As soon as the old gentleman was gone, Theodore Fog remarked that he had not had as dry a talk for some years, and proposed to the company a general visit to the bar.
"They talk of distress," said he. "Mr. Grant has gone off with his head full of that notion of distress; it's a famous Whig argument, that. But what distress is there? Drinking's as cheap; eating's as cheap as ever; so is lying. Eating, drinking, and lying, are the three principal occupations of man. Lying down, I mean, metaphorically for sleeping. Where's the distress, then? Mere panic—false alarm—a Whig invention! The country is better off than it ever was before. Not for men who trade upon credit, I allow—not for merchants and shippers in general—not for your fellows that go about for jobs—not for farmers—not for regular laborers—not for mechanics, with families on their hands, and perhaps not for single ones neither;—but first-rate for lawyers, bar-keepers, and brokers, for marshals and sheriffs—capital for constables—nonpareil for postmasters, contractors, express-riders, and office-holders; and glorious for fellows that are fond of talking and have nothing to do:—these are the very gristle of the New-Light Democracy, and make a genteel majority at the elections."
"Mr. Fog," said Jesse Ferret, "I am so well pleased at your reading for Mr. Grant this morning, that I'm determined to give you a treat;—help yourself and your friends. Gentlemen, walk up."
"Glad you liked it, old buck," replied Fog. "Bless your heart, I'm used to such things. A political man must always be ready for rubbers; never would get a gloss if it wasn't for brushing. That Binney's a smart fellow; but every word of that speech was whispered into his ear by Benton; I know the fact personally. He and Benton sit up every night of their lives together in Washington, playing old sledge and drinking cocktail: that accounts for Binney's Democracy. Gentlemen, our friend Ferret's treat—we'll drink his health—a worthy, persuadable, amenable man—so here's to him. Wait for the word—Jesse Ferret, a gentleman and a scholar, an antiquarian and a tavern-keeper—long life to him!"
[CHAPTER XVI.]
A RAPID REVIEW OF ONE YEAR—WHAT THE AUTHOR IS COMPELLED TO PRETERMIT—THE PRESIDENT'S "SOBER SECONDTHOUGHT" MESSAGE RECEIVED AT QUODLIBET WITH GREAT REJOICING—THE AUTHOR COMMUNES WITH HIS READER TOUCHING NEW-LIGHT PRINCIPLES—ILLUSTRATIONS OF THEM—REMARKABLE DEXTERITY OF THE SECRETARY—INTERESTING LETTER FROM THE HON. MIDDLETON FLAM—DAWNING OF THE PRESIDENTIAL CANVASS—THE NORTHERN MAN WITH SOUTHERN PRINCIPLES AND HIS MANNIKIN.
Time held his course. Another year went by, and brought us to the sixth since the Removal. The year which I pass over was marked by many public and domestic incidents worthy of note in the history of Quodlibet. Gladly would I have tarried to entertain my reader with some of these; but I am admonished of the necessity of bringing these desultory annals to a close. Especially might I find much to interest many of those who will peruse these pages, in the private and personal affairs of the Borough; some of the events of the bygone year being of a nature to kindle up pathetic emotions in their bosoms. The blank despair of Agamemnon Flag when he first heard of the flight of Nicodemus Handy; his melancholy visits of consolation to the bereaved family; the disinterested avowal of his long-smothered and smouldering love to the heiress apparent; and his offer of his hand and fortune—consisting of a new suit of clothes, and a horse and gig, purchased on credit—to this dejected lady; his still blanker despair, his disappointment and vows of revenge when, after listening to his suit, he found it announced that she had sailed without him, to make the grand tour of Europe; and finally, the stoical philosophy with which he renounced all claim to the reversionary interest in the one hundred and sixty thousand dollars taken from the bank, as well as the net proceeds of Handy Place, and the rows of buildings, finished and unfinished, in Quodlibet—these incidents would furnish an episode of tenderness and passion without a parallel since the Medea of Euripides.