The Life and Adventures of Maj. Roger Sherman Potter Part 18

HAVING given his order to the servant, General Potter turned to Mr.

Tickler, and with great politeness said, "I may say to you in confidence, seeing that I shall be all right when I take a bottle or two of Townsend's Sarsaparilla, that my friends made me a General last night; and as experience teaches me that this t.i.tle will do me great service, pray make it convenient to address me accordingly."

Mr. Tickler at once promised to scrupulously regard this admonition, as well as to hold the general's person in profound respect.

And now, as many inquiries were made after his health by persons of distinction, he desired the host to send them away, saying he was doing as well as could be expected under the circ.u.mstances. And when the gentlemen who retired at Mr. Tickler's request reentered the room, they were surprised and astonished to find the man they had supposed on the point of death restored to perfect health, and weak only from the blood taken from him by the skillful physician. He was, indeed, speaking as good English as needs be, and earnestly debating a question of state policy with Mr. Tickler over an excellent punch. On making inquiries about his pains, he good naturedly a.s.sured them he was a much sounder man than before, except that he had a slight itching in one of his toes, which could be readily removed with a bottle or two of Dr. Townsend's Sarsaparilla.

They were not a little diverted at the quaintness of the remark, and went away satisfied that he was at least the most remarkable man of the age, if not the wisest.

Not a thought was given to old Battle during all this time, which was the strangest thing of all, considering the affection he bore him. Having drained his gla.s.s, the general (which he must henceforth be called) gave Mr. Tickler wonderful account of his mission, and the prospects that were held out to him. "I see, sir," said he, addressing Tickler, "that you are a man of uncommon ability; and as I stand in great need of just such a gentleman's services, to write my speeches, and do an elegant correspondence, you have but to say you will join me, and I promise you such a share of the rewards as will make you a happy man for the rest of your life. My speeches are not difficult, but my correspondence is extensive and curious enough, G.o.d knows."

"An office that will better my condition will not stand long waiting my acceptance, as you shall have reason to know, sir, when you make me the offer. Mind ye, I have followed the wretched life of a critic so long that I am compelled to cheat my tailor, and depend on a friend to invite me to dinner. As to my accomplishments, you will find them out by inquiring at the Press Club, which is composed of as nice gentlemen as any lady of taste could wish; and I swear, sir, they have so much learning that they have killed several magazines of great respectability." Mr. Tickler said this with an air of superlative dignity; and having a beard and mustache of exquisite growth, he drew a delicate comb from his pocket, and commenced curling them with great care. In truth, Mr. Orlando Tickler was something of an exquisite, and as much a fixture at the opera as the empty chair of a stockholder. What was more, he leveled an opera gla.s.s worth sixty dollars at the belles.

"Really, sir," replied the general with a smile, "you talk like a gentleman of profound wisdom. I perhaps ought to tell you, that a clever young gentleman, who did me the service I desire of you, being ambitious, left me, and set up for a lawyer. And it was in vain I promisd him a seat in Congress in two years, if he would remain with me. It is also said of him, that he has taken to writing my history, which an honest bookseller has engaged to publish out of sheer respect to the severe and very uncharitable things he had said of me and my wife, Polly Potter." The general now begged Mr. Tickler to give him a more detailed account of these critics, of whom he he had spoken so strangely.

"Faith, sir, it gives me pleasure to impart knowledge to others,"

rejoined Mr. Tickler; "and as I have no great love for any of them, I will, to be brief, tell you that you may divide them under four heads: The wise critics, the fashionable society critics, the correspondent critics, and the critics at large. The wise critic is generally a dilapidated parson, who, having vacated the pulpit for want of morals, brings into literature the spirit of the viper, which he manifests toward his brother craftsmen with peculiar unction. He preserves a sort of clerical air, wears a white neckcloth, spectacles, and a shabby coat; and in addition to foul linen, he has a great pa.s.sion for sending poets and novel writers to the devil. He affects to despise a literature not well savored with religious sentiment, but will at times condescend to lavish unmeasured praise upon a book of loose morals. The wise critic generally has lodging with some pious lady in Fourth Street, breakfasts on rolls and coffee at Peteler's, dines three times a week with his female literary friends, and for the rest takes rice and milk at Savery's, in Beekman Street. Being literary editor of two or more daily papers, publishers hold him in great respect, and employ him at reading the novels of ambitious school girls, which he will aid them in cramming down the s.p.a.cious throat of the public. It would not do to offer a wise critic pay for his services; but the accepting of presents he regards in the light of exchanges of love between a friend served and a friend admired. He has numerous affairs of ceremony with gifted widows, who write very excellent sensation books in behalf of downtrodden humanity, and who never fail to express their admiration of his great learning; and this high consideration he repays with ponderous eulogies on their books.

His carping he reserves for the devil, and such authors as Prescott, Bryant, and Longfellow.

"The fashionable critic belongs to the Press Club, from which it may be inferred that he is an excellent judge of Cologne and hair oil. I say this, sir, seeing how large a a quant.i.ty of these excellent articles are used by the nice persons who const.i.tute that club. In dress, the fashionable critic is quite up to Fifth Avenue, and in manners he is rather above it. He is in high favor with certain aged dowagers of doubtful ancestry, who never think of giving an evening party without one or two of the best cravatted. He has a wonderful relish for light literature, and affects to speak numerous tongues.

In truth, if there be a tongue he is not familiar with, he will tell you most patronizingly that it is a tongue not known in fashionable society. He writes articles for magazines, turns the brains of certain young damsels at boarding schools, and at the end of the year fancies himself a Byron. Now and then he gathers his stray effusions together, and gives them to the forgiving world in a book that sends a t.i.tillation of joy to the hearts of his numerous admirers, and also sets every fashionable critic to praising it as the most wonderful work of the age; for unlike the wise critic, the fashionable critic eschews envy, and invariably puffs the bantlings of his fellows. In fine, the fashionable critic is always tied to some lady friend, who has written a book he is about to notice in Putnam, a journal he has nearly choked to death with his great learning. If you would know how he lives I will tell you. He has three dollar lodgings with Mrs. Sponge, in Amity Street, which is fashionable enough for any body. But being a sharp fellow, he takes a dinner or two at the Brevort House, which enables him to indite all his epistles therefrom, so, to his friends, he is at the Brevort House. And, believe me, sir, for I say it more in pity than anger, he is a man much given to appropriating to himself the coats and breeches of his friends, and going uninvited to b.a.l.l.s.

"The correspondent critic is generally an energetic gentleman of foreign extraction and doubtful ancestry. Being without means or business, he sets up for a critic of books. He will correspond gratis for papers in Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, Cincinnati, and other large cities. Having "got his newspapers," he forms an extensive acquaintance with authors, publishers, and actors-in a word, with any one in need of puffing, the force of which he gauges according to the amount paid. Although the wise critic holds him in utter contempt, he affects a knowledge of books quite as profound, and can completely outshine him in his style of adulation. As for new books, no enterprising publisher would deign to send him less than two copies, which may be found at a book stall the very next morning. As, however, his sense of feeling is so delicate that he only wants to feel a book to decide upon its merits, this disposing of the books fortunately does not debar him from giving a ten dollar opinion of it in one of his newspapers. When, however, his puffs are not squared according to the publisher's liking, he is sent about his business; sometimes threatened with an expos of the peculiarities of his trade. He has free drinks and dinners at various first cla.s.s hotels, which he invariably recommends in his 'articles.' Doctor Thompson's purgative powders, Lubin's perfumery, and the Home Journal, are severally victims of his profound respect.

"The correspondent critic has small apartments at first cla.s.s hotels, which he changes frequently, out of sheer respect, as he says, to economy. But I have failed to discover how this could apply, since the change was invariably made for a more expensive hotel, while a little score always remained on the ledger, to the no small annoyance of the host. But, sir, where they have it is in 'knowing' the impressibility of certain ambitious actresses, whose acquaintance they cultivate, and for a given sum set them up for Siddonses and Rachels, with the same respect for modesty they evince in puffing Peteler's soda water.

"And now, sir, we have come to the last, but depend upon it, he is not the least of them all--I mean the critic at large." Here Mr.

Tickler, who, it must be known, was as big a knave as any of them, and only charged upon others the little inconsistencies he had himself been guilty of, lighted his cigar, and suggested the good results of another well compounded punch, which the general ordered without delay. "I tell you, sir," Mr. Tickler resumed, "he is an oily gentleman in very shabby clothes, and might be easily mistaken for a cross between a toper and a tinker. Lacking capacity for any other business, he forms a cheap connection with the press, where his first office would seem to be that of sitting in judgment upon literature. Indeed, I have seldom seen a more shabby gentleman set up for a man of letters. His aversion to water and clean linen is only equaled by his love of actors and bad brandy, the latter having painted his face with a deep glow. The limit of his 'set phrases' is somewhat narrow; but notwithstanding this little impediment, he has a wonderful facility for making heroes. He a.s.sists publishers in 'getting out books,' getting up sensations, and, perhaps, a learned controversy, in which the Evening Post, feeling its reserved rights infringed, will join issue with every one else. The critic at large is, in most cases, a foreign gentleman, who boasts an engagement on the Express, adding at the same time, and with some a.s.surance, that he writes for the Sunday Dispatch and Atlas. This stroke of policy he holds necessary to preserve his respectability. He is in high favor at all the theaters, tips winks to his actress acquaintances, drinks slings and toddies at Honey's with actors befuddling themselves into that dreamy state regarded by the profession as necessary to the clear bringing out of all the beauties with which a beneficent providence endowed the kings and conquerors they are to personate at night, on that sequestered world called the stage. You may know by the downy state of his wardrobe that he has a place to sleep. But where he gets his breakfast is a mystery no friend has ever yet solved for me. Aside from taking a two shilling dinner at an oyster cellar in William Street and wiping his greasy fingers on a leather ap.r.o.n, he would seem to live on hopes and brandy-mixed. He affects great admiration of Johnson and Goldsmith, compares his poverty with theirs, and attributes the present wretched condition of criticism to the disgrace brought upon the profession by Easley and other dilapidated priests. You will frequently see this shabby man of letters standing at the corner of Na.s.sau and Ann streets, his hands in his pockets and his head bent in meditation. Occasionally he will pitch his post in the vicinity of the Herald office, and look up longingly at the windows, as if envying the dare devils who write for that witty journal their fat larder. And here he will remain until some kind friend with a shilling invites him to a sling. Truly, sir, he is starved into flattering his patrons. If you be an ambitious author, you have only to show him the color of your coin, and for two dollars he will make you quite equal to Thackeray.

Five dollars in his palm, and, my word for it, he will have you superior to either Bulwer or d.i.c.kens. If you be a poet, he will, for the sum of eight dollars, (which is Easley's price,) enshrine you with the combined mantles of Homer and Shakspeare. He applies the same scale of prices to such actors and actresses as stand in need of his services. Notwithstanding his pa.s.sion for exalting his patrons, he affects in conversation a great dislike for American literature, while at the same time he is ever ready to lavish the most indiscriminate praise upon the books of foreign authors. He never makes both ends meet on Sat.u.r.day, but will borrow a dollar to go to Coney Island on Sunday.

"And now, your honor, you have the whole mob, and you may make what you please of them." The general raised his gla.s.s, and was about to declare he had been highly entertained, when Mr. Tickler suddenly interrupted, by reminding him that he had just called to mind the fact, that there was a play writer critic. "This fellow is the most congenial of them all, has a little room somewhere in North Moore Street, in which may found two or three pictures of fierce looking tragedians; a cot covered with a quilt of various colors, and looking as if it had been used for a horse blanket; a carpet the colors have long since been worn out of; a dumb clock over the dingy mantel piece; a portrait of the deceased husband of the hostess; and a table well supplied with pipes, tobacco, and French plays. The French plays are, when slightly altered and rendered into English, for the public; the pipes and tobacco are for his friends. And although perpetually climbing the mountain of poverty, while building no end of castles in the air, he spends what he gets to-day and has no thought for to-morrow. It having come the fashion of the day for managers of theaters to feast their patrons on the morbid sentimentality of French plays, (as if the vices of our own social system were not enough to excite the vicious propensities of our high blooded youths,) so also would it seem the highest inspiration of the eighteenth century play writer to rehash and coarsify for the American stage all those lascivious eccentricities for which the French are famous. Hence, your jolly play writer is generally engaged with his friends, smoking pipes and reading the last French piece. The pleasure excited by this congenial occupation is invariably heightened with libations of whiskey, the play writer having a credit with the grocer at the corner for three bottles, which, in a case of emergency, may be extended to four. He writes occasionally for the Sunday newspapers, thinks John Brougham the greatest dramatist and wit of the age, and stands ready either to join him in a gla.s.s or sing his praises, though there is as much reason for committing so flagrant an outrage as there would be in praising the ten thousand and one stanzas written by that wonderful and very eccentric bard, Richard Yeadon, who has sung of so many springs and watering places as to dry up his own muse. He is likewise something of a dabbler at reviewing novels, but they must be largely sprinkled with murders, and have plots strong enough to carry anything but the clergy. All other critics are to him great bores; but, like them, he has a price for his services, and will, if you pay him, make Shakspeares and Corneilles of very ordinary persons. As for respectable society, he never even scented the perfumery of its outskirts; he therefore holds it in utter contempt.

Ready at all times to adapt himself to circ.u.mstances, if he chance to get in arrears to his landlady, he will square the account by marrying either herself or her daughter." Mr. Tickler proceeded in this strain, relating sundry curious things of the critics, until the night was far advanced, and concluded by suggesting that no serious damage could result to his const.i.tution from another punch.

The general immediately fell in with this opinion, and indeed was so entertained by his narrative, that he would have ordered a dozen punches without considering his obligation to him wiped out. The punch being dispatched, the general slipped five dollars into Mr.

Tickler's hand, and desired him to proceed to the host, thank him for his great kindness, and clear the little score from his ledger.

Greatly delighted at the prospect of performing this service, Mr.

Tickler proceeded to the office, and was informed by the polite host that it was a custom with him never to take money of persons driven to seek shelter in his house by accidents. To end the matter, he vowed it not only gave him great pleasure to have so distinguished a military gentleman in his house, which had bore a character for hospitality he was scrupulous it should continue to maintain, but that he would be happy to see him again. Indeed, he wished him success in all his undertakings, hoping they would bring comfort in great abundance.

Slipping the price of a criticism into his own pocket, the adroit Tickler returned to the general, swore the host was the most generous fellow within his knowledge, and said, "See here, sir!

faith of my father! but he would only take three dollars for it all.

And he pa.s.sed the divil knows how many compliments on your valor, for I couldn't count them." He now proffered the remaining two, but was not slow in acting upon the general's admonition to put them in his own pocket. "And now, sir," resumed Mr. Tickler, with an air of great anxiety, "let us hasten home to your lodgings, and to-morrow I will write this generous man a note for you, thanking him for such rare disinterestedness. And it shall be such a note!" The general, however, was not quite sure whether such an act would become a man of courtesy, and expressed a desire to see so generous a landlord and tell him how much he thanked him. But as this would seriously disturb Mr. Tickler's arrangements, that gentleman got him out of the house as speedily as possible, a.s.suring him that such a proceeding would be contrary to all the established rules of etiquette. Quietly then, they proceeded down Broadway together, suspicious that they were seen by every pa.s.ser by, and entered the St. Nicholas by a private door. And so un.o.bserved was this achievement, that the host was, on the following morning, surprised and astonished at the return of his guest, whom he would have sworn was lying a corpse at the New York Hotel.

CHAPTER x.x.xVIII.

GENERAL POTTER RECEIVES A LETTER FROM HIS WIFE POLLY; HE ENGAGES TO FIGHT THE KING OF THE KALORAMAS; PREPARES TO LEAVE FOR WASHINGTON; AND VARIOUS THINGS CURIOUS AND INTERESTING.

WHEN Tickler parted company with the general, it was with the understanding that they meet again in a day or two, and consummate the agreement whereby the adroit critic was to follow the fortunes of his master through politics and war. He therefore went directly to his home, and returned thanks for the mercy of this opportune deliverance from his dire necessities. A shilling he had not had in his pocket for several days; and as to the five dollars, it would enable him to a.s.sume a position of no small importance among his friends at the opera.

As to the general, he awoke early in the morning, and began to contemplate his honors. There could not be the slightest doubt of his fame in politics, seeing how many distinguished persons had sought to pay him homage. Indeed, he had been carried by a process known only to politicians to an incredible height of popularity, which, being vain of, he bore with a patience and cheerfulness equaled only by the docility of old Battle, his horse. The city fathers, it must be mentioned, finding him not quite up to their expectations, were endeavoring to drop him with as little noise as possible. But it seemed a question which was most deceived, the general or the city fathers. The latter found the former a shallow pated man, who from mere joking, had been made to believe himself a great politician, and by a singular cleverness in committing to memory the altered speeches of others, had created for himself a respectability that always vanished on an acquaintance with him; while the former declared that the population of a city was no proof of the amount of moral rect.i.tude by which its government was conducted, seeing that he had found those of the city fathers with whom he had come in contact, very craggy headed men, and sadly deficient in everything but creating disorders and bringing disgrace upon the city: in fine, that they were not what they ought to be.

The general now began to look about him for means whereby he could distinguish himself in war, and make his fame national. He argued within himself that however famous a man might become in politics, there was an uncertainty always impending. But to be famous in war, was something as durable as time, and which always excited the warmest admiration of one's countrymen. And while he, with confused fancies flitting through his imagination, was thus contemplating his present greatness and future prospects, a servant entered, bearing a letter.

"Love of me!" exclaimed the general, "It's from my wife, Polly!"

A superscription in a series of hieroglyphics that would have defied the combined erudition of Rawlinson and Layard, the general deciphered thus: "To Major Roger Sherman Potter. In New York." The seal, which was of broken wafers, pressed with a thimble, was broken xwith eager anxiety, and the general, his eyes transfixed on the dingy page, read the contents, which ran thus:

"Barnstable, June -, 185.--"My Dear husban

"You knows i niver did like these ere politiks, for all the expereiance i've had in um tells me they nethir brings meat nor pays the store bills. I see they bin making ever so much on you yinder in New York; but that ant nothin', when a body has debts to pay, and childirn to shoe and larn. I know, and you know i know, that when you was young you had capacity (talent they call it) enuff to get to Congriss; and thats why i tried so to get you there, and sold all the ducks and chickens, and strained, you know, ever so many ways to help you up in the world; but now i see there's not a whit a use int, for i've a come convinsed that them politiks makes an honest man a rogue, and sends his soul to the devil, and his family to the town-house. I like to see you made so much of, for i have the nateral feelins of a wife, and if, as you used to say, i didn't know much of filosofy, why i have some sense, and want you to come straight home, and see to your poor family, for it takes all we can get for binding shoes to buy bread. But what i want to tell you is three days after you left on the Two Marys, Sheriff Warner come with a rit, and carried away the three pigs, and Warner has bin donnin me life out for that old store bill, and Draner says he wont wait another day for the rent, and Aldrich says you owe him ten dollars borrowed money, which you had better pay afore you make so much noise in New York. But what i want to tell you is, that i lent what little money you left to Captain Ben Larnard, who says he can't pay it back right away, but will when his wife gits home, though Captain Spelt's wife says she's run off with another man. And there's that trifle due when you went away to Jefferson Bigelow the butcher, he keeps a lookin in and giving me the startles, and saying how Squire Benson lives at the corner. Now as you love your poor wife and children come home, and let politiks alone, and provide for your children like a good christian and an honest man, which I have heard it said a politishon cant be. And this is the prayer of your true and aff.e.c.kshonite wife POLLY POTTER."

"A bombsh.e.l.l from my wife Polly, sure enough!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the general; "but she is a sensible woman, and with learning would have made her mark in the world. A man must not look back though, but renew his demonstrations against misfortune, and then if he succeed let him thank his energy. And yet it is true, as my wife Polly says, my politics have brought me in but little meat, and my children have often times gone scantily clad, whereas they might have had plenty if I'd stuck to the bench. However, a point approached, is a point gained, and now that my hand is almost upon a mission, which will repay for all my disappointments, it will not do to walk back into the house and shut the door."

Thus the hero reasoned within himself. It was true, old Battle was eating his head off. But the pig had made a wonderful sensation, and so crowded the house every night as to demonstrate the fact that first rate talent of every kind was highly appreciated in New York.

The critics, with scarcely a dissenting voice, had declared the pig a marvel, a profound embodiment of talent, one of the wonders of the age; an animal possessed of such rare gifts that no lover of the curious in natural history should lose the opportunity of witnessing his performances. And in order to diversify these distinguished and very popular entertainments, the clever showman had introduced a piece called "Evenings with the Critics," in one scene of which was presented a litter of nine precocious pigs, habited in bright, colored mantles, and seated on seats forming a semicircle, with Duncan in ducal robes seated on a throne, and presiding with the gravest demeanor. The nine small pigs were supposed to represent various members of the critic tribe, while Duncan, who was in spectacles, personated Doctor Easley. And so cleverly did the showman understand the instincts of critics, as well as the beauties of his art, that he produced the scene with the merits of a poem called Hiawatha under consideration. Each pig waited the signal of approval or disapproval from Duncan, and according to his verdict, either fell upon and grievously soiled the poem, or grunted in one string of praise as they danced round it. And the audience understanding the logic of this, the performance proved highly entertaining. Indeed, renowned tragedians, very popular low comedians, leading business ladies, whose fame had been made for twenty years, and singing ladies who hailed from no less a place than the Covent Garden Opera, London, were driven by the pig mania into Poverty Lodge, from whence they sneeringly declared that no better proof of the low standard of public taste could be afforded.

And now, while pondering over the letter received from his wife, Polly, and feeling as if he could kiss her a thousand times, and entreat her to bear with him, since this time he was sure of success, and would return to her so much exalted that the whole village would turn out to do him homage, Barnum entered, and without further ceremony declared himself so enamored of the pig, whose success with the public was unprecedented, that he cheerfully paid down the amount of the closing engagement, and produced a paper which proved to be a rengagement at an advance of terms, that so completely satisfied the general, that he signed it without further hesitation. The showman being a advocate of temperance, declined General Potter's invitation to join him over a punch; and being a man of business, took his departure as soon as he had perfected the rengagement, promising to keep the pig's birthplace and antecedents a profound secret. And when he was gone, the general took fifty dollars of the money paid him, and sate down to write the following letter in reply to that received from his wife Polly: "St. Nicholas Hotel, New York, June -, 185-. "MY DEAR WIFE POLLY:

"Your letter is just received, and grieves me enough, G.o.d knows. You must know, dear Polly, that riches are not got in a day, nor is fame gained in a week, though a man may be popular and not have money enough to get a shilling dinner. And truly, since I arrived here, so much honor has been showered upon me that my shoulders are scarce broad enough to carry it all. As for those who make up the government of this great city, I have come to think they are not to be trusted; for if my good nature would recompense them for the respect they have shown me, my common sense is not to be shut up with gilded doors when I see men much given to strong drink and breaking one another's heads, which it seems to me is the fashion with these high office gentlemen. I now send you fifty dollars, which will comfort you for a time; remember, I will send you some more when less engaged with matters concerning the public. Give each a little, just to keep matters quiet; but be careful not to let one of them know how much you have in the purse, or they'll all rush upon you and strip you to the last dollar. I have success at my finger's ends, and am sure of a mission, as you will see by the newspapers, which have said no end of good things of me. I have met with one or two slight misfortunes, but as they are such as all great politicians and military men must expect to meet, I will say no more about them. Heaven bless you and the children, is the sincere wish of your affectionate husband, "ROGER SHERMAN POTTER.

"P.S. Excuse my brevity, dear Polly, as I am much pressed with public affairs. Old Battle is well, but served me a scurvy trick only a day or two ago."

Having sealed and despatched this letter to the post office, General Potter suddenly remembered that he had not seen his faithful horse since the accident in Broadway that had so nearly cost him his life.

He therefore repaired to the stable, where a scene so truly affecting took place, that the grooms had great difficulty in restraining their tears. No sooner did old Battle hear his master's voice, than he began neighing, when his master, in return, patted and caressed him as if he had been a child. In truth, the animal was much bruised about the knees and face, and altogether presented a figure sorry enough to enlist the sympathy of any kind gentleman.

"It was no fault of yours, my true, my faithful friend," said the general, patting him on the neck and fondling him. "The ragged urchins did it all, and if their parents be not careful the devil and the gallows will put a sudden end to their career. Thou hast shared my trials in many an expedition, and it is my intention that thou share many more." In this manner the general continued to condole old Battle, until the grooms forgot their grief, and were well nigh splitting their sides with laughter. Leaving his horse, the general returned to his rooms, and found a stranger awaiting him.

"The importance of my mission, sir," spoke the man, who arose to his feet with great dignity of manner, and was evidently a man of much circ.u.mstance, "is the best apology I can offer for this self-introduction-"

"I see, sir," replied the general, "that you are a man of quality.

Keep your seat, then, and accept my a.s.surances of good faith in whatever it may please you to offer."

"My name," resumed the stranger, his stately figure and frank, open countenance, forming a curious contrast to the rotund figure of the general, "is Pekleworth Glanmoregain, so well known in the world of commerce that I apprehend it is not the first time you have heard of me." The general bowed. "Your fame as a military man having come to my knowledge, as also your ability for statesmanship, I have sought you out, with a view to engaging your services in carrying out a great project I now have on hand. But what pa.s.ses between us I desire shall be kept a profound secret for the present, since events mature with such a rapidity at this day that it is impossible to keep track of them." The stranger paused and cast a scrutinizing glance at the general, who was surprised and astounded at the vagueness of his speech. Indeed, he began to have a suspicion that the stranger was on an errand of evil, or, perhaps, had come to engage his services in some unholy enterprise, such as poisoning an heir or giving false evidence.

"Pray, remember," said he, in a voice indicating great anxiety, "that if I have not much of the world's riches, I am at least an honest man, which is saying something, as things go. I may say, too, that I set some value upon my military reputation; therefore, let what you have to offer be such as it will not lower my reputation to accept. To tell you the truth, sir, I have a foreign mission in my eye, and am sure of getting it when I go to Washington, since my qualifications are not a whit behind any of them."

"Bury your misgivings, I enjoin you," replied the stranger, "for I am a responsible man, and the service I require of you is highly honorable. I have a mighty project in view, and if it can with your a.s.sistance be carried to a successful issue, not only will I make you a great general, but a rich man for the rest of your life."

The prospect of being made a great general so elated our hero, that as the stranger discovered his project in detail, he entered into it with great alacrity, and would, as an earnest of his ability, have given him an account of all the wars he had been in, and the victories that were gained solely by following his advice, but that the stranger a.s.sured him it was unnecessary, since he had already seen enough proof of his being a man of valor.

Pekleworth Glanmoregain, I must mention here, was a man who had become famous in commerce, and had large possessions. But these he was not content to enjoy, but sought to increase his wealth by means our forefathers would have characterized with much severity. There was, according to Pekleworth Glanmoregain, a territory somewhere on the Spanish main, familiarly known as the Kingdom of the Kaloramas.

The Kaloramas were an inoffensive people, who had been much degraded by intestine wars, and were so low in the scale of physical and intellectual quality as to enlist in their behalf the sympathies of the powerful and magnanimous. But as that which is nationally weak only serves as a prey to that which is nationally strong, so the poor, emaciated Kaloramas had for years been a prey to the avarice of rival adventurers, who, in that spirit which arrogance always a.s.serts over ignorance, would make their king a puppet and themselves mere va.s.sals. And this the wily adventurers did, by professing great friendship for the king and his people, then setting up a fict.i.tious claim to a voice in the affairs of the kingdom, and finally demanding for such service, which any knave or fool might have rendered, not one, but all his islands. In truth, the Kingdom of the Kaloramas, though insignificant in its own political aspect, had furnished a grand theme for a comedy of modern diplomatic errors, in the performance of which numerous clever gentlemen had found much innocent recreation, though not a man had been found capable of solving the plot to the satisfaction of the spectators. In fine, what caused so much longing after, and so many evil eyes to be cast upon this little kingdom of the poor Kaloramas, was the fact that it had within itself a great highway, over which the commerce of two oceans pa.s.sed. And such were the advantages held out by a monopoly of this highway, that each claimant stood ready to censure the ignorance of the government that doubted his right to higher consideration than that given to his fellow adventurer, whom he would hang to the nearest tree with as little scruple as he would eat his breakfast.

"And now, sir," resumed Glanmoregain, "I have described the Kingdom of the Kaloramas to you, and also the immense advantages it possesses. To be honest with you, then, I desire to gain possession of it, which I take it will be no hard matter, provided the general who engages in my service be capable of outwitting his rivals. And as each keeps a general and a poet of his own, I am resolved to outdo the rest by having a general and two poets, which surely will secure the success of my enterprise."

"Truly, sir," interposed the general, somewhat surprised at the hugeness of Glanmoregain's desires, "I hold it no man is more capable of undertaking what you desire, for G.o.d has given me talents which have served me in war, and I have been careful not to abuse them in peace. Let me then have men and meat, and, if you please, a few of those gifts men so much covet, and I warrant you I make the glory all your own. Say but the word, and it will not be long before I have this king you speak of hung to the first tree, and myself elected in his place."