DESERVED COMPLIMENT ON MR. VAN BUREN'S EXPLOIT OF THE FLORIDA WAR—THE AFFAIR OF THE TRUE GRITS AND SERGEANT TRAP—TRUE GRITS SUFFER A DEFEAT—FLAN SUCKER'S OPINION UPON THE SUBJECT—HIS ACCOUNT OF AN ACTION AT LAW BETWEEN JOE SNARE AND IKE SWINGLETREE.

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 torpifies 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 intrusted 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 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 keenest-nosed of our bloodhounds 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.

Among 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 saber, 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 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 blood-hound 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's 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 obliterate. Besides this, Sergeant Trap had, once or twice, borrowed small sums from the landlord, and received from him sundry manifestations 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's 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 awhile, 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 Whigs are ready enough to touch the cash when there's profit to be got; while them that sticks by Government in all their eternal choppings and changings is to be lookers-on. To the Wieters belongs the Spiles; if that ain't 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 be. Thereupon he went immediately to Eliphalet Fox, and opened to him his whole burden of 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 contrary, as if from sheer perverseness and contumacy, the evil, if anything, 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 toward the Drinkery, ruminating over his wrongs, "blow me if I don't quit the party. I'm not one of them 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 dispatched 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 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 everything 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.

"I'm not a persecutor, nother," said Tom Crop. "By 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: a fig for the money! who cares about it?"

"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. 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, whisky, 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 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 Honeywell, 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 mean time. Thereupon the Court told Joe Snare, if he hadn't nothing to say agin' it, they must give judgment for Ike on the Statute 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, maybe 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 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."