ccented 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.'