Читать книгу The Adventures of My Cousin Smooth - Timothy Templeton - Страница 11

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"Leaving Cass holding on at the slippery roof. I dreamed that the ghost of Benton, in contemplation bestrode the summit of the Rocky Mountains; that 'Young America,' like a Colossus with monster limbs stretched across a world, was endeavouring to wake from their stupor the nations. With a voice like unto lazy thunder murmuring in the distance was he proclaiming his hatred of kings, into whose dominions he threatened to march great armies, and whom he described as curses sent upon the earth by the evil one: for the Evil One sought to promote self, a means to which he found in those intrigues by which he made strong his court—the same was the trade of kings. Again the voice thundered forth—'Here are the instruments that have destroyed a world of human beings, and for a selfish purpose gloated over the blood they had made run in torrents.' I looked, and behold! appeared there before me a terrible devil, of hideous form having two great horns, on one of the long sharp points of which was poised a king, on the other a fat bishop in his lawn. The two perpetual mischief-makers, and desolators thus poised, he came with a hideous roar, threatening to drown them in the river of unrefined common sense. And then there was written in broad letters of fire across the shoulders of this sturdy devil—'Kingcraft and Churchcraft have cursed the nations of the earth, and turned to blight the blessings of the True God!' Again this significant edict vanished, and in its place there came, as in letters of gold, 'Cheap Government and no Established Church—let the nations be ruled in wisdom and right!' This had reference to good old England, not America, for here bishops are known to be meek and good. All this was a dream: but then there came, soaring giant-like, 'Young America,' and manifest destiny which he spread over the land for the benefit of mankind. Then there came a great darkness, followed by a little light that crept feebly onward as if fearing to spread itself on the broad disc of the horoscope—it was the light of Mr. Pierce, beneath which hovered doubtful devils. How rapacious they seemed! They saw the doubts and fears of his little light, and would fain carry him off into purgatory ere it died out. But his saviours came: they were the ghosts of those great lights that founded the pillars of our Republicanism. Down they sat, in ghostly conclave, and with instruments in hand set about driving away the carrier devils and working the problem of Mr. Pierce's political policy. It was impossible!—not all the trigonometry of which they were masters sufficed to aid them in the task. It seemed like attempting to solve the principle of that which never had one. He stood on a platform of sections, each of which turned at a touch, and seemed giving way for want of strength. Indeed, as beheld in the dream, he could play the game of uncertainty through a dozen focuses. The jury of ghosts became sorely perplexed; then they began to put to him some very honest questions, as to what his intentions really were. And while doing this the spirit of Washington, arrayed in glory, looked down upon its feeble successor, and with an ironical smile shook its head.

"Then there came an unaccented voice from the little light—the light said to be the impersonation of Pierce; indeed, it was of kindred with the shadow in that singular romance by Hawthorn, called the life of Pierce! And the voice said:—'I shall be known by my practice.' Just then the little light became dimmer, and turned away toward a long dark avenue, where the vista seemed studded with the faces of disconsolate 'niggers.' At this the ghost of Webster yawned, and that of Calhoun scowled fiercely and contemptuously; while Clay's rubbed its eyes and wept tears of pity. Again all was darkness. Then there came again the little light of which I have spoken;—it was the light of Mr. Pierce. It flickered and fluttered, and thus we identified it. 'We have to deal with Europe—with that happy alliance my very amiable Lord Clarendon says is for purposes not alone in Europe. My lord's language, however, is so cleverly diplomatic—that is, it can be made to mean anything or nothing—as to need a translation. My lord means, that when it has served to curb the national ambition of certain nations of Europe it may be turned to the same purpose in another but more congenial hemisphere. Kossuth wants material aid—such as saddles, tin, &c. &c. I would give it him, if he would teach Austria a lesson of honesty! Nevertheless, as to Louis himself I would be extremely cautious, for being more a blower than a moulder, and having a peculiar talent for getting affairs very crooked, the instrument in the man is of questionable ability;—indeed, in a crisis between nations, such an instrument should he examined with great skill and delicacy before being set in motion.' He spoke after this manner, and quick as thought the spectacle vanished—it was but a dream? Not a ghost was seen; no lurid face cast its pale shadow over the dark canvas; the pure spirit of Washington had departed in hopeless despair. I was about to read a prayer, when the dark canvas moved aside, and there, real as life, sat on a slave's grave the immaculate Brigadier;—he, reader, was sipping whiskey toddy, as if it were his wont. Old Bunkum was the slave whose grave he sat upon. It was a strange penance over the mound of one so old; and yet who in the political world that had not paid it? 'Why!—Bunkum, you are barefoot;' a voice spoke.

"'Remember, old man, you must keep on the stiff—it's as necessary to success as it was to believe the old Constitution frigate could whip anything afloat.' It was the General who spoke to the ghost of Bunkum, who, having risen from the grave, stood before him, moody and despairing. In ecstasy he grasped the hand of the cold figure cried out that his soul's love was with him. But in his exuberance he let the whiskey run over the green grave, into which the ghost soon disappeared and left him alone to his contemplations. Bunkum, like Billy Bowlegs, who has too much sense for the great father, says he has wandered through all weathers, and endured all kinds of political farcery: now that he had become old, and served as long as the god of sacrifice, would they not let him rest in peace? Here the General seemed alone and forlorn: then he wept bitterly, until the ghost of Bunkum in pity again appeared and with him sat upon the grave. The General kindly took him by the hand, and in his ear whispered something, the only part of which became audible was—'When as President of this great country I became, I was bound—' Here the man paused. A kindlier feeling now came over Bunkum, in evidence of which he motioned as if he would take another drop of whiskey with the President, or ask a favor he was delicate about broaching. For a man who had so long looked upon things beneath him his reserve was to be appreciated, especially when viewed in comparison with the expectations of those many numerous friends, all of whom expected foreign missions. Having chatted and sipped together a sufficient length of time, and as Bunkum was about to say good by, he turned with a half significant smile, and touching the General on the elbow, said:—'Ye ain't got a spare hat and pea-jacket to lend a body?'

"'Bless you, Bunkum, you are of the South!—anything you want is at your bidding. New England (she's a trump!) can take care of herself; let the storm threaten as it may, she never trips. We must do for Kentuck and Carolina:—the black pig must have his swill if the rest find an empty trough.' 'Thank you! thank you! General; our States will stand firm to you—Bunkum himself never will forsake you;' spoke thus thankfully the ghost of the old man as it took leave of the old General and disappeared. Here I awoke from my dream to painful reflections.