Exchange, and was the first public meeting I had had an opportunity of attending in America. The Commercial Exchange is a fine large building, supported by pillars, and containing an area on the ground floor that would accommodate about 1,500 people. It is but ill-adapted for a public meeting, having no seats or benches. I found about 800 gentlemen present, but no ladies. Nor was that to be wondered at; for out of the 800, about 799 were spitting, 600 smoking cigars, 100 chewing tobacco, and perhaps 200 both chewing and smoking at the same time, for many of those people chew one end of the cigar while burning the other. There was a large platform, and a great number of gentlemen were upon it. Governor Johnson was the president, assisted by lots of vice-presidents. When I entered, a tall old gentleman, with rather high cheek bones, and a voice somewhat tremulous and nasal, was speaking. He descanted, in a second or third rate style, on the horrors of famine in Ireland,—its horrors especially as seen in the family. Coming to a period, he said, "It is under these circumstances that I want you to put your hands into your pockets, and pull out something, and throw it into the lap of starving Ireland!" This caused the most tremendous cheering I ever heard,—"bravo—bravo—bravo,—whoo—hoo—whoo!" The last sound was to me altogether new. Not having learned phonography, I can give you no adequate notion of it; but it was a combination of the owl's screech and the pig's scream. The favoured orator continued his speech a little longer, and at the close there was a storm of applause ten times more terrific than the former. And who was the speaker? It was none other, as I subsequently ascertained, than the celebrated Henry Clay! In departing from the tone of eulogy in which it is fashionable to speak of him, I may be charged with a want of taste and discrimination. That I cannot help. My simple object in these letters is to tell how Transatlantic men and manners appeared to my eye or ear. Before I went to America my respect for Henry Clay was very great. I am sorry to say it is not so now. I have closely examined his conduct in reference to "the peculiar institution," and find it to have been that—not of a high-minded statesman and true philanthropist—but of a trimming, time-serving partisan. He has been a main pillar of slavery; and as the idol of the Whig party, a great stumbling-block in the way of those who sought the overthrow of that system. The man of whom I have thus freely, yet conscientiously expressed myself, is nevertheless thus spoken of in the New Englander, a quarterly review of high character now open before me:—"We intend to speak in the praise of Henry Clay. His place among the great men of our country is permanently fixed. He stands forth prominent above the politicians of the hour, in the midst of the chosen few who are perpetual guardians of the interest and of the honour [slavery?] of the nation. The foundations of his fame are laid deep and imperishable, and the superstructure is already erected. It only remains that the mild light of the evening of life be shed around it."

The cheering at the close of Mr. Clay's speech merged into an awful tempest of barking. I could compare it to nothing else,—500 men barking with all their might! I thought it was all up with the meeting—that all was lost in incurable confusion; and yet the gentlemen on the platform looked down upon the raging tempest below with calmness and composure, as a thing of course. Amidst the noise I saw a middle-aged gentleman, rising on the platform, deliberately take off his top-coat, and all was hushed—except at the outskirts of the assembly, where a great trade in talking and tobacco was constantly carried on. This gentleman's name was S.S. Prentiss, Esq.; and the barking, it was now evident, consisted of calling out Prentiss! —Prentiss!—Prentiss! with all their might, on the top of the voice, and with an accent, sharp and rising, on the first syllable.

This gentleman gave us to understand that he was a lawyer—that he had often appeared before his fellow-citizens on former occasions (those occasions he briefly enumerated); but that the present was the most painful of all. He expatiated largely, and with great vehemence of tone and action, on the miseries of famine as experienced in Ireland,—talked much of their own glorious and free country—("Looking out for a few niggers this morning?" occurred to me),—and made some severe reflections—not, I admit, altogether undeserved—on the Government of England. This man was fluent, though turgid. He seemed resolved to act the orator throughout, and certainly to me appeared in point of talent far—far a-head of Henry Clay. Bravos and hoohoos in abundance greeted Mr. Prentiss. He spoke long; but the noise of the suburbs prevented my hearing so perfectly as I wished.

The cheering at the close of this speech merged into barking as before. In this instance it was Hunt!—Hunt!—Hunt! that they called for. The president (standing) showed them a sheet of paper, containing probably a list of subscriptions, and smiled coaxingly to intimate that he wished that to be read. But it would not do. Hunt!—Hunt!—Hunt! was still the cry; and the democracy, as before, carried the day.

By this time the atmosphere of the room had become so poisoned with smoking that I could endure it no longer. I had not only the general atmosphere to bear, but special puffs, right in my face, accompanying the questions and remarks which, in that free meeting, of free citizens, in a free country, were freely put to me by the free-and-easy gentlemen around. The meeting resulted in the raising of 15,000 dollars for the relief of the Irish. The sum was handed by the American Minister in London to Lord John Russell; and a note from his Lordship, acknowledging the gift, has gone the round of the papers on both sides of the Atlantic. The subject of relief to Ireland was subsequently, in many ways and places, brought under my notice; and while I have been delighted in many instances with the display of pure and noble generosity, it was too evident that much of what was done was done in a spirit of self-glorification over a humbled and afflicted rival. It was a fine opportunity to feed the national vanity, and to deal hard blows to England. Not that I was sorry to see those blows, or to feel them. They drew no blood, and were a hundred times more efficacious than if they had. I felt that there was much in the conduct of England towards her unhappy sister-isle for which she deserved the severest castigation. But I must protest against the form of putting the case, which was very common throughout the United States: "You are shocked at our slavery; and yet you have horrors of ten times greater magnitude, in the Irish famine at your own doors." In this way the Irish famine, was a God-sent sort of a salvo for the slave-holder's conscience, so soothing and grateful to his tortured feelings that he was but too happy to pay for it by a contribution for the relief of Ireland.

In consequence of the following advertisement in the Picayune, I screwed up my feelings, and resolved for once at least in my life to see a slave-auction. I was the more disposed to attend this, as it was distinctly stated that they would be sold in families. I should not therefore have to behold the wife torn away from the husband, the husband from the wife, the parent from the child, or the child from the parent, as is so commonly done.

"COTTON-FIELD HANDS.—By Beard, Calhoun, and Co., auctioneers.—Will be sold at auction, on Friday, the 5th inst., at 12 o'clock, at Bank's Arcade, thirty-seven Field Slaves; comprising eighteen from one plantation, and fourteen from another. All acclimated Negroes. To be sold in Families. Full particulars at sale."

"F. 4."

Setting off a few minutes before 12, after about half-a-dozen inquiries, and as many "guessing" answers, I found "Bank's Arcade." It was very near the Presbyterian church, in which I had heard such excellent sermons on the preceding Sabbath. It was a large open building: one side occupied as a bar for the retail of strong drinks, and the other fitted up for auctioneering purposes,—there being conveniences for three or four of the trade to exercise their vocation at the same time. One end was used for the sale of books and other publications, chiefly novels; and the other for the exhibition of fancy goods.

As I got in at one end, I heard a voice—with that peculiar, twirling, rapid, nasal twang, which marks the Transatlantic auctioneer—say, "400 dollars for this fine young woman—only 400 dollars—420, only 420—430—440, only 440 dollars offered for this fine young woman." By this time I had got in front of the performer, and had a full view of the whole affair. And sure enough she was a "fine young woman," about twenty-three years of age, neatly dressed, not quite——But the scene shall form the subject of my next letter.