The great US President Abraham Lincoln was given to telling stories to illustrate a point he wanted to make, even when the subject was of the gravest nature and of great importance to the future of the country. During his four years as president, hundreds of these stories were published in newspapers, journals and booklets all over the United States.
Carl Sandburg's epic six-volume Life of Lincoln is full of them, and when I was reading it recently, I was amazed at how familiar I was with so many of these stories. Whether this was because of the wide circulation Lincoln's stories received, or whether it was because the great man's source was from the common folk tradition, I don't know.
At any rate, stories he told in his lifetime are still in circulation today; one of them I heard within the space of a couple of days of reading it in the biography; another which I recalled hearing from the "the seanchai" himself, Eamonn Kelly, also featured in the Sandburg biography of Lincoln; the last one I have heard many times, most recently just a couple of months ago.
Local character
At a storytelling weekend in the National Museum, Benburb Street, Dublin, I heard a young Orkney woman called Wrigley recounting the tale of a local "character" from her home town who had a serious falling-out with the owner of a Chinese take-away. As a result of the row, the owner banned him permanently from the premises. The "character" decided to get his own back.
One evening when things were at their busiest at the take-away, this fellow pushed his way through the crowd, plonked two dead cats on the counter and announced for all to hear: "There's two more for you; that makes five altogether you owe me for." Then he walked out. Lincoln had the very same story, except that it took place in Illinois in the early 1800s, and the victim was a German sausage maker who had had a row with a local man.
Eamonn Kelly's story was told to Padraic Dolan in an RTE Radio 1 programme about accents. His elderly uncle's father-in-law, he said, lived during the transition stage in Kerry when Irish was dying out and English was coming in, and he was the main witness in a court case in which a will was being contested. The relatives of one side contended that those to whom the money was left were not deserving of it because the man who died was not quite right in the head at the time he made his will.
Simple question
The lawyer for the side doing the contesting said to the uncle's father-in-law who was in witness box: "Is it not a fact that the deceased was given to soliloquising?" The old man just sat there smiling at the judge. The judge turned to the lawyer and said: "Perhaps you should simplify the question for the witness."
The lawyer began again: "Is it not a fact that the dead man spoke to himself when he was alone?"
"I dunno," said the old man. "I was never with him when he was alone."
Lincoln's version of the tale concerned a witness in a case where a man was charged with cruelty to a horse. The witness was asked: "How did he treat his horse when he was in company?" He replied: "Well, when the company rode fast, he rode fast; when the company rode slow, why, he rode slow."
"Ah," the lawyer continued, "but how did he ride when he was alone?"
"I don't rightly know," the witnessed drawled, "'cause I was never with him when he rode alone."
Peaceful doze
In the last example, the clergyman is "a pastor," whereas in the Irish version he's usually a priest.
At one of his cabinet meetings, all but one of Lincoln's counsellors were against him. He was reminded, the president said, of a revival meeting in Illinois when a fellow with a few drinks too many in him had walked up the aisle to a front pew and sat down. All eyes were on him, but he didn't seem to care, and soon he was dozing peacefully. Before the meeting ended, the pastor asked the usual questions: "Who are on the Lord's side?" The congregation arose en masse. When they sat down again, the pastor asked: "Who are on the side of the devil?" The dozing sleeper came to, and, seeing the pastor standing on his own, said: "I don't exactly understand the question, but I'll stand by you, Pastor, even if we are hopelessly outnumbered."
Imagine two people meeting, and in introducing each other, one says, "Hi, my name's Wrigley," and the other replies, "Hello, mine's Twitchen." Unlikely? Well, on the evening I was heading off to hear the Wrigley woman at the storytelling session in the National Museum, I paid a visit to my mother in hospital. The woman in the bed opposite her had the unusual surname of Twitchen. Incidentally, I'm assured by one who knows that there's an American storyteller whose surname is Storey.