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Just at this period, the True Grits once more began to
give themselves airs of importance in Quodlibet. The
Tigertail affair had stunned them, as a blow sometimes torpefies
a snake; and like that same snake, which after a long
period of consequent inactivity, wakes up in the possession of
new powers of mischief, so woke up the True Grits.

The Florida war, which has been raging on the part of
the Indians, and simmering on our part, for nearly five
years past, is undoubtedly the greatest of all Mr. Van
Buren's exploits, and that which will be longest remembered
in the history of this energetic President by posterity. It
has developed the genius of our New Light Democratic administration
in stronger colors, and speaks more conclusively
in favor of the perseverance and resource of our Great Chief,
than any other of the numerous brilliant acts, whereby he
has illustrated the principles of that unterrified and unflinching
democracy, to whom fortune and General Jackson in
partnership, have entrusted the destinies of this republic.
That war was not only the most righteous and unavoidable
in its origin, but it has also been the most chivalrous in its

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character, the most economical in its management, and is
likely to be the most productive in its results,—if it should
ever please Bill Jumper or Sam Jones or Micanopy, or their
heirs and representatives, to allow it to come to a conclusion—
that has ever been waged between two great nations;
and will unquestionably cover our Commander-in-chief of
the army and navy of the United States with as thick a coat
of glory, as it has already covered the bravest and keenestnosed
of our blood hounds with a coat of mud:—and that
is, perhaps, about as thick a covering as a hero of the President's
mould might be supposed able to stagger under, in
that long journey of fame by which he is to march down to
after times.

Amongst other vigorous measures taken in the prosecution
of this stupendous war, was one that produced no small
sensation in Quodlibet. A tall, raw-boned, slender and very
straight figure of a man, of a singularly red head and remarkably
freckled face—the said figure being decked in a
suit of army regimentals highly bedizened with worsted lace
and cord, begirt with a huge sabre, and wearing a plume
three feet long,—made its appearance recently in the Borough.
This personage rejoiced in the name and title of Sergeant
Trap. He was accompanied by a drummer four feet six
inches high, of a remarkably fierce military aspect; and by
a fifer six feet four, quite as remarkable for the length of his
arms and legs, and the shortness of his sleeves and pantaloons,—
both inferring, from their general effect upon his
exterior, a rustical and imbellicose mode of life which reluctantly
accommodated itself to the military requisitions of
his station.

The sergeant and drummer were strangers to our folks;
but the fifer was no other than Charley Moggs, long known
as the boss loafer of Bickerbray, and who was famed for a
single accomplishment—the perfection with which he

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executed, upon an octave flute, that difficult but favorite piece
of music, which goes by the name of “Sugar in a Gourd;”
which accomplishment was the foundation of his present
astonishing promotion under Sergeant Trap, who had come
to Quodlibet, in pursuance of orders from Mr. Poinsett, to
pick up as many spare heroes for the Florida war, as might
be found in our environs, willing to dog the Indians in
company with our gallant allies lately arrived from Cuba.

The Sergeant took a small frame house next door to Sim
Travers's Refectory,—or rather, as Sim called it, his Drinkery.
Here he hung out the stars and stripes, by a pole
which was secured in the second story window, and from
which the flag vibrated in graceful undulations, almost
sweeping the street when the wind lulled, and filling the
hearts of Sim Travers' customers with emotions of martial
glory.

Now, Sergeant Trap had not the good fortune to be a
New Light; but, on the contrary, had the misfortune to be
perfectly neutral in politics—and, coupled with that, the
additional misfortune to be sometimes in want of money.
In the course of some two or three weeks residence in the
Borough, he had contracted a sort of intimacy with Peter
Ounce, the landlord of The Boatman's Hotel at the upper
end, and on the opposite side, of The Basin. This intimacy
mainly grew out of the circumstance that Ounce's Hotel
furnished very pleasant quarters to the Sergeant, and had
also contributed some five or six recruits to his standard.
Peter Ounce, although a Whig, is a kind-hearted, sociable
man, and disposed to make friendships with those about him;
and the Sergeant having run up a score at the bar, fell into
the relation of a debtor to Peter, which it was not always
convenient for him, at a moment, to destroy. Besides this,
Sergeant Trap had, once or twice, borrowed small sums from
the landlord, and received from him sundry manifestations

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of good will, which laid him, in a certain sense, under obligations
to Peter. The result of it all was, that the Sergeant
took a great liking to his landlord,—and, following the suggestions
of that feeling, rather encouraged his men, when
they had a little money to spend in slaking their thirst, to
throw it in the way of Ounce.

This state of things existed for some time before it was
brought into public observation. Ounce's liquors were
good and cheap, the company about his Hotel was jovial,
and Peter himself obliging—in consequence of all which
Sergeant Trap's men went as often to the Boatman's Hotel,
as they did to Sim Travers' Drinkery which was next door
to the Rendezvous. Sim Travers, who always kept a
sharp eye to his business, was the first to notice the visits
of Trap's men to his rival's Bar, and for some time he bore
it with a sulky and uneasy silence. After a while, sundry
inarticulate murmurs escaped him denoting vexation; and
at length he openly began to shake his head and talk about
the duty of soldiers and officers in the employ of the Government.
“We work for the government,” said he, “and
the government ought to work for us. If public money is
to be laid out, them that goes through fire and water has
the best claim. These d—d Whigs are ready enough to
touch the cash when there's profit to be got; while them
that sticks by government in all their d—d choppings and
changings is to be lookers on. To the Wicters belongs the
Spiles;—if that aint a motter, what's the use of having it?
go it full, or give it up—that's what I say.”

Sim continued to repeat these sentiments for some time,
without seeing things alter for the better. Peter Ounce
still continued to divide the profits of the Rendezvous with
him. At last Sim became violent. “I'll make it a committee
matter,” said he. Thereupon he went immediately
to Eliphalet Fox, and opened to him his whole burden of

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grievances. “I'll fix it,” replied Fox, very much in the
tone of a man of business, and Sim went home in excellent
spirits.

The next Whole Hog had a paragraph touching this subject.
“If,” said that paper, “there be one principle which
has been more sacredly established than any other by that
great revolution through which we have just conducted the
nation, in redeeming it from the oppressions of Monopolists
and Privileged orders, it is the deep and fundamental truth
that, To those who have won the victory belong its fruits.
The democracy have an unalienable, and indefeasible right
to all emoluments, issues and profits accruing from the expenditures
of the public money. And, moreover, if there
be any class of persons who emphatically belong to the
government, it is the men who are enlisted for the Florida
war. Few of them are destined ever to return again to the
character of citizens: their lives are undoubtedly the property
of the administration, as every man must see who
reflects upon the history of that war. And if their lives are
thus devoted to the cause of the administration, much more,
may it be said, are their little gains to be employed in the
same cause. Notwithstanding this self evident truth, we
know of men now in this Borough, wearing the livery of
the Government, who do not scruple to enrich the coffers
of the British Whigs with the money lavished upon them
by the bounty of the Government, and which has been
wrung from the sweat of the poor man's brow. We trust
we shall be understood, without being more explicit. If
this abuse continue after this hint, we shall act in a more
efficient form:—a word to the wise.”

Notwithstanding this very significant paragraph, and the
fact that the paper containing it was sent to the Rendezvous,
and even addressed to Sergeant Trap by name, the practice
complained of was in no degree corrected. On the

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contrary, as if from sheer perverseness and contumacy, the
evil, if any thing, was rather increased. Eliphalet Fox
waited a few days to see how his paragraph worked. Sim
Travers came to him with a face now much more in anger
than in grief. “It doesn't work at all,” said Eliphalet adverting
to his paragraph, and anticipating Sim's complaint.
“Never mind, my friend,” continued he, “this is my quarrel.
Go home: leave all to me!”

Sim went home confident that he should have ample redress.
“If I don't get it,” said he, as he walked towards
the Drinkery, ruminating over his wrongs, “blow me if I
don't quit the party. I'm not one of them d—d fools to go
thorough-stitch, and get nothing for it—blow me!”

“I'll see justice done to Sim Travers,” said Eliphalet
Fox, with an atrabilious look, when he was left alone, “or
die in the attempt—blast me!”

After this blowing and blasting, Sim went about the Borough
telling every man of the persecution he was suffering
from the Whigs; and Eliphalet Fox went about to get up
the old Tigertail Convention and bring the matter before
them.

The next evening the Convention met, and a Secret Committee
was raised with instructions to write a lettre de cachet
to the President, explaining the flagitious conduct of Sergeant
Trap, and demanding his immediate dismissal from
the army. This letter was written by Eliphalet Fox, and
was signed by him and William Goodlack, besides Sim
Travers and Thomas Crop the constable, which two latter
made their mark—these four being the Secret Committee.
The letter was duly despatched to Washington to be presented
by the Hon. Middleton Flam, who was required by
the committee to render this service, from a suspicion that
at bottom he was not very favorable to the True Grits.
“Catch a weasel asleep!” said our worthy Representative

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when this letter reached him. “Gentlemen, I'll do your
bidding, by all means.” And so, being wide awake, and
fully determined to give the True Grits no cause of complaint
against him, he went straight with the lettre de cachet
to the President. In a few days the Committee received a
letter from Mr. Flam informing them he had done every
thing they had demanded: that the President had read their
confidential communication, and without hesitation replied,
that if Sergeant Trap had been a civil officer, he would
have dismissed him without further inquiry, in deference to
the respectability of the Committee;—but that, as Sergeant
Trap belonged to the army, he found himself reluctantly
compelled to proceed in a more formal manner, and that
consequently he should direct a Military Court of Inquiry
to take cognizance of the case: that this Court would sit in
Quodlibet where the prosecutors were requested to be ready
to prove the enormities alleged against Sergeant Trap.

“A Court of Inquiry!” exclaimed Fox, with great emotion.
“Is the thing to be made public? We are deceived,
betrayed:—I know by whom,” he added, significantly nodding
his head.

“A Court of Inquiry!—proofs, and all riglar—upon
oath?” exclaimed Sim Travers.

“I'm blest if I go before any court,” said Tom Crop.

“By blazes! I won't,” said Billy Goodlack. “There's
something in this here thing—else why don't the President
go smack forward on the letter?”

“I'm no prosecutor,” said Eliphalet Fox.

“Im not a persecutor nother,” said Tom Crop. “D—n
my blood! I scorn it.”

“I'm not going to put my hand on the book, upon it,”
said Sim Travers. “If a man can't lodge a complaint
without being hauled into court, the party's broke: d—n
the money! who cares about it?”

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“That's my identical sentiment!” said Billy Goodlack.
“By blazes, I'm no prosecutioner!”

The Committee was certainly thrown into great consternation.
The cause of this is said to have been that in
representing the case of Sergeant Trap to the President
by letter, upon which they expected an immediate order
dismissing the offender from service, they had charged
him with a long list of misdemeanors against the welfare of
the Great New Light Democratic Party; which they knew,
in the first place, had no sort of foundation in fact, and therefore
might be found extremely difficult of proof; and the
attempt to investigate which, in the second place, they were
aware might bring the True Grits into collision with each
other in a manner not very conducive to the harmony of
the party. They were, therefore, not a little thrown aback
when they were apprised of the President's determination
to make the charges a subject of inquiry.

We cannot sufficiently commend Mr. Van Buren's caution
in this matter, and the sound New Light Democratic view
he took of the subject. Here was a grave charge preferred
against one of his own servants, imputing to him a disposition
to deal with Whigs—nay, an actual dealing with them,
when there was a New Light to be found in the same town
capable of furnishing the same commodity. Doubtless, upon
this nefarious transaction being fully proved, Mr. Van Buren,
like a genuine, unadulterated Quod, as he is, would dismiss
the offender from service, or even inflict on him other
punishment, if it fell in his way. But in so serious a case he
was determined not to be premature in his action: he would
not proceed,—unless, indeed, the offender had been a civil
officer—upon such testimony as the confidential letter of
a committee. He takes the only just course (in this I
have reason to believe he was fully seconded, perhaps even
prompted, by our sagacious representative, the Hon.

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Middleton Flam) and that is a formal, solemn judicial inquiry
into the conduct of Sergeant Trap, to ascertain whether he
really had purchased liquors to the prejudice of the Great
New Light Quodlibetarian Democratic Party. Truly have
we reason, day by day, to rejoice in a President of such
magnanimity, such justice, such innate republicanism, and
withal such dignity!

The Court of Inquiry met. It was composed of officers
of high rank. After a long and patient investigation, and
the most accurate ascertainment of the number of gills of
rum, whiskey and brandy sold to Trap's recruits by Sim
Travers and by Peter Ounce, and a careful arithmetical computation
of the value thereof in money; and after a laborious
examination into Sim Travers's politics, as also into those
of Peter Ounce, the trial resulted in the conclusion that Sim
Travers was not so good a New Light as he professed to
be, (this was founded on evidence that Sim had said “he
would leave the party, if he couldn't get his share of spiles,”)
and that Peter Ounce's politics were, in fact, not known to
Sergeant Trap at the time he dealt with him: whereupon
Trap was acquitted of each and every charge brought against
him; although Theodore Fog, the Counsel for the Secret
Committee, took upon himself to inform the Sergeant, somewhat
authoritatively, that as he was now aware of the dangerous
tendency of Ounce's principles, the President would
expect him to close all accounts at the said Peter's bar, and
to be more circumspect the next time.

It was generally admitted, and indeed was the common
talk of the Borough, that in this notable trial Eliphalet Fox
dodged, that Billy Goodlack dodged, that Sim Travers
dodged, and that Tom Crop actually skulked. And the
general effect of the whole was to cut the combs of the True
Grits so thoroughly, that it is believed they will never rise
again. Flan Sucker made a jest of this, very much to the

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annoyance of his friends—for Flan had taken a violent fancy
to Sergeant Trap, and even at one time, it was supposed,
had an idea of enlisting. He used to sit up with the Sergeant
of nights and drink a good deal with him through the
day, and by this means very naturally became quite a crony.
He therefore exulted much more than a True Grit, it was
conceived, ought, at the Sergeant's triumphant acquittal.
“Sargeant Trap,” said he, “Locumsgillied Liphlet Fox;”
and as this expression requires an explanation, he gave it,
to this effect.

“Joe Snare, the bailiff over here in Tumbledown, fotch
a suit before Squire Honey well, agin Ike Swingletree for
twenty-five dollars, on a cart which Joe sold him. Joe
drawed up a note of hand for Ike to sign, which Ike did;
and Ike never thought no more about it. Joe kept askin
for his money, year after year, year after year, tell at last he
got tired, and so fotch the suit. Ike found out at the trial,
that the Squire was goin to give judgment agin him; so
what does he do, but sashrary the case!—whereby the case
was tuck up to the Court. Well, when they came on to
trial there, Ike had a lawyer who found out that the note of
hand was more than three years old, and there hadn't been
no promise to pay in the meantime. Thereupon the Court
told Joe Snare, if he hadn't nothing to say agin it, they
must give judgment for Ike on the Statue of Lamentations.
Is it that, your honor? said Snare—for Joe being bailiff
was pretty well up to law, and pled his own cause;—well,
may it please your honor, may be the statue is agin me,
but, your honor, I drawed up the note of hand myself, and
if you'll just be so kind to look in the corner under the dog's
ear, you'll see two letters at the eend of Ike Swingletree's
name tantamount to L. S., which as I understand, your
honor, goes for Locumsgilly—whereby it takes twelve years,
if I'm not mistaken, to kill the note of hand, bekase that's a

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bond. The judge looked and looked, and then sot up a
laugh; and Ike Swingletree began to turn a little pale. Joe,
says the judge, you're right, says he: that alters the case,
and you must have the judgment. Joe, says he, you have
beaten the lawyer and his client both—you're a clever fellow,
and will get your money. So Joe accordingly got the
judgment, and came off mightily pleased. And when he
was tellin me about the matter next day, he burst out in a
great haw haw, and couldn't hardly talk for laughing: Ike
Swingletree, said he, sashraried me, but I reckon I Locumsgillied
him.

“Well, that's just what Sergeant Trap has done to Liphlet
Fox—Locumsgillied him, beautiful.”

p239-236

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