The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
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upon each American citizen to make good to the world those principles upon which his government was built. To use a figure suggested by the calamity which has lately befallen one of the most beloved of our cities, there is a theory that earthquakes are caused by a necessary movement on the part of the globe to regain its axis. Whether or not the theory be true, it has its political application. In America to-day we are trying--whatever the cost--to regain the true axis established for us by the founders of our Republic.
HARLAKENDEN HOUSE, May 7, 1906.
THE CRISIS
By Winston Churchill
CONTENTS
BOOK I
Volume 1. I. Which Deals With Origins II. The Mole III. The Unattainable Simplicity IV. Black Cattle V. The First Spark Passes VI. Silas Whipple VII. Callers
Volume 2. VIII. Bellegarde IX. A Quiet Sunday in Locust Street X. The Little House XI. The Invitation XII. "Miss Jinny" XIII. The Party
BOOK II.
Volume 3. I. Raw Material. II. Abraham Lincoln III. In Which Stephen Learns Something IV. The Question V. The Crisis VI. Glencoe
Volume 4. VII. An Excursion VIII. The Colonel is Warned IX. Signs of the Times X. Richter's Scar XI. How a Prince Came XII. Into Which a Potentate Comes XIII. At Mr. Brinsmade's Gate XIV. The Breach becomes Too Wide XV. Mutterings
Volume 5. XVI. The Guns of Sumter XVII. Camp Jackson XVIII. The Stone that is Rejected XIX. The Tenth of May. XX. In the Arsenal XXI. The Stampede XXII. The Straining of Another Friendship XXIII. Of Clarence
BOOK III
Volume 6. I. Introducing a Capitalist II. News from Clarence III. The Scourge of War, IV. The List of Sixty V. The Auction VI. Eliphalet Plays his Trumps
Volume 7. VII. With the Armies of the West VIII. A Strange Meeting IX. Bellegarde Once More X. In Judge Whipple's Office XI. Lead, Kindly Light
Volume 8. XII. The Last Card XIII. From the Letters of Major Stephen Brice XIV. The Same, Continued XV. The Man of Sorrows XVI. Annapolis
THE CRISIS
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINS
Faithfully to relate how Eliphalet Hopper came try St. Louis is to betray no secret. Mr. Hopper is wont to tell the story now, when his daughter-in-law is not by; and sometimes he tells it in her presence, for he is a shameless and determined old party who denies the divine right of Boston, and has taken again to chewing tobacco.
When Eliphalet came to town, his son's wife, Mrs. Samuel D. (or S. Dwyer as she is beginning to call herself), was not born. Gentlemen of Cavalier and Puritan descent had not yet begun to arrive at the Planters' House, to buy hunting shirts and broad rims, belts and bowies, and depart quietly for Kansas, there to indulge in that; most pleasurable of Anglo-Saxon pastimes, a free fight. Mr. Douglas had not thrown his bone of Local Sovereignty to the sleeping dogs of war.
To return to Eliphalet's arrival,--a picture which has much that is interesting in it. Behold the friendless boy he stands in the prow of the great steamboat 'Louisiana' of a scorching summer morning, and looks with something of a nameless disquiet on the chocolate waters of the Mississippi. There have been other sights, since passing Louisville, which might have disgusted a Massachusetts lad more. A certain deck on the 'Paducah', which took him as far as Cairo, was devoted to cattle--black cattle. Eliphalet possessed a fortunate temperament. The deck was dark, and the smell of the wretches confined there was worse than it should have been. And the incessant weeping of some of the women was annoying, inasmuch as it drowned many of the profane communications of the overseer who was showing Eliphalet the sights. Then a fine-linened planter from down river had come in during the conversation, and paying no attention to the overseer's salute cursed them all into silence, and left.
Eliphalet had ambition, which is not a wholly undesirable quality. He began to wonder how it would feel to own a few of these valuable fellow-creatures. He reached out and touched lightly a young mulatto woman who sat beside him with an infant in her arms. The peculiar dumb expression on her face was lost on Eliphalet. The overseer had laughed coarsely.
"What, skeered on 'em?" said he. And seizing the girl by the cheek, gave it a cruel twinge that brought a cry out of her.
Eliphalet had reflected upon this incident after he had bid the overseer good-by at Cairo, and had seen that pitiful coffle piled aboard a steamer for New Orleans. And the result of his reflections was, that some day he would like to own slaves.
A dome of smoke like a mushroom hung over the city, visible from far down the river, motionless in the summer air. A long line of steamboats--white, patient animals--was tethered along the levee, and the Louisiana presently swung in her bow toward a gap in this line, where a mass of people was awaiting her arrival. Some invisible force lifted Eliphalet's eyes to the upper deck, where they rested, as if by appointment, on the trim figure of the young man in command of the Louisiana. He was very young for the captain of a large New Orleans packet. When his lips moved, something happened. Once he raised his voice, and a negro stevedore rushed frantically aft, as if he had received the end of a lightning-bolt. Admiration burst from the passengers, and one man cried out Captain Brent's age--it was thirty-two.
Eliphalet snapped his teeth together. He was twenty-seven, and his ambition actually hurt him at such times. After the boat was fast to the landing stage he remained watching the captain, who was speaking a few parting words to some passengers of fashion. The body-servants were taking their luggage to the carriages. Mr. Hopper envied the captain his free and vigorous speech, his ready jokes, and his hearty laugh. All the rest he knew for his own--in times to come. The carriages, the trained servants, the obsequiousness of the humbler passengers. For of such is the Republic.
Then Eliphalet picked his way across the hot stones of the levee, pushing hither and thither in the rough crowd of river men; dodging the mules on the heavy drays, or making way for the carriages of the few people of importance who arrived on the boat. If any recollections of a cool, white farmhouse amongst barren New England hills disturbed his thoughts, this is not recorded. He gained the mouth of a street between the low houses which crowded on the broad river front. The black mud was thick under his feet from an overnight shower, and already steaming in the sun. The brick pavement was lumpy from much travel and near as dirty as the street. Here, too, were drays blocking the way, and sweaty negro teamsters swinging cowhides over the mules. The smell of many wares poured through the open doors, mingling with the perspiration of the porters. On every side of him were busy clerks, with their suspenders much in evidence, and Eliphalet paused once or twice to listen to their talk. It was tinged with that dialect he had heard, since leaving Cincinnati.
Turning a corner, Eliphalet came abruptly upon a prophecy. A great drove of mules was charging down the gorge of the street, and straight at him. He dived into an entrance, and stood looking at the animals in startled wonder as they thundered by, flinging the mud over the pavements. A cursing lot of drovers on ragged horses made the rear guard.
Eliphalet mopped his brow. The mules seemed to have aroused in him some sense of his atomity, where the sight of the pillar of smoke and of the black cattle had failed. The feeling of a stranger in a strange land was upon him at last. A strange land, indeed! Could it be one with his native New England? Did Congress assemble from the Antipodes? Wasn't the great, ugly river and dirty city at the end of the earth, to be written about in Boston journals?
Turning in the doorway, he saw to his astonishment a great store, with high ceilings supported by columns. The door was stacked high with bales of dry goods. Beside him was a sign in gold lettering, "Carvel and Company, Wholesale Dry Goods." And lastly, looking down upon