University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The proceedings at the Sycamore Spring furnished melancholy
evidence of the serious character of the split which
had taken place in our ranks. This was a source of anxious
and painful reflection to the New Lights. But the assiduity
with which we endeavored to heal this dissension, only
made matters worse. The Whole Team, which, although
not within the county, claimed to take a deep interest in this
election, on the score of being within our congressional district,
noticed our divisions with much self gratulation, and
made the best of them, by attacking Agamemnon Flag as
“the creature,” (to use its own unscrupulous language) of
the Hon. Middleton Flam; whilst, at the same time, it opened
the flood-gates of its abuse upon Theodore Fog, as a man
of “bad habits, loose manners, and objectionable morals.”
The Bickerbray Scrutinizer was devoted to Flag and the
regular ticket, and therefore defended Agamemnon against
The Whole Team, and let fly several arrows against Theodore
Fog; thus unhappily fomenting the differences amongst
our friends.

The course pursued by Eliphalet Fox, at this difficult
juncture, was one calculated to raise him in the esteem of
every true Quod, and to place him on a pinnacle amongst
editors. He took none of those middle grounds, which
scarcely ever fail to bring a politician into contempt with
both parties—but, with a boldness entirely peculiar to himself,
and in the highest degree illustrative of the New Light
theory, stoutly advocated each of our candidates, as the
course of the canvass seemed to encourage their respective
chances of success. Thus, when Theodore Fog first announced
himself as the independent candidate, and when
every one appeared to regard this step as an act of presumption
which could not but result in defeat, Eliphalet put forth
the following paragraph:

“Mister Theodore Fog, of this Borough, an old practitioner
at more than one bar, having waked up one morning
with the idea that he was born to fill the measure of his
country's glory, as well as he fills that of his own every
night, has conceived the sublime project of running on an
independent ticket, in the approaching election. We would
whisper in our friend The's ear, that he has barked up the
wrong tree. Independence is not a word to be found in
the New Light dictionary. The voters of this county can
never be seduced from the support of the regular nomination;
especially when it is headed by such a man as Agamemnon
Flag, whose eloquence, accomplishments, and remarkable
Democratic simplicity of manners, as well as his
perfect surrender of himself to the cause of his party, give
him the highest claim to the consideration of every right
minded and unadulterated Quod. Verb. sap. sat.”

Now, after the meeting of the Sycamore Spring, a new
view of matters broke upon Eliphalet's vision. He was
certainly taken by surprise at the demonstration which that
meeting afforded of Theodore's strength with the voters;

and in the account of that event, which appeared in The
Whole Hog on the succeeding Saturday, one scarcely knows
whether most to commend the sincerity of the writer, or the
justness of the tribute paid to the masterly effort of Mr.
Fog. Speaking of that effort, the editor employs this
language:

“In regard to our esteemed fellow townsman, Theodore
Fog, the public expectation was more than realised. This
unstudied orator, with all the freshness impressed upon his
mind by the mint of nature herself, contemning the aid of
tinsel show, and presenting himself in the homely habiliments
of an unvarnished, and, as our adversaries scoffingly
add, of an unwashed New Light, poured forth a resistless
flood of native oratory, remarkable for that massive vigor of
thought, and that felicity of expression, which are the rare
endowments only of genius, trained amongst the people,
and whose soul is with the people. He descanted upon the
brilliant career of our never-sufficiently-to-be-flattered administration,
with an effect that thrilled in the pulse, glowed
in the countenance, and broke forth in the reiterated shouts
of every warm-hearted, straight-out, lead-following, unagainst-the-wishes-or-commands-of-the-luminaries-of-the-

party-rebelling New Light Democrat on the ground. We
are happy to add our decided conviction that the election of
this staunch champion of the real New Lights, is placed
beyond a doubt.”

The intrepidity of this paragraph will strike every one
who reflects that the canvass, at the time this appeared, was
far from being brought to a close; and that the result, whatever
Eliphalet might have thought of it, was deemed exceedingly
doubtful. Indeed, we had subsequently a proof
given to us, in The Whole Hog itself, that very serious
opinions began to prevail against the possibility of Mr.
Fog's carrying the day, in opposition to Flag.

The New Light Club, with some few and unimportant
exceptions, had determined, as they thought themselves in
duty bound, to sustain the regular ticket, and for this purpose,
when matters were running very strong for Fog, and
when indeed, they began to entertain a well-grounded fear
that Andy Grant might slip in by the aid of these divisions,
resolved upon having a night procession in the Borough.
This expedient we have always resorted to with the happiest
effect whenever we have found the hopes of the New
Lights beginning to ebb; it serves to animate our friends, by
throwing, as it were, a glare over their minds, and to render
them more docile to the word of command, from those
who take upon themselves the labor of judging for the multitude.
We now had recourse to this device with a very
flattering, though as it turned out in the end, a deceptive
manifestation of its influence upon the election. The procession
was made; paper lanterns in abundance, bearing a
variety of inscriptions of the most encouraging exhortation
to the friends of Flag and the Ticket, were procured for the
occasion. Every lantern and every banner had written
upon it Flam, in the hope thus to identify the ticket with
our distinguished representative in congress, and bring in
the aid of his great name to our cause. Mottoes having
reference to “the Old Hero of the Hermitage,” were also
profusely used, and even the Hickory Tree was reared aloft
in the procession, covered with small cup lamps in imitation
of its fruit. Every one in Quodlibet supposed that this
stroke of the Procession settled the matter. It undoubtedly
converted the Borough and brought it into the utmost harmony
on our side. But the Tumbledownians, amongst whom
Fog's great strength was found, were not there; and from
Bickerbray the delegation was not as large as it ought to
have been. Still, the evidence of popular support to the
ticket was deemed conclusive; so much so, that Eliphalet

Fox's next editorial referred to it as “indicative of the stern
resolve of the New Lights, once and forever, to crush the insubordinate
and rebellious temper with which certain factious
and discontented pretenders to the name of democrats
had endeavored to sow discord in the ranks of the faithful,
by setting up the absurd doctrine of independent opinion—
a doctrine so fatal to the New Light democracy wherever it
has been allowed. Agamemnon Flag,” the editor proceeded
to remark, “was not a man to be put down by the
frothy, ginger-pop eloquence, engendered in the hot atmosphere
of cock-tail and julep manufactories. Mr. Fog may
now perceive that his secret perambulations to spread dissension
in the New Light ranks, and his hypocritical boast
of Independence will be scowled upon by every honest eye
and spurned by every honest tongue which are to be found
amongst the high-minded New Light Yeomanry of Quodlibet,
Bickerbray, Tumbledown, and the adjacent parts.”

The election soon after this took place, when, greatly to
the astonishment of our club, and in fact of the whole
party, the result was announced to be as set forth in this
table:—

         

”Quods.		Whig.
Theodore Fog	1191	Andrew Grant	1039''
Abram Schoolcraft	1084
Curtius Short	1063
Agamemnon Flag	758

Thus it appeared that Theodore Fog far outran the rest
of the ticket, and that Agamemnon Flag fell considerably
below the Whig vote.

Eliphalet Fox, greatly delighted at the triumph of this
election, lost no time in publishing a handbill announcing
the issue. It was headed

and proceeded to descant on the event in this wise:—

“We have never for a moment permitted ourselves to
doubt that our estimable fellow-townsman Theodore Fog,
one of the purest, most disinterested and ablest democrats
of the glorious New Light Quodlibetarian School, would
lead the polls; and, indeed, we took occasion to insinuate as
much after his celebrated speech at the Sycamore Spring,
which it was our good fortune to hear, and which, as an
exposition of sound New Light principles, gave us such
unmixed delight. We cannot but feel regret that Mr.
Flag's friends should have so inconsiderately consented to
place his name on the ticket, before they had ascertained
Mr. Fog's views in regard to the election. An understanding
upon this subject would have saved them the mortification
of presenting a name which, from the first, we felt a
presentiment was destined to incur defeat; and it would have
spared Mr. Flag the pain he must suffer in the present
event. The youth of this gentleman, his want of acquaintance
with the people, arising, doubtless, from the imperfection
of his vision, and his unfortunate espousal of the Iron
Railing Compromise, very obviously stood in the way of
his success. A day will, however, come around when, in
our judgment, the people will do justice to his pretension,
which we undertake to say is considerable.”

From these extracts, the reader is already prepared to
exclaim with me, Oh excellent Eliphalet Fox—mirror of
editors—pillar of the New Light faith! what exquisite address,
what consummate skill hast thou not evinced in these
editorial effusions! Methinks I see Eliphalet, a tide waiter
on events, watching the ebb and flow of popular opinion;
ever ready, at a moment's warning, to launch his little boat
of editorship on the biggest wave, and upon that wave to

ride secure beyond the breakers, out upon the glassy ocean
of politics, and then after taking an observation of the wind,
to trim his sail with such nautical forecast, as shall make
him sure to be borne along with the breeze towards whatever
haven it shall please the higher powers to direct him;
sagaciously counting in such haven to find the richest return
on his little stock of ventures. I see his meagre, attenuated,
diminutive person, elevated on a footstool six inches above
the floor, behind a high but somewhat rickety desk, in the
northwest corner of his lumber-filled-office, where scissor-clipped
Gazettes are strewed, elbow deep, over an old walnut
table, and where three dingy caricatures of Harry Clay,
Nic Biddle and John C. Calhoun, are tacked against his
smoky walls; there I see him quiet, but at work, with pen
in hand, ever and anon darting his cat-like eye at the door,
upon each new comer who comes to tell the news of the
canvass. I hear his husky, dry and querulous voice, tisicky
and quick, asking How goes it in Bickerbray? What from
Tumbledown? and as he receives his answer pro or con,
Fog or Flag, he turns to his half-scribbled sheet to remould
his paragraph, with the dexterity of an old and practised
Quod, in such phrase as shall assuredly earn him the good
will of the winner. Rare Eliphalet! Admirable Fox!
Incomparable servant of an incomparable master!

It is with a sad and melancholy sincerity I record the
fact, that this election left behind it much heart-burning
in Quodlibet. The New Light Democracy were now broken
into three parts, the Mandarins, the Middlings, and the True
Grits; and Theodore Fog, in command of the True Grits,
had evidently got the upper hand. The defeat of Agamemnon
Flag was a severe blow to our distinguished representative,
the Hon. Middleton Flam, and no less galling to
Nicodemus Handy; for these three worthy gentlemen were
undoubtedly at the head of the Mandarins, and their overthrow

on the present occasion, led to unpleasant consequences
which I shall be called upon to notice hereafter.

The first unhappy fruit of this election was of a domestic
nature, and wrought very seriously against the peace of our
friend Jesse Ferret.

For three days and nights after the publication of the
polls, all Quodlibet was alive with the rejoicings of the True
Grits, at the success of Theodore Fog. The bar room of
The Hero was full all day with these energetic friends of
the prosperous candidate; and it is worthy of remark, that
their number was vastly greater than was shown by the
ballot box, many more individuals claiming the honor of
having voted for him, than the return of the polls would
authorise us to believe; all night long bonfires blazed,
drums and fifes disturbed the repose of the Borough, and
processions, not remarkable for their decorum, marched from
house to house with Theodore mounted in a chair, borne
on the shoulders of sturdy True Grits. A hundred torches in
the hands of thirty men and seventy boys, flared on the signs
and flickered on the walls of Quodlibet, and fifty negroes,
great and small, ragged and patched, hatless and hatted, slip
shod and barefoot, leaped, danced, limped and hobbled in
wide spread concourse around black Isaac, the Kent bugle
player, and yellow Josh the clarionet man, who struck in
with the drum and fife to the tune of Jim Crow about the
centre of the column. Flan Sucker was installed Grand
Marshal of this procession, and was called King of the
True Grits, whilst Ben Inky, Sim Travers, Jeff Drinker and
More McNulty, served along the flanks as his lieutenants;
the whole array huzzaing at every corner, and stopping to
refresh every time they came into the neighborhood of
Peter Ounce's, Jesse Ferret's or the smaller ordinaries which
the rapid growth of Quodlibet had supplied in various quarters
to relieve the drought of its inhabitants.

This state of things, as I have said, continued for three
days after the election. At the end of that period, Jesse
Ferret, somewhere about noon, was in his bar casting up
his accounts. He wore a serious, disturbed countenance—
not because his accounts showed a bad face; for so far from
that, the late jubilee had very considerably increased his
capital in trade, but because his rest had been broken—and
Jesse never could bear to lose his sleep. Whilst he was
engaged in summing up these recent gains, his worthy
spouse entered the bar and quietly seated herself in a chair
behind him. The expression of her face showed that her
thoughts were occupied with matter of interesting import:
a slight frown sat upon her brow, her lips were partially
compressed, and her fat arms made an attempt to cross each
other on her bosom. The chair was too small for her; and,
from her peculiar configuration, one looking at her in a full
front view would not be likely to conjecture she was seated,
but rather that she was a short and dumpy woman, and leant
against some prop for rest—the line from her chin to her
toe being that of the face of a pyramid. Her posture denoted
an assumed patience. So quietly had she entered the
enclosure of the bar, that Jesse was altogether ignorant of
her presence, and therefore continued at his occupation. It
was not long, however, before his attention was awakened
to the interesting fact that his wife was behind him, by the
salutation, conveyed in a rather deep-toned voice, “Jesse
Ferret, how long are you agoing to be poking over them
accounts?”

Jesse turned short round, in some surprise at the sound
of these well-known accents so near him, and, surveying
the dame for an instant, replied—

“Bless me! Polly, how came you here? You go about
like one of them church-yard vaporations that melts in thin

air and frightens children in the dead of night. What did
you want with me, lovey?”

“I want to know” said Mrs. Ferret, “who's master of
this house—you or me? Ef I'm the master, say so—but
ef you're the master, then act as sich. It aint no longer to
be endured, this shilly shally, visy versy politicks of yourn.
Here you are a casting up of the accounts this blessed day,
and please Heaven, if there's one cent got into the till in
the three days that have gone by, the last person in the
world to thank for it is yourself, Jesse Ferret. Theodore
Fog's in—got in by a vote that one might say's almost
magnanimous, and he's got all the thirstiest men in this
Borough under his thumb—and he's been pouring 'em in
here in shoals, which he would n't have done, one man of
'em, ef it had n't a been for my principles, which goes the
whole hog—and you so contrairy, constantly a giving out
your no sides—it's raly abominable! and time you should
change, Jesse Ferret, it is.”

“Why, my dear, don't you see the good of it?” said
Mr. Ferret, in a mild, good-natured tone of expostulation.
“The very best thing we can do is for you to go on as you
are doing, and me to go on as I am. Here's come up a
great split in the party; and presently, as sure as you are
born, they'll be having their separate houses and making
party questions out of it: then, my dear, you know Theodore
Fog and his people counts you as a sort of sun dial to
their side, and goes almost by your pinting. And then the
others, you know, cant have nothing to find fault against
me upon account of my sentiments; so, in this way we
shall get the custom of the thorough-stitchers, the half-and-halfs,
the promiscuous, and of every kind of stripe that's
going. Cant you see into it, lovey?”

“No, I cannot see into it,” replied the landlady. “In the

first place, them Mandarins, as The. Fog says, is not worth
the looking after in our line—they drink nothing but Champagne
and Madeery, and ef they do sometimes send down to
our bar for ourn, they are sure to turn up their noses at it,
and say it's sour. Did n't Nicodemus Handy tell me to my
face that my Anchor Brand, which you've got on the top
shelf, and which cost you six dollars a basket at auction,
was nothing but turnip juice?—and did you ever know
Middleton Flam to call for as much as a thimble-full of
your liquors, with all his preachings and parleyings in this
house? No you did not: and its your duty to cast off
your bucket o' both sides, and go in for The. with the
True Grits, as he calls them; and true enough they are in
the drinking line!—that, nobody who knows them will
deny. I'm tired, Jesse Ferret, and fretted down to the
very bone, at being put upon in this here way, having to
keep up the politicks of this house, which I dont think you
haint no right to do, I dont. I'm been a talking to you
about this tell I'm tired, and I wonder you can be so obstinate,
considering I take it so much to heart.”

“Now Polly, my wife,” interposed our landlord with an
affectionate remonstrance, intended to soothe Mrs. Ferret's
feelings, “many's the struggle I've had on this here very
topic with my own conscience; I may say I have wrestled
for it at the very bottom of my nature. But the case is
this, and I'll explain it to you once for all. I've got a sentiment
at the core of my heart, which is a secret in regard
of these here politicks. I wish to go right—you know I
do,—but if I only knowed what sentiments to take up:—
there's the mystery. If I knowed that, I should feel easy;
but I never could keep any principles, upon account of the
changes. Before a plain, simple man can cleverly tell where
he is, every thing has whisked away in the contrairy direction.
One year we are `all tariff,' and the next, `down

with it as an abomination.' Here we go `for canals and
railroads!'—a crack of the whip, and there we are all t'other
side. `No electioneering of officers!' cries out the captain
of the squad. `Turn that fellow out, he dont work
for the party!' cries the very same captain in the very next
breath. `Retrenchment and reform!' says every big fellow
there at Washington; and the same words are bawled
all the way down amongst us, even to Theodore Fog;—
`Damn the expense!' (the Lord forgive me for using such
words,) says the very same fellows in the same breath,
`stick on a million here and a million there—the more the
merrier!' And so we go. Here, t'other day, this here Sub-Treasury
was monarchy and revolution to boot, and treason
outright; and now, what it is, every man's afeard to say—
some's for, some's against—some's both, and all's in a state
of amalgamation, perplexity, and caterwauling unaccountable.
What between specy circlars, anti-masons, pocketing
of bills (Lord knows what that means), vetoes, distribution,
fortifications, abolition, running down Indians and running
up accounts, politics has got into a jumble that a Philadelphy
lawyer couldn't steer through them. A poor publican
has a straining time of it, Polly. He cant get right if he
tries—aud
if he does blunder upon it, he cant stay right
six months, let him do his best—morally impossible!'
That's where it's a matter o' conscience with me; and my
conclusion is, in such a mucilaginous state of affairs, a man
who wants to accommodate the public must be either all
sides or no sides; and, therefore I say, my motto is, a Publican
should—leastways I speak in regard of these times—
have no sides. And there's the whole matter laid out to
you, Polly my wife.”

“All sides, any day, before No sides!” replied Mrs. Ferret.
“As Susan Barndollar says, stick to your colors and
they'll carry you to sides a plenty, I'll warrant you. Don't

Theodore Fog tell us the Democracy's a trying of experiments—and,
Lord bless us! ef they haint carried you on
sides enough, then you are an unreasonable man. Principle
is n't principle—it's following of your party:—you change
when it changes, whereby you are always right. Now,
these here True Grits is two to one to the Mandarins and
Middlings both, and they devour, yes, ten times as much
liquor. Ef you had an eye in your head, you'd come out
a True Grit—it's a naiteral tavern-keeper's politics.”

“Spose, my dear,” said Jesse, waxing warm, “things
takes a turn off hand. Spose these True Grits are upset—
as I should n't wonder they would be, as soon as Middleton
Flam comes home from congress, and winds up the people
right again—as he has often done before—am I going to
run my head against a post by offending the whole New
Light Club, which meets at our house, and make enemies
by having sentiments of my own? You do n't know me,
Polly Ferret.”

“Well, and ef things does take a turn,?” replied the wife,
“is there any think new in that, in this Borough? Haint
we had turns before? Theodore Fog will turn with 'em—
that's his principle—that's my principle, and it ought, by
rights, to be your'n. Does n't the schoolmaster tell you to
stick to the upper side? Does n't our member, Middleton
Flam, tell you the same thing, and Nicodemus Handy, and
Liphlet Fox? There's your own barkeeper, Nim. Porter,
that's asleep in yander winder, who's got more sense than
you have; he knows what side his bread's buttered—and
even your own child, Susan Barndollar, though she stuck
out for the nomination, is n't such a ninny as to have no
principles. We're dimmycrats and always counts with the
majority; and that's safe whichever way it goes; and, as I
said before, no mortal man can find out a better side than
that for a tavern-keeper. But it's the Whigs your're acourting,

Jesse Ferret—the Whigs, neither more nor less—
and it's pitiful in you to be so sneaking.”

“Polly, if you aint got no better language than that to
use to me,” exclaimed Ferret, under considerable excitement,
“I'd advise you to hold your tongue.”

“My tongue's my own, Mr. Ferret,” replied the landlady,
and I do n't want none of your advice what I'm to do
with it. I have used it long enough to know how to keep
it a-running, and how to stop it, without being taught by
you.”

“I've got no right to listen to you, if I do n't choose,”
retorted the landlord. “Women has their milking and
churning to look after, and, to my thinking, they 'd best
attend to that, instead of skreiking out politics in public barrooms—that's
my opinion, Mrs. Ferret.”

“Women, indeed!—for you to talk about women!—
You're the laughing-stock of all the petticoats of our
Borough,” said the wife, in a high key of exacerbation.
Mrs. Younghusband and Mrs. Snuffers and Mrs. Doubleday
makes you a continual banter, and it hurts my feelings
as the mother of your children, it does.”

“Seize Mrs. Younghusband and Mrs. Snuffers and
Mrs. Doubleday, all three!” exclaimed Ferret in a sort of
demi-oath.

“What's that you said, Mr. Ferret?”

“I said seize 'em! and I do n't care the rinsings of that
glass if you tell 'em so,—a set of mandrakes.”

“Oh, Jesse Ferret, Jesse Ferret,—as a man who sets up
to be an example, what are you coming to!” exclaimed the
landlady with uplifted hands. “Ef your children could
hear such profanity. I declare to patience, you'd try the
quarters of the meekest mother in the universe.”

How far this conjugal outflash might have gone in its
natural course, it is impossible for me to say; although

Nim. Porter, who pretended to be asleep all the time, and
who heard every word of it, and related it with much pleasantry
to me, says he has often witnessed these breezes between
this worthy couple, and always found that they made
up as soon as Mrs. Ferret got out of breath—which, by-the-by,
she being short-winded, generally occurred in about
half an hour from the first rising of her anger; but, on the
present occasion, it was happily interrupted by the entrance
of Theodore Fog, Dabbs, the foreman in Eliphalet Fox's
printing office, Flan Sucker, More M'Nulty and Sim
Travers, who all marched directly up to the bar. I had entered
upon the heels of this party, and having taken up
“The Whole Hog” for my perusal, in one corner of the
room, was myself a witness to the scene that followed.

Nim Porter, who was seated in an elbow-chair, resting the
back of his head against a window-sill at the opposite end
of the bar-room and counterfeiting sleep, was now roused
up to attend to the customers.

“My dear Mrs. Ferret—paragon of landladies,” said Fog,
“Pillar—yes, bolster of our cause—some drink! Dabbs
owes a treat, and we have resolved that the libation shall be
made under the eye of our own queen. Dabbs, say what
the mixture shall be; I'm not particular—my throat is a
turnpike travelled by all imaginable potations. A mint julep,
Dabbs? gentlemen! Flan, a julep? Yes? A julep, a
julep all round. Agreed to, nem. con. Mrs. Ferret, five
juleps; charge Dabbs—Dabbs's treat.”

Mrs. Ferret's anger against her spouse gradually faded
under this accost; a slight glimpse of sunshine began to
break over her visage as she addressed herself to the task
of preparing the required compounds, and Nim Porter
busied himself in picking sprigs of mint from a large bouquet
of that invaluable plant, which flourished in native

verdure over the rim of a two quart tumbler, in which it
seemed to grow as in a flower-pot.

Ferret had retreated from the bar towards the door
which looked upon the street; and Theodore Fog, who, as
the truth must be spoken, was at this hour very considerably
advanced towards his customary zenith of excitement, thrust
his hands under the skirts of his striped gingham coatee,
and strutted with the air of a prime minister in a farce,
around the room.

“Nim,” said he,

Ferret—glorious turn out, Ferret. True Grits all alive.
Pound that ice fine, Nim—no water, recollect! First rate
fellows, Ferret—go the whole—real Quods—diamonds.”

“Hope you'll mend matters now, Mr. Fog, since you 've
got in,” said Ferret. “I'm for giving every one a chance;
wish you success.”

“Of course you do, Ferret,” replied Fog; “and so you
would have wished Ag. Flag success if he 'd got in.”

“Or Andy Grant either,” said Mrs. Ferret; “my husband's
not partikler.”

“You 're right, Ferret—you 're right!” interrupted Fog,
“always go with the current—that's sound philosophy—
that's my rule. Dabbs, is n't that metaphysics? Flan,
do n't you call that the true theory of the balance of power?
Gentlemen. I submit it to you all.”

“Real True Grit doctrine,” said Flam; “find out how
the cat jumps—then go ahead.”

“Fundamental, that,” said Dabbs; “principles change,
measures vary, names rise and fall, but majority is always
majority.”

“Bravo, Dabbs!” ejaculated Theodore Fog; “Tempora

mutantur et nos mutamur cum illis—that's our True Grit
motto. The nominative case always agrees with the verb;
the people are the verb, we're the nominative case.—That's
logic, Mrs. Ferret. Nim, how have you made out in these
illustrious `three days?”'

“Cursed sleepy,” answered Nim Porter, who was now
brewing the drink by pouring it from one tumbler to another;
“hav'n't had three hours rest in the whole three
nights. No right to complain though—won four bets—had
two to one against Andy Grant with Tompkinson—and
even against Ag with three of the New Light Club. I
knew d—d well how it was going, ever since the meeting
at the Sycamore Spring. Fog, you touched them fellows
that work on the Bickerbray and Meltpenny road, 'twixt
wind and water.”

“Did n't I?” exclaimed Fog; “I opine I did; unequivocally,
I fancy I did. I venture to add, with all possible
energy of asservation, that I did that thing, Nim. That's
what I call walking into the understanding of the independent,
electoral constituent body—and the best of it is, we
got them their votes, you dog.”

“You did n't lose no votes that I could bring you,” said
Mrs. Ferret, “although you did n't get Jesse's. But that
wa'n't much loss—for Jesse's of little account any how,
and has n't the influence of a chicken in this Borough—as
no man has n't, whose afeared of his shadow.”

“Well, we don't want to hear no more about that,” interrupted
the landlord. “Mr. Fog knows it was n't ill will
to him—but only my principle, that publicans had best not
take sides.”

“And who has a right to object to that?” exclaimed Fog.
“Give us your hand, Jesse—I'd do the same thing myself,
I were in your place.”

“Well, if you aint the forgivingest creature, Mr. Fog!”
said the landlady —

“Mrs. Ferret, your health!—gentlemen, take your respective
glasses—Dabbs, your health—Jesse—Flam—all of you
—success to the True Grits! Top off, boys.”

They all drank.

For applied the tumbler to his lips; looked straightforward
with what might be called a fixed stare upon vacancy,
his eyes expressing the deep emotion of sensual pleasure
which the icy compound inspired as it slowly flowed over
his palate, and for a full minute employed himself without
pause, in draining the contents of his glass—gradually
and slowly arching back his head until the last drop trickled
from the bottom.

“Amazing seductive beverage, Mrs. Ferret!” he said as
he smacked his lips, and set the tumbler down upon the
board. “Fascinating potation! If I were not an example
of consummate prudence, and the most circumspect being,
not yet gathered within the pale of the Temperance Society,
my virtue would have fallen a victim before this to that
enticing cordial, Mrs. Ferret. But I'm proof—I have been
sorely tried, and have come out of the furnace, as you see
me, superior to the temptations of this wicked world.
Dabbs, poney up—we must go to the raffle, which begins
in five minutes at Rhody M'Caw's stable—that pacing roan,
Nim—you'll be there, of course:—in your line. Come,
gentlemen—don't wipe your mouths with your sleeves—let
the odor exhale. As some poet somewhere says, speaking
of a mint julep,

Not the words exactly—but something in that run. Jesse,
the Flower of Quodlibet—Mrs. Ferret, Queen of the Spear
Mint—good bye. Nim, you rascal—after the raffle is over,
expect to see me as dry as an oven.”

When Fog had delivered himself of this rhapsody—
which, no doubt, has impressed the reader with the conviction
that this noontide glass had done its work upon the
brain of our new representative in the Legislature—the
whole party made their exit; and Jesse Ferret, anxious to
avoid another conference with his dame, professing a wish
to witness the raffle, followed in their footsteps.