University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The name of Beauchampe, of which our readers have
heard nothing until this period, though it confers its name
on our story, renders it necessary that we should devote a
few moments in particular to him by whom it is borne.
He was a young man, not more than twenty-one, tall and
of very handsome person. His eye was bright and his
whole face full of intelligence. His manners and features
equally denoted the modesty and the ingenuousness of
youth. There was a gentleness in his deportment, however,
which, though natural enough to his nature when in
repose, was not its characteristic at other periods. He was
of excitable constitution, passionate and full of enthusiasm;
and when aroused, not possessed of any powers of self-government
or restraint. At present, and sitting with the
rest about the table, his features were not only subdued and
quiet, but they wore an air of profound humility and self-dissatisfaction
which was sufficiently evident to all.

“Our new member,” said one of the party, “does not
seem to have altogether got over the pains of initiation.

Eh, Beauchampe! How is it? Does the head ache still.
Are the nerves still disordered?”

“No, colonel, but I feel inexpressibly mean and sheepish.
I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your
club.”

“Persuade! It was not possible to avoid it. Every new
graduate at the bar, to be recognised, must go through the
initiate. Your regrets and repentance are treasonable.”

“I feel them nevertheless. I must have been a savage
and a beast if what I am told be true. I never was drunk
before in my life, and club or no club, if I can help it,
never will be drunk again. Indeed, I cannot even now
understand it. I drank no great deal of wine.”

“No, indeed, precious little—no more than would dash
the brandy. You may thank Ben there for his adroitness
in mingling the liquors.”

“I do thank him!” said the youth with increased gravity,
and a glance which effectually contradicted his words,
addressed to the offender. That worthy did not seem
much annoyed however.

“It was the demdest funny initiation I did ever see!
Ha! ha! ha! I say, Pope, how is your reverence's
nose?”

“Let my nose alone, you grinning, big-whiskered, little
creature.”

“Noses are sacred,” said Sharpe.

“To be pulled only with a purpose, Warham.”

“Symbolically,” pursued the first.

“By way of showing how corks are to be drawn.”

“Oh! d—n you for a pair of blue devils;” exclaimed
Lowe, starting to his feet and shaking his fist at the
offenders.

“What are you off, Pope?” demanded Sharpe.

“Yes, I am. There's no satisfaction in staying with
you.”

“Call at Filbert's on your way, be sure.”

“For what, I want to know?”

“Why, for his professional opinion. The worst sign
you know is that numbness—”

“Coldness.”

“Insensibility to Scotch snuff.”

“And remember, though your nose was pulled officially,
may yet be personally injured. The official pulling

simply acquits the offender; the liability of the nose is
not lessened by the legalization of the act of pulling.”

“The devil take you for a pair of puppies,” cried the
victim with a queer expression of joint fun and vexation
on his face. “Of course, Mr. Beauchampe,” he said,
“turning to the young man; of course I don't believe
what these dogs say about my nose having suffered any
vital injury; but I must tell you, sir, that you hurt me very
much last night; and I feel the pain this morning.”

“I am truly sorry, Mr. Lowe, for what I have done.
Truly, sincerely sorry. I assure you, sir, that your pain
of body is nothing to that which I suffer in mind from
having exposed myself as I fear I did.”

“You did expose yourself and me too, sir. I trust you
will never do so again. I advise you, sir, never do so
again,—not unless you have a serious and sufficient
motive. Don't let these fellows gull you with the idea that
it was any justification for such an act that corks might be
drawn from bottles in such a manner. Corks are not
noses. Nobody can reasonably confound them. The
shape, colour, every thing is different. There is nothing
in the feel of the two to make one fancy a likeness. You
are young, sir, and liable to be abused. Take the advice
of an older man. Look into this matter for yourself, and
you will agree with me not only that there is no likeness
between a nose and a cork, but that, even admitting that your
plan of drawing a cork from a bottle by the thumb and
forefinger is a good one, it would be impossible to teach
the process by exercising them upon a nose in the same
manner. These young men are making fun of you, Mr.
Beauchampe;—they are, believe me!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the offenders. “Very good,
your reverence.”

“He! he! he! you puppies. Do you think I mind
your cackling!” and shaking his fist at the company, Mr.
Lowe took his departure, involuntarily stroking with increased
affection the nasal eminence which had furnished
occasion for so much misplaced merriment.

“Well, Beauchampe,” said one of the companions,
“you still seem grave about this business, but you should
not. If even a man may forget himself and be mad for a
night, after the fashion of old Anacreon, it is surely the

night of that day when he is admitted to the temple—
when he takes his degree, and passes into the brotherhood
of the bar.”

“Nay, on such a day least of all.”

“Pshaw, you were never born for a Puritan. Old
Thurston, your parson teacher, has perverted you from
your better nature. You are a fellow for fun and flash,
high frolic, and the complete abandonment of blood. You
look at this matter too seriously. Do I not tell you—I
that have led you through all the thorny paths of legal
knowledge—do I not tell you that your offence is venial.
`A good sherris-sack hath a twofold operation in it.' ”

“Beauchampe found it fourfold,” said the bush-whiskered
gentleman—“that is, fourth proof; and he showed
proofs enough of it. By Gad! never did a man play such
pleasant deviltries with his neighbour's members. The
nose-pulling was only a small part of his operations. It
was certainly a most lovely initiation.”

“At least it's all over, Mr. Coalter; and as matters have
turned out, nothing more need be said on the subject; but
were it otherwise, I assure you that your practice upon my
wine would be a dangerous experiment for you. I speak
to you by way of warning, and not with the view to
quarrel. I presume you meant nothing more than a
jest?”

“Dem the bit more,” said the other, half dissatisfied
with himself at the concession, yet more than half convinced
of the propriety of making it. “Dem the bit more.
Sharpe will tell you that it's a trick of the game—a customary
trick—must be done by somebody, and was done by
me, only because I like to see a demmed fine initiation
such as yours was, my boy. But, good morning, Beauchampe—good
morning, Sharpe—I see you have business
to do—some d—d political business, I suppose; and so
I leave you. I'm no politician, but I see that Judge Tompkins
is in the field against your friend Desha. Eh! don't
you think I can guess the rest, Warham—eh?”

“Sagacious fellow!” said Sharpe as the other disappeared;
“and, in this particular, not far from the mark.
Tompkins is in the field against Desha, and will run him a
tight race. I too must go into the field, Beauchampe. The
party requires it, and though I have some reasons not to
wish it just at this time, yet the matter is scarcely avoidable.

I shall want every assistance, and I shall expect
you to take the stump for me.”

“Whatever I can do I will.”

“You can do much. You do not know your own abilities
on the stump. You will do famous things yet; and
this is the time to try yourself. The success of a man in
our country depends on the first figure. You are just
admitted; something is expected of you. There can be
no better opportunity to begin.”

“I am ready and willing.”

“Scarcely, mon ami. You are going to Simpson. You
will get with sisters and mamma, and waste the daylight.
Believe me this is no time to play at mammets. We want
every man. We will need them all.”

“You shall find me ready. I shall not stay long at
Simpson. But do not think that I will commit myself for
Desha. I prefer Tompkins.”

“Well, but you will do nothing on that subject. You
do not mean to come out for Tompkins?”

“No! I only tell you I will do nothing on the subject
of the gubernatorial canvass. You are for the assembly. I
will turn out in your behalf. But who is your opponent?”

“One Calvert—William Calvert. Said to be a smart
fellow. I never saw him but he is spoken of as no mean
person. He writes well. His letter to the people of—
lies on the desk there. Put it in your pocket and read it
at your leisure. It is well done—quite artful—but rather
prosing and puritanical.”

Beauchampe took up the pamphlet, passed his eyes over
the page, and placed it without remark in his pocket.

“Barnabas,” continued Sharpe, “who has seen this
fellow Calvert, says he's not to be despised. He's a mere
country lawyer, however, who is not known out of his
own precinct. In taking the field now, he makes a miscalculation.
I shall beat him very decidedly. But he has
friends at work, who are able, and mine must not sleep.
Do I understand you as promising to take the field against
him?”

“If he is so clever, he will need a stronger opponent.
Why not do it yourself?”

“Surely, I will. I long for nothing better. But I cannot
be every where, and he and his friends are every where
busy. I will seek him in his stronghold, and grapple

with him tooth and nail; but there will be auxiliary combatants,
and you must be ready to take up the cudgel at
the same time with some other antagonist. When do you
leave town?”

“To-day—within the hour.”

“So soon! Why I looked to have you to dinner. Mrs.
Sharpe expects you.”

“I am sorry to deprive myself of the pleasure of doing
justice to her good things; but I wrote my sisters and they
will expect me.”

“Pshaw! what of that! The disappointment of a day
only. You will be the more welcome from the delay.”

“They will apprehend some misfortune—perhaps, my
rejection,—and I would spare them the mortification if not
the fear. You must make my compliments and excuse to
Mrs. S.”

“You will be a boy, Beauchampe. Let the girls wait a
day, and dine with me. You will meet some good fellows,
and get a glimpse into the field of war,—see how we open
the campaign, and so forth.”

“Temptations, surely, not to be despised; but I confess
to my boyhood in one respect, and will prove my manhood
in another. I am able to resist your temptations—so much
for my manhood. My boyhood makes me keep word
with my sisters, and the shame be on my head.”

“Shame, indeed; but where shall we meet?”

“At Bowling Green—when you please.”

“Enough then on that head. I will write you when
you are wanted. I confess to a strong desire, apart from
my own interests, to see you on the stump; and if I can
arrange it so, I will have you break ground against Calvert.”

“But that is not so easy. What is there against him?”

“You will find out from his pamphlet. Nothing more
easy. He is obscure, that is certain. Little known among
the people. Why? For a good reason—he is a haughty
aristocrat—a man who only knows them when he wants
their votes!”

“Is that the case?”

“Simple fellow! we must make it appear so. It may
be or not,—what matter? That he is shy, and reserved,
and unknown, is certain. It's just as likely he is so, because
of his pride, as any thing else. Perhaps he's a fellow

of delicate feelings! This is better for us, if you can
make it appear so. People don't like fellows of very delicate
feelings. That alone would be conclusive against him.
If we could persuade him to wear silk gloves, now, it
would be only necessary to point them out on the canvass,
to turn the stomachs of the electors, and their votes with
their stomachs. They would throw him up instantly.”

Beauchampe shook his head. The other interpreted
the motion incorrectly.

“What! you do not believe it. Never doubt. The
fact is certain. Such would be the case. Did you ever
hear the story of Barnabas in his first campaign?”

“No!—not that I recollect.”

“He was stumping it through your own county of Simpson.
There were two candidates against him. One of
them stood no chance. That was certain. The other,
however, was generally considered to be quite as strong if
not stronger than Barnabas. Now Barnabas, in those days,
was something of a dandy. He wore fine clothes, a long
tail blue, a steeple crowned beaver, and silk gloves. Old
Ben Jones, his uncle, saw him going out on the canvass in
this unseasonable trim—told him he was a d—d fool,—
that the very coat and gloves and hat would lose him the
election. `Come in with me,' said the old buck. He did
so, and Jones rigged him out in a suit of buckskin breeches:
gave him an old slouch tied with a piece of twine; made
him put on a common homespun roundabout, and sent
him on the campaign with these accoutrements.”

“A mortifying exchange to Barnabas.”

“Not a bit. The fellow was so eager for election that
he'd have gone without clothes at all, sooner than have
missed a vote. But one thing the old man did not remember—the
silk gloves, and Barnabas had nearly reached the
muster ground, before he recollected that he had them on
his hands. He took 'em off instantly and thrust 'em into
his pocket. When he reached the ground, he soon discovered
the wisdom of old Jones' proceedings. He was
introduced to his chief opponent, and never was there a
more rough-and-tumble looking ruffian under the sun.
Barnabas swears that he had not washed his face and
hands for a week. His coat was out at the elbows, and
though made of cloth originally both blue and good, it was
evidently not made for the present wearer. His breeches

were common homespun, and his shoes of yellow belly,
were gaping on both feet. He had on stockings, however.
Barnabas looked and felt quite genteel alongside of him;
but he felt his danger also. He saw that the appearance
of the fellow was very much in his favour. There was
already a crowd around him; and when he talked, his
words were of that rough staple which is supposed to indicate
the true staple of popular independence. As there was
nothing much in favour or against any of the candidates,
unless it was that one of them—not Barnabas—was suspected
of horse stealing, all that the speakers could do was
to prove their own republicanism, and the aristocracy of
the opponent. Appearances would help or dissipate this
charge, and Barnabas saw, shabby as he was, that his rival
was still shabbier. A bright thought took him that night.
Fumbling in his pockets while they were drinking at the
hotel, he felt his silk gloves. What does he do but going
to his room he takes out his pocket inkstand and pen, and
marks in large letters the initials of his opponent upon
them. This done, he watches his chance, and the next
morning when they were about to go forth to the place of
gathering, he slips the gloves very slyly into the other fellow's
pocket. The thing worked admirably. In the midst
of the speech, Joel Peguay—for that was his rival's name
—endeavouring to pull out a ragged cotton pocket-handkerchief,
drew out the gloves which fell behind him on the
ground. Barnabas was on the watch, and pointing the
eyes of the assembly to the tokens of aristocracy, exclaimed—

“ `This, gentlemen, is a proof of the sort of democracy
which Joel Peguay practises.'

“A universal shout mixed with hisses arose. Peguay
looked round, and when he was told what was the matter,
answered with sufficient promptness, and a look of extraordinary
exultation.

“ `Fellow citizens ain't this only another proof of the
truth of what I'm a telling you, for look you, them nasty
fine things come out of this coat pocket, did they?'

“ `Yes, yes! we saw them drop, Joel,' was the cry
from fifty voices.

“ `Very good,' said Joel, nowise discomfited, `and the
coat was borrowed for this same occasion, from Tom Meadows.
I hain't a decent coat of my own, my friends, to

come before you—none but a round jacket, and that's tore
down in the back, and so, you see, I begged Tom Meadows
for the loan of his'n, and reckon the gloves must be
his'n too, since they fell out of the pocket.'

“This explanation called for a triumphant shout from
the friends of Peguay, and the affair promised to redound
still more in favour of the speaker, when Barnabas, shaking
his head gravely, and picking up the gloves, which he held
from him as if they had been saturated in the dews of the
bohon upas, drew the eyes of those immediately at hand
to the letters which they bore.

“ `I am sorry,' said he, `to interrupt the gentleman; but
there is certainly some mistake here. These gloves are
marked J. P., which stands for Joel Peguay and not Tom
Meadows. See for yourselves, gentlemen—you all can
read, I know—here is J. P. I'm not much of a reader,
being too poor to have much of an education, but I know
pretty much what you all do, that if these gloves belonged
to Tom Meadows, they would have been marked T. M.—
the T for Tom, and the M for Meadows. I don't mean
to say that they are not Tom's; but I do say that it's very
strange that Tom Meadows should write his name Joel
Peguay. I say it's strange, gentlemen—very strange—
that's all!'

“And that was enough. There was no more shouting
from the friends of Peguay. He was completely confounded.
He denied and disputed of course, but the proofs
were too strong, and Barnabas had done his part of the
business with great skill and adroitness. Joel Peguay
descended from the stump swearing vengeance against
Meadows, who, he took for granted, had contrived the
exhibition secretly, only to defeat him. No doubt a fierce
feud followed between the parties, but Barnabas was
elected by a triumphant vote.”

“And do you really think, Colonel,” said Beauchampe,
“that this silly proceeding had any effect in producing the
result?”

“Silly, indeed! by my soul such silly things, Master
Beauchampe, have upset empires. The tumbling of an
old maid's cap has done more mischief. I can tell you,
from my own experience, that a small matter like this has
turned the scale in many a popular election. Barnabas

believes to this day, that he owes his success entirely to
that little ruse de guerre.”

“I know not how to believe it.”

“Because you know not yet that little, strange, mousing,
tiger-like, capricious, obstinate, foolish animal, whom we
call man. When you know him more, you will wonder
less.”

“Perhaps so,” said Beauchampe. “At all events, I can
only say, that while I will turn out for you and do all I can
to secure your election as in duty bound, I will endeavour
to urge your claims on other grounds.”

“As you please, my good fellow. Convince them that
I am a patriot and a prophet, and the best man for them,
and I care nothing by what process it is done. And if you
can lay bare the corresponding deficiencies of mine opponent—this
fellow Calvert—it is a part of the same policy,
to be sure.”

“But not so obviously,” replied the other, “for as yet,
you remember, we know nothing of him, and cannot accordingly
pronounce upon his deficiencies.”

“You forget—his aristocracy!”

“Ah! that was conjectural, you know.”

“Granted,” said the other, “but what more do you
want. A plausible conjecture is the very sort of argument
in a popular election.”

“But scarcely an honorable one!”

“Honourable! poh! poh! poh! Old Thurston has seriously
diseased you, Beauchampe. We must undertake
your treatment for this weakness—this boyish weakness.
It is a boyish weakness, Beauchampe.”

“Perhaps so, but it makes my strength.”

“It will always keep you feeble—certainly keep you
down in the political world.”

The young man smiled. The other, speaking hastily,
continued—

“But this need not be discussed at present. Enough
that you will take the field, and be ready at my summons.
Turn the state of parties in your mind, and that will give
you matter enough for the stump. Read that letter of
Calvert, I doubt not it will give you more than sufficient
material. From a hasty glance I see that he distrusts the
people; that, as a stern democrat, you can resent happily.
I leave that point to you. You will regard that opinion

as a falsehood—I think it worse,—a mistake. It is to this
same people that he addresses his claims. How far his
opinion is an impertinence, may be seen in his appeal to
the very judgment which he decries. This, to my mind,
is conclusive against his own. But this must not make
us remiss. I will write to you when the time comes, and
at intervals, should there be any thing new to communicate.
But you had better stay dinner. Seriously, my
wife expects you.”

“Excuse me to her,—but I must go. I so long to see
my sisters, and they will be on the lookout for me. I
have already written them.”

With a few words more, and the young lawyer separated
from his late legal preceptor. When he was gone,
the latter stroked his chin complacently as he soliloquized—

“He will do to break ground with this fellow, Calvert.
He is ardent, soon roused; and if I am to judge of Calvert
from his letter, he is a stubborn colt whose heels are very
apt to annoy any injudicious assailant. Ten to one, that
with his fiery nature, Beauchampe finds cause of quarrel
in any homely truth. They may fight, and this hurts me
nothing. At least Beauchampe may be a very good foil
for the first strokes of this new enemy. Barnabas says
he is to be feared. If so he must be grappled with fearlessly.
There is no hope else. At all events I will see
by his issue with Beauchampe of what stuff he is made.
Something in that. And yet, is all so sure with this boy?
He has his whims, is sometimes suspicious—obstinate as
a mule when roused, and—at least he must be managed
cautiously—very cautiously!”

We leave the office of Colonel Warham P. Sharpe for
a while, to attend the progress of the young man of whom
he was speaking.