THE STANDING CANDIDATE. HIS EXCUSE FOR BEING A BACHELOR.
At Buffalo Head, Nianga county, state of Missouri, during the canvass of 1844, there was held an extensive political Barbecue, and the several candidates for congress, legislature, county offices, &c., were all congregated at this southern point for the purpose of making an immense demonstration. Hards, softs, whigs and Tylerites were represented, and to hear their several expositions of state and general policy, a vast gathering of the Missouri sovereigns had also assembled. While the impatient candidates were awaiting the signal to mount the “stump,” an odd-looking old man made his appearance at the brow of a small hill bounding the place of meeting.
“Hurrah for old Sugar!” shouted an hundred voices, while on, steadily, progressed the object of the cheer.
[Original]
Sugar, as he was familiarly styled, was an old man, apparently about fifty years of age, and was clad in a coarse suit of brown linsey-woolsey. His pants were patched at each knee, and around the ankles they had worn off into picturesque points—his coat was not of the modern close-fitting cut, but hung in loose and easy folds upon his broad shoulders, while the total absence of buttons upon this garment, exhibited the owner's contempt for the storm and the tempest. A coarse shirt, tied at the neck with a piece of twine, completed his body covering. His head was ornamented with an old woollen cap, of divers colors, below which beamed a broad, humorous countenance, flanked by a pair of short, funny little grey whiskers. A few wrinkles marked his brow, but time could not count them as sure chronicles of his progress, for Sugar's hearty, sonorous laugh oft drove them from their hiding place. Across his shoulder was thrown a sack, in each end of which he was bearing to the scene of political action, a keg of bran new whiskey, of his own manufacture, and he strode forward on his moccason covered feet, encumbered as he was, with all the agility of youth. Sugar had long been the standing candidate of Nianga county, for the legislature, and founded his claim to the office upon the fact of his being the first “squatter” in that county—his having killed the first bar there, ever killed by a white man, and, to place his right beyond cavil, he had 'stilled the first keg of whiskey! These were strong claims, which urged in his comic rhyming manner would have swept the “diggins,” but Sugar, when the canvass opened, always yielded his claim to some liberal purchaser of his fluid, and duly announced himself a candidate for the next term.
“Here you air, old fellar!” shouted an acquaintance, “allays on hand 'bout 'lection.”
“Well, Nat.,” said Sugar, “you've jest told the truth as easy as ef you'd taken sum of my mixtur—
'Whar politicians congregate,
I'm allays thar, at any rate!'”
“Set him up!—set the old fellar up somewhar, and let us take a univarsal liquor!” was the general shout.
“Hold on, boys,—keep cool and shady,” said old Sugar, “whar's the candidates?—none of your splurgin round till I git an appropriation fur the sperits. Send em along and we'll negotiate fur the fluid, arter which I shall gin 'em my instructions, and they may then per-cede to
'Talk away like all cre-a-tion,
What they knows about the nation.'”
The candidates were accordingly summoned up to pay for Sugar's portable grocery, and to please the crowd and gain the good opinion of the owner, they made up a purse and gathered round him. Sugar had placed his two kegs upon a broad stump and seated himself astride of them, with a small tin cup in his hand and a paper containing brown sugar lying before him—each of his kegs was furnished with a spiggot, and as soon as the money for the whole contents was paid in, Sugar commenced addressing the crowd as follows:
“Boys, fellars, and candidates,” said he, “I, Sugar, am the furst white man ever seed in these yeur diggins—I killed the furst bar ever a white skinned in this county, and I kalkilate I hev hurt the feelings of his relations sum sence, as the bar-skin linin' of my cabin will testify;—'sides that, I'm the furst manufacturer of whiskey in the range of this district, and powerful mixtur' it is, too, as the hull bilin' of fellars in this crowd will declar';—more'n that, I'm a candidate for the legislator', and intend to gin up my claim, this term, to the fellar who kin talk the pootyest;—now, finally at the eend, boys, this mixtur' of mine will make a fellar talk as iley as goose-grease,—as sharp as lightnin', and as per-suadin' as a young gal at a quiltin', so don't spar it while it lasts, and the candidates kin drink furst, 'cause they've got to do the talkin'!”
[Original]
Having finished his charge he filled the tin cup full of whiskey, put in a handful of brown sugar, and with his forefinger stirred up the sweetening, then surveying the canditates he pulled off his cap, remarking, as he did so:
“Old age, allays, afore beauty!—your daddy furst, in course,” then holding up the cup he offered a toast, as follows:
“Here is to the string that binds the states; may it never be bit apart by political rats!” Then holding up the cup to his head he took a hearty swig, and passed it to the next oldest looking candidate. While they were tasting it, Sugar kept up a fire of lingo at them:
“Pass it along lively, gentlemen, but don't spar the fluid. You can't help tellin' truth arter you've swaller'd enough of my mixtur', jest fur this reason, its ben 'stilled in honesty, rectified in truth, and poured out with wisdom! Take a leetle drop more,” said he to a fastidious candidate, whose stomach turned at thought of the way the “mixtur”' was mixed. “Why, Mister,” said Sugar, coaxingly.
'Ef you wur a babby, jest new born,
'Twould do you good, this juicy corn!' ”
“No more, I thank you,” said the candidate, drawing back from the proffer.
Sugar winked his eye at some of his cronies, and muttered—“He's got an a-ristocracy stomach, and can't go the native licker.” Then dismissing the candidates he shouted,—“crowd up, constitooents, into a circle, and let's begin fair—your daddy furst, allays; and mind, no changin' places in the circle to git the sugar in the bottom of the cup. I know you're arter it Tom Williams, but none on your yankeein' round to git the sweetnin'—it's all syrup, fellars, cause Sugar made and mixed it. The gals at the frolicks allays git me to pre-par' the cordials, 'cause they say I make it mity drinkable. Who next? What you, old Ben Dent!—Well, hold your hoss for a minit, and I'll strengthen the tin with a speck more, jest because you can kalkilate the valee of the licker, and do it jestiss!”
Thus chatted Sugar as he measured out and sweetened up the contents of his kegs, until all who would drink had taken their share, and then the crowd assembled around the speakers. We need not say that the virtues of each political party were duly set forth to the hearers—that follows as a matter of course, candidates dwell upon the strong points of their argument, always. One among them, however, more than his compeers, attracted the attention of our friend Sugar, not because he had highly commended the contents of his kegs, but because he painted with truth and feeling the claims of the western pioneers! Among these he ranked the veteran Col. Johnson and his compatriots, and as he rehearsed their struggles in defence of their firesides, how they had been trained to war by conflict with the ruthless savage, their homes oft desolated, and their children murdered,—yet still, ever foremost in the fight, and last to retreat, winning the heritage of these broad valleys for their children, against the opposing arm of the red man, though aided by the civilized power of mighty Britain, and her serried cohorts of trained soldiery! We say as he dwelt upon these themes Sugar's eye would fire up, and then, at some touching passage of distress dwelt upon by the speaker, tears would course down his rude cheek. When the speaker concluded he wiped his eyes with his hard hand, and said to those around him:—
“That arr true as the yearth!—thar's suthin' like talk in that fellar!—he's the right breed, and his old daddy has told him about them times. So did mine relate 'em to me, how the ony sister I ever had, when a babby had her brains dashed out by one of the red skinned devils! But didn't we pepper them fur it? Didn't I help the old man, afore he grew too weak to hold his shootin' iron, to send a few on 'em off to rub out the account? Well, I did!—Hey!” and shutting his teeth together he yelled through them the exultation of full vengeance.
The speaking being done, candidates and hearers gathered around old Sugar, to hear his comments upon the speeches, and to many inquiries of how he liked them, the old man answered:—
“They were all pooty good, but that tall fellar they call Tom, from St. Louis; you, I mean, stranger,” pointing at the same time to the candidate, “you jest scart up my feelin's to the right pint—you jest made me feel wolfish as when I and old dad war arter the red varmints; and now what'll you take? I'm goin' to publicly decline in your favor.”
Pouring out a tin full of the liquor, and stirring it as before, he stood upright upon the stump, with a foot on each side of his kegs, and drawing off his cap, toasted:—“The memory of the western pioneers!”
A shout responded to his toast, which echoed far away in the depths of the adjoining forest, and seemed to awaken a response from the spirits of those departed heroes.
“That's the way to sing it out, boys,” responded old Sugar, “sich a yell as that would scar an inimy into ager fits, and make the United States Eagle scream 'Hail Columby.'”
“While you're up, Sugar,” said one of the crowd, “give us a stump speech, yourself.”
“Bravo!” shouted an hundred voices, “a speech from Sugar.”
“Agreed, boys,” said the old man, “I'll jest gin you a few words to wind up with, so keep quiet while your daddy's talkin',
'Sum tell it out jest like a song,
I'll gin it to you sweet and strong.'”
“The ony objection ever made to me in this arr county, as a legislatur', was made by the wimin, 'cause I war a bachelor, and I never told you afore why I re-mained in the state of number one—no fellar stays single pre-meditated; and, in course, a hansum fellar like me, who all the gals declar' to be as enticin' as a jay bird, warn't goin' to stay alone, ef he could help it. I did see a creatur' once, named Sofy Mason, up the Cumberland, nigh onto Nashville, Tennesee, that I tuk an orful hankerin' arter, and I sot in to lookin' anxious fur martrimony, and gin to go reglar to meetin', and tuk to dressin' tremengeous finified, jest to see ef I could win her good opinion. She did git to lookin' at me, and one day, cumin' from meetin', she was takin' a look at me a kind of shy, jest as a hoss does at suthin' he's scart at, when arter champin' at a distance fur awhile, I sidled up to her and blarted out a few words about the sarmin'—she said yes, but cuss me ef I know whether that wur the right answer or not, and I'm a thinkin' she didn't know then, nuther! Well, we larfed and talked a leetle all the way along to her daddy's, and thar I gin her the best bend I had in me, and raised my bran new hat as peert and perlite as a minister, lookin' all the time so enticin' that I sot the gal tremblin'. Her old daddy had a powerful numerous lot of healthy niggers, and lived right adjinin' my place, while on tother side lived Jake Simons—a sneakin', cute varmint, who war wusser than a miser fur stinginess, and no sooner did this cussed sarpint see me sidlin' up to Sofy, than he went to slickin' up, too, and sot himself to work to cut me out. That arr wur a struggle ekill to the battle of Orleans. Furst sum new fixup of Jake's would take her eye, and then I'd sport suthin' that would outshine him, until Jake at last gin in tryin' to outdress me, and sot to thinkin' of suthin' else. Our farms wur jest the same number of acres, and we both owned three niggers apiece. Jake knew that Sofy and her dad kept a sharp eye out fur the main chance, so he thort he'd clar me out by buyin' another nigger; but I jest follor'd suit, and bought one the day arter he got his, so he had no advantage thar; he then got a cow, and so did I, and jest about then both on our pusses gin out. This put Jake to his wits' eend, and I war a wunderin' what in the yearth he would try next. We stood so, hip and thigh, fur about two weeks, both on us talkin' sweet to Sofy, whenever we could git her alone. I thort I seed that Jake, the sneakin' cuss, wur gittin' a mite ahead of me, 'cause his tongue wur so iley; howsever, I didn't let on, but kep a top eye on him. One Sunday mornin' I wur a leetle mite late to meetin', and when I got thar the furst thing I seed war Jake Simons, sittin' close bang up agin Sofy, in the same pew with her daddy! I biled a spell with wrath, and then tarned sour; I could taste myself! Thar they wur, singin' himes out of the same book. Je-e-eminy, fellars, I war so enormous mad that the new silk handkercher round my neck lost its color! Arter meetin' out they walked, linked arms, a smilin' and lookin' as pleased as a young couple at thar furst christenin', and Sofy tarned her 'cold shoulder' at me so orful pinted, that I-wilted down, and gin up right straight—Jake had her, thar wur no disputin' it! I headed toward home, with my hands as fur in my trowsers pockets as I could push 'em, swarin' all the way that she wur the last one would ever git a chance to rile up my feelin's. Passin' by Jake's plantation I looked over the fence, and thar stood an explanation of the marter, right facin' the road, whar every one passin' could see it—his consarned cow was tied to a stake in the gar din', with a most promising calf alongside of her! That calf jest soured my milk, and made Sofy think, that a fellar who war allays gittin' ahead like Jake, wur a right smart chance for a lively husband!”
A shout of laughter here drowned Sugar's voice, and as soon as silence was restored he added, in a solemn tone, with one eye shut, and his forefinger pointing at his auditory:—
“What is a cussed sight wusser than his gittin' Sofy war the fact, that he borrowed that calf the night before from Dick Harkley! Arter the varmint got Sofy hitched, he told the joke all over the settlement, and the boys never seed me arterwards that they didn't b-a-h at me fur lettin' a calf cut me out of a gal's affections. I'd a shot Jake, but I thort it war a free coantry, and the gal had a right to her choice without bein' made a widder, so I jest sold out and travelled! I've allays thort sence then, boys, that wimin wur a good deal like licker, ef you love 'em too hard thar sure to throw you some way:
'Then here's to wimin, then to licker,
Thar's nuthin' swimmin' can be slicker!”