 | Traits of American life |  |
POLITICAL PARTIES.
Miss Thankful Pope lived and died an old
maid, in consequence of a difference in political sentiment
between herself and lover; and she always
declared (after she and her lover separated) that
party spirit was the bane of all social intercourse,
and would, sooner or later, prove the destruction
of our liberties. Why she should make the last
remark, I never exactly understood, as she certainly
retained her liberty, in consequence of party
disputes. Her own account of the matter, however,
is the best explanation of her creed, and so I
shall give her history, just as she related it to her
two nieces, the two Misses Wilton.
These two young ladies were visiting at the
house of their grandfather, and one forenoon of a
summer day they accompanied aunt Thankful on
a ramble. After proceeding some way along the
high road, which was skirted on the left by a
wood, aunt Thankful suddenly struck into a by-path
leading directly into the forest. She pursued
its apparently untrodden windings, followed by
stream. The young ladies concluded their
walk in that direction was terminated, till their
aunt remarked there was a log across the river, at
a little distance, over which they might pass—
“and there is a spot on the other side I should
like to have you visit,” said she.
So they proceeded up the stream, and soon
reached the rude bridge; Helen, the youngest girl,
began to tremble, and fear her head might swim;
but there being no cavalier at hand, to whom her
timidity might have been interesting, she finally
listened to her aunt's sensible assurances, that
there was no sort of danger “if she would only
look straight before her, and not frighten herself
by her own screams.” She followed this rational
advice (which, in a like emergency, I recommend
to all young ladies), and went over as safely as
though the bridge had been made of iron, with a
railing reaching to the moon. Aunt Thankful proceeded
onward, for half a mile or more, the path
still winding amid trees and shrubs; yet the growth
of bushes and briars had evidently sprung up after
the land had once been, in the phrase of the country,
cleared, till they came suddenly out on more
open space, where a family had once dwelt.
There were no buildings; but broken bricks, half
buried in the ground, scattered stones, and a cavity
spot where the house had stood. The garden, too,
might be traced, by the proximity of shrubs and
plants, never indigenous in the same locality; and
many flowers still blossomed there, in spite of the
rank weeds and tall grass, that seemed to grudge
them a place for display.
The north side of the ground, which the garden
had occupied, might be traced by a double row of
lofty elms, most of them still standing, and forming,
as they threw abroad their luxuriant branches,
in a variety of graceful curves and inclinations, an
avenue, grand and beautiful. At the termination
of this shaded walk, was an enormous tree of the
evergreen species, called, as aunt Thankful affirmed,
“the balsam-tree;” at a little distance, on one
side of this, had formerly been a summer-house, as
was apparent from the lilac and rose bushes, and
other flowering shrubs, clustered together; all over-run,
and nearly choked, by a luxuriant woodbine,
that had been trained over the building. Further
on, a fine clear spring bubbled up by the side of a
rock; the water had once been collected in a reservoir—this
was now filled with rubbish, and the
stream ran off in a channel, concealed by tall
brakes and flags, till its course was lost in a thicket,
formerly a nursery of fruit trees, on the south.
Beneath the balsam-tree was a turf-seat, whether
wood-sorrel, with its pretty, yellow blossoms, mingled
with the moss that grew near the roots of the
tree, and little nameless flowers were peeping up
amid the thick green grass which spread around,
wearing that cool, moist look, which is so charming
to the eye, during the hot, sultry hours of a
summer day.
The ladies sat down on the turf-seat, while Helen,
who had been, with her usual quickness, taking
note of all, exclaimed hurriedly—
“Who did live here, aunt? What could they
mean by leaving such a sweet spot? They had no
taste, I am sure, thus to allow this pretty place to
become a ruin!”
“Oh, yes!—and I thought there were no ruins
in our country, and that that was the reason why
our writers could not contrive a good novel. But
here, I am sure, is a ruin,” said Catharine.
“Nature will soon repair it, though,” said aunt
Thankful. “Nature is still the empress of our
land, and it will be many years yet, notwithstanding
all our industry, before we shall sufficiently
conquer her domain, to have works of art, as in
Europe, more attractive of observation than the
wonders and luxuriance of nature.”
“What a dear, romantic spot this must have
been,” observed Helen. “See, yonder was the
how grand the forest appears, stretching away in
the distance, till it blends with the blue mists of
yonder mountains. Oh! we live in a lovely
land!”
“And in a free country,” said Catharine, proudly.
“I do love to think, and repeat, that I live in
a land of freedom.”
“We are not free,” said aunt Thankful.
“Not free!”—exclaimed both of the young
ladies.
“No—not free;—had we been so, this pleasant
place would not have been abandoned, nor should
I. Aunt Thankful paused, and Helen, who was
steadfastly looking at her, saw she blushed. Now
Helen had a confused recollection that her mother
had told her something respecting a disappointment
aunt Thankful had suffered in her youth, and
it occurred to the young lady that the affair might
somehow be connected with the scene before them.
She felt a little curiosity (quite natural for a young
girl) to know the particulars; and she contrived to
frame her questions so adroitly, that her aunt could
not well avoid relating the whole story; and to say
the truth, she was pleased with the opportunity of
telling it—a sure sign that her heart no longer
endured pain from the retrospect, though her reason
might regret the termination of the affair. It
three hours; but thus the abridgement may be told:
“I remember,” she began, “when this place,
then a wild wood, was sold by my father to a Mr.
Kendall, an Englishman by birth. He had resided
in Philadelphia several years, and there married
his wife; but, finally, ill health induced him to remove
and establish himself at the north. He was
a man of more taste than calculation, as our people
thought, for he preserved many of the fine old
trees when his land was cleared, and he built himself
a neat little cottage instead of a two story
house, and laid out a large garden, spending much
of his time in embellishing it with rare plants and
curious flowers, and was never once heard to boast
of his large corn or early potatoes. However, he
was quite popular, notwithstanding, for he was
industrious, and was reported to be worth a handsome
fortune; and moreover, he was very hospitable,
and his wife made a pudding which was unequalled;
though our good wives all believed her
husband taught her the recipe.
“Mr. Kendall had a daughter about my own age
(I was then a child), and a son several years older;
George was a very studious, steady boy, and his
discreet behaviour soon made him a favourite in
our sober society; and hearing his name so often
quoted as a pattern for our youths, it is no wonder
I was intimate with his sister; and finally, George
and I became attached to each other. I was called
very handsome in those days. You need not smile,
Helen; I know that, usually, every antiquated
damsel claims to have been a belle in her youth,
and they generally claim, too, the honour of having
rejected several lovers; not an old maid breathes
but imagines she might have been married, had she
chosen it. Such pretensions sound very ridiculous,
when urged by the spinster of three-score; I shall
say no such thing; but I do say, and it is not
boasting, that, when of your age, I was as handsome
as either of you.
“Well, George and I were engaged, and happy
days we past. When he came home, at the college
vacations, he and his sister Mary and I—how
often have we all sat here, beneath this very tree;
George playing on his flute, or reading, Mary and
I busied in making some article of clothing for
him, or netting him a purse, or cutting watch-papers.
Oh, that was a sunny time of life to me!”
The voice of aunt Thankful trembled as she
dwelt on the recollections of her youth—she
paused and wiped her eyes. Helen was a gay
girl, and her aunt felt somewhat fearful of her
mirth; but she need not. There is a sacredness
soul, which will check the levity of every person
of delicacy or feeling; and Helen, even before she
was aware, was wiping her own eyes in sympathy
with her aunt's grief. After a pause of a few
minutes, aunt Thankful resumed her story.
“George closed his academic career with honour,
and immediately commenced the study of the law,
in which it was expected, by his friends, he would
become eminent, as he had many natural qualifications
for a public speaker. I need not say how
happy his success made me, nor how proud I was
of his talents, till an incident occurred which destroyed
all my complacency in his merits. Like
all our young men who are intending to figure in the
world, he soon turned his attention to politics. He
was educated a federalist; but whether he wished
to show he was entirely free in the selection of his
political creed, or whether he was a sincere convert
to the cause he espoused, or that his course
was dictated by whim, I cannot say—but to the
honour of our whole community, we learned he
had been writing articles (and very spirited ones
they were, too) for a democratic newspaper. This
was during the winter of '98 and '99, when party
spirit raged so bitterly. Oh, I shall never forget
my astonishment when I found George was what
you—strange as it now seems to me—I did then
believe that if the democratic party succeeded in
electing their candidate, our liberty, laws and
religion, would all be sacrificed, and that we should
experience all the horrors here, which we read
were perpetrated in France. I had no reasons for
my opinion; it was adopted solely from education
and feeling; yet I made the sentiments of my
party the standard of rectitude; and had George
committed a murder, I should hardly have been
more shocked than when he declared himself a
republican. The first time I heard it from his
own lips, was at a large party, whither he had
come to seek me, when he found I was not at
home. I had not seen him for five months, yet
the first thought that entered my mind when he
addressed me was, that I would ridicule him for
his political heresies till I made him deny, before
the whole company, that he had written the
obnoxious articles, or else he should apologize,
and disclaim all intention of being serious in his
new opinions. But he would do neither; and finally
I was so mortified, (for I had often declared I knew
he never would acknowledge his principles before
me,) that I burst into tears and determined to go
home. He followed, and offered, in a very mild
I accepted his arm. During our walk, which was
a silent one, I concluded that if we talked the matter
over at home, my father would join me, and
we should convince George he was wrong. Accordingly,
as soon as we were seated in our parlour,
I introduced the subject, by telling my father what
George had said. It is impossible to describe the
scene that ensued. My father was a native of the
`land of steady habits,' and he would have held
himself eternally disgraced, had he yielded one
word of his sound principles as fallible. George
was naturally calm in his manner, but he had a
bold spirit when it was aroused, and a persevering
temper; and he prided himself on being able to
chop logic with any one. I cannot tell which had
the best of the argument; I only know that the
longer they disputed, the firmer each grew in his
own opinion; and such I believe is usually the
case in political controversies. The reason is now
evident to me. They are never entered into with
any wish to gain knowledge, but only a triumph
for a party.
“Well, my father at last grew terribly irritated,
and he rose up, and told George, while he held
such disorganizing sentiments, he never wished to
see him enter his doors again.
“George looked at me. I sat unmoved as a
statue, and returned his appealing glance with a
glance of scorn. He bade us good night, and I
never saw him again.”
“What did become of him? Did he commit
suicide? I hope it was not here,” exclaimed Helen,
looking eagerly round, as if she expected to see
his grave close at hand.
“No, no,” said aunt Thankful, pettishly, “there
is no fear that a politician will die for love. Politics
have some good tendencies; the ambition of their
votaries, and the continual excitement in which
they live, prevents the excessive indulgence of any
single passion; or, in other words, the politician
who would succeed, must practice self-command.
The proud man is often obliged to humble himself;
the indolent is aroused to activity; the rash
man becomes circumspect; the narrow-minded
display generosity; in short, there is an influence
in a republican government, calculated to call forth
and strengthen the noblest powers of men, reason
and judgment; and it would always do this, were
it not counteracted by the prejudices of party spirit,
fostered by the selfish and designing. Strange, we
should think prejudice confined to one particular
party, when it is the vice of all. I am now sensible
it was only my prejudices that condemned
George.”
“And I am sure it was quite natural that you
should think the young man wrong when he differed
from your father and all your other friends,”
said Catharine, “and he ought not to have been
offended. Did he not explain and apologize afterwards?”
“I expected he would write me the next day,
but I determined to return his letter, unless it contained
a recantation of his opinions; however, he
never troubled me with any application, and that
leads me to think he was honest in his principles,
and that he calculated time would show me he had
not been a traitor to his religion or his country.
He soon left the town, and shortly after I heard
he had gone to Savannah, and taken charge of a
paper devoted to his party. I believe I was not
a thorough politician, for I wept at the thought of
his danger from the sickly climate, when I ought
to have rejoiced at the prospect of his sickness or
death, if that would have been of any advantage to
our cause. You shudder, but it is certainly true
that party spirit, when indulged to enthusiasm,
withers every kindly emotion of the heart towards
those it counts as political enemies.
“It was soon rumoured that Mr. Kendall was inclining
towards the opinions of his son, and he and
his daughter were immediately treated with, what
went further in this unchristian conduct than myself.
The truth was, I was very unhappy; I had
lost my lover, and I endeavoured to persuade myself
that all I suffered was owing to the horrid
principles of democracy, which were constantly
gaining ground.
“Poor Mary! I used her cruelly, and never once
reflected that she was following the same course
with myself; that is, imbibing as her own, the sentiments
of her nearest friends. Many do this, but
such should never claim any merit for the correctness
of their opinions, nor indeed claim to hold
correct principles at all. How do they know the
path in which they have been guided is the best,
when they have never examined any other? You
are aware how that contested election terminated.
I was absolutely amazed, and expected the judgments
of heaven would follow our nation, because
of the wickedness of its rulers. I had still so
much confidence in the integrity of George Kendall,
that I thought, when he discovered what a
party he had joined, he would recede. But I
learned he was appointed to some office, and I
treated Mary worse than ever. But at last she
escaped from my insolence. The house of Mr.
Kendall took fire one night, and was consumed,
without accepting assistance from his neighbours,
which, as they had treated him like an enemy, he
would not do; and so he and Mary went on a visit
to George; and there they have since resided.”
“Did George never return here?” asked Helen.
“Never,” said her aunt. “Yet he cruelly retained
this property. I say cruelly, because it led
me to believe he intended to return. Many persons
wrote to him, offering to purchase it; but he
replied, that it was not to be sold. I therefore concluded
that he was conscious he was in the wrong,
and only waited a favourable moment to come and
throw himself at my feet, and retract his political
errors. But months and years passed on, and the
next election found him still a republican. Indeed,
as those political excitements began to subside, I
saw that neither party could claim to be infallible,
and I felt more reconciled to the course George
had pursued, and if he had returned I should have
welcomed him. But I could not think of beginning
the correspondence either with him or Mary,
and seeking a reconciliation, because I feared they
would think I was making advances to him—and
if he rejected them—oh! it would be too humiliating,
notwithstanding I knew I had been to blame.
They probably thought me inexorable—and so six
Both young ladies signed at this denouement—
Catharine felt afflicted at the disappointment of her
aunt, and Helen regretted the affair had proved so
common-place. Aunt Thankful, after a few moment's
silence, thus proceeded to draw her moral:
“I have told you this story, that you may be
warned against indulging the rancour of party feelings.
I do not say that ladies should abstain from
all political reading or conversation; that they
should take no interest in the character or condition
of their country. I cannot think, in a land so
favoured as ours, such indifference and ignorance is
excusable in a rational being. But their influence
should be expected to allay, not to excite animosities:
their concern should be for their whole country—not
for a party. In their own little circle
they may, in a quiet manner, do much to calm the
irritations which public excitements would otherwise
mingle with social life; to do this requires
some knowledge, and much goodness and prudence.”
“But you said we were not free,” said Helen.
“None are free who become the slaves of a
party,” replied aunt Thankful; “nor will they
tolerate freedom of sentiment in others. My
permitted, without persecution, to enjoy his political
principles here, he would never have gone to
the south. We shall never be free in spirit, while
bigotry and intolerance are cherished among us.”
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