14. XIV.
A FOLLOWER OF CALHOUN.
I HAVE no intention now of drawing a vivid and affecting picture
of an amiable family turned topsy-turvy and running to and
fro.
Here is what I saw when I opened my eyes: an old lady in
a white cap, busily bandaging my broken arm; an old gentleman
with long gray hair, who was superintending the operation; and
a young lady with chestnut curls, who reclined in a chair opposite,
and did not seem greatly interested in the scene.
Five minutes after regaining consciousness, I had the satisfaction
of knowing that I was not among strangers at all, but was
the guest of Colonel Beverley of “The Oaks,” one of my father's
oldest and most intimate friends.
“M. B.,” on the handkerchief I had picked up, stood for Miss
May Beverley, his daughter.
On the evening of the same day, my arm felt perfectly easy;
and I was talking politics with my host.
He was really a character. Imagine, my dear reader, a tall,
thin gentleman, nearly seventy years of age, with long gray hair
falling in elf-locks on his shoulders; eyes as keen and piercing
as those of an eagle; but a smile so soft and sweet that no
woman's ever exceeded it in suavity. In every movement of my
host was the elegance and distinction of the old race of cavaliers;
and in the gray-haired gentleman with the sweet and winning
smile, I was utterly unable to recognize the stern old
doctrinaire
whom my father had often described to me—the politician of
passions so fiery, invective so withering, and a combativeness so
fierce and implacable. I knew that in the great war for State-rights,
when South Carolina opposed Jackson in 1832, no man
had been more violent and resolute than Colonel Beverley, who
had passionately espoused the views of Mr. Calhoun, and proved
himself a fire-brand of agitation and revolution.
I need not record the conversation which took place between
myself and my host. Great was his satisfaction when he heard
that I was a son of “old Phil. Surry, one of his very best
friends. I must stay as long as possible. What was the news
from Richmond? These cursed Yankees were going to invade the
South—the bludgeon against the rapier—the crop-eared Puritan
against the Cavalier! Curse the Pilgrim Fathers, and the whole
canting breed of 'em! The South had been fighting them for
fifty years in Congress, and was ready now to meet them on the
battle-field! John Brown nor John Devil should put the heel
on him! Old Patrick Henry and Randolph of Roanoke saw
clearly how the thing was going to work—saw the `poison
under the wings' of this Federal contrivance, which had proved
a dead failure from the start! The South had paid two-thirds
of the revenues of Government; had furnished all the Presidents;
had built up the shipping and manufactures of New
England; and now these people had grown presumptuous and
greedy—they must put to death the bird that laid the golden egg,
and get all at once! But the South was ready to meet them—
she would resist with the bayonet! She might be overwhelmed
by numbers, but she would fight to the last. With the denial of
the doctrine of State-rights every thing went; old John C. Calhoun
saw the working of the venom of Federalism and warned
the North of the consequences; but they scoffed at him. War
was now at hand, and the only hope for the country was in the
triumph of the South. If she failed, all was over; mobocracy
would rule, and all go to ruin. Against this the South was the
only breakwater. She must spread the old State-rights banner
to the winds—meet the enemy breast to breast—and if she fell,
let her fall with the old State-rights flag around her—glorious
even in her death!”
As the old doctrinaire thus spoke, his face flushed, his eyes
burned, his form quivered. It was the fiery outburst of a
veritable volcano—you could smell the hot odor of the hissing
lava!
