University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

On the evening of the third day from that of
which I have just been speaking, the President of
the United States was sitting alone in a small room
in his palace, which, in conformity to the nomenclature
of foreign courts, it had become the fashion to
call his closet. The furniture of this little apartment
was characterized at once by neatness, taste, and
convenience. Without being splendid, it was rich
and costly; and, in its structure and arrangement,
adapted to the use of a man, who, devoted to business,
yet loved his ease. The weariness of sedentary
application was relieved by the most tasteful
and commodious variety of chairs, couches, and
sofas, while the utmost ingenuity was displayed in
the construction of desks, tables, and other conveniences
for reading and writing. In the appearance

of the distinguished personage, to whose privacy I
have introduced the reader, there was a mixture of
thought and carelessness very much in character with
the implements of business and the appliances for
ease and comfort which surrounded him. He occasionally
looked at his watch, and at the door, with the
countenance of one who expects a visiter; and then
throwing himself against the arm of his sofa, resumed
his disengaged air. That something was on his mind
was apparent. But, interesting as the subject might
be, it did not seem to touch him nearly. His whole
manner was that of a man who is somewhat at a loss
to know what may be best for others, but finds full
consolation in knowing precisely what is best for
himself.

As the events of the last ten years make it probable
that none of my younger readers have ever
seen the august dignitary of whom I speak, and as
few of us are like to have occasion to see him in future,
a particular description of his person may not
be unacceptable. Though far advanced in life, he
was tastily and even daintily dressed, his whole costume
being exactly adapted to a diminutive and
dapper person, a fair complexion, a light and brilliant
blue eye, and a head which might have formed
a study for the phrenologist, whether we consider its
ample developments or its egg-like baldness. The
place of hair was supplied by powder, which his
illustrious example had again made fashionable.

The revolution in public sentiment which, commencing
sixty years ago, had abolished all the privileges
of rank and age; which trained up the young to
mock at the infirmities of their fathers, and encouraged
the unwashed artificer to elbow the duke from
his place of precedence; this revolution had now
completed its cycle. While the sovereignty of numbers
was acknowledged, the convenience of the
multitude had set the fashions. But the reign of an
individual had been restored, and the taste of that
individual gave law to the general taste. Had he
worn a wig, wigs would have been the rage. But
as phrenology had taught him to be justly proud of
his high and polished forehead, and the intellectual
developments of the whole cranium, he eschewed
hair in all its forms, and barely screened his naked
crown from the air with a light covering of powder.
He seemed, too, not wholly unconscious of something
worthy of admiration in a foot, the beauty of
which was displayed to the best advantage by the
tight fit and high finish of his delicate slipper. As
he lay back on the sofa, his eye rested complacently
on this member, which was stretched out before him,
its position shifting, as if unconsciously, into every
variety of grace. Returning from thence, his glance
rested on his hand, fair, delicate, small, and richly
jewelled. It hung carelessly on the arm of the sofa,
and the fingers of this, too, as if rather from instinct
than volition, performed sundry evolutions on
which the eye of majesty dwelt with gentle complacency.

This complacent reverie was frequently broken by
the sound of the door-bell. At such moments, the
President would raise his head with a look of awakened
expectation, which subsided instantly; until,
by frequent repetition, it called up some expression of
displeased impatience. At last, the sound was echoed
by a single stroke, which rung from what looked like
a clock within the room. He immediately sat erect,
assuming an air of dignified and complacent composure,
suited to the reception of a respected visiter.

The door opened, and the gentleman in waiting
bowed into the room a person who well deserves a
particular description, and then withdrew.

The individual thus introduced was a gentleman
whose age could not be much short of seventy. In
person he had probably been once nearly six feet
high, but time had at once crushed and bowed him
to a much shorter stature. Indeed, the stoop of his
shoulders, the protrusion of the neck, and the projecting
position of the chin, made together that peculiar
complex curvature which brings the top of the
cape of the coat exactly against the top of the head.
The expression of his countenance was, at once, fawning
and consequential. His face had been originally
something between round and square. It was now
shortened by the loss of his teeth. The muscular
fullness of youth had not been replaced by any accession

of fat, nor had the skin of his face shrunk, as it
often does, on the retiring flesh. The consequence
was, that his cheeks hung down in loose pouches,
and all his features, originally small and mean,
seemed involved in the folds of his shrivelled and
puckered skin. His voice was harsh and grating,
and the more so from an attempt at suavity in the
tones, which produced nothing more than a drawling
prolongation of each word. Thus, though he spoke
slowly, the stream of sound flowed continually from
his lips, reminding the hearer of the never-ending
chant of the locust.

As the President rose and gracefully advanced to
welcome him, he shuffled forward as if wishing to prevent
the honor thus done him, while the increased
curve of his back and the eager humility of his upturned
countenance, betokened the prostration of his
spirit in the presence of the dispenser of honor and
emolument. Having bowed himself on the hand which
had been graciously extended to him, he remained
standing in the floor as if unmindful of repeated invitations
to be seated. The President had not yet
so entirely forgotten the manners which once distinguished
him as a most accomplished gentleman, and
was not at first aware of the necessity of seating himself
before his deferential guest. At length, he resumed
his place on the sofa, and then the other,
with a new prostration, which seemed to apologize
for sitting in the presence of majesty, followed his

example. He did not, indeed, presume to share the
sofa, though invited to do so, but took his place on
a seat equally luxurious on the opposite side of the
fire-place. But the luxury of the chaise longue was
lost on him. He felt that to lean against the back
or arm would be quite unbecoming, and sat as nearly
erect as he could, in that precise posture which indicates
a readiness to spring to the feet and do the
bidding of a superior.

“I had begun to despair of seeing you this evening,
my dear sir,” said the President, in a tone at
once kind and reproachful. “I had given orders
that I should be denied to all but you.”

“You do me great and undeserved honor,” replied
the other, “but I—”

“I wished to speak to you in private,” continued
Mr. Van Buren, not noticing the interruption, “of a
matter which deeply interests us both. Here is a
letter which I received this morning, which makes it
at least doubtful whether the last step which I took
in regard to that young man, Trevor, is quite such
as should have been taken.”

He then took from a bundle of papers, one which
he read as follows:

Having read this letter aloud, the President, without
comment, placed in the hands of his guest a
bundle of papers. It is only necessary to tell the
reader that they were copies of the same documents
which Douglas had laid before his father and uncle,
each one duly authenticated by the attestation of
Lieutenant Whiting.

Mr. Van Buren now threw himself back upon the
sofa, and fixed his eye on the face of his companion
with an expression which betokened some concern,
not unmixed with a slight enjoyment of the perplexity
with which the purblind old man pored over
the papers. Indeed, his uneasiness could hardly
have escaped the observation of a casual spectator.
He shifted his seat; he read; then wiped his spectacles,
and read again; then wiped his brow; and
having gone through all the documents, again took
them up in order, and read them all over again.
When, at length, he had extracted all their substance,
he turned on the President a perplexed and
anxious look, and remained silent.

At length, the latter spoke. “I fear we have
made an unlucky blunder in this business, my dear
sir,” said he.

“I fear so too, sir,” said the other. “But I beg
leave to assure your Excellency that the information
I took the liberty to communicate was a simple and
exact statement of what I learned from my son, which,
I trust, your Excellency will see is in nowise contravened

by these documents. I certainly was not
apprised of the provocation which, it is here said,
was offered to a lady under Lieutenant Trevor's
protection.”

“Make yourself perfectly easy on that head, my
dear sir,” said the President. “I give myself small
concern on Lieutenant Trevor's account. My obligations
to his father are more than discharged by the
rapid advancement of his elder brother; and he can
have no right to complain that proceedings have
been instituted to enquire into a matter which, even
thus explained, places his loyalty in no very favorable
light. My concern is, lest the prosecution of
this investigation should lead to results undersirable
to you.”

“I understand your Excellency,” replied the honorable
Mr. Baker. “The object of this communication
is to convey a covert intimation that, if proceedings
against Lieutenant Trevor are not staid, he
will revenge himself by endeavoring to dishonor my
son. I never brought him up to be the `butcher of
a silk button,' and don't wonder that his notions of
gallantry, &c. &c. do not exactly square with those
of these preux chevaliers.”

“That view of the subject is doubtless quite philosophical,”
said the President; “and if you regard
it in that light, it will remove all difficulty out of the
way.”

“I cannot exactly say,” replied the other, “that

I should be quite willing to expose my son to the
pain of seeing these documents made public; concocted,
as they manifestly have been, by men who
have learned to quarrel by the book, and contrived
on purpose to shut the door against enquiry. I dare
say he would hardly have made the communication
I received, could he have anticipated the step which
I deemed it my duty to your Excellency to take in
consequence of it.”

“The misfortune is,” replied the President, “that
I have already caused an intimation to be given to
Lieutenant Trevor that it may be necessary to order
a court-martial, unless he thinks proper to demand a
court of enquiry. Either way, the whole affair must
come out.”

“Is there no other alternative?” asked the
anxious father. “Could not these papers be suppressed?
There is no other authentic evidence of
the facts.”

“Unfortunately,” said the President, to whom
habitual intercourse with the base had made the
feeling of contempt so familiar that he repressed it
without difficulty, “unfortunately these papers are
but copies. The originals are doubtless in the hands
of Lieutenant Whiting, whose honor cannot be
questioned, and probably they would be farther verified
by the handwriting of your son.”

“What then can be done?” asked the honorable
Mr. Baker, in a state of unutterable perplexity.

Receiving no answer, he sat musing, with the restless
and fidgeting air of a man who seeks in vain for
some starting point for his thoughts. He was at
length roused from his reverie by two strokes of the
bell, which issued from the clock-case at the President's
back. The signal was answered by the touch
of a hand-bell, which stood on a table near him.
The door opened. The gentleman in waiting entered,
advanced to the table, laid a packet of letters
before the President, and withdrew in silence.

He took them up, shuffled them through his hands
as a whist player runs over his cards, and having
fixed his eye on one, took it out of the parcel, and
threw the rest on the table. His companion having
in the mean time relapsed into unconscious reverie,
he opened this, and ran his eye over the contents.

“Here is good news for us, my dear sir,” said
he. “Lieutenant Trevor here tenders his resignation,
which, perhaps, may put an end to the difficulty.”

“Perhaps!” exclaimed the other, eagerly.
“There can be no doubt about it, I hope.”

“None at all; if his accounts are all adjusted, of
which I have little doubt. But it is not customary
to let go our hold on an officer by accepting his
resignation, until that matter has been enquired
into.”

“It will be a great relief to me,” faltered out Mr.
Baker, looking at the President with an anxious and
imploring countenance—

“To have this explained at once,” said Mr. Van
Buren, interrupting him. “You shall be gratified,
my dear sir.”

The hand-bell was again sounded. The gentleman
in waiting re-appeared; a few words were
spoken to him in a low tone, and he again withdrew.