Duff Green was a round, insincere, self-seeking, suave, smooth,
porpoise-body of a personage, small of eye, hair age-streaked, a port
wine voice, wide mouth, and nose of friendly hue. He had come to town
the year before, poor and modest, and bartered himself into possession
of the _Telegraph_, a leading journal of the capital. He prospered,
and prosperity had swollen him. Nor was he without some tincture of
shrewdness; for he owned the wit in the late elections to support the
General, and now would wax pompous and come forward because of it. I did
not like him, holding him selfish and withal weak; besides, his affable
complacency offended me.
The General would defend Duff Green, although I am sure he had
his measure from the start. The General, retorting to my charge of
selfishness and vanity, would say: “Of course, Duff's selfish; that's
why I enjoy him. I like selfish folk; they are easy to understand, easy
to start or stop. One has but to bait his trap with their interest and,
presto! there they are in the morning caught sharp and fast for his use.
And again, your selfish folk are content with much less than will
suffice your disinterested folk who truly love you.” This was one of the
General's efforts at sarcasm, and delivered with the sly flicker of a
smile.
“But the smug vanity of Duff Green!” I would urge. “I could wish you
half so tremendous as he deems himself.”
“Fie! Major, fie!” would be the reply; “vanity is the powder in the gun,
the impulse that sends the bullet home. It is the sails of the ship and
the reason of motion to that hull of merit which might make no voyage
without. Vanity has won more battles than patriotism; wanting vanity,
Caesar would have crossed no Rubicon, and Napoleon would have begun, not
ended, with Waterloo.”
This fashion of bicker fell often forth between the General and myself;
indeed, we were in frequent disagreement, he being one who, while
holding notions of his own wisdom, was withal much imposed against by
pretences on the false parts of men whom I saw through as through a
ladder; and so I told him.
“Ah! excellent evening, Mr. President! excellent evening, Major--ah!”
exclaimed Duff Green, his friendly nose aflame, and port wine tones,
satisfied and unctuous. Coming forward, he took first the General's hand
and then mine. For all the warmth of his countenance, his hand had the
cold feel of a fish, and I did not, myself, insist on its retention
beyond the plain limits of politeness. “Excellent evening, Mr.
President,” he repeated, glowing the while, in anticipation doubtless of
public printing to come.
“You are not hard to suit for your evening, Duff,” returned the General,
whose fault it was to be on terms too common with many unworthy of the
honor. “Now, I call this the scandalous evening of a scandalous day. I
say 'scandalous' because muddy,” explained the General.
In the talk to follow it developed that the purpose of Duff Green's
visit was no more noble than to just wring future patronage from
the General. Especially did our caller have his watery eye on the
governorship of Florida, a post, for its palms and orange groves
and flowers and summer seas, and mayhap the social life of St.
Augustine--aristocratic, and still on Spanish stilts--much quested; and
the reason of a deal of court paid the General by rich ones who,
having money, hungered for an opening to its display. Duff Green even
suggested, tentatively, the name of a certain wealthy thick-skull.
He said the notable in hand was a prime friend of Calhoun; that his
selection would be held vastly a compliment--a flower to his nose,
indeed!--by the Vice-President.
“Why, sir!” observed the General, whose familiarity diminished as
the place-hunting eagerness of the worthy Duff Green began to gain
expression; “why, sir, the man you tell of lacks brains. It cannot be;
say no more. We'll find some safer way to flatter the Vice-President than
by periling public service in the hands of a weakling.”
“Weakling!” repeated Duff Green, while the friendly nose began to
bleach; “weakling! Mr. President, this gentleman--this friend of
Calhoun--is one of our richest people.”
“Why, I believe he did inherit a fortune,” responded the General
carelessly; “or perhaps a more proper phrasing would make the fortune
inherit him. But that is scant reason why he should mismanage a gravely
important trust. The governorship of Florida is not all citron groves
and mocking birds; there is responsible work to do; and the territory,
I tell you, shall not be wasted by a fool. But cheer up, Duff,”--the
visitor was looking blue and the hue of friendship had quite departed
his nose--“cheer thou up! Perchance we may yet discover some office
wherein your ambitious wittol of wealth--whom the Vice-President
loves!--may be great without being dangerous.”
Duff Green was no more urgent on the point of a Florida governorship. He
was not so dim but he saw his failure and accepted it with what grace he
might.
“I don't know how the Vice-President may take it!” he murmured at the
close.
“As to that,” said the General, and his words fell with a suspicious
sharpness, as from one smelling to a threat; “as to that, the
Vice-President must sustain himself very patiently. I know those who
would hold other conduct on the Vice-President's part as excessively
misplaced. They might even teach the Vice-President a similar
conclusion. You should tell him that; since I see you act by his request
and as his agent.”
Here the General looked hard at Duff Green. Already I caught a shadow
of those jealous differences to come between the General and
Calhoun--differences that would seem, for the separation of the White
House and the Vice-Presidency, constructed of the Constitution.
These offices never have agreed--never have been true friends in any
administration. It was the less important in this instance, since,
secretly and unknown to him, Calhoun for over a decade had been
the General's enemy. On that February evening which Duff Green so
distinguished as “excellent” the General was by no means distant from
the fact's discovery.
“You do wrong, Mr. President,” faltered Duff Green, his affable nose
as pale as paper now, “when you say I am Calhoun's agent. The
Vice-President knows nothing of this. It was by accident I became aware
of his anxiety touching the Florida governorship. I give you my honor,
Mr. President; I give you my honor!”
“Let it pass; it's of no mighty consequence.” Then impatiently, “Don't
call me 'Mr. President' until I'm President. It will be bad enough after
inauguration, I take it.”
Here poor Duff Green was visibly disturbed. I said nothing to relieve
him. Indeed, I didn't utter a dozen words while he remained; as I've
told you, I misliked Duff Green, with his face the color of a violin and
his airs of fussy consequence.
“But here, Duff,” resumed the General, coming himself to the rescue of
our visitor, who might be described as sinking for the third and last
time in the deep waters of his own confusion, “here, Duff, is something
I much desire you to do. It is a list of the cabinet as I intend its
construction on the hocks of my inaugural. There are reasons why it
should be printed; the Major”--here he indicated me, and with a dry note
in his voice which I understood--“approves the names and thinks they
should be given to the public. Get them in the next _Telegraph_. Here,
I'll read them.” And the General reached for his horn-framed glasses and
began from a paper he'd taken from his pocket. “Van Buren, Secretary
of State; Ingham, the Treasury; Eaton, for the War Office.” I saw Duff
Green look sharply up. Somehow, while I found protest in his glance, I
could not believe the promised cabinet selection of Eaton unpleasant to
him. From that moment I knew him for no well-wisher of the General--to
be thus pleased with a prospect of hot water! The General drove ahead:
“Branch for the Navy; Berrien for the Department of Justice; and lastly,
Barry, Postmaster General. There you have it. New York, Pennsylvania,
Tennessee, North Carolina, Georgia, and Kentucky; the North, the West,
and the South--two each; and none for the Yankee East, since to that
hard region where men, to make them smart, are raised on foxes' ears
and thistle tops, I owe no debts. There is the list. Let me see it in
print.” And the General placed the paper in Duff Green's hands.
The General turned to fill his infallible pipe; he would have it ready
to shatter into smithereens should provocation come. Duff Green fingered
the folded paper with timid air while the General fished for a coal with
the little table tongs. For myself, I said nothing; since it was to
be done, it might as well see ink--that cabinet list. As the General
straightened his tall, slight form, his tobacco-lighting accomplished,
Duff Green, breathing pursily from a dash of trepidation, could not
forbear comment.
“I suppose you would like my thoughts on this list?” Duff Green took
care to give his supposition the rising turn of query.
“And why do you suppose so?” said the General, his tone something grim.
“Only because I supposed you'd like the thoughts of everybody.” Duff
Green fawned with his voice in a half-fright. It is ill to pester
a lion, being no lion-tamer. “I supposed you'd like the thoughts of
everybody,” he repeated.
“Quite right!” said the General, pretending return of sunshine. “And
what are your thoughts?”
“The list will be welcome,” he answered, gaining confidence from the
General's mollified features; “the list will be welcome save in one
particular. The selection for your Secretary of War, Mr. President--”
Here Duff Green came to a stop, utterance wholly at a halt. Nor did I
blame him, for now the General gloomed in truly savage sort. The General
waved his pipe; but he did not break it. Probably he did not think Duff
Green worth a pipe.
“And what of Mr. Eaton?” demanded the General at last.
“It's Mrs. Eaton,” gasped the other, while his fear shook him until he
quaked like a custard; “it's Mrs. Eaton. Our society will not receive
her; that is, our ladies won't. Mr. President, she's a tavern-keeper's
daughter--he kept this identical Indian Queen, as you must know.
Mrs. Eaton's origin is too low for such station; and besides they
say--and--and--Mr. President, really, our ladies won't receive her into
society.” Duff Green ran visibly aground and could go no further.
“Mark you this, Duff Green,” and the General's eyes sparkled, while he
kept his voice in hand; “mark you this! If a 'low origin' be the
social argument, then I am minded of no palace as the habitat of my own
bringing up. But here I tell you: I've not come to the White House to be
ruled. Once I was set to the defence of New Orleans. The society of
that great city was against me, and I put society under martial law; a
society legislature was thereby shocked, and I dissolved it; a society
Frenchman murmured against this, and I marched him out of town with two
bayonets at his back; a society American denounced the expulsion, and
I clapped him in irons; a society judge issued a writ of release, and
I arrested him. Incidentally, I beat Pakenham and his English, and did
what I was sent to do. Now I've been ordered to Washington by the public
and given duties to perform. I look to find here conditions of sympathy
and friendship and support. If they be not here, I'll construct them;
if, being here, they fail me, I'll supply their places. Notably, should
I get up some morning to discover myself without a newspaper”--Duff
Green sweats now and pricks up his ears--“there shall one grow instantly
from the ground like any Jonah's gourd. Your ladies will not receive
Mrs. Eaton whose 'origin is low!' And for that cogent reason Mr. Eaton
must not be Secretary of War! Man, have I been lifted to a presidency
to consult wives and gossips in picking my constitutional advisers? Go;
print that list--print it as I give it you;--go!”
The breath of the General's indignation carried Duff Green into the
hall; and even when the door was closed behind him, I could follow by
ear as he fled towards the stair with a fat shuffle that told of terror.
“The man exhausts me,” said the General, as he refilled his pipe.
“I think I'll write to Frank Blair.”
“Why?” and the General looked up.
“We should have him ready to start a Jackson paper in Washington when
Duff Green deserts.”
When I turned out on the next morning I found the fogs and mists of the
day before departed and blown aside, and a bright sky overhead. There
was no frost; but on the contrary a fine spring promise in the air that
smelled in one's nostril like the breath of budding trees. The roads,
too, were more in the way of reform, and here and there a dry spot
showed in profert of what would be. Altogether it was quite an April
rather than a February morning. I finished shaving and dressing and
called Jim to brush my coat. A hostler before he became a valet, Jim was
used to accompany these brush-labors with an aspiration like unto the
escape of steam; a sound held sovereign by him for giving a horse's coat
a gloss, and therefore good for mine. I had gone forth in an earlier day
to break Jim of these stable tricks, but, making no headway, wisely gave
it up, and Jim hissed on unchecked. There be things your African won't
learn; there be things he will learn; and effort to suppress in the one
direction or excite enterprise in the other, is thrown away. Aware on
these points, I had taken years before the bridle of restraint off Jim,
and to give him his due he went the better with his head free.
When brushed to fit Jim's notion of the spic and span, I settled my chin
in my black stock and went to call upon the General. I would know how
he held himself on the back of his bleedings and his wraths against Duff
Green.
I found him over a bowl of coffee and with a pipe going; he had been up
and breakfasted an hour before. Also, he had gotten letters to please
him and was in top spirits.
I recall looking at him as I entered his chamber, and thinking, as I
noted his quick, game-cock air, full of life and resolution, how little
he seemed that invalid who but the evening before was opening veins and
lying ill with old wounds. The difference would have amazed any save
myself, who had seen too much of him to be now astonished. The
General could pull himself together like a watch-spring. Moreover, he
fed on sensation, and a glow at his heart's roots was better for
him than a meal of victuals. I've borne witness as he rode into the
wilderness to conquer Weatherford and his Creeks, with a month-old
bullet in his shoulder and its fellow in his arm. He was so feeble and
nigh death that he must be handed to his saddle like a sack of bran, and
each hour the surgeons must bathe him over with sugar-of-lead water to
keep life in his body. And yet, from the outset, and on bad food
and with the ground for his bed, he began to mend. The man lived on
sensation, I say, like a babe on milk. He would walk up and down a line
of battle and be as drunk on rifle smoke as any other on brandy.
When I came into his room I found the General--pipe and coffee for the
moment in retirement--to his own evident satisfaction, but in a rusty
raven voice I fear, humming _The Star Spangled Banner_. His eyes were
closed. He was sitting by the fire, beating out the time of the music
with pipe held like a baton in his claw-like hand, wearing meanwhile
much the air of your critic at an opera. His notes slipped frequently
into quavers, and there was constant struggle to keep from lapsing into
the savage minor key.
“You make grewsome music for a bright morning, General,” said I; “it
sounds dolefully like a wail.”
“That's a majestic tune, Major,” he replied, opening his eyes. “It never
fails to stir me, and would bear comparison with _Old Hundred_, albeit
one tells of religion and the other of patriotism. After all, what
should be the separation between true patriotism and true religion?”
“Last evening,” I retorted, “you fell upon me hip and thigh because I
said you were not a politician but a president; you would have it that
the two were synonyms for each other. Also, you declared that no
one might be both a politician and a Christian. Now you talk of no
separation between patriotism and religion. General, you go to bed in
one frame and get, up in another; you are not consistent.”
“I'll not quarrel with you,” said he, “though to say, as you would seem
to, that a president and a patriot are ever the same, is begging the
question and a far shot from the truth. I still stick for it, however,
that _The Star Spangled Banner_ comes close to religion in its
influence; I've heard it given while the big guns were speaking at the
front, and I may tell you, sir, it brought water to my eyes.”
I could well believe this, for the General was as soon to shed tears as
a woman; and withal so readily excited that on least occasion his hand
would shake like a leaf in a ripple of wind. He said the latter was from
coffee and tobacco and not from natural nervousness. He was half right
and half wrong. This tremble of the hands was the vibration of that
mighty machinery of the man when the belts were thrown on for utter
action. However, this is all aside the story.
The promulgation in Duff Green's valued imprint of the General's designs
had made a stir, I warrant you. The capital community seized on the list
of coming cabineteers with wondrous relish. Delighted day by day
over the tattle of office, the local public sat up, one and all,
and chattered of the printed names like unto a coop of catbirds.
Particularly, I might add, were the Eatons tossed from tongue to tongue;
folk took sides, and some assailed while others defended, and
no little heat found generation. The General admired the buzz and
clash--for his ears were open and he heard of it--being as fond of
storms as a petrel; and for myself, I was well enough pleased. It was
prior to my interview with Peg, you are to remember, and I not yet her
partisan; I half hoped those resentful clamors against the Eatons would
stay the General at the eleventh hour.
“It's not yet too late,” said I, “to have White for the war portfolio
and leave Eaton in his Senate seat. I repeat, there's the country to
think of.”
The General was blandly immovable. Said he, “I have told you how it's
a war on me as much as a war on Peg. They fight really against me; they
attack her good name in their criminal strategy. Besides, Major, you
do the country insult.” Here he gave me a smile. “The country is larger
than you would admit and not to be easily shaken or over-set. Nor are
you and I of such import as we think. The worst that both of us might
do of public evil would hardly serve to rock the boat. And though the
common interest should dip gunwale a trifle, to this side or to that,
are we to throw overboard a girl on an argument of trimming ship? I say
to you for the last time, I'm no such mariner.”
The latter sentences were vivid of spirit, and it was clear the General
had given the Eatons a deal of consideration since the night before,
with the result of stiffening his first determination.
“You'll find more folk than myself,” I observed at last, “to differ with
concerning this business. I do not believe the town is like to sit down
quietly with the arrangement.”
“We will cross that river,” said he, “when we come to it. But why,
Major, should you and I continue whirling flails over this old straw?
It was between us most thoroughly threshed last evening. I think you
are right about the town, however, and that's why I'm waiting now in my
apartment. Mud or no mud, I would else be in the saddle for a morning
ride. I'm in momentary hope of visitation by a delegation of society
Redsticks, who, I understand, connive a descent upon me. They propose
at the coming pow-wow to demand my Eaton intentions, and to make protest
against them should their most worshipful fancy disapprove.” The term
“Redsticks,” which the General employed, was a kind of border slang
and the name given to the Creek hostiles in Weatherford's war. “You must
stand to my back, Major, when the enemy arrives.” This, with a glance
of humor which showed the General as not attaching vast emphasis to the
invasion or what might grow from it.
“I will abide the shock of your Redsticks' charge,” I said, smiling with
him, “unless they bring a reserve of women to the field. With the first
dire swish of warlike crinoline I shall abandon you to the fate you've
invited. I have stood to odds; but my courage is not proof against an
angry woman.”
The General beamed in his droll fashion and, shifting our ground of
talk, said he had letters to write and needed my help. It may as well be
known, for soon or late it is bound to escape into notice, that I wrote
most of the General's letters. He was a perilous hand with a pen, and no
more a speller than a poet.
But there would be no letters written that day; for when we were in the
very act and article of beginning, Augustus came in with a card.
“Ah! Colonel Towson, U. S. A.,” read the General. “Show him up.” This
last to Augustus. “The Redsticks would seem to have dwindled to one,”
observed the General, turning to me. “This Colonel Towson was to be
their spokesman. Now he comes alone. He is a very brave or a very
ignorant man.” And the General sniffed dangerously, and yet in manner
comic, as recognizing the elements of a farce.
Colonel Towson, I must needs say, was a poor feature of a man, with
a trivial face in which the great expression was a noble opinion of
himself. He was of the cavalry, as I judged by the facings on his
regimentals, for our visitor appeared in full uniform, and for part
of his regalia dragged a clattering saber and wore fierce spurs to his
heels. Plainly he was one of your egregious fops; and his breast was
trussed outward and upward with the fullness of a pigeon's by dint
of some vain contrivance inside his garments. As he brought his heels
together, and stood with a deal of splendor just inside the door, the
General ran him over with questioning eye that took in everything from
the wax on his moustache to the gilt on his spurs.
“What do you want, sir?” demanded the General, as blunt as a hammer.
“I am Colonel Towson, Mr. President; the paymaster of the forces.”
Pigeon-breast spoke in high, affected tones, and would clip his words
and slur his “r's” in a mincing fashion beyond imitation.
“Of what forces?”
The voice was calculated to plant dismay in the other's youthful ears.
I was aware how the General's ferocity was assumed, and that deep in
his throat he was laughing. I should have laughed myself, but managed
instead to establish a firm gravity.
“Of the army, Mr. President.”
The high tone began to squeak from agitation. And no marvel! The
General's frown was enough to abash a lion.
“Are you come to me on duty?”
“No, sir, Mr. President, I--”
“Then why do you wear your side arms?” The General could throw an
expression into his face before which a hostile council of red Indians
had been known to shrink and turn gray beneath the paints wherewith they
were tallowed. The hapless Pigeon-breast was shaking in the shadow
of one of the General's most hateful looks. When the other made no
response, the General resumed:
“Note this, sir; I am not in the habit of being terrorized by the
military forces of the nation. Never again presume to come into my
presence armed and spurred, unless required by the regulations.”
“I'll retire, Mr. President, and change my apparel.”
This was feebly piped, and poor Pigeon-breast came nigh to wrinkling his
coat in attempts to bow conciliation and apology.
“State your errand, sir, now you are here,” commanded the General. “I've
no time for two visits from you.”
Pigeon-breast took what confidence he might from the General's brusque
permission, and drew from his cuff a memorandum; as it were, the heads of
a speech. Clearing his throat and collecting himself, he began what may
have been a most lucid and eloquent discourse. Its effect was lost in
the delivery, however; for what with the high thin tones, and what with
the orator's lady-like affectations, neither the General nor myself
could make more of it than of the laughter of a loon. For his own
careless part, I don't think the General paid even slight attention. If
Pigeon-breast were uttering thunder, then it was summer thunder and high
and harmless, far above his head; he minded it no more than the scraping
of a fiddle at a tavern dance. In the midst, Pigeon-breast was made to
halt. The General waved his hand as demanding silence..
“We will shorten this. For whom do you come to me?”
“I was asked to see you on behalf of Mrs. Calhoun and the ladies of
Washington.”
The General glanced in my direction. Of course we well understood that
the mighty purpose of Pigeon-breast was to protest against Eaton's
selection. Indeed, we had caught enough of his oratory to teach us that
much. Moreover, Pigeon-breast had at one stage read aloud the article
from Duff Green's paper as the reason of his coming, and received the
General's word that the list therein set forth was authorized.
But we had caught no word of Mrs. Calhoun, and her name, when it did
fall, came as a surprise. The Vice-President's wife was the head of
capital fashion--the stately queen of the little court. Both she and her
husband, however, had called on the Eatons just following their wedding;
and now to discover the lady in the enemy's van owned a sinister as
well as unexpected side. It looked like a change of front, and much
sustained the General's surmise that this was to be a war on him rather
than the Eatons; that its purpose was politics while its source was a
plot.
“Did I not tell you that here was an intrigue?” asked the General. I
continued blowing my tobacco smoke in silence by the fire. Then, with
utter suavity, the General returned to Pigeon-breast. “I must treat
the messenger with politeness because of his fair principals. Let me
understand: You come from 'Mrs. Calhoun and the ladies of Washington'?”
Pigeon-breast bowed as profoundly as he might with his armor on and
gasped assent.
“And their objections are to Mr. Eaton in the cabinet--really to Mrs.
Eaton?”
Another bow and gasp from the bold Pigeon-breast.
“Sir, give my compliments to 'Mrs. Calhoun and the ladies of
Washington.' Say I much regret that I must disregard their wishes. Say,
also, they do grave wrong, a wrong greater than mere injustice, to one
who in all that stands best is their equal. Being ladies, they should
receive her as one of themselves; being women, they should feel for
her as an innocent maligned; being Christians, they should come to her
succor as one borne upon by troubles. These would be graceful courses,
and make for the glory of 'Mrs. Calhoun and the ladies of Washington.'
On the point of their protest, however, describe me as saying that Mr.
Eaton will be of my cabinet; I shall tender him the portfolio of war and
he has signified his readiness to accept. I do not know what this may
imply socially; I do not decide that, but leave it to the better and
more experienced tastes of 'Mrs. Calhoun and the ladies of Washington.'
Also, you are to do me this favor, sir.”
Pigeon-breast, who was flattered by the General's long harangue, and
inclined to congratulate himself over a polite finale to what as an
interview at one moment was stricken of a storm, here aroused himself
smartly.
“Believe me, Mr. President, any favor in my power.”
Pigeon-breast touched his brow with prodigious military _eclat_, and
then slapped his leg with his hand like cracking off a pistol.
“Why, then, the favor is simple. Tell every enemy of mine, and
especially every friend of Henry Clay, my decision touching Mr. Eaton.
I want the news to travel fast and far. My friends will sustain Mr.
Eaton; and as for my foes, it shall go hard but I discover ways to deal
with them. You may depart, sir.”
Pigeon-breast saluted with flattered chin in air, and went his way, and
presently we heard his saber on its jingling journey down the stair.
“I do not understand that word about the Calhouns,” observed the
General, when we were alone. “The Calhouns have already visited the
Eatons and professed friendship. As for myself, I've supposed Calhoun my
supporter. And why should he be otherwise?” The General shook his head
as one puzzled. “We must, I fear, count as against us more than Henry
Clay and his rogues of Bargain and Corruption. Well, so be it; a fight
is like a frolic in so far that 'the more, the merrier,' as a proverb,
applies with equal force to both.”.
Now that Pigeon-breast was gone, and we being alone, I remonstrated with
the General for that he had entertained our caller and submitted to his
anti-Eaton speech. I said it disparaged his dignity; that he had already
listened to Duff Green, which was bad enough, but now he must stand with
half-patient ear while yon clanking popinjay reeled off his high-pitched
opposition and that of those befeathered dames whom he professed to
represent. It was a poor beginning for a president.
“Why, sir,” retorted the General, “you, yourself, are wont to hector me
at will; I may not buy a coat without you finding fault. Major, I fear
me you are the proud one. To be sure, I stoop when I listen to such as
Duff and our martial visitor just here. But you must know what Franklin
said of stooping: 'The world is like a tunnel, dark and low of roof.
He who stoops a little as he passes through will save himself many a
thump.'”
“Oh, if it were to be,” said I, “an argument of saw and proverb and
slips of dried wisdom, I might quote you not a few and redden your ears.
What I say is, you sacrifice dignity; you know it full well at that.”
The General laughed. “But I had my reasons, Major. I sent him whom you
term 'Pigeon-breast' forth to be a poultice to this Eaton inflammation.
I want to draw it to a head. Duff Green wouldn't do; he'd keep our talk
to himself, since my harshness hurt his self-love, and he's too vain
to tell a tale against himself. And again, he would be made silent with
thoughts of my possible resentment. With Pigeon-breast the cards fall
differently. Did you not remark how well I flattered? At the outset he
was afraid of me. In the end I packed his timidity in cotton-batting
and sang it to sleep; I rocked his cradle and warmed his milk for him.
I called up his pride and made him my messenger. He will tell the Eaton
story to all, and give me as his authority; that is what I seek. It is
a business that will be the sooner over by setting folk's mouths to the
quarrel at once. And we should make it short for Peg's sake. Poor Peg;
it's her tavern origin that kindles patrician wrath, and it is their
aristocratic method to blow calumny upon her. Slander, Major,”--here the
General donned his manner of philosopher--“slander, Major, is as much
the resource of your true aristocrat as poison of your Turk.”