THE PURITAN. No. 45. I would be worldly wise; for the other wisdom, I value not an atom. Massenger. AMIDST all the character that have passed under my inspection, I know of none more disgusting and contemptible, than a thorough-going politician. Politics, in all the forms of the science, from the management of the parish to the rival candidates for the highest chair in the nation, sharpens the envy, extinguishes the benevolence of men, and makes them arithmetical machines, moving only by their interest, without one impulse from the benevolence of a generous heart. I have already mentioned squire Wilson, our moderator, who was a true specimen of a politician on a small scale, and in a humble sphere. The squire was a man who lived on calculation. He never uttered a sentiment, or moved a step, or took off his hat, but with a view to the effect. He was a tall, stately man, well dressed; who loved a glass of brandy, and spoke with a silver tongue. He was remarkable for never committing himself on any question, until it was absolutely necessary; and he had a fund of common-place remarks, by which he could go round a subject, without coming to the vital point. He always waited to see which way the stream would set, and then threw himself into the current. His practice was to suspend his opinion, "the matter was weighty and worthy of deliberation." No man could call him hasty or rash with his mouth; he never let his tongue run before his thoughts. He fully complied with the direction of Scripture, in being swift to hear, slow to speak. He remembered, according to the directions of the old philosopher, that he had one mouth and two ears, and therefore he should hear twice as much as he taxed others with hearing. He well knew that one hasty speech might lose him ten votes, and ten votes might turn the election. The squire was one of the most affable men alive. He would pat one man on the shoulder, whilst he gave him agreeable advice; pull off his hat to a second, and squeeze a third by the hand. gave any advice but what was agreeable. There was another squire in town, who was as great a bon vivant He never as himself, being generally muddled by three o'clock in the afternoon, from drinking brandy. All the town noticed it, and predicted, unless some faithful friend should arouse him from his error, he would be over seas, and gone as a citizen and as a man. Everybody knows how agreeable certain prescriptions are to people in this condition. Squire Wilson went to see him, and thus addressed him-"Brother," said he, "your health fails; I clearly perceive you look pale; (the fact was, his cheeks were like two red pulpitcushions ;) you are too abstemious; I advise you, as you grow older, to lay in some good Madeira, and some good old cogniac, and take a glass now and then. Your stomach requires it." Whether the advice was taken, I know not; but an assenting smile testified that it was abundantly agreeable. Squire Wilson was remarkable for never giving a direct answer. I remember that my old favorite John Bunyan says, that out of the mouth of Apollyon, the fiend that encountered Christian, came fire and smoke. It was not so with squire Wilson. Out of his mouth, whenever he spoke, there came nothing but smoke. I recollect that one day when he was walking in his field, swinging his cane and overlooking his workmen, two worthy citizens laid a wager of ten dollars, that one of them could not go to him and propose any question, whatever the question might be, to which he should give a simple and direct answer. The champion went, and out of all possible questions, he proposed the following. He knew that the worthy gentleman had an only son in Savannah, whom he loved as well as he was capable of loving any thing. He therefore asked, "Pray, sir, when did you hear from your son?" The squire paused, looked up to the sun in the sky, squirted the tobacco-juice from his mouth, and said, "My good friend, do you think the mail has got in to-day?" Thus nature was un deviating, and the wager was lost. This popular man was very discreet with his tongue. He was no slanderer; he neither invented nor reported any tales, to the injury of his neighbor's good name. He was even excessively incredulous, to all such stories as other people were prone to believe. If he ever heard that a man set his own house on fire, in order to cheat the insurers or to excite the charities of the people, he always rejected the account, as an incredible act of wickedness. Though he was a Calvinist, and had been taught the Assembly's Catechism, he was no believer in total depravity, at least in detail. With him, everybody was good; it was good Mr. A, and worthy Mr. B, and my estimable friend Mr. C, and so on to the last scoundrel that filled up the tail of the human alphabet. Conscious, he said, of his own imperfections, he was unwilling to turn a scrutinizing or cruel eye on those of mankind. As to his charities, they were all secret; he never sounded a trumpet before him when he gave alms, 10 VOL. II. nor did he let his right hand know what his left hand did. How many poor widows he relieved, or how many orphans he educated, no man in Bundleborough pretended to say. But that he might have performed many secret charities, is possible; for he was saving of his money; and what could he save it for, unless to give it away ? But he kept his charities so very secret, that not one of them ever came to light. Yet this man was one of the most popular leaders in our town. He was the darling of the place. Long did he represent us in the general court; where, I have heard it said, he was the wisest looking man in the whole body, though he seldom made speeches in that assembly. There, he hid his mental wisdom as carefully as he did his charities when he was at home, in Bundleborough. But I have been informed, and tradition still preserves the fact, that no man walked into the hall of legislation with a better grace; no man bowed to the speaker's chair with greater dignity; and no man could say yea or no with a firmer voice, when the signified interests of his constituents were at stake. In all these things, he was the very Solomon of his day. The mortal remains of this great statesman now sleep in our grave-yard. Under a thorn-bush, whose crinkled boughs represent the tortuosities of a politician's heart, is seen his marble stone, bearing the figure of two angels, crowning his head with laurel, while a ray of glory seems to stream on it from the |