Then first began to appear the class of politicians, though, as yet, office-seeking had not become a trade, nor office-holding a regular means of livelihood. Politics had not acquired a place among the arts, nor had its professors become the teachers of the land. There were few, indeed, who sought to fill civil stations; and, although men's qualifications for office were, probably, not any more rigidly examined then than now, those who possessed the due degree of prominence, either deemed themselves, or were believed by their fellow-citizens, peculiarly capable of discharging such functions. They were generally men who had made themselves conspicuous or useful in other capacities—who had become well or favorably known to their neighbors through their zeal, courage, sagacity, or public spirit. A leader of regulators, for example, whose administration of his dangerous powers had been marked by promptitude and severity, was expected to be equally efficient when clothed with more regular authority. A captain of rangers, whose enterprises had been remarkable for certainty and finish, would, it was believed, do quite as good service, in the capacity of a civil officer. A daring pioneer, whose courage or presence of mind had saved himself and others from the dangers of the wilderness, was supposed to be an equally sure guide in the pathless ways of politics. Lawyers were yet few, and not of much repute, for they were, for the most part, youthful adventurers, who had come into the field long before the ripening of the harvest.
There was another class, whose members held prominent positions, though they had never been distinguished for the possession of any of the qualifications above enumerated. These might be designated as the noisy sort—loud-talking, wise-looking men, self-constituted oracles and advice-givers, with a better opinion of their own wisdom than any one else was willing to endorse. Such men became “file-leaders,” or “pivot-men,” because the taciturn people of the west, though inclined to undervalue a mere talker, were simple-minded enough to accept a man's valuation of his own powers: or easy-tempered enough to spare themselves the trouble of investigating so small a matter. It was of little consequence to them, whether the candidate was as wise as he desired to be thought; and since, in political affairs, they knew of no interest which they could have in disputing it, for his gratification they were willing to admit it. These were halcyon days for mere pretenders—though for no very flattering reason: since their claims were allowed chiefly because they were not deemed worth controverting. Those days, thanks to the “progress of intelligence!” are now gone by: the people are better acquainted with the natural history of such animals, and—witness, ye halls of Congress!—none may now hold office except capable, patriotic, and disinterested men!
Nor must we be understood to assert that the primitive politician was the reverse of all this, save in the matter of capability. And, even in that particular, no conception of his deficiency ever glimmered in his consciousness. His own assumption, and the complaisance of his fellow-citizens, were inter-reactive, mutually cause and effect. They were willing to confirm his valuation of his own talents: he was inclined to exalt himself in their good opinion. Parallel to this, also, was the oracular tone of his speech: the louder he talked, the more respectfully silent were his auditors; and the more attentive they became, the noisier he grew. Submission always encourages oppression, and admiration adds fuel to the fire of vanity. Not that the politician was precisely a despot, even over men's opinions: the application of that name to him would have been as sore a wound to his self-respect as the imputation of horse-stealing. He was but an oracle of opinion, and though allowed to dictate in matters of thought as absolutely as if backed by brigades of soldiers, he was a sovereign whose power existed only through the consent of his subjects.
In personal appearance, he was well-calculated to retain the authority intrusted to him by such men. He was, in fact, an epitome of all the physical qualities which distinguished the rugged people of the west: and between these and the moral and intellectual, there is an invariable correspondence—as if the spirit within had moulded its material encasement to the planes and angles of its own “form and pressure.”
National form and feature are the external marks of national character, stamped more or less distinctly in different individuals, but, in the aggregate, perfectly correspondent and commensurate. The man, therefore, who possesses the national traits of character in their best development, will be, also, the most faithful representative of his race in physical characteristics. At some periods, there are whole classes of these types; and if there be any one who embodies the character more perfectly than all others, the tranquillity of the age is not calculated to draw him forth. But in all times of trouble—of revolution or national ferment—the perfect Man-emblem is seen to rise, and (which is more to the purpose) is sure to stand at the head of his fellows: for he who best represents the character of his followers, becomes, by God's appointment, their leader. To this extent, the vox populi is the vox Dei; and the unfailing success of every such man, throughout his appointed term, is the best possible justification of the choice.
What was Washington, for example, but an epitome of the steady and noble qualities combined of cavalier and puritan, which were then coalescing in the American character? And what more perfect correspondence could be conceived between the moral and intellectual and the physical outlines? What was Cromwell but the Englishman, not only of his own time, but of all times? And the testimony of all who saw him, what is it, but that a child, who looked upon him, could not fail to see, in his very lineaments, the great and terrible man he was? And Napoleon, was he aught but an abridgment of the French nation, the sublimate and “proof” essence of French character? Not one, of all the great men of history, has possessed, so far as we know, a physical constitution more perfectly representing, even in its advancing grossness, both the strength and weakness of the people he led.
In tranquil times, these things are not observed in one individual more than in others of his class, and we are, therefore, not prepared to decide whether, at such periods, the one man exists. The great Leviathan, the king of all the creatures of the ocean, rises to the surface only in the tumult of the storm; his huge, portentous form, lies on the face of the troubled waters only when the currents are changed and the fountains of the deep are broken up.
Nature does no superfluous work, and it may require the same causes which produce the storm to organize its Ruler. If a great rebellion is boiling among men, the mingling of the elements is projecting, also, the Great Rebel: if a national cause is to be asserted, the principles upon which it rests will first create its appropriate Exponent. But when no such agitation is on the point of breaking out—when the crisis is not near, and the necessity for such greatness distant—national character probably retains its level; and though there be no one whom the people will recognise as the arch-man, the representatives, losing in intensity what they gain in numbers, become a class. They fill the civil stations of the country, and are known as men of mark—their opinions are received, their advice accepted, their leading followed. No one of them is known instinctively, or trusted implicitly, as the leader of Nature's appointment: yet they are, in fact, the exponents of their time and race, and in exact proportion to the degree in which they possess the character, will they exhibit, also, the physical peculiarities.
Thus it was at the time of which we are writing, with the class to which belonged the politician, and a description of his personal appearance, like that of any other man, will convey no indistinct impression of his internal character.
Such a description probably combined more characteristic adjectives than that of any other personage of his time—adjectives, some of which were applicable to many of his neighbors, respectively, but all of which might be bestowed upon him only. He was tall, gaunt, angular, swarthy, active, and athletic. His hair was, invariably, black as the wing of the raven; even in that small portion which the cap of raccoon-skin left exposed to the action of sun and rain, the gray was but thinly scattered; imparting to the monotonous darkness only a more iron charac
ter. As late as the present day, though we have changed in many things, light-haired men seldom attain eminence among the western people: many of our legislators are young enough, but none of them are beardless. They have a bilious look, as if, in case of illness, their only hope would lie in calomel and jalap. One might understand, at the first glance, that they are men of talent, not of genius; and that physical energy, the enduring vitality of the body, has no inconsiderable share in the power of the mind.
Corresponding to the sable of the hair, the politician's eye was usually small, and intensely black—not the dead, inexpressive jet, which gives the idea of a hole through white paper, or of a cavernous socket in a death's-head; but the keen, midnight darkness, in whose depths you can see a twinkle of starlight—where you feel that there is meaning as well as color. There might be an expression of cunning along with that of penetration—but, in a much higher degree, the blaze of irascibility. There could be no doubt, from its glance, that its possessor was an excellent hater; you might be assured that he would never forget an injury or betray a friend.
A stoop in the shoulders indicated that, in times past, he had been in the habit of carrying a heavy rifle, and of closely examining the ground over which he walked; but what the chest thus lost in depth it gained in breadth. His lungs had ample space in which to play—there was nothing pulmonary even in the drooping shoulders. Few of his class have ever lived to a very advanced age, but it was not for want of iron-constitutions, that they went early to the grave. The same services to his country, which gave the politician his prominence, also shortened his life.
From shoulders thus bowed, hung long, muscular arms—sometimes, perhaps, dangling a little ungracefully, but always under the command of their owner, and ready for any effort, however violent. These were terminated by broad, bony hands, which looked like grapnels—their grasp, indeed, bore no faint resemblance to the hold of those symmetrical instruments. Large feet, whose toes were usually turned in, like those of the Indian, were wielded by limbs whose vigor and activity were in keeping with the figure they supported. Imagine, with these peculiarities, a free, bold, rather swaggering gait, a swarthy complexion, and conformable features and tones of voice: and—excepting his costume—you have before your fancy a complete picture of the early western politician.
But the item of costume is too important to be passed over with a mere allusion. As well might we paint a mountain without its verdant clothing, its waving plumes of pine and cedar, as the western man without his picturesque and characteristic habiliments. The first, and indispensable article of dress, was the national hunting-shirt: a garment whose easy fit was well-adapted, both to the character of his figure and the freedom of his movements. Its nature did not admit much change in fashion: the only variations of which it was capable, were those of ornament and color. It might be fringed around the cape and skirt, or made plain; it might be blue, or copper-colored—perhaps tinged with a little madder. And the variety of material was quite as limited, since it must be of either jeans or deer-skin.
Corresponding to this, in material, style, and texture, he wore, also, a pair of wide pantaloons—not always of precisely the proper length for the limbs of the wearer, but having invariably a broad waistband, coming up close under the arms, and answering the purpose of the modern vest. People were not so dainty about “set” and “fit,” in those days, as they have since become; and these primitive integuments were equally well-adapted to the figure of any one to whose lot they might fall. In their production, no one had been concerned save the family of the wearer. The sheep which bore the wool, belonged to his own flock, and all the operations, subsequent to the shearing, necessary to the ultimate result of shaping into a garment, had been performed by his wife or daughter. Many politicians have continued this affectation of plainness, even when the necessity has ceased, on account of its effect upon the masses; for people are apt to entertain the notion, that decent clothing is incompatible with mental ability, and that he who is most manifestly behind the improvements of the time, is best qualified for official stations.
A neck-cloth, or cravat, was never seen about the politician's throat; and for the same reason of expediency: for these were refinements of affectation which had not then been introduced; and a man who thus compassed his neck, could no more have been elected to an office, than if he had worn the cap and bells of a Saxon jester. The shirt-bosoms of modern days were in the same category; and starch was an article contraband to the law of public sentiment—insomuch that no epithet expressed more thorough contempt for a man, than the graphic word “starched.” A raccoon-skin cap—or, as a piece of extravagant finery, a white-wool hat—with a pair of heavy shoes, not unfrequently without the luxury of hose—or, if with them, made of blue-woollen yarn, from the back of a sheep of the aforesaid flock—completed the element of costume.
He was not very extravagantly dressed, as the reader sees; but we can say of him—what could not be as truly spoken of many men, or, indeed, of many women, of this day—that his clothing bore distinct reference to his character, and was well-adapted to his “style of beauty.” In fact, everything about him, form, face, manners, dress, was in “in keeping” with his characteristics.
In occupation, he was usually a farmer; for the materials of which popular tribunes are made in later times—such as lawyers, gentlemen of leisure, and pugnacious preachers—were not then to be found. The population of the country was thoroughly agricultural; and though (as I believe I have elsewhere observed) the rural people of the west were neither a cheerful nor a polished race, as a class, they possess, even yet, qualities, which, culminating in an individual, eminently fit him for the rôle of a noisy popular leader.
But a man who is merely fitted to such a position, is a very different animal to one qualified to give laws for the government of the citizen. After all our vain boasting, that public sentiment is the law of our land, there is really a very broad distinction between forming men's opinions and controlling their action. If the government had been so organized, that the pressure of popular feeling might make itself felt, directly, in the halls of legislation, our history, instead of being that of a great and advancing nation, would have been only a chronicle of factious and unstable violence. It does not follow, that one who is qualified to lead voters at the polls, or, as they say here, “on the stump,” will be able to embody, in enlightened enactments, the sentiment which he contributes to form, any more than that the tanner will be able to shape a well-fitting boot from the leather he prepares. “Suum cuique proprium dat Natura donum.”[82] A blacksmith, therefore, is not the best manufacturer of silver spoons, a lawyer the ablest writer of sermons, nor either of them necessarily the safest law-maker.
But those things to which his qualifications were appropriate, the politician did thoroughly and well. For example, he was a skilful farmer—at least in the leading branches of that calling, though he gave little or no attention to the merely ornamental. For the latter, he had neither time nor inclination. Even in the essentials, it was only by working, as he expressed it, “to the best advantage,”—that is, contriving to produce the largest amount of results with the least expenditure of labor and patience—that he got sufficient leisure to attend to his public duties; and as for “inclination,” no quaker ever felt a more supreme contempt for mere embellishment.
He was seldom very happy in his domestic relations; for, excepting at those seasons when the exigencies of his calling required his constant attention, he spent but little of his time at his own fireside. He absented himself until his home became strange and uncomfortable to him: and he then did the same, because it had become so. Every man who may try the experiment will discover that these circumstances mutually aggravate each other—are, interchangeably, cause and effect. His children were, however, always numerous, scarcely ever falling below half-a-dozen, and not unfrequently doubling that allowance. They generally appeared upon the stage in rapid succession—one had scarcely time to get out of the way, before ano
ther was pushing him from his place. The peevishness thus begotten in the mother—by the constant habit of nursing cross cherubs—though it diminished the amount of family peace, contributed, in another way, to the general welfare: it induced the father to look abroad for enjoyment, and thus gave the country the benefit of his wisdom as a political counsellor. Public spirit, and the consciousness of ability, have “brought out” many politicians: but uncomfortable homes have produced many more.
He was an oracle on the subject of hunting, and an unerring judge of whiskey—to both which means of enjoyment he was strongly attached. He was careful, however, neither to hunt nor drink in solitude, for even his amusements were subservient to his political interests. To hunt alone was a waste of time, while drinking alone was a loss of good-fellowship, upon which much of his influence was founded. He was particularly attached to parties of half-a-dozen, or more; for in such companions, his talents were always conspicuous. Around a burgou[83] pot, or along the trenches of an impromptu barbecue, he shone in meridian splendor; and the approving smack of his lips, over a bottle of “backwoods' nectar,” was the seal of the judgment which gave character to the liquor.
“Militia musters” were days in his calendar, “marked with a white-stone;” for it was upon these occasions that he appeared in his utmost magnificence. His grade was never lower than that of colonel, and it not unfrequently extended to, or even beyond, the rank of brigadier-general. It was worth “a sabbath-day's journey” on foot, to witness one of these parades; for I believe that all the annals of the burlesque do not furnish a more amusing caricature of the “pomp and circumstance” of war. Compared to one of those militia regiments, Falstaff's famous corps, whose appearance was so unmilitary as to prevent even that liberal-minded gentleman from marching through Coventry in their company, was a model of elegance and discipline. Sedenó's cavalry in the South American wars, though their uniform consisted only of “leggings,” a pair of spurs, and a Spanish blanket, had more the aspect of a regular corps d'armée than these! A mob of rustics was never armed with a more extensive variety of weapons; and no night's “haul” of a recruiting sergeant's net, ever made a more disorderly appearance, when mustered in the morning for inspection.
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