we are happy to perceive that in these days of excitement, one moderate man-one exceedingly moderate man — the most moderate man of modern times — a man without the slightest pretension to ability of any sort, is still in full possession of his inkstand and
pen, if not his tongue.
We need hardly say that we allude to John Tyler
, of Virginia
, whose recent visit to Washington
, if it has not saved the Union
, has at least produced a correspondence enlivened by the united abilities of Mr. Tyler
and Mr. James Buchanan
That correspondence, too precious not to print, is now before us. Seven elegant epistles have been added to the literature of our language, and of these we beg leave to offer to the eager reader the following compendious abstract:
No. I. Mr. Tyler
informs Mr. Buchanan
that he has taken lodgings at Brown's Hotel, in order to preserve the peace of the country; and wishes to know when he can be “received” at the White House
No. Ii. “This evening at eight o'clock, or to-morrow morning as early as you please,” responds the hospitable B.
No. Iii. Mr. Tyler
represents to Mr. Buchanan
that “his health is too delicate to make it prudent for him to encounter the night air.”
He will therefore call in the bright, rosy morning.
No. Iv. “Why is the ‘Brooklyn
’ frigate sent South, Mr. Buchanan
fiercely asks Mr. J. Tyler
No. V. “An errand of mercy and relief,” responds our beloved B.
No. Vi. “Why are you planting cannon at Fort Monroe
interrogates J. T.
No. Vii. “I will inquire and let you know,” replies J. B.
Here the thing breaks off. We have no words in which to express our sense of the exceeding astuteness,
courtesy, vigor, elegance, profundity, conciseness and general anti-sesquipedality of these letters.
We are only troubled to think that so dignified a beginning should have had so lame and impotent a conclusion.
If Mr. Tyler
had only followed up the struggle with Number Eight--if our President
had but sent off Number Nine--if Mr. Tyler
had then countered with his Ten--if Mr. Buchanan
had immediately got in his Eleven, to be followed by a smart delivery of Mr. Tyler
's Twelve, who knows what these champions might have accomplished after a mutual polishing, we will say up to Round CXL?
As it was, Mr. Tyler
could only write to the Governor
, to say that he had nothing to say — to report that he had nothing to report — to inform his Excellency
that there was nothing of which to inform him. “I have great confidence” observes Dr. Tyler
, “in the action of my pill called the ‘status quo.’
promised to take the ‘status quo,’ but no ‘status quo’ would he after all take; in consequence of which Executive disinclination, the President
is in a state of ‘status quo,’ I an in a state of ‘status quo,’ Virginia
is ditto, and the country is ditto.”
Thus terminated Dr. Tyler
's visit, and to Virginia
did he return with his despised and ill-treated bolus.
We are sorry to notice that he was not “admitted into the inner vestibule of the Cabinet
To be sure we do not exactly understand what an “inner vestibule” may be; but we are satisfied that it is such a sanctum sanctorum
, such a place of places, and such a closet of closets that if Mr. Tyler
had therein met Mr. Buchanan
, and had
suddenly presented the “status quo” in a mild medium of Monongahela
to the President
what with the surprise and the spirits, the “status quo” would have glided down the Executive
oesophagus into the Executive
stomach) and so in a state of chyme through the Presidential pylorus into the next proper place in the Presidential person — and all with the happiest possible effects.
But it is useless to speculate.
What is the value of a doctor, when the patient pitches his medicines out of the window?
What could Dr. Tyler
do when Mr. Buchanan
steadily refused to take his physic?
“What could he do,” says the reader, “but write another letter to somebody else?”
Sir, or Madam
, that is precisely what he did.
February 8, 1861.