My self-appointed mission: To drive all the way to New Orleans for a special viewing of clothes belonging to my third grand uncle Judah P. Benjamin. With any luck, the Touch the Wig tour would end with a precious co-mingling of DNA so that genealogists would know I’d made the vital connection many years from now. The things we do for posterity.
I admit to unique feelings as I set out on my journey. I could have raised the bar to a ridiculously high level by trying to retrace the route of Judah P.’s ignominious trip from Richmond to escape the sword of Union henchmen. Instead, I stuck to federal highways that took me across the great state of Virginia, then through North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Florida as I made my way to Louisiana and the State Museum. My biggest challenge, then, became fighting off pure boredom and fatigue as we drove along highways built long after Judah P.’s time. But as we descended into the South, it was mildly entertaining to think that the Louisiana plantation owner who had served as Secretary of State for the Confederacy had surely known some of this countryside.
I couldn’t lose blessed focus as the monotony of the journey threatened to turn my brain into cheese grits. The special viewing had been arranged by an intrepid librarian, Georgia Chadwick, who, like me, had developed a particular interest in things belonging to Judah P. Benjamin. In addition to Benjamin’s barrister outfit, Georgia had identified a desk once belonging to the great Confederate statesman that had once been used by editors at the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Unfortunately, time would not allow us to see the great work surface where the facile lawyer had penned many letters and briefs.
Instead, we’d see the clothes that the great Judah P. had worn during his reincarnation as an English barrister after being driven out of his adopted country, The United States, like an over-matched portly fox pursued by Union hounds. He was forced into exile on a blessed horse. Once he reached the west coast of Florida, he found a boat to take him to Nassau. From there, he managed to hitch a ride on a ship to England, pretending to be a cook, donning an apron, and smearing his face with grease. My lofty quest begged big questions. How big would his pants be? What size shoes did he wear? How grotesque would his sweat-encased, powder-laden wig be after all these years? Could it have turned into a biscuit or a rock?
We wouldn’t get the answers unless we could find the secret storage place for textiles and outfits belonging to the State Museum. For that, we would need our librarian’s guidance. As a logistical matter, we decided to rendezvous at the Fat Hen for breakfast and plot our course. It was decided over a delicious meal of mushroom omelets and cheese grits, with some delectable homemade bread and jam, and a pot of delightful chicory coffee: We would stay at the Fat Hen all day. No, I would follow Georgia downtown to the French Quarter, where we would park in an unusually expensive public lot. There was little choice, given the difficulty of finding free street parking on a Thursday morning. If I didn’t have the cash, the lot would take a credit card. Whew. Talk about a close one.
I quickly found that my German-made car, despite having driven more than 1000,000 miles, was more than equal to the test, but what a test it was. New Orleans roads are among the most treacherous in the country. A veritable minefield of potholes and damp crevices threaten the suspension at every turn. Road repairs seem to start–judging cones and signs–yet never to end, interrupted time after time, one can only assume by graft and another excuse to party. Of that, one cannot be sure. But this much is certain: the roads suck.
Hiding our precious valuables in the car, we set out on foot through the party-soaked streets of New Orleans. Strangers approached us, appealed to our vanity, and asked for money. The ploy worked several times. The experience reminded me of the blind beggar on the streets of Washington, D.C., who successfully pried cash from me and then found the only unoccupied seat on the Metro. A miracle indeed.
Meanwhile, the raunchy sound of a four-piece Dixieland quartet drowned out the making of larcenous plans that no doubt included us. The path was treacherous indeed. The same menacing forces that produced this grizzled city’s dreadful roads resulted in sidewalks that could break an ankle with a single misstep. One fall could be your last. There would be no rescue from the stanky gutters of this party town, redolent with spilled drinks, urine, and fresh barf. Wait, was that a rat scurrying so brazenly across the street?
We inched our way carefully through the streets until Georgia finally spotted our destination. “This is it,” she said in a tone barely above a whisper. She pressed an intercom button to announce we were there. I tried vainly to keep my cover. No one could know that I was a very distant relative of the Great Judah P. They might guess his clothes were inside. “Hi, Steve, it’s us,” Georgia said calmly, considering the imminent danger.
I heard the sound of a commotion inside as Steve opened the gunmetal grey door. He ushered us quickly inside, presumably so that no one could follow from the street. The building looked like any other storage building. Who would have guessed that it held such precious contents? Steve took us to a gangly freight elevator with a door that opened noisily from top to bottom. This had been the disturbing noise that I had heard.
The ride took less than a minute. Steve opened the doors, and we entered another hallway. There, only a few steps away, was the textile and clothing repository for the State Museum. I did a double-take as we approached. It appeared as though many people were inside the storage facility. I reached for my weapon, then realized I never carried one. It was okay. They were mannequins dressed in Mari Gras party attire. Still, that was a little too close for comfort.
As Steve led us through the stacks, our bounty came into sight. There, laid out across a long table, were the clothes worn by Judah P. when he practiced law in England. Starting with only a few bales of cotton to his name, Benjamin had adeptly risen through the legal ranks, achieving the position of Queen’s Counsel in 1872. To think, these were the threads he had worn then. Incredible. Benjamin had died in 1884. Alma Kruttschnitt, his beloved niece, had given the clothes to the museum in the 1920s. I secretly hoped that they had been cleaned since then.
The clothes were not in the best condition. In fact, several years before, the museum had received a $15,000 estimate to repair them. What could they have been thinking when they didn’t immediately spend the money to create a lifelike display in a state museum? Come to think of it, it probably wasn’t worth the cash to clothe a silly mannequin with the suit of a dead lawyer. Wise decision.
Judah P. was forced to don the silly outfit after being awarded a “patent of precedence” from the Queen of England. The award ranked him above all future Queen’s Counsel and Sergeants at Law (except two who already had such patents.) “I received it in person from the Lord Chancellor at his own house,” Judah P. wrote to his sister, Peninah, “and he gave it to me with some very flattering expressions.” Benjamin added that “as nothing of this kind is ever done under a monarchy without an endless series of charges,” he paid about $400 for stamps, fees, presents to servitors, etc., etc. The exalted barrister was none too happy with his appearance in the outfit.
“I have now to wear a full bottomed wig, with wings falling down on my shoulders, and knee breeches and black silk stockings and shoes with buckles, and in this ridiculous array, in my silk gown, to present myself at the next levee of Her Majesty to return thanks for her gracious kindness. In the same dress I am also to be present at the grand breakfast which the Lord Chancellor gives to Her Majesty’s Judges and to the leaders of the bar every year in October (at the end of the month), when the Michaelmas Term begins. Fortunately, I have three months for bracing up my nerves to the trial of making myself such an object, and as it is usual to have photographs made of one’s self on these occasions I will send some to enable you all to laugh at how like a monkey brother looks in that hideous wig.
“Before I forget it, I must just mention that I don’t want anything of this sort that I write for the family to get into the papers, for if it were repeated here, it would be known that such details must have originated with me, and I should be suspected, to my great mortification, of writing puffs of myself, than which nothing is deservedly regarded with more contempt. Of course, the fact of my promotion being announced could do no harm, but none of the details which can come only from me must get into the papers.”
There it all was — his silk tie and stockings, kid gloves and glove stretcher, and grotesque wig and wig box. His shoes, complete with a silly, girlish buckle, looked about a size 7. On the other hand, his pants were at least a size 42. The conclusion was inescapable: This dude was fat. Tea and crumpets served him ill. His frayed silk vest, no doubt stretched to the max during his time, was nearly beyond repair.
I reached out to touch the wig, a menacing tumble of grey fiber, sitting there so inertly but no doubt concealing dead weasels. I couldn’t bring myself to touch it; it was just too gross. Slowly, ever so, I moved my index figure toward the object of my quest. Trying hard not to think of the vermin it hid, I achieved the co-mingling of DNA.
