THE POLITICIAN.
“All would be deemed, e'en from the cradle, fit
To rule in politics as well as wit:
The grave, the gay, the fopling, and the dunce,
Start up (God bless us!) statesmen all at once!”
Churchill.
In a country where the popular breath sways men to its purposes or caprices, as the wind bends the weeds in a meadow, statesmanship may become a system, but can never rise to the dignity of a science; and politics, instead of being an art, is a series of arts.
A system is order without principle: a science is order, based upon principle. Statesmanship has to do with generalities—with the relations of states, the exposition and preservation of constitutional provisions, and with fundamental organizations. Politics relates to measures, and the details of legislation. The art of governing is the accomplishment of the true politician: the arts of governing are the trickeries of the demagogue. Right is the key-note of one: popularity of the other.
The large majority of men are sufficiently candid to acknowledge—at least to themselves—that they are unfit for the station of law-giver; but the vanity and jealousy begotten by participation in political power, lead many of them, if not actually to believe, at all events to act upon the faith, that men, no more able than themselves, are the best material for rulers. It is a kind of compromise between their modesty and self-love: not burthening them with the trials and responsibilities of positions for which they feel incompetent, but soothing their vanity by the contemplation of office-holders not at all their superiors. Below a certain (or uncertain) grade, therefore, political stations are usually filled by men of very moderate abilities: and their elevation is favored—indeed, often effected—by the very causes which should prevent it. Such men are prone to thrust themselves upon public notice, and thus secure, by persistence and impudence, what might not be awarded them on the score of merit.
It is a trite remark, that people are inclined to accept a man's estimate of himself, and to put him in possession of that place, in their consideration, which he has the hardihood to claim. And the observation is just, to this extent: if the individual does not respect himself, probably no one else will take that trouble. But in a country where universal suffrage reigns, it may be doubted whether the elevation of an ordinary man indicates any recognition of the justice of his claims. On the contrary, they may be endorsed precisely because they are false: that is, because he really possesses no other title to the support of common men, than that which is founded upon fellow-feeling or sympathy of character. Many a man, therefore, who receives his election as a compliment from the voters, if he understood the motives of their action, would throw up his office in disgust; for in a large majority of cases, the popular choice, so far from being an assertion of the candidate's peculiar fitness to be singled out from among his brethren, is only a declaration that neither talent nor character entitles him to the distinction. The cry that a man is “one of the people,” will bring him great strength at the ballot-box: but this is a phrase which means very different things, according as it is used by the candidate or the voter; and, in many cases, if they could thoroughly understand each other, the latter would not give his support, and the former would not ask it.
These remarks are applicable to all stages of society's progress; for, if the world were so enlightened, that, in the scale of intellect, such a man as Daniel Webster could only be classed as an idiot, there would still be the “ignorant vulgar,” the “uneducated classes.” Society is one entire web—albeit woven with threads of wool and silk, of silver and gold: turn it as you will, it must all turn together; and if a whirlwind of enlightenment should waft it to the skies, although each thread would be immeasurably above its present condition, the relation of one to another would still be the same. If the baser wool should be transmuted into gold, the very same process would refine and sublimate the precious metal, in a corresponding ratio; and the equilibrium of God's appointed relations would remain undisturbed.
But it is more especially in the primitive periods, before the great political truths become household words, and while the reign of law and municipal organization is a vague and distant thing, that most citizens shrink from official duties. Diffidence, in this matter is, fortunately, a disease which time will alleviate—a youthful weakness, which communities “outgrow,” as children do physical defects; and, I believe, of late years, few offices have “gone begging,” either east or west of the great barrier of the Allegheny.
In the earlier periods of its history, we have seen that the western country was peculiarly situated. The settlements were weak and the population small; with the exception of a few narrow fields, in the vicinity of each frontier fort, or stockade, the land was a wilderness, held in undisturbed possession by the savages and wild beasts. The great struggle, which we call the Revolution, but which was, in fact, only a justifiable and successful rebellion, had exhausted the force and drained the coffers of the feeble federal government; had plunged the infant states into enormous debts; and the only means of paying these were the boundless but unclaimed lands of the west, which the same causes rendered them unable to protect. The scattered settlements on the Mississippi side of the Alleghenies, were thus left to their own scanty resources; and the distance was so great, that, had the older states been able to afford assistance, the delays and losses attendant upon its transmission across so wide a tract of wilderness, would have made it almost nugatory.
In those times, therefore, though a few were looking forward to separate political organization and the erection of new states, the larger number of the western people were too constantly occupied with their defence, to give much attention to internal politics. Such organization as they had was military, or patriarchal: the early pioneer, who had distinguished himself in the first explorations of the country, or by successfully leading and establishing a new settlement, as he became the commander of the local fort, was also the law-giver of the community. The pressure of external danger was too close to allow a very liberal democracy in government; and, as must be the case in all primitive assemblages of men, the counsels and commands of him whom they knew to be the most able, were always observed. He who had proven himself competent to lead was, therefore, the leader ipso facto and de jure; and the evidence required was the performance of such exploits, and the display of such courage and sagacity, as were necessary to the defence, well-being, and protection of the community.
It is obvious that no mere pretender could exhibit these proofs; and that, where they were taken as the sole measure of a man's worth, dexterity with a rifle must be of more value than the accomplishments of a talker—Indian-fighting a more respectable occupation than speech-making. Small politicians were, therefore, very small men, and saying that one had “a turn for politics,” would have been equivalent to calling him a vagabond. The people had neither time nor patience to listen to declamation—the man who rose in a public assembly, and called upon his neighbors to follow him in avenging a wrong, made the only speech they cared to hear. “Preambles and resolutions” were unmeaning formalities—their “resolutions” were taken in their own minds, and, to use their own expressive words, they executed them “without preamble.” An ounce of lead was worth more than a pound of advice; and, in the vindication of justice, a “charge” of gunpowder was more effectual than the most tedious judicial harangue. It is, even now, a proud, but well-founded boast, of western men, that these traits have been transmitted to them from their fathers—that they are more remarkable for fighting than for wrangling, for acting than for talking.
In such a state of society, civil offices existed scarcely in name, and were never very eagerly sought. That which makes official station desirable is obedience to its authority, and if the title of “captain” gave the idea of more absolute power than that of “sheriff,” one would rather command a company of militia than the “posse comitatus.” Besides, the men of the frontier were simple-hearted and unambitious, desiring nothing so much as to be “left alone,” and willing to make a compact of forbearance with the whole world—excepting only the Indians. They had never been accustomed to the restraints of municipal regulations, they were innocent of the unhealthy pleasures of office-holding, or the degrading impulses of office-seeking. Their lives had given them little or no knowledge of these things; experience had never suggested their importance, for their acquaintance with life was, almost exclusively, such as could be acquired in the woods and forest pathways.
But as time rolled away, and the population of the country became more dense—as the pressure of external danger was withdrawn, and the necessities of defence grew less urgent—the rigor of military organization came gradually to be somewhat irksome. The seeds of civil institutions began to germinate among the people, while the extending interests of communities required corresponding enactments and regulations. The instincts of social beings, love of home and family, attachment to property, the desire of tranquillity, and, perhaps, a leaven of ambition for good estimation among neighbors, all combined to open men's eyes to the importance of peaceful institutions. The day of the rifle and scalping-knife passed away, and justice without form—the rule of the elementary strong-hand—gave place to order and legal ceremony.
Then first began to appear the class of politicians, though, as yet, office-seeking had not become a trade, nor office-holding a regular means of livelihood. Politics had not acquired a place among the arts, nor had its professors become the teachers of the land. There were few, indeed, who sought to fill civil stations; and, although men's qualifications for office were, probably, not any more rigidly examined then than now, those who possessed the due degree of prominence, either deemed themselves, or were believed by their fellow-citizens, peculiarly capable of discharging such functions. They were generally men who had made themselves conspicuous or useful in other capacities—who had become well or favorably known to their neighbors through their zeal, courage, sagacity, or public spirit. A leader of regulators, for example, whose administration of his dangerous powers had been marked by promptitude and severity, was expected to be equally efficient when clothed with more regular authority. A captain of rangers, whose enterprises had been remarkable for certainty and finish, would, it was believed, do quite as good service, in the capacity of a civil officer. A daring pioneer, whose courage or presence of mind had saved himself and others from the dangers of the wilderness, was supposed to be an equally sure guide in the pathless ways of politics. Lawyers were yet few, and not of much repute, for they were, for the most part, youthful adventurers, who had come into the field long before the ripening of the harvest.
There was another class, whose members held prominent positions, though they had never been distinguished for the possession of any of the qualifications above enumerated. These might be designated as the noisy sort—loud-talking, wise-looking men, self-constituted oracles and advice-givers, with a better opinion of their own wisdom than any one else was willing to endorse. Such men became “file-leaders,” or “pivot-men,” because the taciturn people of the west, though inclined to undervalue a mere talker, were simple-minded enough to accept a man's valuation of his own powers: or easy-tempered enough to spare themselves the trouble of investigating so small a matter. It was of little consequence to them, whether the candidate was as wise as he desired to be thought; and since, in political affairs, they knew of no interest which they could have in disputing it, for his gratification they were willing to admit it. These were halcyon days for mere pretenders—though for no very flattering reason: since their claims were allowed chiefly because they were not deemed worth controverting. Those days, thanks to the “progress of intelligence!” are now gone by: the people are better acquainted with the natural history of such animals, and—witness, ye halls of Congress!—none may now hold office except capable, patriotic, and disinterested men!
Nor must we be understood to assert that the primitive politician was the reverse of all this, save in the matter of capability. And, even in that particular, no conception of his deficiency ever glimmered in his consciousness. His own assumption, and the complaisance of his fellow-citizens, were inter-reactive, mutually cause and effect. They were willing to confirm his valuation of his own talents: he was inclined to exalt himself in their good opinion. Parallel to this, also, was the oracular tone of his speech: the louder he talked, the more respectfully silent were his auditors; and the more attentive they became, the noisier he grew. Submission always encourages oppression, and admiration adds fuel to the fire of vanity. Not that the politician was precisely a despot, even over men's opinions: the application of that name to him would have been as sore a wound to his self-respect as the imputation of horse-stealing. He was but an oracle of opinion, and though allowed to dictate in matters of thought as absolutely as if backed by brigades of soldiers, he was a sovereign whose power existed only through the consent of his subjects.
In personal appearance, he was well-calculated to retain the authority intrusted to him by such men. He was, in fact, an epitome of all the physical qualities which distinguished the rugged people of the west: and between these and the moral and intellectual, there is an invariable correspondence—as if the spirit within had moulded its material encasement to the planes and angles of its own “form and pressure.”
National form and feature are the external marks of national character, stamped more or less distinctly in different individuals, but, in the aggregate, perfectly correspondent and commensurate. The man, therefore, who possesses the national traits of character in their best development, will be, also, the most faithful representative of his race in physical characteristics. At some periods, there are whole classes of these types; and if there be any one who embodies the character more perfectly than all others, the tranquillity of the age is not calculated to draw him forth. But in all times of trouble—of revolution or national ferment—the perfect Man-emblem is seen to rise, and (which is more to the purpose) is sure to stand at the head of his fellows: for he who best represents the character of his followers, becomes, by God's appointment, their leader. To this extent, the vox populi is the vox Dei; and the unfailing success of every such man, throughout his appointed term, is the best possible justification of the choice.
What was Washington, for example, but an epitome of the steady and noble qualities combined of cavalier and puritan, which were then coalescing in the American character? And what more perfect correspondence could be conceived between the moral and intellectual and the physical outlines? What was Cromwell but the Englishman, not only of his own time, but of all times? And the testimony of all who saw him, what is it, but that a child, who looked upon him, could not fail to see, in his very lineaments, the great and terrible man he was? And Napoleon, was he aught but an abridgment of the French nation, the sublimate and “proof” essence of French character? Not one, of all the great men of history, has possessed, so far as we know, a physical constitution more perfectly representing, even in its advancing grossness, both the strength and weakness of the people he led.
In tranquil times, these things are not observed in one individual more than in others of his class, and we are, therefore, not prepared to decide whether, at such periods, the one man exists. The great Leviathan, the king of all the creatures of the ocean, rises to the surface only in the tumult of the storm; his huge, portentous form, lies on the face of the troubled waters only when the currents are changed and the fountains of the deep are broken up.
Nature does no superfluous work, and it may require the same causes which produce the storm to organize its Ruler. If a great rebellion is boiling among men, the mingling of the elements is projecting, also, the Great Rebel: if a national cause is to be asserted, the principles upon which it rests will first create its appropriate Exponent. But when no such agitation is on the point of breaking out—when the crisis is not near, and the necessity for such greatness distant—national character probably retains its level; and though there be no one whom the people will recognise as the arch-man, the representatives, losing in intensity what they gain in numbers, become a class. They fill the civil stations of the country, and are known as men of mark—their opinions are received, their advice accepted, their leading followed. No one of them is known instinctively, or trusted implicitly, as the leader of Nature's appointment: yet they are, in fact, the exponents of their time and race, and in exact proportion to the degree in which they possess the character, will they exhibit, also, the physical peculiarities.
Thus it was at the time of which we are writing, with the class to which belonged the politician, and a description of his personal appearance, like that of any other man, will convey no indistinct impression of his internal character.
Such a description probably combined more characteristic adjectives than that of any other personage of his time—adjectives, some of which were applicable to many of his neighbors, respectively, but all of which might be bestowed upon him only. He was tall, gaunt, angular, swarthy, active, and athletic. His hair was, invariably, black as the wing of the raven; even in that small portion which the cap of raccoon-skin left exposed to the action of sun and rain, the gray was but thinly scattered; imparting to the monotonous darkness only a more iron character. As late as the present day, though we have changed in many things, light-haired men seldom attain eminence among the western people: many of our legislators are young enough, but none of them are beardless. They have a bilious look, as if, in case of illness, their only hope would lie in calomel and jalap. One might understand, at the first glance, that they are men of talent, not of genius; and that physical energy, the enduring vitality of the body, has no inconsiderable share in the power of the mind.
Corresponding to the sable of the hair, the politician's eye was usually small, and intensely black—not the dead, inexpressive jet, which gives the idea of a hole through white paper, or of a cavernous socket in a death's-head; but the keen, midnight darkness, in whose depths you can see a twinkle of starlight—where you feel that there is meaning as well as color. There might be an expression of cunning along with that of penetration—but, in a much higher degree, the blaze of irascibility. There could be no doubt, from its glance, that its possessor was an excellent hater; you might be assured that he would never forget an injury or betray a friend.
A stoop in the shoulders indicated that, in times past, he had been in the habit of carrying a heavy rifle, and of closely examining the ground over which he walked; but what the chest thus lost in depth it gained in breadth. His lungs had ample space in which to play—there was nothing pulmonary even in the drooping shoulders. Few of his class have ever lived to a very advanced age, but it was not for want of iron-constitutions, that they went early to the grave. The same services to his country, which gave the politician his prominence, also shortened his life.
From shoulders thus bowed, hung long, muscular arms—sometimes, perhaps, dangling a little ungracefully, but always under the command of their owner, and ready for any effort, however violent. These were terminated by broad, bony hands, which looked like grapnels—their grasp, indeed, bore no faint resemblance to the hold of those symmetrical instruments. Large feet, whose toes were usually turned in, like those of the Indian, were wielded by limbs whose vigor and activity were in keeping with the figure they supported. Imagine, with these peculiarities, a free, bold, rather swaggering gait, a swarthy complexion, and conformable features and tones of voice: and—excepting his costume—you have before your fancy a complete picture of the early western politician.
But the item of costume is too important to be passed over with a mere allusion. As well might we paint a mountain without its verdant clothing, its waving plumes of pine and cedar, as the western man without his picturesque and characteristic habiliments. The first, and indispensable article of dress, was the national hunting-shirt: a garment whose easy fit was well-adapted, both to the character of his figure and the freedom of his movements. Its nature did not admit much change in fashion: the only variations of which it was capable, were those of ornament and color. It might be fringed around the cape and skirt, or made plain; it might be blue, or copper-colored—perhaps tinged with a little madder. And the variety of material was quite as limited, since it must be of either jeans or deer-skin.
Corresponding to this, in material, style, and texture, he wore, also, a pair of wide pantaloons—not always of precisely the proper length for the limbs of the wearer, but having invariably a broad waistband, coming up close under the arms, and answering the purpose of the modern vest. People were not so dainty about “set” and “fit,” in those days, as they have since become; and these primitive integuments were equally well-adapted to the figure of any one to whose lot they might fall. In their production, no one had been concerned save the family of the wearer. The sheep which bore the wool, belonged to his own flock, and all the operations, subsequent to the shearing, necessary to the ultimate result of shaping into a garment, had been performed by his wife or daughter. Many politicians have continued this affectation of plainness, even when the necessity has ceased, on account of its effect upon the masses; for people are apt to entertain the notion, that decent clothing is incompatible with mental ability, and that he who is most manifestly behind the improvements of the time, is best qualified for official stations.
A neck-cloth, or cravat, was never seen about the politician's throat; and for the same reason of expediency: for these were refinements of affectation which had not then been introduced; and a man who thus compassed his neck, could no more have been elected to an office, than if he had worn the cap and bells of a Saxon jester. The shirt-bosoms of modern days were in the same category; and starch was an article contraband to the law of public sentiment—insomuch that no epithet expressed more thorough contempt for a man, than the graphic word “starched.” A raccoon-skin cap—or, as a piece of extravagant finery, a white-wool hat—with a pair of heavy shoes, not unfrequently without the luxury of hose—or, if with them, made of blue-woollen yarn, from the back of a sheep of the aforesaid flock—completed the element of costume.
He was not very extravagantly dressed, as the reader sees; but we can say of him—what could not be as truly spoken of many men, or, indeed, of many women, of this day—that his clothing bore distinct reference to his character, and was well-adapted to his “style of beauty.” In fact, everything about him, form, face, manners, dress, was in “in keeping” with his characteristics.
In occupation, he was usually a farmer; for the materials of which popular tribunes are made in later times—such as lawyers, gentlemen of leisure, and pugnacious preachers—were not then to be found. The population of the country was thoroughly agricultural; and though (as I believe I have elsewhere observed) the rural people of the west were neither a cheerful nor a polished race, as a class, they possess, even yet, qualities, which, culminating in an individual, eminently fit him for the rôle of a noisy popular leader.
But a man who is merely fitted to such a position, is a very different animal to one qualified to give laws for the government of the citizen. After all our vain boasting, that public sentiment is the law of our land, there is really a very broad distinction between forming men's opinions and controlling their action. If the government had been so organized, that the pressure of popular feeling might make itself felt, directly, in the halls of legislation, our history, instead of being that of a great and advancing nation, would have been only a chronicle of factious and unstable violence. It does not follow, that one who is qualified to lead voters at the polls, or, as they say here, “on the stump,” will be able to embody, in enlightened enactments, the sentiment which he contributes to form, any more than that the tanner will be able to shape a well-fitting boot from the leather he prepares. “Suum cuique proprium dat Natura donum.”[82] A blacksmith, therefore, is not the best manufacturer of silver spoons, a lawyer the ablest writer of sermons, nor either of them necessarily the safest law-maker.
But those things to which his qualifications were appropriate, the politician did thoroughly and well. For example, he was a skilful farmer—at least in the leading branches of that calling, though he gave little or no attention to the merely ornamental. For the latter, he had neither time nor inclination. Even in the essentials, it was only by working, as he expressed it, “to the best advantage,”—that is, contriving to produce the largest amount of results with the least expenditure of labor and patience—that he got sufficient leisure to attend to his public duties; and as for “inclination,” no quaker ever felt a more supreme contempt for mere embellishment.
He was seldom very happy in his domestic relations; for, excepting at those seasons when the exigencies of his calling required his constant attention, he spent but little of his time at his own fireside. He absented himself until his home became strange and uncomfortable to him: and he then did the same, because it had become so. Every man who may try the experiment will discover that these circumstances mutually aggravate each other—are, interchangeably, cause and effect. His children were, however, always numerous, scarcely ever falling below half-a-dozen, and not unfrequently doubling that allowance. They generally appeared upon the stage in rapid succession—one had scarcely time to get out of the way, before another was pushing him from his place. The peevishness thus begotten in the mother—by the constant habit of nursing cross cherubs—though it diminished the amount of family peace, contributed, in another way, to the general welfare: it induced the father to look abroad for enjoyment, and thus gave the country the benefit of his wisdom as a political counsellor. Public spirit, and the consciousness of ability, have “brought out” many politicians: but uncomfortable homes have produced many more.
He was an oracle on the subject of hunting, and an unerring judge of whiskey—to both which means of enjoyment he was strongly attached. He was careful, however, neither to hunt nor drink in solitude, for even his amusements were subservient to his political interests. To hunt alone was a waste of time, while drinking alone was a loss of good-fellowship, upon which much of his influence was founded. He was particularly attached to parties of half-a-dozen, or more; for in such companions, his talents were always conspicuous. Around a burgou[83] pot, or along the trenches of an impromptu barbecue, he shone in meridian splendor; and the approving smack of his lips, over a bottle of “backwoods' nectar,” was the seal of the judgment which gave character to the liquor.
“Militia musters” were days in his calendar, “marked with a white-stone;” for it was upon these occasions that he appeared in his utmost magnificence. His grade was never lower than that of colonel, and it not unfrequently extended to, or even beyond, the rank of brigadier-general. It was worth “a sabbath-day's journey” on foot, to witness one of these parades; for I believe that all the annals of the burlesque do not furnish a more amusing caricature of the “pomp and circumstance” of war. Compared to one of those militia regiments, Falstaff's famous corps, whose appearance was so unmilitary as to prevent even that liberal-minded gentleman from marching through Coventry in their company, was a model of elegance and discipline. Sedenó's cavalry in the South American wars, though their uniform consisted only of “leggings,” a pair of spurs, and a Spanish blanket, had more the aspect of a regular corps d'armée than these! A mob of rustics was never armed with a more extensive variety of weapons; and no night's “haul” of a recruiting sergeant's net, ever made a more disorderly appearance, when mustered in the morning for inspection.
The “citizen-soldier” knew no more about “dressing the line,” than about dressing himself, and the front of his company presented as many inequalities as a “worm-fence.” Tall men and short men—beaver hats and raccoon-skin caps—rusty firelocks and long corn-stalks—stiff brogans and naked feet—composed the grand display. There were as many officers as men, and each was continually commanding and instructing his neighbor, but never thinking of himself. At the command “Right dress!” (when the officer par excellence knew enough to deliver it) some looked right, others left—some thrust their heads out before—some leaned back to get a glimpse behind—and the whole line waved like a streamer in the wind. “Silence in line!” produced a greater clamor than ever, for each repeated the command to every other, sending the order along the ranks like a rolling fire, and not unfrequently enforcing it with the push of a corn-stalk, or a vigorous elbow-hint. When a movement was directed, the order reached the men successively, by the same process of repetition—so that while some files were walking slowly, and looking back to beckon on their lagging fellow-soldiers, others were forced to a quick run to regain their places, and the scramble often continued many minutes after the word “halt!” The longer the parade lasted, the worse was the drill; and after a tedious day's “muster,” each man knew less, if possible, of military tactics, than he did in the morning.
But the most ludicrous part of the display, was the earnest solemnity with which the politician-colonel endeavored “to lick the mass into shape.” If you had judged only by the expression of his face, you would have supposed that an invading army was already within our borders, and that this democratic army was the only hope of patriotism to repel the foreign foe. And, indeed, it might not be too much to say, that some such idea actually occupied his mind: for he was so fond of “supposing cases,” that bare possibilities sometimes grew in his mind to actual realities; and it was a part of his creed, as well as his policy to preach, that “a nation's best defence” is to be found in “the undisciplined valor of its citizens.” His military maxims were not based upon the history of such countries as Poland and Spain—and Hungary had not then added her example to the list. He never understood the relation between discipline and efficiency; and the doctrine of the “largest liberty” was so popular, that, on his theory, it must be universally right. Tempered thus, and modified by some of the tendencies of the demagogue, his love of military parade amounted to a propensity, a trait which he shared with most of the people among whom he lived.
The inference from this characteristic, that he possessed what phrenologists used to call “combativeness,” is not unavoidable, though such was the fact. He was, indeed, quite pugnacious, ready, at all times, to fight for himself or for his friends, and never with any very special or discriminating reference to the cause of quarrel. He was, however, seldom at feud with any one whose enmity could materially injure him: extensive connections he always conciliated, and every popular man was his friend. Nor was he compelled, in order to compass these ends, to descend to any very low arts; for “the people,” were not so fastidious in those days, as they seem since to have become; and a straightforward sincerity was then the first element of popularity. The politician was not forced to affect an exemplary “walk and conversation;” nor was an open declaration of principle or opinion dangerous to his success.
This liberality in public sentiment had its evils: since, for example, the politician was not generally the less esteemed for being rather a hard swearer. In the majority of the class, indeed, this amounted only to an energetic or emphatic mode of expression; and such the people did not less respect, than if, in the same person, they had had reason to believe the opposite tone hypocritical. The western people—to their honor be it written!—were, and are, mortal enemies to everything like cant: though they might regret, that one's morals were no better than they appeared, they were still more grieved, if they found evidence, that they were worse than they claimed to be.
But, though the politician was really very open and candid in all the affairs of life, in his own estimation he was a very dexterous and dangerous intriguer: he often deceived himself into the belief, that the success, which was in fact the result of his manly candor, was attributable only to his cunning management. He was always forming, and attempting to execute, schemes for circumventing his political opponents; but, if he bore down all opposition, it was in spite of his chicanery, and not by its assistance. Left-handed courses are never advantageous “in the long run;” and, perhaps, it would be well if this lesson were better understood by politicians, even in our own enlightened day.
For the arts of rhetoric he had small respect; in his opinion, the man who was capable of making a long, florid speech, was fit for little else. His own oratorical efforts were usually brief, pithy, and to the point. For example, here follows a specimen, which the writer heard delivered in Illinois, by a candidate for the legislature:—
“Fellow-citizens: I am no speech-maker, but what I say, I'll do. I've lived among you twenty years, and if I've shown myself a clever fellow, you know it, without a speech: if I'm not a clever fellow, you know that, too, and wouldn't forget it with a speech. I'm a candidate for the legislature: if you think I'm 'the clear grit,' vote for me: if you think Major R—— of a better 'stripe' than I am, vote for him. The fact is, that either of us will make a devilish good representative!”
For the satisfaction of the reader, we should record that the orator was triumphantly elected, and, though “no speech-maker,” was an excellent member for several years.
The saddest, yet cheerfullest—the quaintest, yet most unaffected of moralists, has written “A Complaint upon the Decay of Beggars,” which will not cease to be read, so long as pure English and pure feeling are understood and appreciated. They were a part of the recollections of his childhood—images painted upon his heart, impressions made in his soft and pitying nature; and the “besom of societarian reformation,” legislating busybodies, and tinkers of the general welfare, were sweeping them away, with all their humanizing influences, their deep lessons of dire adversity and gentle charity.
There are some memories of the childhood of western men—unlike, and yet similar in their generous persuasions on all pure young hearts—upon whose “Decay” might, also, be written a “Complaint,” which should come as truly, and yet as sadly, from the heart of him, who remembers his boyhood, as did that from the heart of Elia. Gatherings of the militia, burgou-hunts, barbecues, and anniversaries—phases of a primitive, yet true and hearty time!—are fast giving way, before the march of a barbarous “progress” (erroneously christened) “of intelligence.” The hard spirit of money-getting, the harder spirit of education-getting, and the hardest of all spirits, that of pharisaical morality, have divorced our youth, a vinculo, from every species of amusement; and life has come to be a probationary struggle, too fierce to allow a moment's relaxation. The bodies of children are drugged and worried into health, their intellects are stuffed and forced into premature development, or early decay—but their hearts are utterly forgotten! Enjoyment is a forbidden thing, and only the miserable cant of “intellectual pleasure” is allowed. Ideas—of philosophy, religious observance, and mathematics—are supplied ad nauseam; but the encouragement of a generous impulse, or a magnanimous feeling, is too frivolous a thing to have a place in our vile system. Children are “brought up,” and “brought out,” as if they were composed exclusively of intellect and body: And, since the manifestations of any other element are pronounced pernicious—even if the existence of the element itself be recognised—the means of fostering it, innocent amusements, which make the sunshine brighter, the spirits more cheerful, and the heart purer and lighter, are sternly prohibited. Alas! for the generation which shall grow up, and be “educated” (God save the mark!) as if it had no heart! And wo to the blasphemy which dares to offer, as service to Heaven, an arrogant contempt of Heaven's gifts, and claims a reward, like the self-tormentors of the middle ages, for its vain mortifications.
But, in the time of the politician, of whom we write, these things were far different. We have already seen him at a “militia muster,” and fain would we pause here, to display him at a barbecue. What memories, sweet, though sad, we might evoke of “the glorious fourth” in the olden time! How savory are even the dim recollections of the dripping viands, which hung, and fried, and crisped, and crackled, over the great fires, in the long deep trenches! Our nostrils grow young again with the thought—and the flavor of the feast floats on the breezes of memory, even “across the waste of years” which lie between! And the cool, luxuriant foliage of the grove, the verdant thickets, and among them pleasant vistas, little patches of green sward, covered with gay and laughing parties—even the rosy-cheeked girls, in their rustling gingham dresses, cast now and then a longing glance, toward the yet forbidden tables! how fresh and clear these images return upon the fancy!
And then the waving banners, roaring cannon, and the slow procession, moving all too solemnly for our impatient wishes! And finally, the dropping of the ropes, the simultaneous rush upon the open feast, and the rapid, perhaps ravenous consumption of the smoking viands, the jest, the laugh, all pleasant merriment, the exhilaration of the crowd, the music, and the occasion! What glories we heard from the orator, of victories achieved by our fathers! How we longed—O! brief, but glorious dream! to be one day spoken of like Washington! How wildly our hearts leaped in our boyish bosoms, as we listened to the accents of the solemn pledge and “declaration”—“our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor!” The whole year went lighter for that one day, and at each return, we went home happier, and better!
How measureless we thought the politician's greatness then! This was his proper element—here he was at home; and, as he ordered and directed everything about him, flourishing his marshal's baton, clearing the way for the march of the procession—settling the “order of exercises,” and reading the programme, in a stentorian voice—there was, probably in his own estimation, and certainly in ours, no more important or honored individual in all that multitude!
In such scenes as these, he was, indeed, without a rival; but there were others, also, in which he was quite as useful, if not so conspicuous. On election days, for instance, when a free people assembled to exercise their “inestimable privilege,” to choose their own rulers—he was as busy as a witch in a tempest. His talents shone forth with especial and peculiar lustre—for, with him, this was “the day for which all other days were made.” He marshalled his retainers, and led them to “the polls”—not as an inexperienced tactician would have done, with much waste of time, in seeking every private voter, but after the manner of feudal times—by calling upon his immediate dependants, captains over tens and twenties, through whom he managed the more numerous masses. These were the “file-leaders,” the “fugle-men,” and “heads of messes;” and it was by a judicious management of these, that he was able to acquire and retain an extensive influence.
The first article of his electioneering creed was, that every voter was controlled by somebody; and that the only way to sway the privates was, to govern the officers: and, whether true or not, it must be admitted that his theory worked well in practice. He affected to entertain a high respect for those whom he described as “the boys from the heads of the hollows”—men who were never seen beyond the precincts of their own little “clearings,” except upon the Fourth of July and election day, from one end of the year to the other. With these he drank bad whiskey, made stale jokes, and affected a flattering condescension. With others, more important or less easily imposed upon, he “whittled” sociably in the fence-corners, talked solemnly in conspicuous places, and always looked confidential and mysterious.
But, however earnestly engaged, he never forgot the warfare in which he was chief combatant. Like a general upon a field of battle, with his staff about him, he had sundry of his friends always near, to undertake any commission, or convey any order, which he desired to have executed; and not a voter could come upon the ground, whom there was the remotest chance to influence, that his vigilance did not at once discover and seize upon, through some one of these lieutenants. He resorted to every conceivable art, to induce the freemen to vote properly; and, when he could not succeed in this, his next study was to prevent their voting at all. The consequence usually was, that he secured his own election, or that of his chosen candidate; for, in him, vigilance and shrewdness were happily combined.
But, perhaps fortunately for the country, his ambition was generally limited to such small offices, as he was quite capable of filling. The highest point at which he aimed, was a seat in the state legislature; and on reaching that goal, he signalized his term, chiefly, if at all, in advocating laws about division fences, and trespassers upon timber—measures which he deemed desirable for his own immediate constituency, with very little care for the question of their general utility. Indeed, he never went to the capital, without having his pockets full of “private bills,” for the gratification of his personal friends, or near neighbors; and if, after a reasonable term of service, he had succeeded in getting all these passed into laws, he came home, contented to “subside,” and live the remainder of his days, upon the recollection of his legislative honors.
In the course of time, like all other earthly things, his class began to decay. The tide of immigration, or the increasing intelligence of the people, raised up men of larger views; and he speedily found himself outstripped in the race, and forgotten by his ancient retainers. Then—like his predecessor, the original frontierman—disgusted with civilization and its refinements—he migrated to more congenial regions, and, in the scenes of his former triumphs, was heard of no more.