Strange History of an Unconventional Family [published June 14, 1885]

      Some thirty-five years ago a family by the name of Oaksmith lived in what was big style then, and would be very comfortable style now, in old Saint Mark’s place, near old Saint Mark’s Church. The house was large and roomy and comfortably furnished. The family consisted of a father, mother and four sons, but the house was generally designated: Mrs. Oaksmith’s house. The husband and father by the name of Oaksmith was seldom alluded to, the wife and mother bein’ evidently regarded as the head of the family.

      Both wife and husband were literary people, and the fashion of the time took it into its head to regard the woman as the best and brightest author of the two. The critics of the day, especially Poe, who was then the leadin’ critical authority of New York, had pronounced Mrs. Oakes Smith (that was the real name) as the finest poet in America, and pronounced a poem of hers, “The Sinless Child,” without a superior in the language. The lady herself, of course, thought Poe was a capital critic, and endorsed his praise. Her sons looked upon Poe as the finest man who ever wrote the English language, and their mother as the finest woman who ever wrote in it; the literary and social world of New York endorsed the opinions of the four sons, and there was nobody, or next to nobody, left to believe in the poor husband and father, who had thus to live playin’ second fiddle to his own wife.

      And yet the man in this case was really superior as a writer to the woman. She was only a poetess of a minor order, but the man had proved himself a humorist of a high order, being the author of the once celebrated and not even yet quite forgotten “Major Jack Downing letters.” The man had also been a successful editor, was a great scholar, had published a “Geometry” which was a text book in the schools, and was himself a poet of no mean ability. But he had written a play called “Powhatan,” and Poe, who was very envious and always was wantin’ to write a play and always was failin’, got mad at this play and pitched into it savagely, while, to make the man he was abusin’ feel as bad as possible, he praised up his wife’s book to the skies.

      Besides, Mrs. Oaks Smith was shrewd in her day and generation, and pretended to make a good deal of Poe, while her husband couldn’t abide him, and not bein’ politic, couldn’t help showin’ his dislike; consequently every time he got a chance Poe went for the scalp of the literary husband, while he poured incense on the head of the literary wife.

      It may seem like a very little thing, all this, but there are no such things as “little” things, and this snubbin’ of a man and this putin’ a woman in his place at the as the head of the family upset all ideas of domestic discipline in the Oakes Smith household and was one of the causes which led to the downfall of the sons, who, although they adored their mother, had learned to despise and to pay no regard to their own father.

      There were four sons in this family with its head reversed, and every one of the four was clever, yet they all turned out wrong, one of ‘em so terribly wrong that he never could get right.

      Edward, one of the sons, was the best-lookin’ of the four and one of the handsomest men in the city of New York. He was soix feet two inches in height, finely formed, a blue-eyed blonde, lookin’ as poetical as a girl while is powerful as a giant. He dressed very richly, in a South American style, in decided colors and costly stuffs. When he walked Broadway in the afternoons he often wore a Mexican sombrero and concho, and was a very picturesque spectacle indeed. Major Seth Eyland, then a risin’ young artist, painted his portrait as “young St. Francis,” and the picture attracted a good deal of attention, the common verdict bein’ that, beautiful as the picture was, it wasn’t as handsome as its original.

      Of course the women adored him, for he wasn’t a mere “handsome” man, he was thoroughly manly, and he might have become almost anythin’ he chose. He had an eye and a taste for art, he had an ear for music and a tenor voice of great sweetness; he could write rapidly and well, was full of a vivid imagination; he could talk splendidly, was a born orator. And yet with all these advantages combined in his own person, he never amounted to a row of pins. He failed in art, he failed in music, he failed in literature, he failed in law and he failed in makin’ a good match, failed in everythin’, succeeded in nothin’.

      At last he tried what a great many men try after they have failed in everythin’ else, studyin’ to be a priest, and even in that he failed, for he fell in love with a woman with a pretty face only, and in order to marry her he gave up the priesthood.

      But this brother was a negative, the other brothers were positive, failures. One of ‘em, Appleton Oaksmith, led one of the most wonderful double (or triple) careers on record.

      For many years this Appleton Oaksmith was knockin’ around New York, leading the usual humdrum life of a literary man in harness. He had plenty of writin’ to do, and he did it well–as well as if he had never done anythin’ else. He was editor for a while of the United States Magazine, and under his control it became quite a success. And then he tried his hand at poetry, and wrote a song called “Maggie Bell,” which at once became popular, and is sometimes heard even now. It was full of tenderness and pathos, and Appleton Oaksmith composed both the words and the music. It is one of those simple, sweet, sad pieces that at once give you the idea that the man who wrote it felt it–that it was a poem of one person’s heart, which on that very account touched the heart of every other person.

      In looks he was like his brother Edward, only not quite so handsome. But then he had a softer, milder expression, which some would prefer to mere regularity of feature, and his voice was soft and low, like a woman’s. His manners, too, were the perfection of gentleness. He was the mirror of politeness. Everybody said he was such a “nice” gentleman.

      But this “nice” gentleman had been at one part of his career “a filibuster.” He went with Walker to Nicaragua, did some hard fightin’, and then was sent by Walker to Washington as Nicaraguan ambassador. Of course the government of the United States did not acknowledge him, so he came on to New York, where he purchased the bark “Amelia,” loaded her with arms and munitions of war and sent her to Central America, in direct violation of the neutrality laws and at his own private expense. This expense was very great, over $100,000 in cash, yet this quiet, nice gentleman, this hard-workin’ literary man in harness, never “squealed,” but paid the cash down on the nail. The vessel and her cargo were seized and confiscated by the United States government and the $100,000 was all lost. But still this quiet, unassumin’, amiable literary man took it all easily, and appeared to regard his pecuniary ruin as a trifle.

      But where in the deuce had he got his $100,000 from originally? That was just what everybody who knew anythin’ about the matter at all wanted to know, but nobody could find out. All sorts of rumors went floatin’ around, but no one ever even suspected the fearful truth, till it was accidentally discovered.

      Meanwhile the civil war broke out, and Appleton Oaksmith, who had always been a red hot anti-slavery man, now became a rabid war man. He espoused the union cause with vehemence and made an impassioned speech at the Cooper Institute in favor of the war and insistin’ upon the downfall of slavery. The speech was widely copied by the Northern papers, and Appleton Oaksmith was looked upon by the knowin’ ones as destined to make his mark as an abolitionist and a patriot.

      This speech was delivered in September. In November of that year there came up a great storm on the coast of Long Island. It was dark as pitch and blew a hurricane. The waves were mountains. The lighthouse keeper at Fire Island had not witnessed as severe a storm for years. In the very midst of the gale a cry was borne across the raging waters–a human cry for help. The lighthouse keeper and his assistant rushed down as near as they dared to the boilin’ sea and saw on the turbid waters a boat with a crew of four, and a gentleman, seated at the stern, tryin’ to make the land, the gentleman evidently the leader of the party, and showin’ himself, by way he directed his men and tried to handle his boat, a seamen of no mean order, though he had a landsman’s look. At least that was the impression the lighthouse man got of him, after the party, by almost superhuman efforts and luck, had landed safely, though their boat had to be abandoned to the waves.

      Now there had been a rather rakish lookin’ vessel, called the “Augusta,” waitin’ in the vicinity of Fire Island for a couple of days, and the lighthouse people had had their suspicions excited about its true character. From the evasive answers and mysterious behavior of the crew of this shipwrecked boat, and it’s peculiar commander, the lighthouse people, puttin’ this and that together, came to the conclusion that the whole party were connected with this rakish craft, the “Augusta,” and that the quiet-looking, mild-mannered but smart and knowin’ gentleman was the commander and owner of the craft, which was meant for mischief.

      Actin’ on this idea the lighthouse keeper straightway communicated his suspicions to the government authorities in New York, who immediately sent down and arrested the whole party and the gentleman captain, and took ‘em to Fort Lafayette for bein’ unlawfully engaged in the slave-trade. Subsequent investigation showed that there was abundant ground for the arrest.

      The hard-workin’ literary men in harness, the editor, the sentimental song writer, the quiet, amiable filibuster, the war breathin’ patriot, who clamored for the downfall of slavery, had been himself off and on for many years engaged in the horrible slave-trade. “The Augusta” was but the last of several ventures of Appleton Oaksmith in the line of slavers. Altogether Appleton Oaksmith had made over a half a million of dollars in the traffic in human flesh and blood. He had been one of the most brutal, too, of his class, utterly death to humanity. Under his command the slave ship had been indeed “a floatin’ hell,” and the horrors perpetrated on the helpless slaves in “the middle passage” were almost indescribable. The editor had thrown with his own hands helpless black bein’s overboard to feed the sharks, when their sickness had rendered them a burden. The author of the tender and touching song “Maggie Bell” had been a pirate and an outlaw.

      All this seems unnatural, impossible; so it was, but it was all true. It was all proved at the trial of Appleton Oaksmith, which lasted several days and attracted the attention of the whole country, I might say the whole world. He was ably defended. His family, especially all its female members, were present throughout the trial, his mother, his wife, his golden-haired little daughters. But the evidence was too conclusive, and the editor, poet, gentleman, filibuster and slaver was condemned, as was Captain Gordon for the same offense. But Gordon was hung, while Appleton Oaksmith, in some mysterious manner escaped from prison, was never recaptured and went abroad. After years of “mysterious disappearance” he returned to this country and was pardoned by President Grant.

      He retired to some out of the way place in North Carolina, a broken down wreck, with a history, and a family of golden-haired children to whom he was passionately attached, and through whom his final retribution came to him.

      One Summer day, while in the harbor of Newbern, the father was takin’ his ease on shore, while his three idolized daughters were some distance from the shore in a boat. Suddenly the boat capsized and the three golden haired girls were drowned, goin’ down together, in a moment, before the eyes of the agonized father, who from that hour till the day of his death never smiled again.

      The remaining brother, Sydney Oaksmith, was accused of usin’ an official position he obtained, as Counsel to Hayti, to help Appleton by procurin’ proper clearance for his vessel and facilities for secret landin’ of slaves in Cuba.

      He afterwards became a practicin’ lawyer in New York, and also wrote for the magazines. But he never amounted to much. The career of his brother reflected against him, as did some of his own transactions, and he left for Hayti. And the ship in which he left went down at sea. At least, so it has always been presumed, as neither the vessel nor Sydney Oaksmith were ever again seen or heard of.

      Such were the strange careers and wonderful fates of the members of a once prominent and prosperous old New York family.

[Editor’s Notes: The full story of Appleton Oaksmith’s career and the context of his times can be found in a recently published (2023) book by Jonathan W. White, Shipwrecked: A True Civil War Story of Mutinies, Jailbreaks, Blockade-Running, and the Slave Trade. Among the inaccuracies found in the above column that Shipwrecked corrects is the deaths of his four daughters, and that he was on the boat, not on shore.

The Harry Hill’s Gotham column is entirely wrong about the literary standing of Elizabeth Oakes Smith compared to Seba Smith. Elizabeth is still highly regarded both as a poet and as a pioneering feminist lecturer and writer; while Seba Smith’s humorous sketches were linked to their times. There is a web site devoted to the career of Elizabeth Oakes Smith maintained by Timothy Scherman and his students at Northeastern Illinois University.]