The Caledonian

From the Yankee Blade.

The Left-Handed Fiddler.

Every body out here in the west has either seen or heard of Gov. L.—'Black Bob,' as he is familiarly called by his constituents. He is the most famous 'electioneerer' in all Kentucky. His popularity is unbounded, and I believe he never sustained a defeat before the people. He is a noble, generous fellow, possessing fine talents and an inexhaustible fund of humor. It would 'do you good' to hear one of his popular harangues. The blues fly before the light of his wit, as the mist before the rays of the sun. His career has not, however, been always without difficulty, and at times he has been so pushed as to save himself only by the 'skin of his teeth.'

I well remember the celebrated Congressional canvass between Gov. L.—and Mr. G. In this instance the Governor had a competitor 'worthy of his steel.' Mr. G. was a man of talent and tact, and it required all the ingenuity of Gov. L. to manage him. It was evident, from the commencement of the contest, that the race would be an unusual close one. All depended upon the vote of the mountain counties of the district, whither both candidates directed their steps a few days before the election. They met at a great barbecue, where nearly every citizen of the county had congregated. I suppose, Mr. Blade, you have never been present at a western barbecue. Well, I shall not now attempt to describe one. Suffice it to say, that it is unlike any gathering you ever witnessed in Yankee land. Eating, drinking, 'speechifying,' and dancing, are the order of the day. The dance is carried on out of doors, under the shade of the thick growing forest—not in heated close rooms, but where the delightful breezes of heaven fan the brow, and give elasticity and vigor to the limbs of the young and gay, as they 'trip it on the light fantastic toe.'

'Well, as before stated, it was at one of these 'free and easy' gatherings that the two rivals met. On the stump Mr. G. couldn't 'hold a candle' to Black Bob. He was literally immolated by the ready wit and brilliant repartee of his 'sooiy' competitor. But he possessed an accomplishment to which Gov. L. was almost a stranger. He was a fine musician; and after the speaking was concluded, Mr. G. took a violin in his hand, and gently and sweetly drawing the bow across the strings, in a moment the woods were vocal with the merry laugh, and the ground trembling beneath the dancing feet of the gay and happy throng. It was plainly to be seen, before the first dance was over, that catgut was in the ascendancy, and that the friends of Gov. L. were rapidly deserting him. Scarcely half an hour had elapsed, ere the hitherto unconquerable Black Bob stood alone, gazing in melancholy mood upon the triumph of his antagonist. The ladies' eyes sparkled brightly as Mr. G. busily plied the bow, while the men expressed their admiration in loud and repeated hurras. This was a trying moment for old Bob, but his fruitful genius was not long in inventing a plan by which to extricate himself from an unpleasant dilemma.

Calling Tom Buster—Tom was a leader in that region and decidedly some was Tom Buster—he told him that he had a confidential communication to make, but which he did not wish to be mentioned by any one. Of course Tom promised to keep dark, and the Governor began:

'Do you observe,' said he, 'that G. plays the fiddle with his left hand?'

'Yes I do, but then he is left handed.'

'Not a bit of it,' replied the politician—'not a bit of it. I know him well, have heard him play a thousand times—and down in the valley, and among the rich aristocrats of the towns, he always plays with his right hand and most splendid music he makes, too; but he thinks left handed music good enough for your mountain boys. If you speak to him about it, of course he'll deny it, but I tell you it is true.'

'Well, cuss him, we'll have no more of his left handed music—he shall give us some of his best licks, or I'll be— if he shall stay in these diggins,' roared the infuriated Tom.

Walking directly in front of Mr. G., he seized him by the arm, told him, in loud and commanding tones, to stop his left handed work, and give them a touch of the right sort. In vain Mr. G. declared that he could not play with the right hand—in vain he protested and implored. The indignant crowd, sympathising with Tom, and wounded in their pride by the trick of the aristocratic fiddler, gathered around poor G., and cried aloud for right handed music. The storm waxed louder, the excitement swelled higher, until finally the discomfited fiddler, concluding that prudence was the better part of valor, beat a hasty retreat, leaving Black Bob sole possessor of the field. Thus was the battle fought, and the victory won. At the election, a week later, nearly every vote in that county was cast for Gov. L.

How uncertain are all human calculations. The very plans that promise success often, as was the case with the left-handed fiddler become the means of our destruction.