“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.