University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Were we at the beginning of our journey, instead of
being so far advanced on our way, it would be a pleasant
mode of wasting an hour, to descant on the shows and
practices of a popular gathering in our forest country.
The picture is a strange, if not a startling one. Its more
prominent aspects must, however, be imagined by the
reader. We have now no time for mere description. The
more decidedly narrative parts of our story are finished.
As we tend to the denouëment, the action necessarily becomes
more rapid and more dramatic. The supernumeraries
cease to thrust in their lanthern-long images upon us.
There is no place for meditative philosophers; and none
are suffered to appear except those who do and suffer,
with the few subordinates which the exigency of the case
demands, for disposing the draperies decently, and letting
down the curtain.

Were it otherwise—were not this disposition of the
parts and parties inevitable,—it would give us pleasure to
give a camera obscura representation of the figures, coming
and going, who mingle and dance around the great
political cauldron, during the canvass of a closely contested
election.

And various indeed was the assortment of spirits that
assembled to hear liquid argument—and drink it too,—on
the present occasion. Fancy the crowd, the commotion,
the sharp jest and the wild laughter, most accommodating
of all possible readers, and spare us the necessity of dilating
upon it. We will serve you some such scene, with
all its lights and shadows, on some other more fitting
occasion.

Something, however, is to be shown. You are to suppose
a crowd of several hundred persons, shrewd, sensible
people enough, after their fashion—rough-handed men of
the woods, good at the plough and wagon,—masters of
the axe, tree-quellers and hog-killers,—a stout race, rugged
it may be, but not always rude—hospitable, free-handed
—ignorant of delicacies, but born with a strong conviction
that much is to be known, much acquired—that they are
the born inheritors of much,—rights, privileges, liberties
—sacred possessions which require looking after, and are
not to be entrusted to every hand. Often deceived, they
are necessarily jealous on this subject; and growing a
little wiser with every political loss, they come to their
patrimony with an hourly increasing knowledge of its
value, and its peculiar characteristics. Not much learning
have they, but, in lieu of it, they can tell “hawk from
handsaw” in all stages of the wind; which is a wisdom
that you learned man is not often master of. You may
cheat them once, nay twice, or thrice, for they are frank
and confiding; but you cannot always cheat them; and
one thing is certain that they can extract the uses from a
politician and then fling him away, as sagaciously as the

urchin, who deals in like manner with the orange sack
which he has sucked. Talk of politicians ruling the American
people! Lord love you! where do you find these great
rulers after five years? Sucked, squeezed, thrown by, an
atom in the dung-heap. Precious few of these men of
popular dimensions, survive their own clamour. Even
while they shout upon their petty eminences, the world
has hurried on and left them; and there they stand—open-mouthed
and wondering! Waking at length, they ask,
like the shipwrecked traveller on the shore,—“Where am
I? Where is my people?” My people. Ha! ha! ha!
There is something worse than mockery in that shout. It
is my people that speaks, but the voice is changed. It is
now thy people. The sceptre has departed. Ephraim is
no longer an idol among them. They have other gods;
and the late exalted politician freezing, on his narrow eminence,
grows dumb for ever,—stiff—stone eyed,—like the
sphinx, brooding in her sinking sands, saying, as it were,
“Ask me nothing of what I was, for now see you not that
I am nothing!”

Precious little of such a fate dreams he, the high-cheeked,
sunburnt orator, that now rallies the stout peasantry at
Bowling Green. He thinks not so much of perpetual
fame as of perpetual office. He has a faith in office which
shall last him much longer than that which he professes to
have in the people. He hath not so much faith in them
as in their gifts. But he fancies not—not he—that the
shouts which now respond to his utterance shall even refuse
response to his summons. He assumes a saving exception
in his own case, which shall make him sure in the
very places where his predecessors failed. He hath an
unctuous way with him which makes his faith confident;
and his voice thunders and his eye lightens; and he rains
precious drops among them, which might be eloquence, if
it were not balderdash!

“Who is this man!” quoth our young hero, Beauchampe,
as he listened to the muddy torrent, which, like
some turbid river, having overflowed its banks, comes
down, rending and raging, a thick flood of slime and foam,
bringing along with it the refuse of nauseous places, and
low flats, and swampy bottoms, and offal stalls! The youth
was bewildered. The eloquent man was so sure of his
ground and auditors—seemed so confident in his strength

—so little like a doubting giant—that it was long before
Beauchampe could discover that he was a mere wind-bag, a
bloated vessel of impure air that, becoming fixed air
through a natural process, at length explodes and breaks
forth with a violence duly proportioned to its noisomeness.

“This cannot be the man, Calvert!” soliloquized our
hero. It was not. But, when the wind-bag was exhausted—which,
by a merciful Providence, was at length the
case—then rose another; and then did Beauchamp note
the vast difference, even before the latter spoke, which was
at once evident between the two.

“This must be he!” he murmured to himself. He was
not mistaken. The crowd was hushed. The stillness,
after those clamours which preceded it, was awful; but
was it not encouraging? No such stillness had accompanied
the torrent-rushing of those beldame ideas and bull-dog
words which had come from the previous speaker.
Here was attention—curiosity—the natural curiosity of an
audience about to listen to a new speaker, and already
favourably impressed by his manner and appearance.
Both were pleasing and impressive. In person he was
tall and well made—his features denoted one still in the
green and gristle of his youth—not more than twenty-five
summers had darkened into brown the light flaxen hair
upon his forehead. His eyes were bright and clear, but
there was a grave sweetness, or rather a sweet, mild gravity
in his face, which seemed the effect of some severe
disappointment or sorrow. This, without impairing youth,
had imparted dignity. His manner was unostentatious and
natural, but very graceful. He bowed when he first rose
before the assembly, then, for a few moments, remained
silent, while his eye seemed to explore the whole of that
moral circuit which his thoughts were to penetrate. He
begun, and Beauchampe was now all attention. His voice
was at first very low, but very clear and distinct. His
exordium consisted of some general principles which the
subjects he proposed to discuss were intended to illustrate,
to confine, and, at the same time, to receive their own illustration,
by the application of the same texts. In all this
there was an ease of utterance, a familiarity with all the
forms of analysis, a readiness in moral conjecture, a freedom
of comparison, a promptness of suggestion, which
betrayed a mind not only excellent by nature but admirably

drilled by the severest exercise of will and art. We do
not care to note his arguments or the particular subjects
which they were intended to elucidate. These were purely
local in their character, and were nowise remarkable, excepting
as, in their employment, the speaker showed
himself every where capable of rising to the height of those
principles by which it was governed. This habit of mind
enabled him to simplify his topic to the understanding of
his audience—to disentangle the mysteries which the dull
brains, and rabid tongue of the previous speaker had involved
in a seemingly inextricable mass; and to unveil,
feature by feature, the perfect image of that leading idea
which he had set out to establish. In showing that Mr.
Calvert argued his case, it is not to be understood, however,
that he was merely argumentative. The main points
of difficulty discussed, he rose, as he proceeded, into occasional
flights of eloquence, which told with the more effect,
as they were made purely subordinate to the business of
his speech. Beauchampe discovered, with wonder and admiration,
the happy art which had so arranged it; and
from wonder and admiration he sunk to apprehension,
when, considering the equal skill of the debater and the
beauty of his declamation, he all at once recollected, towards
the close, that it was allotted to him to take up the cudgels
and maintain the conflict for his friend.

But this was not a moment to feel fear. Beauchampe
was a man of courage. His talent was active, his mood
fiery—his imagination very prompt and energetic. He,
too, was meant to be an orator; but he had gone through
no such school of preparation as that of the man whom he
was to answer. But this did not discourage him. If he
lacked the exquisite finish of manner, and the logical relation
of part with part, which distinguished the address of
his opponent, he had an irresistible impulse of expression.
Easily excited himself, he found little difficulty in exciting
those whom he addressed. If Calvert was the noble stud
of the middle ages, caparisoned in scale armour, and practised
to wheel and bound, and rear, and recoil, as the necessities
of the fight required; then was Beauchampe the
light Arabian courser, who, if he may not combat on equal
terms with his opponent, at least, by his agility and unremitting
attack, keeps him busy at all points in the work of
defence. If he gives himself no repose, he leaves his enemy

none. Now here, now there, with the rapidity of
lightning, he fatigues his heavily armed foe by the frequency
of his evolutions; he himself being less encumbered
by weight and armour, and being at the same time,
more easily refreshed for a renewal of the fight. Such
was the nature of their combat which lasted, at intervals,
throughout the day. Beauchampe had made his debut
with considerable eclat. His heart was bounding with the
excitement of the conflict. The friends of Col. Sharpe
were in ecstasies. They had been dashed by the superior
eloquence of the new assailant. They feared and felt the
impression which Calvert had made; and, expecting nothing
from so young a beginner as Beauchampe, they naturally
exaggerated the character of his speech, when they
found it so far to exceed their expectations. The compliments
which he received were not confined to the friends
of Col. Sharpe. The opposition confessed his excellence,
and Calvert himself was the first, when it was over, to
come forward, make his acquaintance and offer his congratulations.

Col. Sharpe arrived that night. As soon as this fact
was ascertained, Beauchampe prepared to return home.
Sharpe had brought with him two friends, both lawyers,
men of some parts, who rendered any further assistance
from himself unnecessary. The resolution of the new
bridegroom so soon to leave the field, provoked the merriment
of the veterans.

“And so you are really married? And what sort of a
wife have you got, Beauchampe?” demanded Sharpe.

“You can readily guess,” said Barnabas, “when you
find him so eager to get home without waiting to see the
end of the business here.”

“Is she young and handsome, Beauchampe?”

“And what are her moral possessions, as defined by
Whisker-Ben?” was the demand of Barnabas.

The tone of these remarks and inquiries was excessively
annoying to Beauchampe. There was something like gross
irreverence in it. It seemed as if his sensibilities suffered
a stab with every syllable which he was called upon to
answer. Besides, it was only when examined in reference
to the age, appearance and name of his wife, that he became
vividly impressed with the painful consciousness of
what must be concealed in her history. The burning

blush on his cheeks, when he replied to his companions,
only served to subject his unnecessary modesty to the
usual sarcasms which are common in such cases.

“And you will go?” said Sharpe.

“I promised my wife to return as soon as you came,
and she will expect me.”

“I must see that wife of yours who has so much power
over you. Is she so very handsome, Beauchampe?”

“I think so.”

“And what did you say was her name before marriage?”
was the farther inquiry.

He was answered, though with some hesitation.

“Cooke, Cooke! You say in your letter that she's wonderfully
smart! But, Barnabas we must judge for ourselves,
both the beauty and the wit. Hey, boy! are we not a
committee on that subject?”

“To be sure we are;—for that matter, Beauchampe
could only marry with our consent. He will have to be
very civil in showing us the lady, to persuade us to sanction
this premature affair.”

“Do you hear, Beauchampe?”

“I do not fear. When you have seen her, the consent
will not be withheld, I'm sure.”

“You believe in your princess, then?”

“Fervently!”

“You are very young, Beauchampe—very young! But
we were all young, Barnabas, and have paid the penalties
of youth. An age of unbelief for a youth of faith. Thirty
years of scepticism for some three months' intoxication.
But how soon that gristle of credulity hardens into callousness!
How long do you give Beauchampe before he gains
his freedom?”

“That,” said Barnabas, “will depend very much on
how much he sees of wife, children and friends. If he
were now to set off alone and take a voyage to Canton, the
probability is he would be quite as much a victim until he
got back. Three weeks at home would probably give him
a more decided taste for the Canton voyage, and he would
take a second, and stay abroad longer. Beyond that there
is no need to look; the story always ends in the same
way. I never knew a tale which had so little variety.”

There was more of this dialogue which we do not care
to record. The moral atmosphere was not grateful to the

tastes of the young man. Sharpe saw that, and changed
the subject.

“You have made good fight to-day—so they tell me. I
knew you would. But you should keep it up. Take my
word, another day here would be the making of you. One
speech proves nothing if it produces no more.”

“I shall only be in the way,” said Beauchampe. “You
have Barnabas and Mercer.”

“Good men and true, but the more the merrier. How
know I whom they will bring into the field?”

“They will scarcely get one superior to Calvert.”

“So you like him then?”

“I do—very much. He will give you a hard fight.”

“Will he, then?” said Col. Sharpe, with some appearance
of pique—“well! we shall see—Heaven send the
hour as soon as may be.”

“Be wary,” said Beauchampe, “for I assure you he is
a perfect master of his weapon. I have seldom even fancied
a more adroit or able speaker.”

“Do I not tell you you are young, Beauchampe?”

“Young or old, take my counsel as a matter of prudence,
and be wary. He will certainly prove to you the necessity
of looking through your armoury.”

“By my faith but I should like to see this champion
who has so intoxicated you. You have made me curious,
and I must see him to-night. Where does he lodge?”

“At the Red Heifer.”

“Shall we go to him, or send for him? What say you,
Barnabas?”

“Oh, go to him, be sure. It will have a good effect.
It will show as if you were not proud.”

“And did not fear him! Come, Beauchampe, if you
will not stay and do battle for us any longer, pen a billet
of introduction to this famous orator. Say to him, that
your friends Messieurs Sharpe and Barnabas, of whom
you may say the prettiest things with safety, will come
over this evening to test the hospitality of the Red
Heifer. Be sure to state that it is your new wife that
hurries you off, or the conceited fellow may fancy that
he has made you sick with his drubbing. Ho! Sutton—
landlord! what ho! there!”

The person summoned made his appearance.

“Ha! Sutton! How are you, my old boy—hav'n't

seen you since the last flood,—and what's to be done
down here? What are you going to do? Is it court or
country party here—Tompkins or Desha?”

“Well, kurnel, there's no telling to a certainty, till the
votes is in the box and counted; but I reckon all goes
right, jist now, as you'd like to find it.”

“Very good,—and you think Beauchampe did well to-day?”

“Mighty onexpected well. He'll be a screamer yet, I
tell you.”

“There's a promise of fame for you, Beauchampe,
which ought to make you stay a day longer. Think
now of becoming a screamer! You said a screamer,
Sutton, old fellow, didn't you?”

“Screamer's the word, kurnel; and 'twon't be much
wanting to make him one. He did talk the boldest now,
I tell you, considerin' what he had to work ag'in.”

“What! is this Mr. Calvert a screamer too?”

“Raal grit, kurnel,—no mistake. Talks like a book.”

“And so, I suppose,” said Sharpe, in the manner of a
man who knows his strength and expects it to be acknowledged,—“and
so I suppose you look for me to come out
in all my strength? You will require me to talk like two
books?”

“Jist so, kurnel, the people's a-looking for it; and it's
an even bet with some that you can't do better than this
strange chap, Calvert.”

“But there are enough to take up such a bet? Are
there not, old fellow?”

“Well, I reckon there are; but you know how a nag
has to work when the odds are even.”

“Ay, ay!—we must see this fellow, that's clear. We
must measure his height, breadth, and strength before-hand.
No harm to look at one's enemy the night before
fighting him, Sutton, is there?”

“None in natur', kurnel. It's a sort o' right one has
to feel the heft of the chap that wants to fling him.”

“Even so, old boy—so get us pen, ink, and paper here,
while Beauchampe writes him a sort of friendly challenge.
I say, Sutton—the Red Heifer is against us, is she?”

“I reckon it's the Red Heifer's husband, kurnel,”
said the landlord, as he placed the writing materials. “If

'twas the Red Heifer herself, I'm thinking the vote would
be clear t'other way.”

“Ha! ha! you wicked dog!” exclaimed Sharpe, with
a chuckle of perfect self-complacence,—“I see you do not
easily forget old times.”

“No, no! kurnel,—a good recollection of old times is
a sort of Christian duty—it sort o' keeps a man in
memory of friends and inimies.”

“But the Red Heifer was neither friend nor enemy
of yours, Sutton?”

“No, kurnel, but the Heifer's husband had a notion
that t'worn't any fault of mine that she worn't.”

“Ah! you sad dog!” said Sharpe, flatteringly.

“A leetle like my customers, kurnel,” responded the
landlord, with a knowing leer.

“I would I could see her, though for a minute only.”

“That's pretty onpossible. He's strict enough upon
her now-a-days; never lets her out of sight, and watches
every eye that looks to her part of the house. He'd be
mighty suspicious of you if you went there.”

“But he has no cause, Sutton!”

“Well, you say so, kurnel, and I'm not the man to
say otherwise; but he thinks very different, I can tell
you. He ain't the man to show his teeth; but mark me,
his eye won't leave you from the time you come, to the
time you quit.”

“We'll note him, Sutton. Ready, Beauchampe?”

The youth answered by handing the note to the landlord,
by whom it was instantly despatched according to
its direction. A few moments only had elapsed, when
an answer was received, acknowledging the compliment,
and requesting to see the friends of Mr. Beauchampe at
their earliest leisure.

“This is well,” said Sharpe. “I confess my impatience
to behold this formidable antagonist. Bestir yourself,
Barnabas, with that toddy, over which you seem to
have been saying the devil's prayers for the last half
hour. Be sure and bring a hatful of your segars along
with you. The `Red Lion,' I suspect, will yield us nothing
half so good. Ho! Beauchampe! are you sleeping?”

A slap on the shoulder aroused Beauchampe from something
like a waking dream; and he started to his feet

with a bewildered look. He had been thinking of his
wife—and of the cruel portions of her strange history,—
to which, as by an inevitable impulse, the equivocal dialogue
between Sharpe and the landlord, seemed to carry
him back.

“Dreaming of your wife, no doubt. Ha! ha! Beauchampe,
how long will you be a boy?”

Why did those words annoy Beauchampe? Was there
any thing sinister in their signification? Why did those
tones of his friend's voice send a shudder through the
youth's veins? Had he also his presentiments? We
shall see. At all events, his dream, whatever may have
been its character, was thoroughly broken. He turned
to the landlord, and ordered his horse to be got instantly.

“You will go, then?” said Sharpe.

“Yes, you do not need me any longer.”

“You are resolved, then, not to be a screamer! What
a perverse nature! Here is fame, singing like the ducks
of Mrs. Bond, `Come and catch me;' and d—l a bit
he stirs for all their invitation. But he's young, Barnabas,
and has a young wife not three weeks old. We
must be indulgent, Barnabas. We must not be too strict
in our examination.”

“We were young ourselves once,” said Barnabas,
kindly looking to Beauchampe.

“But do not be precipitate, old fellow. Though mercifully
inclined, it must be real beauty, and genuine wit,
that shall save our brother. Our certificate will depend
on that. Beauchampe, look to see us to dinner day after
to-morrow.”

“I shall expect you,” said Beauchampe, faintly, as,
bidding them farewell, he left the room.

“Ha! ha! ha! Poor fellow!” said Sharpe. “His treasures
make him sad. He is just now as anxious and apprehensive
as an old miser of seventy.”

“Egad, he little dreams, just now, how valuable the
club will be to him a few months hence,” said Barnabas.

“Every thing to him. Let us drink `The Club,' Barnabas.”
And they filled, and bowed to each other, Hob-a-nob
.

“The club!”

“The Pope!”

“And the Pope's wife!”

“No go, that!” said Sharpe. “Antiques are masculine
only. She's dead to us. She's too old.”

“What say you to this wife of Beauchampe, then?”

“We won't drink her until we see her; though I rather
suspect she must be pretty, for he has an eye in his head.
But what a d—d fool to leap so hurriedly, without once
looking after the consideration. That was a woful error!
—only to be excused by her superexcellence. We shall
see in season; though, curse me, if I do not fancy he'd
rather see the devil than either of us. He's jealous already.
Did you observe how faintly he said good-night,—and
how coldly he gave his invitation? But we'll like his
wife the better for it, Barnabas. When the husband's
jealous, the wife's fair game. Thus saith the proverb.”

“And a wholesome one! But,—did we drink? I'm
not sure that we have not forgotten it.” And the speaker
explored the bottom of the pitcher, and knew not exactly
which had deceived him, his memory or his palate.