"Can fiddle just as much as yer mind t'," concludes
Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, as he again shakes the hand of his preacher,
and proceeds to mingle with the political gathering, the Bible in
his pocket.
CHAPTER XXIII.
HOW WE MANUFACTURE POLITICAL FAITH.
MR. M'FADDEN enters the tavern, which presents one of those
grotesque scenes so peculiarly southern, almost impossible for the
reader to imagine, and scarcely less for pen to describe. In and
around the verandas are numerous armchairs, occupied by the
fashionable portion of the political material, who, dressed in
extreme profuseness, are displaying their extraordinary distinctions
in jewellery of heavy seals and long dangling chains. Some are young
men who have enjoyed the advantage of a liberal education, which
they now turn into the more genial duty of ornamenting themselves.
They have spent much time and many valuable cosmetics on their
heads, all of which is very satisfactorily repaid by the smoothness
of their hair. Their pleasure never penetrated beyond this; they ask
no more.
They ask but little of the world, and are discussing the
all-important question, whether Colonel Mophany or General Vandart
will get the more votes at the polls. So they smoke and harangue,
and drink and swear, and with inimitable provincialisms fill up the
clattering music. There is a fascinating piquancy in the strange
slang and conversational intermixture. It is a great day at the
crossing; the political sediment has reduced all men to one grade,
one harmonious whole, niggers excepted.
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