The village upon which John was gazing was at that particular period the scene of unusual commotion, anxious expectation, and great excitement—every inhabitant appeared on tiptoe about something. The porch of the hotel was occupied by a group of leading citizens of the town, among whom was the postmaster, the squire, the parson, a distinguished physician, a member of the bar, and sundry smaller dignitaries attached to the official stations of the county-seat. The blacksmith would every now and then quit his forge, step oat of his shop, and wiping the sweat from his brow take a long and searching look up the road, and then returning, pound away at the heated iron with powerful energy. The popular shoemaker was leaning out of his window looking earnestly in the same direction as his neighbor—the girls were peeping through their windows in a state of expectancy, and the young bucks of the town, dressed in their best, were flitting about in sight of the fair inhabitants, or clustering in groups directly opposite the abode of certain village beauties, while the more juvenile portion of the community were throwing up dust in the street, and huzzaing in a most animated and enthusiastic manner—in short, the town wras upon the eve of a great occasion. The member of congress, from that district, was expected to partake of a public dinner, on that day, at the principal hotel of the town of M., in the state of Indiana, and his constituents had prepared to give him a hearty reception on his return home, for the able manner in which he had defended their interests. He wras expected every moment, and of course, the place was big with anticipation.
John wended his way unnoticed down the street, but observing everything—his keen eye discovered not only matter of interest in the commotion, but high promise—there was evidently something “out,” for the throbbing town, the fluttering banner, and the anxious groups betrayed it. Entering the hotel where the principal citizens were assembled, John mingled with the throng in the bar room, and listened to learn the cause of the gathering; how did his heart swell within him (for it had plenty of room) when he heard that a public dinner was on the tapis, a real bona fide dinner, of fish, flesh, and fowl, with an abundance of good liquor. John determined to search out the location of that town upon the map, and mark it down in his remembrance as possessing a highly civilized community. The landlord's son, an urchin of about six years of age, was every now and then running into the hall, and then out into the street, huzzaing at every termination of his race, running against every body, and putting on all sorts of wild antics—he appeared to have “cut” his comrades in the street, and was going the enthusiastic on his own hook, as if fully impressed with the honors descending upon his father's house—him our hero fixed upon to learn particulars, and seizing him as he entered the hall, enquired who was coming to eat the dinner that day.
“Hey, why, don't you know?—I guess you're a fellar of the other party;—it's the Governor that's a comin',” and off dashed the young publican.
An alarm now drew the crowd in the bar room out to the porch, barkeeper and all, and a citizen having left his glass untasted upon the counter, while he went to see the matter of interest outside, John just took the liberty of tasting the contents, by way of a priming to nerve him for future contingencies, and, after, quietly strolled to the rear of the house, where discovering a darkey blacking boots, he stuck up his dust-covered extremities, and authoritatively ordered him to brush them up; the darkey obeyed, and a wash after, at the pump, brought out John's genius bright as a “new dollar”—to use his own expression, he was “a full case and printed copy!” While he was arranging his cravat in the sitting room, a shout rent the air which made the glass before him rattle. Again! again! huzza! and dashing down to the hotel came a barouche containing the guest, with the judge of the district, a member of legislature, and the county clerk. Huzza! shouted the village—huzza! shouted our hero,—bang! went a small swivel at the upper end of the town—white waved the ladies' handkerchiefs, and high swelled the heart of a nation's statesman. At that exciting moment the Indiana representative loomed upon the public eye almost majestic—Clay was no-where, Polk wasn't thought of, Webster was but a patching, and Van Buren was small potatoes—the only comparisons to the returned representative, were Washington and old Hickory.
The signal was now given, and in poured the subscribers to the dinner, with their guest, and in poured John “on his own hook.” The dining room shook with applause as the member took his seat. The judge presided upon the occasion, and after a blessing by the parson, they set to at the viands. We need not enter into particulars as to how the eatables looked or how they were eaten, suffice it they were choice and plentiful, and that the company showed an appreciation of their worth by clearing the table! The host—on this occasion the happy host—stood behind the member's chair with a napkin, as if waiting for the great man to get through, so he might wipe his mouth and hands for him. The enthusiasm, and the liquor, had set the host's face in a glow; he looked as if he felt the greatness of the occasion, and he said he didn't care, if they devoured every thing in his house—he was repaid by the honor, indeed, he didn't know that he had anything more to live for after that day, it was the crowning period of his career. John, happy John! was actually devastating everything within his reach—he hadn't had such a chance for days, aye, weeks, and like Dugald Dalgetty, he not only made the most of the present, but carefully laid up a small provision for the future. He laughed at all jests within hearing, and scattered his own with unusual brilliancy.
The period had now arrived for the toasts and speeches, the feast of reason and the flow of liquor. After the regulars were drank, the county clerk gained the floor and offering a few striking and pertinent remarks, wherein he dwelt upon how the nation, and Indiana in particular, had been rescued by their representative, he proposed the following:
“Our representative, Charles Stumper, Esq., a pure patriot of Indiana, may a nation's gratitude yet make him a nation's head.”
Amid the loud plaudits which followed, Charles Stumper, Esq., bowed his head as if that head was already a national crowning piece, and swallowing a spoonfull of cold water, he arose from his seat with a dignity befitting his august station. We have not room here to give his speech in detail—it was, of course, great—it couldn't be anything else! When he finished by saying that, “hereafter, body, bones, blood and all were devoted to their service,” a shout went up that shook the town of M. like a small earthquake. Before he took his seat he offered the following compliment: “The town of M., while its citizens have an existence, the country is safe!”
By a loud shout the citizens of M. proclaimed that they would save the country. During these enthusiastic proceedings our hero, by his urbanity, wit, sentiment, and good humor, had won a host of friends around him, and considerable curiosity was manifested to know who he was, but no one seemed able to give a satisfactory reply. Some said, he came with the congressman, and was his particular friend; others went so far as to intimate that he was another congressman in disguise—indeed, it was whispered that he was a senator incog!
“Hold on, fellars,” said one of the citizens, “jest hold your hosses, boys—he'll come out directly; ther's suthin' more in that fellar than's on the outside!”