The Adventures of My Cousin Smooth | Page 3

which said snarl is made worse by the singular
hopes of those having friends who would like to be next President of
the United States. The "white house," (that shrine of patriotic worship!)
having its avenues strongly bolted and barred with formidable niggers
from Virginia and Carolina, has become a mammon of faith before
which politicians are making sad niggers of themselves. Mr. Solomon
Smooth lamented this; and, in order to ascertain what could be done in
the way of finding a remedy, he determined to plainly introduce the
matter during his first talk with General Pierce;--in a word, to see what

could be done in the way of straightening things ere he tried the quality
of his cigars and Bourbouin whiskey, a large stock of which the
General was known to keep on hand. The party to which Mr. Smooth
belonged, "Young America," enrolled among its numbers many young
gentlemen whose spirits were fast, and young ladies whose talents were
fast increasing; hence it was that he was a firm believer in the elastic
principles of a go-ahead government: such an one, albeit, as would
republicanize Russia, knock Austria into a smash, or make her declare
herself something--revolutionize Europe in general, and in particular
teach kings of the christian faith how very unchristian it is to wage
savage wars. In addition to this, he would have the world in general
more enlightened, and kings made to know that their highest duty was
to mould their conduct after the example of good citizens. Were this
not enough, he would go for annexing to these "United States" all the
rest of creation; Mexico and Central America in particular, to aid which
object he would have the moon perform a specific part on behalf of
manifest destiny.
The reader must remember that our hero Smooth is a man most
unpolished, though never so bad as he seems. But we will let him speak
for himself, and as his letters are addressed to Uncle Sam, of course
those may read who will.
Enough from the Editor.
WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, D.C., JUNE, 1855.
CHAPTER I.
MR. SOLOMON SMOOTH IN WASHINGTON.
"Dear Uncle--Once upon a time you were called Sam; but now that the
reign of Pierce is upon us it is difficult to tell what you may not be
called. Not long since you were the son of greatness, you are now the
shadow of Pierce--the man whose little light posterity will snuff out. I
have thought of you frequently, Uncle: I have seen you in sorrow
looking back upon the past, and my heart has beat with sympathy as I
saw you contrast it with the present. Once patriotism stood on manly

feet, now Bunkam reigns. Politics are turned into drum-sticks, parties
are lost for want of a policy, principles are buried in the market-place.
Mr. Smooth has been long accustomed to hard knocks and crooked
places; but anything so crooked as Mr. Pierce staggers his digestion. If
the concentrated wisdom of the nation riots here (thought I as I entered
the city) who can gainsay my coming? I knew the atmosphere I entered
had foul malaria in it; the city I found as straight as the face of parties
on the other hand was deformed. But being in the federal city, I became
forcibly impressed with the fact, that your smallest man has the largest
expectations, though he will not object to become the nation's drone.
Having made this wonderful discovery, I took up my line of march for
the National Hotel, a gorgeous palace where an uncouth million meet to
revel in cheap luxury. So large was the house that a pilot to guide me
through its thousand galleries to bed was an indispensable necessity. I
was fatigued, and cared not where I hung up. Large as was the
establishment, everything looked so costly that I became cautious lest
what I sat down upon might become soiled, in which event I might be
compelled to pay the shot with a short locker; or, should the case go
before Pierce, he might in the profundity of his wisdom exile me to
some remote spot on the Mosquito coast. I walked into the
establishment like one who feels himself an independent citizen, and
then commenced looking at the place and the people, as the people
commenced looking at me. Returning looks, and question-asking,
seemed the fashion. 'Stranger!' said a well dressed but rather inquisitive
individual, 'you must, to be anybody in this place, smother yourself in
dignity, and eat dough-nuts of Southern make. Large quantities of this
diet are made now at the White House; in fact Pierce has turned the
establishment into a factory, where that article is manufactured ad
libitum, and all are expected to eat.' I thought the person who thus
accosted