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THE COUNTRYMAN.
TURNWOLI), GA., MARCH 28, 1865.
The Original letter of Win. Woodpile,
TO HON. A. R. WRIGHT.
Texas Valiev, Floyd County, Ga.,)
November 10th, 1858. f
Dear Gus:—My mind has been running,
a good deal, on what we were talking
about, the other day, and I have conclude
ed to write to you, and give my opinions
more fully than I was able to do, at that
time.
What WAS .expecyU d. of you, Gus, when
you were elected to congress from this,
the stoutest, and most unswerving demo
cratic district, not only m Georgia, tut in
the union? You were unquestionably
elected as the friend of the administration,
and had you not gained the confidence of
the party, in that respect, you wouldn't
have polled a corporal’s guard of demo
cratic votes. No member ever entered
congress with more flattering prospects.
With the confidence of a constituency al
most a unit in political faith—with talents
of a high order, and capacity for anything,
and warm personal friends, who were
ready to back your claims for any position
your ambition might aspire to, you cer
tainly had a bright career before you.
Now what report have you to make of
your stewardship ? How nave the fond
anticipations of your friends been realized ?
You have been in congress about twelve
months, and have as effectually annihilat
ed yourself, as if you had never been ex'ant
at all. You have knocked all the fat in
the fire, and the conflagration has con
sumed you.
And how have you done it? Why,
first, you went and slept with Toombs,
and Stephens, and caught the Douglas
itch, and then imprudently exposed your
self to an airing in the newspapers, while
the disease was in its confluent state.
That was madness, Gus. I have known a
man to be wrapped up in a straight jacket
for less. No man can tamper with his
constituents in that manner, with impuni
ty, and I tell you, old fellow, you are now
in a bad way, and your political end
draweth nigh. How often, Gus, has your
uncle Billy, and the rest of your friends,
warned you against that pernicious habit
of letter-writing ? The least said about
those letters, the best. They say nothing,
and say it badly, at that. They assume
no position, enunciate no principles, no
policy, no nothing. In fact, you are no
where, and don’t Know it.
Solomon (not old Billy) said, ‘0 that
mine enemy would write a book.' You’d
have been a foe to tickle his fancy. He’d
have gone to sleep over you, Gus, and
woke up to find that you’d written, pub
lished, and busted, before he’d fairly got
his nap out.
Men readily forgive rascality, but folly
they rarely pardon, and you have sinned
almost past redemption. But, luckily,
for unfortunates like yourself, there isjno
evil without a remedy, and your uncle
Billy is not the man to strike you, when
down, without helping you on yourjegs
again. In desperate cases, remedies must
be strong, to be effective, and, in your crit
ical condition, I would strongly advise the
total abandonment of the art of chirog
raph?. Forget how to do it, and sign
your name like Bonner makes cross roads
on his maps. Your only safety is in to
tal abstinence, for if you ever pat pen to
paper, you are gone.
When I heard of your first Douglas
letter, I went home mighty down in the
month. Your aunt Polly smelt a rat right
off. What’s the matter, old man ? says
she. Nothing but some political news I
heard today, sa\si. VV hat is it? says
she. Gues«, says I. All the missionary
Baptists going to plump Hanks? says she.
Worse than that, says I. Brown publish
ed his new work on book keeping? says
she. Worse than that, says I. Good
gracious! old man, says she, Bob Toombs
aint said nothing, and stuck to it, surely ?
That aint a circumstance to it, says I.
You’ll frighten me to death, if you keep
on in this way. Cobb aint had the apple-
plexy ? says she. No, savs I, it’s about
our Gus. Oh, Lordy! says she, you
needn’t say any more, old man ; I know,
now, Gus has been a writ'r.g. She shuck
ed, and went to bed, without saying an
other word, and her and me lay there,
groaning, without sleeping a wink, that
bless* d night. We feel very much hurt
at you, Gus, for your uncle Billy is flatter
ed into the belief, that he is considerable
of aa ass himself, and for you to go out of
your way, to break him down at his own
trade, is unkind, as the pole-cat said to
John Glenn, when he put on his suit of
corduroy".
If you had your uncle Biliy’« pluck, and
manliness of character, you’d lie out of
the whwle business, at once, and sweat
that A. R. Wright, of Jefferson, wrote
those letters, and there would be no great
harm in it either, for Rtnce has so many
sins to answer for, already, that th - addi
tional encumbrance wouldn’t amout t to
much. However, that is more than I can
reasonably require of you. But I have |
the right to expect you to abandon that
purnicous habit. If you can’t live without
seeing your name in print, confine your
literary efforts to writing certificates for
hair restorers, and pile ointments—that’s
innocent amusement, and can harm no
body, except those who take the remedies,
and serves them right lor being such
fools. And if you must wri'.e lttters,
write to me, and they wont be wasted, for
your uncle Billy is mightily troubled with
a looseness of the bowels. But by far the
saiest course for you to pursue, is, to
abandon the use of stationery altogeth
er.
The signs of the times look mighty
squally for you, Gus, and sorry it is, that
youa uncle Billy has to tell you so. Look
at Tumlin, hugging everybody that will
let him. Look at Chastain, travelling
round, complaining of biles, and getting
everybody’s sympathy, and see Bill Ciay-
ton (‘ the old man elephant ’) how polite
he is, hopping about as nimble, and spry,
as if he’d sold out, and retired from the
Tippoo Sultan line of character. What
do they point to ? They point to the lofti
est tumble for you, next October, that ev
er a man got, if you don’t fall into ranks
j again in double-quick lime. You have
kicked out of harness, old hoss, but, for«f
tunately for you, you havn’t broke any
thing, and now just get your legs back
again over the traces, and go along quietly,
like a well-broke horse, and don’t get
frightened at the bullgine. When Aleck
Stephens goes again to Illinois to have his
picture painted, don’t you have your dog-
gerytype taken, too, or you’ll be hung up
along with it, and left hanging ‘here, for
B b, and Aleck to come, and take you
down : and won’t you have to wait a long
time, Gus? And when Bob Toombs
talks Douglas at you, again, do you make
hi n write it, and sign his name to it, and
print it, or Bob will dodge you, certain.*
Now, I know what you’ll say, whetf yotf
see me again : ydh’ll smile sweetly on
your uncle Billy, in that insinuating way,
give your head a twist, in that amiable,
bird-like manner of yowrs, and talk about
honor, convictions of duty, principles^
Ac. Now, Gus, they are all gammon,
when they don’t pay, and to make them
profitable, you must make them follow
your lead, and not you follow theirs* A1-*
ways make your piinciplea subservient to
your interest, and when it is to your in
terest to change your principles, right
about face, at once, and make it a point of
honor, as well as duty, to come down on
jour old principles like a thousand of
brick. And that’s the way for you to get
your foot out of this Douglas business.
Bob and Aleck have got the start of
you, in the race back to the democrat
ic stand, but you have the wind,
and the bottom, and can beat then*
on the last quarter-stretch, if you don’t
spoil the sport by bolting—there lies your
danger. And when you get safe back
again, turn your pen into a tooth-pick,
d> e your whiskers with your ink, and
send your writing-paper to the little house
in the garden. Don’t have anything
more to do with Toombs, and Stephen*,
I and Doug as, and ail that sort of skylark-
ers. They are not the sort of boys for
you to associate witfi they will always
be getting yon into trouble. Lean up to’
old Buck, like a sick kitten to a warm
brick. Cultivate Howell—dig around him,
and dung him. Climb up the hil) there,*
at Rome, to Fort Lumpkin, and talk to
John. Tell him you didn’t go to do it—
you wont do so no more. That’s your
platform, Gus. Stand to it, and Tumlin
may hug the boys in vain ; Gossamer Bil
ly will get as light, and airy as a tom-tit,-
to no purpose, and Chastain’s crop of biles
wont pay the expense of cultivation.
As a patting injunction, 1 would advise
you to have the following little mottoes
printed in large letters, and stuck in corn-
spicuous places about your bouse, so that
wh ehever way you turn, your eye will
light on at least one of them: No write—
not a damned letter—Forget how—Croat
roads his marie—Talk to you all day—~
Say anything you want to hear—But
write never—Won’t pay—Quit—Learnt
better sense—Perish Penmanship—Sta
tionery Avaunt !!
Now, Gus, you have the benefit of your
UDcle Billy’s counsel, and if you feel that
you owe me any return for it, you can