University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Soon after the time referred to in the last chapter—that
is, when we were favored by Mr. Flam with his views on the
Banking System—there was a question of the most profound
interest in agitation, both in the New Light Club and
out of it; that question was the establishment of a newspaper.
The Quodlibetarian democracy were, I am sorry to
inform my reader, most sorely and wantonly assailed, indeed,
I may say, insulted by an hebdomadal sheet which,
through the aid, or, more properly speaking, the abuse of
the post office (for surely it was not the original design of
that institution to afford the means of corrupting the people
by the dissemination of such moral poisons) was distributed
amongst sundry of our citizens, and even put upon the files of
one of our public houses. I do not scruple to name the house
—that of Jesse Ferret—Jesse being at this time a little amphibious
in his politics, or, in Mr. Fog's expressive language,
rather fishy. The paper to which I allude, was published
at Thorough Blue Court House, a perfect hot bed of contumacious
opposition, situate about fifty miles due west
from Quodlibet. It was called “The Thorough Blue
Whole Team,” and was edited by Augustus Postlethwaite

Tompkinson, an inchoate lawyer, who had set up for a
poet, and whose sentiments were of the most dangerous
whig complexion. This paper was constantly filled with
extracts of the ravings of whig members of congress against
our admirable system of banking, and had gone to such an
extreme of rashness, as to denominate that splendid measure
of the purest and wisest statesman of the age—my reader perceives
I mean Mr. Benton—for the introduction of the gold
currency, a humbug! But this was not all; the unprincipled
editor of that reckless journal had actually so far forgotten
all the decencies of civilised society, had become so callous
to the cause of virtue and truth, as to launch his puny
thunderbolts at the fair fame of the Hon. Middleton Flam.
He was ridiculed as a pretender! he was nicknamed a charlatan!!
and the unbridled licence of this unsparing defamer
did not stop short of denouncing him as a Federalist!!!
All Quodlibet—that is, all who possessed the soul of Quodlibetarians—raised
up their hands at the political impiety of
this libel. A spontaneous burst of feeling indicated the
deep sentiment which called for immediate action on the
subject. For a full week, the New Light was in a state of
paroxysm. The Club met every night. Nicodemus Handy
was there; Fog was there; Nim Porter was there; Snuffers
and Doubleday, Doctor Winkleman and Zachary Younghusband
recently appointed Post Master of the borough,
were there. Every thorough bred Quod, even down to
Flan. Sucker was there. Jesse Ferret, I have already said,
was fishy. I regret to say it, but it is true. Jesse bending
to the suppleness of the times, and forgetting a patriot's
duty, which is first and foremost above all things to stick to
his party, pleaded his public calling to excuse his vacillation,
and even went so far as to say that “a publican should
have no politics.” Oh shame, where is thy blush! Not so
with Nim Porter;—his soul towered above the bar-room;
he would bet all he was worth on the side of his party.
Every body in Quodlibet knows how free Nim always was
with his bets.

The decisive meeting of the club took place in the
dining room of Ferret's tavern. Nicodemus Handy did
not often attend the meetings of the club: we looked to
him rather for head work, for he was not the best of public
speakers—but on the night of this assemblage he made it a
point to be present. Mr. Handy is rather a short, fat man;
his head is partially bald, his face is smooth and fair, his
dress was always remarked for being of the best material
put on in the neatest manner—in short, Mr. Handy is a
first rate gentleman. I am particular in noting these matters,
because The Whole Team was in the habit of bragging
that “all the decency” was on his side. Now I would
challenge Thorough Blue Court House, and the settlement
ten miles around it—the whole region is whig—to produce
one man amongst them to compare either with the Hon.
Middleton Flam or Nicodemus Handy. And I would take
this occasion further to remark, in refutation of The Whole
Team's calumny touching “all the decency,” that the true
Quodlibetarian democrats have as great a respect for appearance,
and as profound a spirit of assentation and regard
towards a man of wealth, as the people of any country
upon earth: if any thing, our tip top Quods carry rather a
higher head than the richest whigs in these parts, and any
dispassionate man who will examine into the matter will
say so.

Snuffers was in the chair. The members of the club did
not sit down: they were too much agitated to sit down.
As soon as I, in my character of secretary, read the minutes
of the preceding meeting, Mr. Handy rose, and after some
very appropriate remarks delivered in a modest fashion, (in

which he assured the club that he was unaccustomed to public
speaking and moreover oppressed by the intensity of his
feelings in regard to the recent attack on his friend, the
Honorable Middleton Flam, and in a slight degree agitated
in the presence of this most respectable assemblage of
Quods,) came at once to the point. “Who,” he asked,
“was Augustus Postlethwaite Tompkinson? His name
told you who he was;—an aristocrat, a poet, a sentimentaliser,
a dealer in fiction! What was his calling? A
pander, a pimp, a professional reviler of great and good
men. What was his paper? That sink of infamy, The
Whole Team—twenty-four by eighteen, with a poet's
corner, and an outside stuffed with a few beggarly advertisements.
Would gentlemen submit to be led by the nose
by a thing like that, twenty-four by eighteen?”

“Never,” cried out Flanigan Sucker, who stood in the
doorway, just behind Nim Porter—“will we Nim?”

“Silence,” said Mr. Snuffers.

“If gentlemen have my feelings of indignation on this
subject,” continued Mr. Handy, “they will concur with
me in establishing a paper of our own.”

“Go it, Nicodemus!” shouted Flan. Sucker, very indecorously
putting in his word a second time.

Thereupon arose some confusion in the club, and Flan
being found upon examination to be muddled with liquor,
was requested to retire; and not being very prompt to obey
this invitation, he was turned out.

Mr. Handy then proceeded. “Gentlemen,” said he, “a
paper we must have, and I feel happy in the opportunity
to introduce to your acquaintance a good friend of our
cause, who is here present to night, and who, under the
auspices of this club, is willing to undertake the responsible
duty of supplying this so much desiderated object. I beg
leave to present to you Mr. Eliphalet Fox, a gentleman long

connected with the press in a neighboring state, and who is
prepared to submit to you his scheme.”

Upon this a stranger, who had been seated in a back part
of the room, wrapped up in a green camlet cloak with plaid
lining, which I may add had apparently seen much service,
stepped forward, and disrobing himself of this outer garment,
stood full before the president. He was a thin, faded little fellow,
whose clothes seemed to be somewhat too large for him.
His eye was gray and rather dull, his physiognomy melancholy,
his cheek sunken, his complexion freckled, his coat
blue, the buttons dingy, his hair sandy and like untwisted
rope. The first glance at the person of this new comer
gave every man of the club the assurance that here was an
editor indeed. A whisper of approbation ran through the
crowd, and from that moment, as Mr. Doubleday afterwards
said to me, we felt assured that we had the man we
wanted.

“Mr. President,” said he, in a feeble and sickly voice,
“my name is Fox. I am in want of employment. Sir,”
he added, gritting his teeth and taking an attitude, “if the
rancor of my soul, accumulated by maltreatment, set on edge
by disappointment, indurated by time, entitle me to claim
your confidence, then, sir, my claim stands number one.
If a thorough knowledge, sir, of the characteristic traits of
federalism, long acquaintance with its designs, persecution,
sir, from its votaries, a deep experience of its black ingratitude;
if days of toil spent in its service, nights of feverish
anxiety protracted in ruminating over its purposes; if promises
violated, hopes blasted, labors unrewarded, may be
deemed a stimulus to hatred—then, sir, am I richly endowed
with the qualifications to expose the enemies of Quodlibetarian
democracy. I am a child, sir, of sorrow: the milk
of my nature has been curdled by neglect. Mine is a history
of talents underrated, sensibilities derided, patriotism

spurned, affluence, nay competence, withheld. The world
has turned me aside. I have no resting place on the bosom
of my mother. Society, like a demon, pursues me. Writs
in the hands of the sheriff, judgments on the docket, fi.
fas. and ca. sas. track my footsteps. No limitation runs in
my favor: the scire facias, ever ready, revives the inhuman
judgment, and my second shirt—my first is in rags—is
stripped from my body to glut the avarice of my relentless
pursuers. Thank God, I have at last found a friend in that
distinguished man who has been so ruthlessly, so recently
assailed, by that fledgling of the aristocracy, Augustus Postlethwaite
Tompkinson. Yes, sir, in the Honorable Middleton
Flam I have found a friend. He has given me letters to
this benevolent gentleman, Mr. Handy; he has recommended
my establishment here; he promises to co-operate with this
respectable club in giving me a foothold amongst you. With
her Flams and her Handys, Quodlibet is destined to an
enviable influence in this great republic.” (Here he was
interrupted by loud cheers.) “My scheme is, Mr. President,
with the aid of this club, and that of the benefactors
I have named, forthwith to start The Quodlibet Whole
Hog. It shall take a decided and uncompromising stand
against The Thoroughblue Whole Team (here he was
again arrested by cheers); pledged to contradict every word
uttered by that vile print (cheers); to traduce and bring down
its editor by the most systematic disparagement (cheers);
to disprove all Whig assertions; unfailingly to take the opposite
side on all questions; industriously to lower the standing
of the members of the Whig party (immense cheers);
through thick and thin, good report and evil report, for
better and for worse, to defend and sustain the administration
of the new President, who is about to take his seat, that
incomparable democrat of the genuine Quodlibetarian stamp,
Martin Van Buren (at this point the cheering continued for
some moments, with such violence that the speaker had to
suspend his remarks); and finally, sir, to commend, exalt,
and illustrate the character and pretensions of our unrivalled
friend Mr. Flam (immense cheering), giving utterance to
his sentiments, preponderance to his opinions, authority to
his advice on all proper and suitable occasions (loud cheering
for a long time). In short, sir, The Whole Hog shall
be what its name imports, a faithful mirror of the democracy
of Quodlibet. Its publication shall be weekly; its size,
twenty-six by twenty, having the advantage over the Whole
Team by full two inches each way. There, sir, is an outline
of my sentiments and proposed paper.” Mr. Fox
concluded this address in the midst of a congratulatory uproar,
altogether unprecedented in the club.

Seizing upon the enthusiasm of the moment, and being
rather fearful that Fog would attempt to make a speech,
which that gentleman's condition would have rendered extremely
improper at this hour, Mr. Handy immediately
offered a resolution for the establishment of the Whole Hog,
and its adoption as the organ of the party, on the principles
proposed by Mr. Fox. This was carried by acclamation;
and the members without further discussion adjourned to the
bar-room, where Nim Porter offered a bet—and not finding
any one to take him up, continued to offer it during the
evening—of fifty dollars to twenty-five, or one hundred to
fifty, that Eliphalet Fox would run Augustus Posthlewaite
Tompkinson's Whole Team out of Quodlibet in six months
from that day:—that there would not be but two copies of
the Whole Team taken in the borough, and that one of
them would be Michael Grant's out at the Hog Back:—“for”
said Nim, with an oath, which I will not repeat—“I can
see it in that Liphlet Fox's eye; if he isn't a gouger when his
bile's fresh, there aint nothing in Lavender on Physiology,
or Fowler on the Shape of Heads.”