“But don’t you think democracy has a natural tendency towards vulgarity and bad manners?”
“Certainly not, ma’am! certainly not! I am a great advocate of politeness,—good manners, I say,—give me good manners by all means!”
“But how do you reconcile good manners with the everlasting hurrahing for General Jackson and Martin Van Buren?”
“That has nothing to do with good manners; that’s what we call enthusiasm.”
“We, sir, call it madness—downright madness! Jackson has ruined the country.”
“I see some folks are doing pretty well, for all that.”
“The country went on prosperously until Jackson took it into his head to quarrel with the Bank. He has set the poor against the rich.”
“Why, ma’am, when I went last up the river to Albany, and then down again to Philadelphia, I found there was quite as much travelling going on this season as in former years,—just as much wine drunk, just as much eaten; and, compared to last year, rather a little more brandy used than might be thought consistent with the reports of our temperance societies. And, as for setting the poor against the rich, that is a mere matter of opinion. The question of the Bank is a party question. We have attacked it on constitutional grounds, and the opposition have defended it from mercantile policy. We think the constitution of greater importance than anything which is done under it.”
“I see, sir, you are wholly taken up with those doctrines which will eventually prove the destruction of the country. For my own part, I want no better proof of the justice or injustice of either principle than the comparative respectability of the men who advocate it.”
Here the lady drew herself back, and cast a side glance at the tribune, who, keeping his eyes fixed upon the points of his boots, appeared for the first time disconcerted by the argument of his fair antagonist. He attempted a reply, stammered a few words which were inaudible, and then looked again at his boots. The lady, perceiving his embarrassment, and the effect of applying the argument ad hominem, came to his aid by assuring him that she had, in her time, known a great many “smart democrats” who had all gradually become “respectable Whigs.” “Democracy,” said she, “is a very good beginning,—a sort of political breakfast, prepared in haste, which sits very well on an empty stomach; but it is not the thing a man can dine on, it is altogether too common for that.