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diff --git a/7823-0.txt b/7823-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..70d2c1f --- /dev/null +++ b/7823-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9404 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Attache, by Thomas Chandler Haliburton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Attache + or, Sam Slick in England, Complete + +Author: Thomas Chandler Haliburton + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7823] +Posting Date: July 23, 2009 +Last Updated: October 26, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATTACHE *** + + + + +Produced by Gardner Buchanan + + + + + +THE ATTACHE + +or, SAM SLICK IN ENGLAND. + +By Thomas Chandler Haliburton + + +(Greek Text)--GREEK PROVERB. + +Tell you what, report my speeches if you like, but if you put my talk +in, I’ll give you the mitten, as sure as you are born.--SLICKVILLE +TRANSLATION + + + +London, July 3rd, 1843. + +MY DEAR HOPKINSON, + +I have spent so many agreeable hours at Edgeworth heretofore, that my +first visit on leaving London, will be to your hospitable mansion. In +the meantime, I beg leave to introduce to you my “Attache,” who will +precede me several days. His politics are similar to your own; I wish I +could say as much in favour of his humour. His eccentricities will stand +in need of your indulgence; but if you can overlook these, I am not +without hopes that his originality, quaint sayings, and queer views of +things in England, will afford you some amusement. At all events, I feel +assured you will receive him kindly; if not for his own merits, at least +for the sake of + +Yours always, + +THE AUTHOR. + +To EDMUND HOPKINSON ESQ. Edgeworth, Gloucestershire. + + + + CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. + + CHAPTER I. UNCORKING A BOTTLE + CHAPTER II. A JUICY DAY IN THE COUNTRY + CHAPTER III. TYING A NIGHT-CAP + CHAPTER IV. HOME AND THE SEA + CHAPTER V. T’OTHER EEND OF THE GUN + CHAPTER VI. SMALL POTATOES AND FEW IN A HILL + CHAPTER VII. A GENTLEMAN AT LARGE + CHAPTER VIII. SEEING LIVERPOOL + CHAPTER IX. CHANGING A NAME + CHAPTER X. THE NELSON MONUMENT + CHAPTER XI. COTTAGES + CHAPTER XII. STEALING THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE + CHAPTER XIII. NATUR’ + CHAPTER XIV. THE SOCDOLAGER + CHAPTER XV. DINING OUT + + + CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME. + + CHAPTER I. THE NOSE OF A SPY + CHAPTER II. THE PATRON; OR, THE COW’S TAIL + CHAPTER III. ASCOT RACES + CHAPTER IV. THE GANDER PULLING + CHAPTER V. THE BLACK STOLE + CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCE DE JOINVILLE’S HORSE + CHAPTER VII. LIFE IN THE COUNTRY + CHAPTER VIII. BUNKUM + CHAPTER IX. THROWING THE LAVENDER + CHAPTER X. AIMING HIGH + CHAPTER XI. A SWOI-REE + CHAPTER XII. TATTERSALL’S + CHAPTER XIII. LOOKING BACK + CHAPTER XIV. CROSSING THE BORDER + CHAPTER XV. THE IRISH PREFACE + + + + +THE ATTACHE; OR SAM SLICK IN ENGLAND. + + + + +CHAPTER I. UNCORKING A BOTTLE. + +We left New York in the afternoon of -- day of May, 184-, and embarked +on board of the good Packet ship “Tyler” for England. Our party +consisted of the Reverend Mr. Hopewell, Samuel Slick, Esq., myself, and +Jube Japan, a black servant of the Attache. + +I love brevity--I am a man of few words, and, therefore, +constitutionally economical of them; but brevity is apt to degenerate +into obscurity. Writing a book, however, and book-making, are two very +different things: “spinning a yarn” is mechanical, and book-making +savours of trade, and is the employment of a manufacturer. The author +by profession, weaves his web by the piece, and as there is much +competition in this branch of trade, extends it over the greatest +possible surface, so as to make the most of his raw material. Hence +every work of fancy is made to reach to three volumes, otherwise it will +not pay, and a manufacture that does not requite the cost of production, +invariably and inevitably terminates in bankruptcy. A thought, +therefore, like a pound of cotton, must be well spun out to be valuable. +It is very contemptuous to say of a man, that he has but one idea, but +it is the highest meed of praise that can be bestowed on a book. A man, +who writes thus, can write for ever. + +Now, it is not only not my intention to write for ever, or as Mr. Slick +would say “for everlastinly;” but to make my bow and retire very soon +from the press altogether. I might assign many reasons for this modest +course, all of them plausible, and some of them indeed quite dignified. +I like dignity: any man who has lived the greater part of his life in +a colony is so accustomed to it, that he becomes quite enamoured of it, +and wrapping himself up in it as a cloak, stalks abroad the “observed of +all observers.” I could undervalue this species of writing if I +thought proper, affect a contempt for idiomatic humour, or hint at the +employment being inconsistent with the grave discharge of important +official duties, which are so distressingly onerous, as not to leave +me a moment for recreation; but these airs, though dignified, will +unfortunately not avail me. I shall put my dignity into my pocket, +therefore, and disclose the real cause of this diffidence. + +In the year one thousand eight hundred and fourteen, I embarked at +Halifax on board the Buffalo store-ship for England. She was a noble +teak built ship of twelve or thirteen hundred tons burden, had excellent +accommodation, and carried over to merry old England, a very merry party +of passengers, _quorum parva pars fui_, a youngster just emerged from +college. + +On the banks of Newfoundland we were becalmed, and the passengers amused +themselves by throwing overboard a bottle, and shooting at it with ball. +The guns used for this occasion, were the King’s muskets, taken from the +arm-chest on the quarter-deck. The shooting was execrable. It was hard +to say which were worse marksmen, the officers of the ship, or the +passengers. Not a bottle was hit: many reasons were offered for this +failure, but the two principal ones were, that the muskets were bad, and +that it required great skill to overcome the difficulty occasioned by +both, the vessel and the bottle being in motion at the same time, and +that motion dissimilar. + +I lost my patience. I had never practised shooting with ball; I had +frightened a few snipe, and wounded a few partridges, but that was +the extent of my experience. I knew, however, that I could not by any +possibility shoot worse than every body else had done, and might by +accident shoot better. + +“Give me a gun, Captain,” said I, “and I will shew you how to uncork +that bottle.” + +I took the musket, but its weight was beyond my strength of arm. I was +afraid that I could not hold it out steadily, even for a moment, it was +so very heavy--I threw it up with a desperate effort and fired. The neck +of the bottle flew up in the air a full yard, and then disappeared. I +was amazed myself at my success. Every body was surprised, but as every +body attributed it to long practice, they were not so much astonished as +I was, who knew it was wholly owing to chance. It was a lucky hit, and I +made the most of it; success made me arrogant, and boy-like, I became a +boaster. + +“Ah,” said I coolly, “you must be born with a rifle in your hand, +Captain, to shoot well. Every body shoots well in America. I do not call +myself a good shot. I have not had the requisite experience; but there +are those who can take out the eye of a squirrel at a hundred yards.” + +“Can you see the eye of a squirrel at that distance?” said the Captain, +with a knowing wink of his own little ferret eye. + +That question, which raised a general laugh at my expense, was a +puzzler. The absurdity of the story, which I had heard a thousand times, +never struck me so forcibly. But I was not to be pat down so easily. + +“See it!” said I, “why not? Try it and you will find your sight improve +with your shooting. Now, I can’t boast of being a good marksman myself; +my studies” (and here I looked big, for I doubted if he could even read, +much less construe a chapter in the Greek Testament) “did not leave me +much time. A squirrel is too small an object for all but an experienced +man, but a “_large_” mark like a quart bottle can easily be hit at a +hundred yards--that is nothing.” + +“I will take you a bet,” said he, “of a doubloon, you do not do it +again?” + +“Thank you,” I replied with great indifference: “I never bet, and +besides, that gun has so injured my shoulder, that I could not, if I +would.” + +By that accidental shot, I obtained a great name as a marksman, and by +prudence I retained it all the voyage. This is precisely my case now, +gentle reader. I made an accidental hit with the Clockmaker: when he +ceases to speak, I shall cease to write. The little reputation I then +acquired, I do not intend to jeopardize by trying too many experiments. +I know that it was chance--many people think it was skill. If they +choose to think so, they have a right to their opinion, and that opinion +is fame. I value this reputation too highly not to take care of it. + +As I do not intend then to write often, I shall not wire-draw my +subjects, for the mere purpose of filling my pages. Still a book should +be perfect within itself, and intelligible without reference to other +books. Authors are vain people, and vanity as well as dignity is +indigenous to a colony. Like a pastry-cook’s apprentice, I see so much +of both their sweet things around me daily, that I have no appetite for +either of them. + +I might perhaps be pardoned, if I took it for granted, that the +dramatis personae of this work were sufficiently known, not to require +a particular introduction. Dickens assumed the fact that his book on +America would travel wherever the English language was spoken, and, +therefore, called it “Notes for General Circulation.” Even Colonists +say, that this was too bad, and if they say so, it must be so. I shall, +therefore, briefly state, who and what the persons are that composed our +travelling party, as if they were wholly unknown to fame, and then leave +them to speak for themselves. + +The Reverend Mr. Hopewell is a very aged clergyman of the Church of +England, and was educated at Cambridge College, in Massachusetts. +Previously to the revolution, he was appointed rector of a small parish +in Connecticut. When the colonies obtained their independence, he +remained with his little flock in his native land, and continued to +minister to their spiritual wants until within a few years, when his +parishioners becoming Unitarians, gave him his dismissal. Affable in +his manners and simple in his habits, with a mind well stored with human +lore, and a heart full of kindness for his fellow-creatures, he was at +once an agreeable and an instructive companion. Born and educated in the +United States, when they were British dependencies, and possessed of +a thorough knowledge of the causes which led to the rebellion, and the +means used to hasten the crisis, he was at home on all colonial +topics; while his great experience of both monarchical and democratical +governments, derived from a long residence in both, made him a most +valuable authority on politics generally. + +Mr. Samuel Slick is a native of the same parish, and received his +education from Mr. Hopewell. I first became acquainted with him while +travelling in Nova Scotia. He was then a manufacturer and vendor of +wooden clocks. My first impression of him was by no means favourable. He +forced himself most unceremoniously into my company and conversation. I +was disposed to shake him off, but could not. Talk he would, and as his +talk was of that kind, which did not require much reply on my part, he +took my silence for acquiescence, and talked on. I soon found that he +was a character; and, as he knew every part of the lower colonies, and +every body in them, I employed him as my guide. + +I have made at different times three several tours with him, the results +of which I have given in three several series of a work, entitled the +“Clockmaker, or the Sayings and Doings of Mr. Samuel Slick.” Our last +tour terminated at New York, where, in consequence of the celebrity he +obtained from these “Sayings and Doings” he received the appointment of +Attache to the American Legation at the Court of St. James’s. The +object of this work is to continue the record of his observations and +proceedings in England. + +The third person of the party, gentle reader, is your humble servant, +Thomas Poker, Esquire, a native of Nova Scotia, and a retired member of +the Provincial bar. My name will seldom appear in these pages, as I am +uniformly addressed by both my companions as “Squire,” nor shall I have +to perform the disagreeable task of “reporting my own speeches,” for +naturally taciturn, I delight in listening rather than talking, and +modestly prefer the duties of an amanuensis, to the responsibilities of +original composition. + +The last personage is Jube Japan, a black servant of the Attache. + +Such are the persons who composed the little party that embarked at New +York, on board the Packet ship “Tyler,” and sailed on the -- of May, +184-, for England. + +The motto prefixed to this work + + (Greek Text) + +sufficiently explains its character. Classes and not individuals have +been selected for observation. National traits are fair subjects for +satire or for praise, but personal peculiarities claim the privilege of +exemption in right of that hospitality, through whose medium they have +been alone exhibited. Public topics are public property; every body has +a right to use them without leave and without apology. It is only when +we quit the limits of this “common” and enter upon “private grounds,” + that we are guilty of “a trespass.” This distinction is alike obvious to +good sense and right feeling. I have endeavoured to keep it constantly +in view; and if at any time I shall be supposed to have erred (I say +“supposed,” for I am unconscious of having done so) I must claim the +indulgence always granted to involuntary offences. + +Now the patience of my reader may fairly be considered a “private +right.” I shall, therefore, respect its boundaries and proceed at +once with my narrative, having been already quite long enough about +“uncorking a bottle.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. A JUICY DAY IN THE COUNTRY. + +All our preparations for the voyage having been completed, we spent +the last day at our disposal, in visiting Brooklyn. The weather was +uncommonly fine, the sky being perfectly clear and unclouded; and though +the sun shone out brilliantly, the heat was tempered by a cool, bracing, +westwardly wind. Its influence was perceptible on the spirits of every +body on board the ferry-boat that transported us across the harbour. + +“Squire,” said Mr. Slick, aint this as pretty a day as you’ll see atween +this and Nova Scotia?--You can’t beat American weather, when it chooses, +in no part of the world I’ve ever been in yet. This day is a tip-topper, +and it’s the last we’ll see of the kind till we get back agin, _I_ know. +Take a fool’s advice, for once, and stick to it, as long as there is any +of it left, for you’ll see the difference when you get to England. There +never was so rainy a place in the univarse, as that, I don’t think, +unless it’s Ireland, and the only difference atween them two is that it +rains every day amost in England, and in Ireland it rains every day and +every night too. It’s awful, and you must keep out of a country-house in +such weather, or you’ll go for it; it will kill you, that’s sartain. I +shall never forget a juicy day I once spent in one of them dismal old +places. I’ll tell you how I came to be there. + +“The last time I was to England, I was a dinin’ with our consul +to Liverpool, and a very gentleman-like old man he was too; he was +appointed by Washington, and had been there ever since our glorious +revolution. Folks gave him a great name, they said he was a credit to +us. Well, I met at his table one day an old country squire, that lived +somewhere down in Shropshire, close on to Wales, and says he to me, +arter cloth was off and cigars on, ‘Mr. Slick,’ says he, ‘I’ll be very +glad to see you to Norman Manor,’ (that was the place where he staid, +when he was to home). ‘If you will return with me I shall be glad +to shew you the country in my neighbourhood, which is said to be +considerable pretty.’ + +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘as I have nothin’ above particular to see to, I don’t +care if I do go.’ + +“So off we started; and this I will say, he was as kind as he cleverly +knew how to be, and that is sayin’ a great deal for a man that didn’t +know nothin’ out of sight of his own clearin’ hardly. + +“Now, when we got there, the house was chock full of company, and +considerin’ it warn’t an overly large one, and that Britishers won’t +stay in a house, unless every feller gets a separate bed, it’s a wonder +to me, how he stowed away as many as he did. Says he, ‘Excuse your +quarters, Mr. Slick, but I find more company nor I expected here. In +a day or two, some on ‘em will be off, and then you shall be better +provided.’ + +“With that I was showed up a great staircase, and out o’ that by a +door-way into a narrer entry and from that into an old T like looking +building, that stuck out behind the house. It warn’t the common company +sleepin’ room, I expect, but kinder make shifts, tho’ they was good +enough too for the matter o’ that; at all events I don’t want no better. + +“Well, I had hardly got well housed a’most, afore it came on to rain, as +if it was in rael right down airnest. It warn’t just a roarin’, racin’, +sneezin’ rain like a thunder shower, but it kept a steady travellin’ +gait, up hill and down dale, and no breathin’ time nor batin’ spell. +It didn’t look as if it would stop till it was done, that’s a fact. But +still as it was too late to go out agin that arternoon, I didn’t think +much about it then. I hadn’t no notion what was in store for me next +day, no more nor a child; if I had, I’d a double deal sooner hanged +myself, than gone brousing in such place as that, in sticky weather. + +“A wet day is considerable tiresome, any where or any way you can fix +it; but it’s wus at an English country house than any where else, cause +you are among strangers, formal, cold, gallus polite, and as thick in +the head-piece as a puncheon. You hante nothin’ to do yourself and they +never have nothin’ to do; they don’t know nothin’ about America, and +don’t want to. Your talk don’t interest them, and they can’t talk to +interest nobody but themselves; all you’ve got to do, is to pull out +your watch and see how time goes; how much of the day is left, and then +go to the winder and see how the sky looks, and whether there is any +chance of holdin’ up or no. Well, that time I went to bed a little +airlier than common, for I felt considerable sleepy, and considerable +strange too; so as soon as I cleverly could, I off and turned in. + +“Well I am an airly riser myself. I always was from a boy, so I waked up +jist about the time when day ought to break, and was a thinkin’ to get +up; but the shutters was too, and it was as dark as ink in the room, and +I heer’d it rainin’ away for dear life. ‘So,’ sais I to myself, ‘what +the dogs is the use of gittin’ up so airly? I can’t get out and get a +smoke, and I can’t do nothin’ here; so here goes for a second nap.’ Well +I was soon off agin in a most a beautiful of a snore, when all at once +I heard thump-thump agin the shutter--and the most horrid noise I ever +heerd since I was raised; it was sunthin’ quite onairthly. + +“‘Hallo!’ says I to myself, ‘what in natur is all this hubbub about? +Can this here confounded old house be harnted? Is them spirits that’s +jabbering gibberish there, or is I wide awake or no?’ So I sets right +up on my hind legs in bed, rubs my eyes, opens my ears and listens +agin, when whop went every shutter agin, with a dead heavy sound, like +somethin’ or another thrown agin ‘em, or fallin’ agin ‘em, and then +comes the unknown tongues in discord chorus like. Sais I, ‘I know now, +it’s them cussed navigators. They’ve besot the house, and are a givin’ +lip to frighten folks. It’s regular banditti.’ + +“So I jist hops out of bed, and feels for my trunk, and outs with +my talkin’ irons, that was all ready loaded, pokes my way to the +winder--shoves the sash up and outs with the shutter, ready to let slip +among ‘em. And what do you think it was?--Hundreds and hundreds of them +nasty, dirty, filthy, ugly, black devils of rooks, located in the trees +at the back eend of the house. Old Nick couldn’t have slept near ‘em; +caw caw, caw, all mixt up together in one jumble of a sound, like +“jawe.” + +“You black, evil-lookin’, foul-mouthed villains,’ sais I, ‘I’d like +no better sport than jist to sit here, all this blessed day with these +pistols, and drop you one arter another, _I_ know.’ But they was pets, +was them rooks, and of course like all pets, everlastin’ nuisances to +every body else. + +“Well, when a man’s in a feeze, there’s no more sleep that hitch; so I +dresses and sits up; but what was I to do? It was jist half past four, +and as it was a rainin’ like every thing, I know’d breakfast wouldn’t be +ready till eleven o’clock, for nobody wouldn’t get up if they could help +it--they wouldn’t be such fools; so there was jail for six hours and a +half. + +“Well, I walked up and down the room, as easy as I could, not to waken +folks; but three steps and a round turn makes you kinder dizzy, so I +sits down again to chaw the cud of vexation. + +“‘Ain’t this a handsum fix?’ sais I, ‘but it sarves you right, what +busniss had you here at all? you always was a fool, and always will be +to the eend of the chapter.--‘What in natur are you a scoldin’ for?’ +sais I: ‘that won’t mend the matter; how’s time? They must soon be a +stirrin’ now, I guess.’ Well, as I am a livin’ sinner, it was only five +o’clock; ‘oh dear,’ sais I, ‘time is like women and pigs the more you +want it to go, the more it won’t. What on airth shall I do?--guess, I’ll +strap my rasor.’ + +“Well, I strapped and strapped away, until it would cut a single hair +pulled strait up on eend out o’ your head, without bendin’ it--take it +off slick. ‘Now,’ sais I, ‘I’ll mend my trowsers I tore, a goin’ to +see the ruin on the road yesterday; so I takes out Sister Sall’s little +needle-case, and sows away till I got them to look considerable jam +agin; ‘and then,’ sais I, ‘here’s a gallus button off, I’ll jist fix +that,’ and when that was done, there was a hole to my yarn sock, so I +turned too and darned that. + +“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘how goes it? I’m considerable sharp set. It must be +gettin’ tolerable late now.’ It wanted a quarter to six. ‘My! sakes,’ +sais I, ‘five hours and a quarter yet afore feedin’ time; well if that +don’t pass. What shall I do next?’ ‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ sais I, +‘smoke, that will take the edge of your appetite off, and if they don’t +like it, they may lump it; what business have they to keep them horrid +screetchin’ infarnal, sleepless rooks to disturb people that way?’ Well, +I takes a lucifer, and lights a cigar, and I puts my head up the chimbly +to let the smoke off, and it felt good, I promise _you_. I don’t know as +I ever enjoyed one half so much afore. It had a rael first chop flavour +had that cigar. + +“‘When that was done,’ sais I, ‘What do you say to another?’ ‘Well, I +don’t know,’ sais I, ‘I should like it, that’s a fact; but holdin’ of +my head crooked up chimbly that way, has a’ most broke my neck; I’ve got +the cramp in it like.’ + +“So I sot, and shook my head first a one side and then the other, and +then turned it on its hinges as far as it would go, till it felt about +right, and then I lights another, and puts my head in the flue again. + +“Well, smokin’ makes, a feller feel kinder good-natured, and I began to +think it warn’t quite so bad arter all, when whop went my cigar right +out of my mouth into my bosom, atween the shirt and the skin, and burnt +me like a gally nipper. Both my eyes was fill’d at the same time, and +I got a crack on the pate from some critter or another that clawed and +scratched my head like any thing, and then seemed to empty a bushel of +sut on me, and I looked like a chimbly sweep, and felt like old Scratch +himself. My smoke had brought down a chimbly swaller, or a martin, or +some such varmint, for it up and off agin’ afore I could catch it, to +wring its infarnal neck off, that’s a fact. + +“Well, here was somethin’ to do, and no mistake: here was to clean and +groom up agin’ till all was in its right shape; and a pretty job it was, +I tell you. I thought I never should get the sut out of my hair, and +then never get it out of my brush again, and my eyes smarted so, they +did nothing but water, and wink, and make faces. But I did; I worked on +and worked on, till all was sot right once more. + +“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘how’s time?’ ‘half past seven,’ sais I, ‘and three +hours and a half more yet to breakfast. Well,’ sais I, ‘I can’t stand +this--and what’s more I won’t: I begin to get my Ebenezer up, and feel +wolfish. I’ll ring up the handsum chamber-maid, and just fall to, and +chaw her right up--I’m savagerous.’* ‘That’s cowardly,’ sais I, ‘call +the footman, pick a quarrel with him and kick him down stairs, speak but +one word to him, and let that be strong enough to skin the coon arter it +has killed him, the noise will wake up folks _I_ know, and then we shall +have sunthin’ to eat.’ + +[* Footnote: The word “savagerous” is not of “Yankee” but of “Western +origin.”--Its use in this place is best explained by the following +extract from the Third Series of the Clockmaker. “In order that the +sketch which I am now about to give may be fully understood, it may +be necessary to request the reader to recollect that Mr. Slick is a +_Yankee_, a designation the origin of which is now not very obvious, +but it has been assumed by, and conceded by common consent to, the +inhabitants of New England. It is a name, though sometimes satirically +used, of which they have great reason to be proud, as it is descriptive +of a most cultivated, intelligent, enterprising, frugal, and industrious +population, who may well challenge a comparison with the inhabitants of +any other country in the world; but it has only a local application. + +“The United States cover an immense extent of territory, and the +inhabitants of different parts of the Union differ as widely in +character, feelings, and even in appearance, as the people of different +countries usually do. These sections differ also in dialect and in +humour, as much as in other things, and to as great, if not a greater +extent, than the natives of different parts of Great Britain vary from +each other. It is customary in Europe to call all Americans, Yankees; +but it is as much a misnomer as it would be to call all Europeans +Frenchmen. Throughout these works it will be observed, that Mr. Slick’s +pronunciation is that of the Yankee, or an inhabitant of the _rural +districts_ of New England. His conversation is generally purely so; but +in some instances he uses, as his countrymen frequently do from choice, +phrases which, though Americanisms, are not of Eastern origin. Wholly +to exclude these would be to violate the usages of American life; to +introduce them oftener would be to confound two dissimilar dialects, +and to make an equal departure from the truth. Every section has its own +characteristic dialect, a very small portion of which it has imparted +to its neighbours. The dry, quaint humour of New England is occasionally +found in the west, and the rich gasconade and exaggerative language of +the west migrates not unfrequently to the east. This idiomatic +exchange is perceptibly on the increase. It arises from the travelling +propensities of the Americans, and the constant intercourse mutually +maintained by the inhabitants of the different States. A droll or +an original expression is thus imported and adopted, and, though not +indigenous, soon becomes engrafted on the general stock of the language +of the country.”--3rd Series, p. 142.] + +“I was ready to bile right over, when as luck would have it, the rain +stopt all of a sudden, the sun broke out o’ prison, and I thought I +never seed any thing look so green and so beautiful as the country +did. ‘Come,’ sais I, ‘now for a walk down the avenue, and a comfortable +smoke, and if the man at the gate is up and stirrin’, I will just pop in +and breakfast with him and his wife. There is some natur there, but here +it’s all cussed rooks and chimbly swallers, and heavy men and fat +women, and lazy helps, and Sunday every day in the week.’ So I fills my +cigar-case and outs into the passage. + +“But here was a fix! One of the doors opened into the great staircase, +and which was it? ‘Ay,’ sais I, ‘which is it, do you know?’ ‘Upon my +soul, I don’t know,’ sais I; ‘but try, it’s no use to be caged up here +like a painter, and out I will, that’s a fact.’ + +“So I stops and studies, ‘that’s it,’ sais I, and I opens a door: it was +a bedroom--it was the likely chambermaid’s. + +“‘Softly, Sir,’ sais she, a puttin’ of her finger on her lip, ‘don’t +make no noise; Missus will hear you.’ + +“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘I won’t make no noise;’ and I outs and shuts the door +too arter me gently. + +“‘What next?’ sais I; ‘why you fool, you,’ sais I, ‘why didn’t you ax +the sarvant maid, which door it was?’ ‘Why I was so conflastrigated,’ +sais I, ‘I didn’t think of it. Try that door,’ well I opened another, it +belonged to one o’ the horrid hansum stranger galls that dined at table +yesterday. When she seed me, she gave a scream, popt her head onder the +clothes, like a terrapin, and vanished--well I vanished too. + +“‘Ain’t this too bad?’ sais I; ‘I wish I could open a man’s door, I’d +lick him out of spite; I hope I may be shot if I don’t, and I doubled +up my fist, for I didn’t like it a spec, and opened another door--it was +the housekeeper’s. ‘Come,’ sais I, ‘I won’t be balked no more.’ She sot +up and fixed her cap. A woman never forgets the becomins. + +“‘Anything I can do for you, Sir?’ sais she, and she raelly did look +pretty; all good natur’d people, it appears to me, do look so. + +“‘Will you be so good as to tell me, which door leads to the staircase, +Marm?’ sais I. + +“‘Oh, is that all?’ sais she, (I suppose, she thort I wanted her to +get up and get breakfast for me,) ‘it’s the first on the right, and she +fixed her cap agin’ and laid down, and I took the first on the right and +off like a blowed out candle. There was the staircase. I walked down, +took my hat, onbolted the outer door, and what a beautiful day was +there. I lit my cigar, I breathed freely, and I strolled down the +avenue. + +“The bushes glistened, and the grass glistened, and the air was sweet, +and the birds sung, and there was natur’ once more. I walked to the +lodge; they had breakfasted had the old folks, so I chatted away with +them for a considerable of a spell about matters and things in general, +and then turned towards the house agin’. ‘Hallo!’ sais I, ‘what’s this? +warn’t that a drop of rain?’ I looks up, it was another shower by Gosh. +I pulls foot for dear life: it was tall walking you may depend, but the +shower wins, (comprehens_ive_ as my legs be), and down it comes, as hard +as all possest. ‘Take it easy, Sam,’ sais I, ‘your flint is fixed; you +are wet thro’--runnin’ won’t dry you,’ and I settled down to a careless +walk, quite desperate. + +“‘Nothin’ in natur’, unless it is an Ingin, is so treacherous as the +climate here. It jist clears up on purpose I do believe, to tempt you +out without your umbreller, and jist as sure as you trust it and leave +it to home, it clouds right up, and sarves you out for it--it does +indeed. What a sight of new clothes I’ve spilte here, for the rain has a +sort of dye in it. It stains so, it alters the colour of the cloth, for +the smoke is filled with gas and all sorts of chemicals. Well, back I +goes to my room agin’ to the rooks, chimbly swallers, and all, leavin’ +a great endurin’ streak of wet arter me all the way, like a cracked +pitcher that leaks; onriggs, and puts on dry clothes from head to foot. + +“By this time breakfast is ready; but the English don’t do nothin’ like +other folks; I don’t know whether it’s affectation, or bein’ wrong in +the head--a little of both I guess. Now where do you suppose the solid +part of breakfast is, Squire? Why, it’s on the side-board--I hope I may +be shot if it ain’t--well, the tea and coffee are on the table, to make +it as onconvenient as possible. + +“Says I, to the lady of the house, as I got up to help myself, for I was +hungry enough to make beef ache I know. ‘Aunty,’ sais I, ‘you’ll excuse +me, but why don’t you put the eatables on the table, or else put the +tea on the side-board? They’re like man and wife, they don’t ought to be +separated, them two.’ + +“She looked at me, oh what a look of pity it was”, as much as to +say, ‘Where have you been all your born days, not to know better nor +that?--but I guess you don’t know better in the States--how could you +know any thing there?’ But she only said it was the custom here, for she +was a very purlite old woman, was Aunty. + +“Well sense is sense, let it grow where it will, and I guess we raise +about the best kind, which is common sense, and I warn’t to be put down +with short metre, arter that fashion. So I tried the old man; sais I, +‘Uncle,’ sais I, ‘if you will divorce the eatables from the drinkables +that way, why not let the servants come and tend. It’s monstrous +onconvenient and ridikilous to be a jumpin’ up for everlastinly that +way; you can’t sit still one blessed minit.’ + +“‘We think it pleasant,’ said he, ‘sometimes to dispense with their +attendance.’ + +“‘Exactly,’ sais I, ‘then dispense with sarvants at dinner, for when +the wine is in, the wit is out.’ (I said that to compliment him, for the +critter had no wit in at no time,) ‘and they hear all the talk. But at +breakfast every one is only half awake, (especially when you rise so +airly as you do in this country,’ sais I, but the old critter couldn’t +see a joke, even if he felt it, and he didn’t know I was a funnin’.) +‘Folks are considerably sharp set at breakfast,’ sais I, ‘and not very +talkat_ive_. That’s the right time to have sarvants to tend on you.’ + +“‘What an idea!’ said he, and he puckered up his pictur, and the way he +stared was a caution to an owl. + +“Well, we sot and sot till I was tired, so thinks I, ‘what’s next?’ for +it’s rainin’ agin as hard as ever.’ So I took a turn in the study +to sarch for a book, but there was nothin’ there, but a Guide to the +Sessions, Burn’s Justice, and a book of London club rules, and two or +three novels. He said he got books from the sarkilatin’ library. + +“‘Lunch is ready.’ + +“‘What, eatin’ agin? My goody!’ thinks I, ‘if you are so fond of it, why +the plague don’t you begin airly? If you’d a had it at five o’clock this +morning, I’d a done justice to it; now I couldn’t touch it if I was to +die.’ + +“There it was, though. Help yourself, and no thanks, for there is no +sarvants agin. The rule here is, no talk no sarvants--and when it’s all +talk, it’s all sarvants. + +“Thinks I to myself, ‘now, what shall I do till dinner-time, for it +rains so there is no stirrin’ out?--Waiter, where is eldest son?--he and +I will have a game of billiards, I guess.’ + +“‘He is laying down, sir.’ + +“‘Shows his sense,’ sais I, ‘I see, he is not the fool I took him to be. +If I could sleep in the day, I’de turn in too. Where is second son?’ + +“‘Left this mornin’ in the close carriage, sir.’ + +“‘Oh cuss him, it was him then was it?’ + +“‘What, Sir?’ + +“‘That woke them confounded rooks up, out o’ their fust nap, and kick’t +up such a bobbery. Where is the Parson?’ + +“‘Which one, Sir?’ + +“‘The one that’s so fond of fishing.’ + +“‘Ain’t up yet, Sir.’ + +“‘Well, the old boy, that wore breeches.’ + +“Out on a sick visit to one of the cottages, Sir.’ + +“When he comes in, send him to me, I’m shockin’ sick.’ + +“With that I goes to look arter the two pretty galls in the drawin’ +room; and there was the ladies a chatterin’ away like any thing. The +moment I came in it was as dumb as a quaker’s meetin’. They all hauled +up at once, like a stage-coach to an inn-door, from a hand-gallop to a +stock still stand. I seed men warn’t wanted there, it warn’t the custom +so airly, so I polled out o’ that creek, starn first. They don’t like +men in the mornin’, in England, do the ladies; they think ‘em in the +way. + +“‘What on airth, shall I do?’ says I, ‘it’s nothin’ but rain, rain, +rain--here in this awful dismal country. Nobody smokes, nobody talks, +nobody plays cards, nobody fires at a mark, and nobody trades; only +let me get thro’ this juicy day, and I am done: let me get out of this +scrape, and if I am caught agin, I’ll give you leave to tell me of +it, in meetin’. It tante pretty, I do suppose to be a jawin’ with +the butler, but I’ll make an excuse for a talk, for talk comes kinder +nateral to me, like suction to a snipe.’ + +“‘Waiter?’ + +“‘Sir.’ + +“‘Galls don’t like to be tree’d here of a mornin’ do they?’ + +“‘Sir.’ + +“‘It’s usual for the ladies,’ sais I, ‘to be together in the airly part +of the forenoon here, ain’t it, afore the gentlemen jine them?’ + +“‘Yes, Sir.’ + +“‘It puts me in mind,’ sais I, ‘of the old seals down to Sable +Island--you know where Sable Isle is, don’t you?’ + +“‘Yes, Sir, it’s in the cathedral down here.’ + +“‘No, no, not that, it’s an island on the coast of Nova Scotia. You know +where that is sartainly.’ + +“‘I never heard of it, Sir.’ + +“‘Well, Lord love you! you know what an old seal is?’ + +“‘Oh, yes, sir, I’ll get you my master’s in a moment.’ + +And off he sot full chisel. + +“Cus him! he is as stupid as a rook, that crittur, it’s no use to tell +him a story, and now I think of it, I will go and smoke them black imps +of darkness,--the rooks.’ + +“So I goes up stairs, as slowly as I cleverly could, jist liftin’ one +foot arter another as if it had a fifty-six tied to it, on pupus to +spend time; lit a cigar, opened the window nearest the rooks, and +smoked, but oh the rain killed all the smoke in a minite; it didn’t even +make one on ‘em sneeze. ‘Dull musick this, Sam,’ sais I, ‘ain’t it? Tell +you what: I’ll put on my ile-skin, take an umbreller and go and talk to +the stable helps, for I feel as lonely as a catamount, and as dull as a +bachelor beaver. So I trampousses off to the stable, and says I to the +head man, ‘A smart little hoss that,’ sais I, ‘you are a cleaning of: he +looks like a first chop article that.’ + +“‘Y mae’,’ sais he. + +“‘Hullo,’ sais I, ‘what in natur’ is this? Is it him that can’t speak +English, or me that can’t onderstand? for one on us is a fool, that’s +sartain. I’ll try him agin. + +“So I sais to him, ‘He looks,’ sais I, ‘as if he’d trot a considerable +good stick, that horse,’ sais I, ‘I guess he is a goer.’ + +“Y’ mae, ye un trotter da,’ sais he. + +“‘Creation!’ sais I, ‘if this don’t beat gineral trainin’. I have heerd +in my time, broken French, broken Scotch, broken Irish, broken Yankee, +broken Nigger, and broken Indgin; but I have hearn two pure gene_wine_ +languages to-day, and no mistake, rael rook, and rael Britton, and I +don’t exactly know which I like wus. It’s no use to stand talkin’ to +this critter. Good-bye,’ sais I. + +“Now what do you think he said? Why, you would suppose he’d say good-bye +too, wouldn’t you? Well, he didn’t, nor nothin’ like it, but he jist +ups, and sais, ‘Forwelloaugh,’ he did, upon my soul. I never felt so +stumpt afore in all my life. Sais I, ‘Friend, here is half a dollar for +you; it arn’t often I’m brought to a dead stare, and when I am, I am +willin’ to pay for it.’ + +“There’s two languages, Squire, that’s univarsal: the language of love, +and the language of money; the galls onderstand the one, and the men +onderstand the other, all the wide world over, from Canton to Niagara. I +no sooner showed him the half dollar, than it walked into his pocket, a +plaguy sight quicker than it will walk out, I guess. + +“Sais I, ‘Friend, you’ve taken the consait out of me properly. Captain +Hall said there warn’t a man, woman, or child, in the whole of the +thirteen united univarsal worlds of our great Republic, that could speak +pure English, and I was a goin’ to kick him for it; but he is right, +arter all. There ain’t one livin’ soul on us can; I don’t believe they +ever as much as heerd it, for I never did, till this blessed day, and +there are few things I haven’t either see’d, or heern tell of. Yes, +we can’t speak English, do you take?’ ‘Dim comrag,’ sais he, which in +Yankee, means, “that’s no English,” and he stood, looked puzzled, and +scratched his head, rael hansum, ‘Dim comrag,’ sais he. + +“Well, it made me larf spiteful. I felt kinder wicked, and as _I_ had +a hat on, and I couldn’t scratch my head, I stood jist like him, clown +fashion, with my eyes wanderin’ and my mouth wide open, and put my hand +behind me, and scratched there; and I stared, and looked puzzled too, +and made the same identical vacant face he did, and repeated arter him +slowly, with another scratch, mocking him like, ‘Dim comrag.’ + +“Such a pair o’ fools you never saw, Squire, since the last time you +shaved afore a lookin’ glass; and the stable boys larfed, and he larfed, +and I larfed, and it was the only larf I had all that juicy day. + +“Well, I turns agin to the door; but it’s the old story over +again--rain, rain, rain; spatter, spatter, spatter,--‘I can’t stop +here with these true Brittons,’ sais I, ‘guess I’ll go and see the old +Squire: he is in his study.’ + +“So I goes there: ‘Squire,’ sais I, ‘let me offer you a rael gene_wine_ +Havana cigar; I can recommend it to you.’ He thanks me, he don’t smoke, +but plague take him, he don’t say, ‘If you are fond of smokin’, pray +smoke yourself.’ And he is writing I won’t interrupt him. + +“‘Waiter, order me a post-chaise, to be here in the mornin’, when the +rooks wake.’ + +“‘Yes, Sir.’ + +“Come, I’ll try the women folk in the drawin’-room, agin’. Ladies don’t +mind the rain here; they are used to it. It’s like the musk plant, arter +you put it to your nose once, you can’t smell it a second time. Oh what +beautiful galls they be! What a shame it is to bar a feller out such a +day as this. One on ‘em blushes like a red cabbage, when she speaks to +me, that’s the one, I reckon, I disturbed this mornin’. Cuss the rooks! +I’ll pyson them, and that won’t make no noise. + +“She shows me the consarvitery. ‘Take care, Sir, your coat has caught +this geranium,’ and she onhitches it. ‘Stop, Sir, you’ll break this +jilly flower,’ and she lifts off the coat tail agin; in fact, it’s so +crowded, you can’t squeeze along, scarcely, without a doin’ of mischief +somewhere or another. + +“Next time, she goes first, and then it’s my turn, ‘Stop, Miss,’ sais +I, ‘your frock has this rose tree over,’ and I loosens it; once +more, ‘Miss, this rose has got tangled,’ and I ontangles it from her +furbeloes. + +“I wonder what makes my hand shake so, and my heart it bumps so, it has +bust a button off. If I stay in this consarvitery, I shan’t consarve +myself long, that’s a fact, for this gall has put her whole team on, and +is a runnin’ me off the road. ‘Hullo! what’s that? Bell for dressin’ +for dinner.’ Thank Heavens! I shall escape from myself, and from this +beautiful critter, too, for I’m gettin’ spoony, and shall talk silly +presently. + +“I don’t like to be left alone with a gall, it’s plaguy apt to set me a +soft sawderin’ and a courtin’. There’s a sort of nateral attraction like +in this world. Two ships in a calm, are sure to get up alongside of each +other, if there is no wind, and they have nothin’ to do, but look at +each other; natur’ does it. “Well, even, the tongs and the shovel, won’t +stand alone long; they’re sure to get on the same side of the fire, +and be sociable; one on ‘em has a loadstone and draws ‘tother, that’s +sartain. If that’s the case with hard-hearted things, like oak and +iron, what is it with tender hearted things like humans? Shut me up in +a ‘sarvatory with a hansum gall of a rainy day, and see if I don’t think +she is the sweetest flower in it. Yes, I am glad it is the dinner-bell, +for I ain’t ready to marry yet, and when I am, I guess I must get a gall +where I got my hoss, in Old Connecticut, and that state takes the shine +off of all creation for geese, galls and onions, that’s a fact. + +“Well dinner won’t wait, so I ups agin once more near the rooks, to +brush up a bit; but there it is agin the same old tune, the whole +blessed day, rain, rain, rain. It’s rained all day and don’t talk of +stoppin’ nother. How I hate the sound, and how streaked I feel. I don’t +mind its huskin’ my voice, for there is no one to talk to, but cuss it, +it has softened my bones. + +“Dinner is ready; the rain has damped every body’s spirits, and +squenched ‘em out; even champaign won’t raise ‘em agin; feedin’ is +heavy, talk is heavy, time is heavy, tea is heavy, and there ain’t +musick; the only thing that’s light is a bed room candle--heavens and +airth how glad I am this ‘_juicy day_’ is over!” + + + + +CHAPTER III. TYING A NIGHT-CAP. + +In the preceding sketch I have given Mr. Slick’s account of the English +climate, and his opinion of the dulness of a country house, as nearly +as possible in his own words. It struck me at the time that they were +exaggerated views; but if the weather were unpropitious, and the company +not well selected, I can easily conceive, that the impression on his +mind would be as strong and as unfavourable, as he has described it to +have been. + +The climate of England is healthy, and, as it admits of much out-door +exercise, and is not subject to any very sudden variation, or violent +extremes of heat and cold, it may be said to be good, though not +agreeable; but its great humidity is very sensibly felt by Americans and +other foreigners accustomed to a dry atmosphere and clear sky. That Mr. +Slick should find a rainy day in the country dull, is not to be wondered +at; it is probable it would be so any where, to a man who had so few +resources, within himself, as the Attache. Much of course depends on the +inmates; and the company at the Shropshire house, to which he alludes, +do not appear to have been the best calculated to make the state of the +weather a matter of indifference to him. + +I cannot say, but that I have at times suffered a depression of spirits +from the frequent, and sometimes long continued rains of this country; +but I do not know that, as an ardent admirer of scenery, I would desire +less humidity, if it diminished, as I fear it would, the extraordinary +verdure and great beauty of the English landscape. With respect to my +own visits at country houses, I have generally been fortunate in the +weather, and always in the company; but I can easily conceive, that a +man situated as Mr. Slick appears to have been with respect to both, +would find the combination intolerably dull. But to return to my +narrative. + +Early on the following day we accompanied our luggage to the wharf, +where a small steamer lay to convey us to the usual anchorage ground +of the packets, in the bay. We were attended by a large concourse of +people. The piety, learning, unaffected simplicity, and kind disposition +of my excellent friend, Mr. Hopewell, were well known and fully +appreciated by the people of New York, who were anxious to testify +their respect for his virtues, and their sympathy for his unmerited +persecution, by a personal escort and a cordial farewell. + +“Are all those people going with us, Sam?” said he; “how pleasant it +will be to have so many old friends on board, won’t it?” + +“No, Sir,” said the Attache, “they are only a goin’ to see you on +board--it is a mark of respect to you. They will go down to the “Tyler,” + to take their last farewell of you.” + +“Well, that’s kind now, ain’t it?” he replied. “I suppose they thought +I would feel kinder dull and melancholy like, on leaving my native land +this way; and I must say I don’t feel jist altogether right neither. +Ever so many things rise right up in my mind, not one arter another, but +all together like, so that I can’t take ‘em one by one and reason ‘em +down, but they jist overpower me by numbers. You understand me, Sam, +don’t you?” + +“Poor old critter!” said Mr. Slick to me in an under-tone, “it’s +no wonder he is sad, is it? I must try to cheer him up, if I can. +Understand you, minister!” said he, “to be sure I do. I have been that +way often and often. That was the case when I was to Lowel factories, +with the galls a taking of them off in the paintin’ line. The dear +little critters kept up such an everlastin’ almighty clatter, clatter, +clatter; jabber, jabber, jabber, all talkin’ and chatterin’ at once, +you couldn’t hear no blessed one of them; and they jist fairly stunned a +feller. For nothin’ in natur’, unless it be perpetual motion, can equal +a woman’s tongue. It’s most a pity we hadn’t some of the angeliferous +little dears with us too, for they do make the time pass quick, that’s +a fact. I want some on ‘em to tie a night-cap for me to-night; I don’t +commonly wear one, but I somehow kinder guess, I intend to have one this +time, and no mistake.” + +“A night-cap, Sam!” said he; “why what on airth do you mean?” + +“Why, I’ll tell you, minister,” said he, “you recollect sister Sall, +don’t you.” + +“Indeed, I do,” said he, “and an excellent girl she is, a dutiful +daughter, and a kind and affectionate sister. Yes, she is a good girl is +Sally, a very good girl indeed; but what of her?” + +“Well, she was a most a beautiful critter, to brew a glass of whiskey +toddy, as I ever see’d in all my travels was sister Sall, and I used to +call that tipple, when I took it late, a night-cap; apple jack and +white nose ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to it. On such an +occasion as this, minister, when a body is leavin’ the greatest nation +atween the poles, to go among benighted, ignorant, insolent foreigners, +you wouldn’t object to a night-cap, now would you?” + +“Well, I don’t know as I would, Sam,” said he; “parting from friends +whether temporally or for ever, is a sad thing, and the former is +typical of the latter. No, I do not know as I would. We may use these +things, but not abuse them. Be temperate, be moderate, but it is a sorry +heart that knows no pleasure. Take your night-cap, Sam, and then commend +yourself to His safe keeping, who rules the wind and the waves to Him +who--” + +“Well then, minister, what a dreadful awful looking thing a night-cap is +without a tassel, ain’t it? Oh! you must put a tassel on it, and that +is another glass. Well then, what is the use of a night-cap, if it has +a tassel on it, but has no string, it will slip off your head the very +first turn you take; and that is another glass you know. But one string +won’t tie a cap; one hand can’t shake hands along with itself: you must +have two strings to it, and that brings one glass more. Well then, what +is the use of two strings if they ain’t fastened? If you want to keep +the cap on, it must be tied, that’s sartain, and that is another go; and +then, minister, what an everlastin’ miserable stingy, ongenteel critter +a feller must be, that won’t drink to the health of the Female Brewer. +Well, that’s another glass to sweethearts and wives, and then turn in +for sleep, and that’s what I intend to do to-night. I guess I’ll tie the +night-cap this hitch, if I never do agin, and that’s a fact.” + +“Oh Sam, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell, “for a man that is wide awake and +duly sober, I never saw one yet that talked such nonsense as you do. You +said, you understood me, but you don’t, one mite or morsel; but men +are made differently, some people’s narves operate on the brain +sens_itively_ and give them exquisite pain or excessive pleasure; other +folks seem as if they had no narves at all. You understand my words, but +you don’t enter into my feelings. Distressing images rise up in my mind +in such rapid succession, I can’t master them, but they master me. They +come slower to you, and the moment you see their shadows before you, +you turn round to the light, and throw these dark figures behind you. +I can’t do that; I could when I was younger, but I can’t now. Reason +is comparing two ideas, and drawing an inference. Insanity is, when you +have such a rapid succession of ideas, that you can’t compare them. How +great then must be the pain when you are almost pressed into insanity +and yet retain your reason? What is a broken heart? Is it death? I think +it must be very like it, if it is not a figure of speech, for I feel +that my heart is broken, and yet I am as sensitive to pain as ever. +Nature cannot stand this suffering long. You say these good people have +come to take their last farewell of me; most likely, Sam, it _is_ a last +farewell. I am an old man now, I am well stricken in years; shall I ever +live to see my native land again? I know not, the Lord’s will be done! +If I had a wish, I should desire to return to be laid with my kindred, +to repose in death with those that were the companions of my earthly +pilgrimage; but if it be ordered otherwise. I am ready to say with truth +and meekness, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’” + +When this excellent old man said that, Mr. Slick did not enter into his +feelings--he did not do him justice. His attachment to and veneration +for his aged pastor and friend were quite filial, and such as to do +honour to his head and heart. Those persons who have made character a +study, will all agree, that the cold exterior of the New England +man arises from other causes than a coldness of feeling; much of the +rhodomontade of the attache, addressed to Mr. Hopewell, was uttered for +the kind purpose of withdrawing his attention from those griefs which +preyed so heavily upon his spirits. + +“Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “come, cheer up, it makes me kinder dismal +to hear you talk so. When Captain McKenzie hanged up them three free and +enlightened citizens of ours on board of the--Somers--he gave ‘em three +cheers. We are worth half a dozen dead men yet, so cheer up. Talk to +these friends of ourn, they might think you considerable starch if +you don’t talk, and talk is cheap, it don’t cost nothin’ but breath, a +scrape of your hind leg, and a jupe of the head, that’s a fact.” + +Having thus engaged him in conversation with his friends, we proceeded +on board the steamer, which, in a short time, was alongside of the great +“Liner.” The day was now spent, and Mr. Hopewell having taken leave of +his escort, retired to his cabin, very much overpowered by his feelings. + +Mr. Slick insisted on his companions taking a parting glass with him, +and I was much amused with the advice given him by some of his young +friends and admirers. He was cautioned to sustain the high character +of the nation abroad; to take care that he returned as he went--a true +American; to insist upon the possession of the Oregon Territory; to +demand and enforce his right position in society; to negotiate the +national loan; and above all never to accede to the right of search +of slave-vessels; all which having been duly promised, they took an +affectionate leave of each other, and we remained on board, intending to +depart in the course of the following morning. + +As soon as they had gone, Mr. Slick ordered materials for brewing, +namely: whisky, hot water, sugar and lemon; and having duly prepared in +regular succession the cap, the tassel, and the two strings, filled his +tumbler again, and said, + +“Come now, Squire, before we turn in, let us _tie the night-cap_.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. HOME AND THE SEA. + +At eleven o’clock the next day the Tyler having shaken out her pinions, +and spread them to the breeze, commenced at a rapid rate her long and +solitary voyage across the Atlantic. Object after object rose in rapid +succession into distinct view, was approached and passed, until leaving +the calm and sheltered waters of the bay, we emerged into the ocean, and +involuntarily turned to look back upon the land we had left. Long after +the lesser hills and low country had disappeared, a few ambitious peaks +of the highlands still met the eye, appearing as if they had advanced +to the very edge of the water, to prolong the view of us till the last +moment. + +This coast is a portion of my native continent, for though not a subject +of the Republic, I am still an American in its larger sense, having been +born in a British province in this hemisphere. I therefore sympathised +with the feelings of my two companions, whose straining eyes were still +fixed on those dim and distant specks in the horizon. + +“There,” said Mr. Slick, rising from his seat, “I believe we have seen +the last of home till next time; and this I will say, it is the most +glorious country onder the sun; travel where you will, you won’t ditto +it no where. It is the toploftiest place in all creation, ain’t it, +minister?” + +There was no response to all this bombast. It was evident he had not +been heard; and turning to Mr. Hopewell, I observed his eyes were +fixed intently on the distance, and his mind pre-occupied by painful +reflexions, for tears were coursing after each other down his furrowed +but placid cheek. + +“Squire,” said Mr. Slick to me, “this won’t do. We must not allow him to +dwell too long on the thoughts of leaving home, or he’ll droop like any +thing, and p’raps, hang his head and fade right away. He is aged and +feeble, and every thing depends on keeping up his spirits. An old plant +must be shaded, well watered, and tended, or you can’t transplant it no +how, you can fix it, that’s a fact. He won’t give ear to me now, for +he knows I can’t talk serious, if I was to try; but he will listen to +_you_. Try to cheer him up, and I will go down below and give you a +chance.” + +As soon as I addressed him, he started and said, “Oh! is it you, Squire? +come and sit down by me, my friend. I can talk to _you_, and I assure +you I take great pleasure in doing so I cannot always talk to Sam: he +is excited now; he is anticipating great pleasure from his visit to +England, and is quite boisterous in the exuberance of his spirits. I +own I am depressed at times; it is natural I should be, but I shall +endeavour not to be the cause of sadness in others. I not only like +cheerfulness myself, but I like to promote it; it is a sign of an +innocent mind, and a heart in peace with God and in charity with man. +All nature is cheerful, its voice is harmonious, and its countenance +smiling; the very garb in which it is clothed is gay; why then should +man be an exception to every thing around him? Sour sectarians, who +address our fears, rather than our affections, may say what they please, +Sir, but mirth is not inconsistent with religion, but rather an evidence +that our religion is right. If I appear dull, therefore, do not suppose +it is because I think it necessary to be so, but because certain +reflections are natural to me as a clergyman, as a man far advanced in +years, and as a pilgrim who leaves his home at a period of life, when +the probabilities are, he may not be spared to revisit it. + +“I am like yourself, a colonist by birth. At the revolution I took no +part in the struggle; my profession and my habits both exempted me. +Whether the separation was justifiable or not, either on civil or +religious principles, it is not now necessary to discuss. It took place, +however, and the colonies became a nation, and after due consideration, +I concluded to dwell among mine own people. There I have continued, with +the exception of one or two short journeys for the benefit of my health, +to the present period. Parting with those whom I have known so long and +loved so well, is doubtless a trial to one whose heart is still warm, +while his nerves are weak, and whose affections are greater than his +firmness. But I weary you with this egotism?” + +“Not at all,” I replied, “I am both instructed and delighted by your +conversation. Pray proceed, Sir.” + +“Well it is kind, very kind of you,” said he, “to say so. I will explain +these sensations to you, and then endeavour never to allude to +them again. America is my birth-place and my home. Home has two +significations, a restricted one and an enlarged one; in its restricted +sense, it is the place of our abode, it includes our social circle, our +parents, children, and friends, and contains the living and the dead; +the past and the present generations of our race. By a very natural +process, the scene of our affections soon becomes identified with them, +and a portion of our regard is transferred from animate to inanimate +objects. The streams on which we sported, the mountains on which we +clambered, the fields in which we wandered, the school where we were +instructed, the church where we worshipped, the very bell whose pensive +melancholy music recalled our wandering steps in youth, awaken in +after-years many a tender thought, many a pleasing recollection, and +appeal to the heart with the force and eloquence of love. The country +again contains all these things, the sphere is widened, new objects are +included, and this extension of the circle is love of country. It is +thus that the nation is said in an enlarged sense, to be our home also. + +“This love of country is both natural and laudable: so natural, that to +exclude a man from his country, is the greatest punishment that country +can inflict upon him; and so laudable, that when it becomes a principle +of action, it forms the hero and the patriot. How impressive, how +beautiful, how dignified was the answer of the Shunamite woman to +Elisha, who in his gratitude to her for her hospitality and kindness, +made her a tender of his interest at court. ‘Wouldst thou,’ said he, ‘be +spoken for to the king, or to the captain of the host?’--What an offer +was that, to gratify her ambition or flatter her pride!--‘I dwell,’ said +she, ‘among mine own people.’ What a characteristic answer! all history +furnishes no parallel to it. + +“I too dwell ‘among my own people:’ my affections are there, and there +also is the sphere of my duties; and if I am depressed by the thoughts +of parting from ‘my people,’ I will do you the justice to believe, that +you would rather bear with its effects, than witness the absence of such +natural affection. + +“But this is not the sole cause: independently of some afflictions of +a clerical nature in my late parish, to which it is not necessary to +allude, the contemplation of this vast and fathomless ocean, both +from its novelty and its grandeur, overwhelms me. At home I am fond +of tracing the Creator in his works. From the erratic comet in the +firmament, to the flower that blossoms in the field; in all animate, and +inanimate matter; in all that is animal, vegetable or mineral, I see His +infinite wisdom, almighty power, and everlasting glory. + +“But that Home is inland; I have not beheld the sea now for many years. +I never saw it without emotion; I now view it with awe. What an emblem +of eternity!--Its dominion is alone reserved to Him, who made it. +Changing yet changeless--ever varying, yet always the same. How weak +and powerless is man! how short his span of life, when he is viewed +in connexion with the sea! He has left no trace upon it--it will not +receive the impress of his hands; it obeys no laws, but those imposed +upon it by Him, who called it into existence; generation after +generation has looked upon it as we now do--and where are they? Like +yonder waves that press upon each other in regular succession, they have +passed away for ever; and their nation, their language, their temples +and their tombs have perished with them. But there is the Undying one. +When man was formed, the voice of the ocean was heard, as it now is, +speaking of its mysteries, and proclaiming His glory, who alone lifteth +its waves or stilleth the rage thereof. + +“And yet, my dear friend, for so you must allow me to call you, awful as +these considerations are, which it suggests, who are they that go down +to the sea in ships and occupy their business in great waters? The +sordid trader, and the armed and mercenary sailor: gold or blood is +their object, and the fear of God is not always in them. Yet the sea +shall give up its dead, as well as the grave; and all shall-- + +“But it is not my intention to preach to you. To intrude serious topics +upon our friends at all times, has a tendency to make both ourselves and +our topics distasteful. I mention these things to you, not that they are +not obvious to you and every other right-minded man, or that I think +I can clothe them in more attractive language, or utter them with more +effect than others; but merely to account for my absence of mind and +evident air of abstraction. I know my days are numbered, and in the +nature of things, that those that are left, cannot be many. + +“Pardon me, therefore, I pray you, my friend; make allowances for an old +man, unaccustomed to leave home, and uncertain whether he shall ever be +permitted to return to it. I feel deeply and sensibly your kindness in +soliciting my company on this tour, and will endeavour so to regulate +my feelings as not to make you regret your invitation. I shall not again +recur to these topics, or trouble you with any further reflections ‘on +Home and the Sea.’” + + + + +CHAPTER V. T’OTHER EEND OF THE GUN. + +“Squire,” said Mr. Hopewell, one morning when we were alone on the +quarter-deck, “sit down by me, if you please. I wish to have a little +private conversation with you. I am a good deal concerned about Sam. I +never liked this appointment he has received: neither his education, his +habits, nor his manners have qualified him for it. He is fitted for a +trader and for nothing else. He looks upon politics as he does upon his +traffic in clocks, rather as profitable to himself than beneficial to +others. Self is predominant with him. He overrates the importance of +his office, as he will find when he arrives in London; but what is still +worse, he overrates the importance of the opinions of others regarding +the States. + +“He has been reading that foolish book of Cooper’s ‘Gleanings in +Europe,’ and intends to shew fight, he says. He called my attention, +yesterday, to this absurd passage, which he maintains is the most manly +and sensible thing that Cooper ever wrote: ‘This indifference to the +feelings of others, is a dark spot on the national manners of England. +The only way to put it down, is to become belligerent yourself, by +introducing Pauperism, Radicalism, Ireland, the Indies, or some other +sore point. Like all who make butts of others, they do not manifest +the proper forbearance when the tables are turned. Of this, I have had +abundance of proof in my own experience. Sometimes their remarks are +absolutely rude, and personally offensive, as a disregard of one’s +national character, is a disrespect to his principles; but as personal +quarrels on such grounds are to be avoided, I have uniformly retorted in +kind, if there was the smallest opening for such retaliation.” + +“Now, every gentleman in the States repudiates such sentiments as these. +My object in mentioning the subject to you, is to request the favour +of you, to persuade Sam not to be too sensitive on these topics; not +to take offence, where it is not intended; and, above all, rather +to vindicate his nationality by his conduct, than to justify those +aspersions, by his intemperate behaviour. But here he comes; I shall +withdraw and leave you together.” + +Fortunately, Mr. Slick commenced talking upon a topic, which naturally +led to that to which Mr. Hopewell had wished me to direct his attention. + +“Well, Squire,” said he, “I am glad too, you are a goin’ to England +along with me: we will take a rise out of John Bull, won’t we?--We’ve +hit Blue-nose and Brother Jonathan both pretty considerable tarnation +hard, and John has split his sides with larfter. Let’s tickle him now, +by feeling his own short ribs, and see how he will like it; we’ll +soon see whose hide is the thickest, hisn or ourn, won’t we? Let’s see +whether he will say chee, chee, chee, when he gets to the t’other eend +of the gun.” + +“What is the meaning of that saying?” I asked. “I never heard it +before.” + +“Why,” said he, “when I was a considerable of a grown up saplin of a +boy to Slickville, I used to be a gunnin’ for everlastinly amost in our +hickory woods, a shootin’ of squirrels with a rifle, and I got amazin’ +expart at it. I could take the head off of them chatterin’ little imps, +when I got a fair shot at ‘em with a ball, at any reasonable distance, +a’most in nine cases out of ten. + +“Well, one day I was out as usual, and our Irish help Paddy Burke was +along with me, and every time he see’d me a drawin’ of the bead fine +on ‘em, he used to say, ‘Well, you’ve an excellent gun entirely, Master +Sam. Oh by Jakers! the squirrel has no chance with that gun, it’s an +excellent one entirely.’ + +“At last I got tired a hearin’ of him a jawin’ so for ever and a day +about the excellent gun entirely; so, sais I, ‘You fool you, do you +think it’s the gun that does it _entirely_ as you say; ain’t there a +little dust of skill in it? Do you think you could fetch one down?’ + +“‘Oh, it’s a capital gun entirely,’ said he. + +“‘Well,’ said I, ‘if it ‘tis, try it now, and see what sort of a fist +you’ll make of it.’ + +“So Paddy takes the rifle, lookin’ as knowin’ all the time as if he +had ever seed one afore. Well, there was a great red squirrel, on the +tip-top of a limb, chatterin’ away like any thing, chee, chee, chee, +proper frightened; he know’d it warn’t me, that was a parsecutin’ +of him, and he expected he’d be hurt. They know’d me, did the little +critters, when they seed me, and they know’d I never had hurt one on +‘em, my balls never givin’ ‘em a chance to feel what was the matter +of them; but Pat they didn’t know, and they see’d he warn’t the man +to handle ‘old Bull-Dog.’ I used to call my rifle Bull-Dog, cause she +always bit afore she barked. + +“Pat threw one foot out astarn, like a skullin’ oar, and then bent +forrards like a hoop, and fetched the rifle slowly up to the line, and +shot to the right eye. Chee, chee, chee, went the squirrel. He see’d it +was wrong. ‘By the powers!’ sais Pat, ‘this is a left-handed boot,’ and +he brought the gun to the other shoulder, and then shot to his left eye. +‘Fegs!’ sais Pat, ‘this gun was made for a squint eye, for I can’t get +a right strait sight of the critter, either side.’ So I fixt it for him +and told him which eye to sight by. ‘An excellent gun entirely,’ sais +Pat, ‘but it tante made like the rifles we have.’ + +“Ain’t they strange critters, them Irish, Squire? That feller never +handled a rifle afore in all his born days; but unless it was to a +priest, he wouldn’t confess that much for the world. They are as bad as +the English that way; they always pretend they know every thing. + +“‘Come, Pat,’ sais I, ‘blaze away now.’ Back goes the hind leg agin, up +bends the back, and Bull-Dog rises slowly to his shoulder; and then he +stared, and stared, until his arm shook like palsy. Chee, chee, chee, +went the squirrel agin, louder than ever, as much as to say, ‘Why the +plague don’t you fire? I’m not a goin’ to stand here all day, for you +this way,’ and then throwin’ his tail over his back, he jumped on to the +next branch. + +“‘By the piper that played before Moses!’ sais Pat, ‘I’ll stop your +chee, chee, cheein’ for you, you chatterin’ spalpeen of a devil, you’. +So he ups with the rifle agin, takes a fair aim at him, shuts both eyes, +turns his head round, and fires; and “Bull-Dog,” findin’ he didn’t know +how to hold her tight to the shoulder, got mad, and kicked him head over +heels, on the broad of his back. Pat got up, a makin’ awful wry faces, +and began to limp, to show how lame his shoulder was, and to rub his +arm, to see if he had one left, and the squirrel ran about the tree +hoppin’ mad, hollerin’ out as loud as it could scream, chee, chee, chee. + +“‘Oh bad luck to you,’ sais Pat, ‘if you had a been at t’other eend of +the gun,’ and he rubbed his shoulder agin, and cried like a baby, ‘you +wouldn’t have said chee, chee, chee, that way, I know.’ + +“Now when your gun, Squire, was a knockin’ over Blue-nose, and makin’ a +proper fool of him, and a knockin’ over Jonathan, and a spilin’ of his +bran-new clothes, the English sung out chee, chee, chee, till all was +blue agin. You had an excellent gun entirely then: let’s see if they +will sing out chee, chee, chee, now, when we take a shot at _them_. Do +you take?” and he laid his thumb on his nose, as if perfectly satisfied +with the application of his story. “Do you take, Squire? you have an +excellent gun entirely, as Pat says. It’s what I call puttin’ the leake +into ‘em properly. If you had a written this book fust, the English +would have said your gun was no good; it wouldn’t have been like the +rifles they had seen. Lord, I could tell you stories about the English, +that would make even them cryin’ devils the Mississippi crocodiles +laugh, if they was to hear ‘em.” + +“Pardon me, Mr. Slick,” I said, “this is not the temper with which you +should visit England.” + +“What is the temper,” he replied with much warmth, “that they visit us +in? Cuss ‘em! Look at Dickens; was there ever a man made so much of, +except La Fayette? And who was Dickens? Not a Frenchman that is a friend +to us, not a native that has a claim on us; not a colonist, who, though +English by name is still an American by birth, six of one and half a +dozen of t’other, and therefore a kind of half-breed brother. No! he was +a cussed Britisher; and what is wus, a British author; and yet, because +he was a man of genius, because genius has the ‘tarnal globe for its +theme, and the world for its home, and mankind for its readers, and +bean’t a citizen of this state or that state, but a native of the +univarse, why we welcomed him, and feasted him, and leveed him, and +escorted him, and cheered him, and honoured him, did he honour us? What +did he say of us when he returned? Read his book. + +“No, don’t read his book, for it tante worth readin’. Has he said one +word of all that reception in his book? that book that will be read, +translated, and read agin all over Europe--has he said one word of that +reception? Answer me that, will you? Darned the word, his memory was +bad; he lost it over the tafrail when he was sea-sick. But his notebook +was safe under lock and key, and the pigs in New York, and the chap the +rats eat in jail, and the rough man from Kentucky, and the entire raft +of galls emprisoned in one night, and the spittin’ boxes and all that +stuff, warn’t trusted to memory, it was noted down, and printed. + +“But it tante no matter. Let any man give me any sarce in England, about +my country, or not give me the right _po_-sition in society, as Attache +to our Legation, and, as Cooper says, I’ll become belligerent, too, I +will, I snore. I can snuff a candle with a pistol as fast as you can +light it; hang up an orange, and I’ll first peel it with ball and +then quarter it. Heavens! I’ll let daylight dawn through some o’ their +jackets, I know. + +“Jube, you infarnal black scoundrel, you odoriferous nigger you, what’s +that you’ve got there?” + +“An apple, massa.” + +“Take off your cap and put that apple on your head, then stand sideways +by that port-hole, and hold steady, or you might stand a smart chance to +have your wool carded, that’s all.” + +Then taking a pistol out of the side-pocket of his mackintosh, he +deliberately walked over to the other side of the deck, and examined his +priming. + +“Good heavens, Mr. Slick!” said I in great alarm, “what are you about?” + +“I am goin’,” he said with the greatest coolness, but at the same time +with equal sternness, “to bore a hole through that apple, Sir.” + +“For shame! Sir,” I said. “How can you think of such a thing? Suppose +you were to miss your shot, and kill that unfortunate boy?” + +“I won’t suppose no such thing, Sir. I can’t miss it. I couldn’t miss +it if I was to try. Hold your head steady, Jube--and if I did, it’s no +great matter. The onsarcumcised Amalikite ain’t worth over three hundred +dollars at the furthest, that’s a fact; and the way he’d pyson a shark +ain’t no matter. Are you ready, Jube?” + +“Yes, massa.” + +“You shall do no such thing, Sir,” I said, seizing his arm with both my +hands. “If you attempt to shoot at that apple, I shall hold no further +intercourse with you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sir.” + +“Ky! massa,” said Jube, “let him fire, Sar; he no hurt Jube; he no +foozle de hair. I isn’t one mossel afeerd. He often do it, jist to keep +him hand in, Sar. Massa most a grand shot, Sar. He take off de ear oh de +squirrel so slick, he neber miss it, till he go scratchin’ his head. Let +him appel hab it, massa.” + +“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Slick, “he is a Christian is Jube, he is as good as +a white Britisher: same flesh, only a leetle, jist a leetle darker; same +blood, only not quite so old, ain’t quite so much tarter on the bottle +as a lord’s has; oh him and a Britisher is all one brother--oh by all +means-- + + Him fader’s hope--him mudder’s joy, + Him darlin little nigger boy. + +You’d better cry over him, hadn’t you. Buss him, call him brother, hug +him, give him the “Abolition” kiss, write an article on slavery, like +Dickens; marry him to a white gall to England, get him a saint’s darter +with a good fortin, and well soon see whether her father was a talkin’ +cant or no, about niggers. Cuss ‘em, let any o’ these Britishers give +me slack, and I’ll give ‘em cranberry for their goose, I know. I’d jump +right down their throat with spurs on, and gallop their sarce out.” + +“Mr. Slick I’ve done; I shall say no more; we part, and part for ever. I +had no idea whatever, that a man, whose whole conduct has evinced a +kind heart, and cheerful disposition, could have entertained such +a revengeful spirit, or given utterance to such unchristian and +uncharitable language, as you have used to-day. We part”-- + +“No, we don’t,” said he; “don’t kick afore you are spurred. I guess I +have feelins as well as other folks have, that’s a fact; one can’t help +being ryled to hear foreigners talk this way; and these critters are +enough to make a man spotty on the back. I won’t deny I’ve got some +grit, but I ain’t ugly. Pat me on the back and I soon cool down, drop in +a soft word and I won’t bile over; but don’t talk big, don’t threaten, +or I curl directly.” + +“Mr. Slick,” said I, “neither my countrymen, the Nova Scotians, nor your +friends, the Americans, took any thing amiss, in our previous remarks, +because, though satirical, they were good natured. There was nothing +malicious in them. They were not made for the mere purpose of shewing +them up, but were incidental to the topic we were discussing, and their +whole tenor shewed that while “we were alive to the ludicrous, we fully +appreciated, and properly valued their many excellent and sterling +qualities. My countrymen, for whose good I published them, had the most +reason to complain, for I took the liberty to apply ridicule to them +with no sparing hand. They understood the motive, and joined in the +laugh, which was raised at their expense. Let us treat the English in +the same style; let us keep our temper. John Bull is a good-natured +fellow, and has no objection to a joke, provided it is not made the +vehicle of conveying an insult. Don’t adopt Cooper’s maxims; +nobody approves of them, on either side of the water; don’t be too +thin-skinned. If the English have been amused by the sketches their +tourists have drawn of, the Yankees, perhaps the Americans may laugh +over our sketches of the English. Let us make both of them smile, if we +can, and endeavour to offend neither. If Dickens omitted to mention the +festivals that were given in honour of his arrival in the States, he +was doubtless actuated by a desire to avoid the appearance of personal +vanity. A man cannot well make himself the hero of his own book.” + +“Well, well,” said he, “I believe the black ox did tread on my toe that +time. I don’t know but what you’re right. Soft words are good enough in +their way, but still they butter no parsnips, as the sayin’ is. John may +be a good-natured critter, tho’ I never see’d any of it yet; and he may +be fond of a joke, and p’raps is, seein’ that he haw-haws considerable +loud at his own. Let’s try him at all events. We’ll soon see how he +likes other folks’ jokes; I have my scruple about him, I must say. I am +dubersome whether he will say ‘chee, chee, chee’ when he gets ‘T’other +eend of the gun.’” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. SMALL POTATOES AND FEW IN A HILL. + +“Pray Sir,” said one of my fellow passengers, “can you tell me why the +Nova Scotians are called ‘Blue-noses?’” + +“It is the name of a potatoe,” said I, “which they produce in great +perfection, and boast to be the best in the world. The Americans have, +in consequence, given them the nick-name of “Blue-noses.’” + +“And now,” said Mr. Slick,” as you have told the entire stranger, _who_ +a Blue-nose is, I’ll jist up and tell him _what_ he is. + +“One day, Stranger, I was a joggin’ along into Windsor on Old Clay, on +a sort of butter and eggs’ gait (for a fast walk on a journey tires a +horse considerable), and who should I see a settin’ straddle legs “on +the fence, but Squire Gabriel Soogit, with his coat off, a holdin’ of +a hoe in one hand, and his hat in t’other, and a blowin’ like a porpus +proper tired. + +“‘Why, Squire Gabe,’ sais I, ‘what is the matter of you? you look as if +you couldn’t help yourself; who is dead and what is to pay now, eh?’ + +“‘Fairly beat out,’ said he, ‘I am shockin’ tired. I’ve been hard at +work all the mornin’; a body has to stir about considerable smart in +this country, to make a livin’, I tell you.’ + +“I looked over the fence, and I seed he had hoed jist ten hills of +potatoes, and that’s all. Fact I assure you. + +“Sais he, ‘Mr. Slick, tell you what, _of all the work I ever did in my +life I like hoein’ potatoes the best, and I’d rather die than do that, +it makes my back ache so_.” + +“‘Good airth” and seas,’ sais I to myself, ‘what a parfect pictur of a +lazy man that is! How far is it to Windsor?’ + +“‘Three miles,’ sais he. I took out my pocket-book purtendin’ to write +down the distance, but I booked his sayin’ in my way-bill. + +“Yes, _that_ is a _Blue-nose_; is it any wonder, Stranger, he _is small +potatoes and few in a hill_?” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. A GENTLEMAN AT LARGE. + +It is not my intention to record any of the ordinary incidents of a sea +voyage: the subject is too hackneyed and too trite; and besides, +when the topic is seasickness, it is infectious and the description +nauseates. _Hominem pagina nostra sapit_. The proper study of mankind +is man; human nature is what I delight in contemplating; I love to trace +out and delineate the springs of human action. + +Mr. Slick and Mr. Hopewell are both studies. The former is a perfect +master of certain chords; He has practised upon them, not for +philosophical, but for mercenary purposes. He knows the depth, +and strength, and tone of vanity, curiosity, pride, envy, avarice, +superstition, nationality, and local and general prejudice. He has +learned the effect of these, not because they contribute to make him +wiser, but because they make him richer; not to enable him to regulate +his conduct in life, but to promote and secure the increase of his +trade. + +Mr. Hopewell, on the contrary, has studied the human heart as a +philanthropist, as a man whose business it was to minister to it, +to cultivate and improve it. His views are more sound and more +comprehensive than those of the other’s, and his objects are more noble. +They are both extraordinary men. + +They differed, however, materially in their opinion of England and its +institutions. Mr. Slick evidently viewed them with prejudice. Whether +this arose from the supercilious manner of English tourists in America, +or from the ridicule they have thrown upon Republican society, in the +books of travels they have published, after their return to Europe, +I could not discover; but it soon became manifest to me, that Great +Britain did not stand so high in his estimation, as the colonies did. + +Mr. Hopewell, on the contrary, from early associations, cherished a +feeling of regard and respect for England; and when his opinion was +asked, he always gave it with great frankness and impartiality. When +there was any thing he could not approve of, it appeared to be a subject +of regret to him; whereas, the other seized upon it at once as a matter +of great exultation. The first sight we had of land naturally called out +their respective opinions. + +As we were pacing the deck speculating upon the probable termination of +our voyage, Cape Clear was descried by the look-out on the mast-head. + +“Hallo! what’s that? why if it ain’t land ahead, as I’m alive!” said +Mr. Slick. “Well, come this is pleasant too, we have made amost an +everlastin’ short voyage of it, hante we; and I must say I like land +quite as well as sea, in a giniral way, arter all; but, Squire, here is +the first Britisher. That critter that’s a clawin’ up the side of the +vessel like a cat, is the pilot: now do for goodness gracious sake, jist +look at him, and hear him.” + +“What port?” + +“Liverpool.” + +“Keep her up a point.” + +“Do you hear that, Squire? that’s English, or what we used to call to +singing school short metre. The critter don’t say a word, even as much +as ‘by your leave’; but jist goes and takes his post, and don’t ask the +name of the vessel, or pass the time o’ day with the Captin. That ain’t +in the bill, it tante paid for that; if it was, he’d off cap, touch +the deck three times with his forehead, and ‘_Slam_’ like a Turk to his +Honour the Skipper. + +“There’s plenty of civility here to England if you pay for it: you can +buy as much in five minits, as will make you sick for a week; but if you +don’t pay for it, you not only won’t get it, but you get sarce instead +of it, that is if you are fool enough to stand and have it rubbed in. +They are as cold as Presbyterian charity, and mean enough to put the sun +in eclipse, are the English. They hante set up the brazen image here +to worship, but they’ve got a gold one, and that they do adore and no +mistake; it’s all pay, pay, pay; parquisite, parquisite, parquisite; +extortion, extortion, extortion. There is a whole pack of yelpin’ devils +to your heels here, for everlastinly a cringin’, fawnin’ and coaxin’, +or snarlin’, grumblin’ or bullyin’ you out of your money. There’s the +boatman, and tide-waiter, and porter, and custom-er, and truck man as +soon as you land; and the sarvant-man, and chamber-gall, and boots, and +porter again to the inn. And then on the road, there is trunk-lifter, +and coachman, and guard, and beggar-man, and a critter that opens the +coach door, that they calls a waterman, cause he is infarnal dirty, and +never sees water. They are jist like a snarl o’ snakes, their name is +legion and there ain’t no eend to ‘em. + +“The only thing you get for nothin’ here is rain and smoke, the rumatiz, +and scorny airs. If you could buy an Englishman at what he was worth, +and sell him at his own valiation, he would realise as much as a nigger, +and would be worth tradin’ in, that’s a fact; but as it is he ain’t +worth nothin’, there is no market for such critters, no one would buy +him at no price. A Scotchman is wus, for he is prouder and meaner. +Pat ain’t no better nother; he ain’t proud, cause he has a hole in his +breeches and another in his elbow, and he thinks pride won’t patch ‘em, +and he ain’t mean cause he hante got nothin’ to be mean with. Whether it +takes nine tailors to make a man, I can’t jist exactly say, but this +I will say, and take my davy of it too, that it would take three such +goneys as these to make a pattern for one of our rael genu_wine_ free +and enlightened citizens, and then I wouldn’t swap without large boot, +I tell you. Guess I’ll go, and pack up my fixing and have ‘em ready to +land.” + +He now went below, leaving Mr. Hopewell and myself on the deck. All +this tirade of Mr. Slick was uttered in the hearing of the pilot, and +intended rather for his conciliation, than my instruction. The pilot was +immoveable; he let the cause against his country go “by default,” and +left us to our process of “inquiry;” but when Mr. Slick was in the +act of descending to the cabin, he turned and gave him a look of +admeasurement, very similar to that which a grazier gives an ox; a look +which estimates the weight and value of the animal, and I am bound to +admit, that the result of that “sizing or laying” as it is technically +called, was by no means favourable to the Attache”. + +Mr. Hopewell had evidently not attended to it; his eye was fixed on +the bold and precipitous shore of Wales, and the lofty summits of the +everlasting hills, that in the distance, aspired to a companionship with +the clouds. I took my seat at a little distance from him and surveyed +the scene with mingled feelings of curiosity and admiration, until a +thick volume of sulphureous smoke from the copper furnaces of Anglesey +intercepted our view. + +“Squire,” said he, “it is impossible for us to contemplate this country, +that now lies before us, without strong emotion. It is our fatherland. +I recollect when I was a colonist, as you are, we were in the habit of +applying to it, in common with Englishmen, that endearing appellation +“Home,” and I believe you still continue to do so in the provinces. +Our nursery tales, taught our infant lips to lisp in English, and the +ballads, that first exercised our memories, stored the mind with the +traditions of our forefathers; their literature was our literature, +their religion our religion, their history our history. The battle of +Hastings, the murder of Becket, the signature of Runymede, the execution +at Whitehall; the divines, the poets, the orators, the heroes, the +martyrs, each and all were familiar to us. + +“In approaching this country now, after a lapse of many, many years, +and approaching it too for the last time, for mine eyes shall see it no +more, I cannot describe to you the feelings that agitate my heart. I go +to visit the tombs of my ancestors; I go to my home, and my home knoweth +me no more. Great and good, and brave and free are the English; and may +God grant that they may ever continue so!” + +“I cordially join in that prayer, Sir,” said I; “you have a country +of your own. The old colonies having ripened into maturity, formed a +distinct and separate family, in the great community of mankind. You are +now a nation of yourselves, and your attachment to England, is of course +subordinate to that of your own country; you view it as the place that +was in days of yore the home of your forefathers; we regard it as the +paternal estate, continuing to call it ‘Home’ as you have just now +observed. We owe it a debt of gratitude that not only cannot be repaid, +but is too great for expression. Their armies protect us within, and +their fleets defend us, and our commerce without. Their government is +not only paternal and indulgent, but is wholly gratuitous. We neither +pay these forces, nor feed them, nor clothe them. We not only raise no +taxes, but are not expected to do so. The blessings of true religion are +diffused among us, by the pious liberality of England, and a collegiate +establishment at Windsor, supported by British friends, has for years +supplied the Church, the Bar and the Legislature with scholars and +gentlemen. Where the national funds have failed, private contribution +has volunteered its aid, and means are never wanting for any useful or +beneficial object. + +“Our condition is a most enviable one. The history of the world has no +example to offer of such noble disinterestedness and such liberal rule, +as that exhibited by Great Britain to her colonies. If the policy of the +Colonial Office is not always good (which I fear is too much to say) +it is ever liberal; and if we do not mutually derive all the benefit +we might from the connexion, _we_, at least, reap more solid advantages +than we have a right to expect, and more, I am afraid, than our conduct +always deserves. I hope the Secretary for the Colonies may have the +advantage of making your acquaintance, Sir. Your experience is so great, +you might give him a vast deal of useful information, which he could +obtain from no one else. + +“Minister,” said Mr. Slick, who had just mounted the companion-ladder, +“will your honour,” touching his hat, “jist look at your honour’s +plunder, and see it’s all right; remember me, Sir; thank your honour. +This way, Sir; let me help your honour down. Remember me again, Sir. +Thank your honour. Now you may go and break your neck, your honour, as +soon as you please; for I’ve got all out of you I can squeeze, that’s a +fact. That’s English, Squire--that’s English servility, which they call +civility, and English meanness and beggin’, which they call parquisite. +Who was that you wanted to see the Minister, that I heerd you a talkin’ +of when I come on deck?” + +“The Secretary of the Colonies,” I said. + +“Oh for goodness sake don’t send that crittur to him,” said he, “or +minister will have to pay him for his visit, more, p’raps, than he +can afford. John Russell, that had the ribbons afore him, appointed a +settler as a member of Legislative Council to Prince Edward’s Island, +a berth that has no pay, that takes a feller three months a year from +home, and has a horrid sight to do; and what do you think he did? Now +jist guess. You give it up, do you? Well, you might as well, for if you +was five Yankees biled down to one, you wouldn’t guess it. ‘Remember +Secretary’s clerk,’ says he, a touchin’ of his hat, ‘give him a little +tip of thirty pound sterling, your honour.’ Well, colonist had a drop of +Yankee blood in him, which was about one third molasses, and, of course, +one third more of a man than they commonly is, and so he jist ups and +says, ‘I’ll see you and your clerk to Jericho beyond Jordan fust. The +office ain’t worth the fee. Take it and sell it to some one else that +has more money nor wit.’ He did, upon my soul.” + +“No, don’t send State-Secretary to Minister, send him to me at eleven +o’clock to-night, for I shall be the toploftiest feller about that time +you’ve seen this while past, I tell you. Stop till I touch land once +more, that’s all; the way I’ll stretch my legs ain’t no matter.” + +He then uttered the negro ejaculation “chah!--chah!” and putting his +arms a-kimbo, danced in a most extraordinary style to the music of a +song, which he gave with great expression: + + “Oh hab you nebber heerd ob de battle ob Orleens, + Where de dandy Yankee lads gave de Britishers de beans; + Oh de Louisiana boys dey did it pretty slick, + When dey cotch ole Packenham and rode him up a creek. + Wee my zippy dooden dooden dooden, dooden dooden dey, + Wee my zippy dooden dooden dooden, dooden dooden dey. + +“Oh yes, send Secretary to me at eleven or twelve to-night, I’ll be in +tune then, jist about up to concart pitch. I’ll smoke with him, or drink +with him, or swap stories with him, or wrastle with him, or make a fool +of him, or lick him, or any thing he likes; and when I’ve done, I’ll +rise up, tweak the fore-top-knot of my head by the nose, bow pretty, and +say ‘Remember me, your honour? Don’t forget the tip?’ Lord, how I long +to walk into some o’ these chaps, and give ‘em the beans! and I will +yet afore I’m many days older, hang me if I don’t. I shall bust, I do +expect; and if I do, them that ain’t drownded will be scalded, I know. +Chah!--chah! + + “Oh de British name is Bull, and de French name is Frog, + And noisy critters too, when a braggin’ on a log,-- + But I is an alligator, a floatin’ down stream. + And I’ll chaw both the bullies up, as I would an ice-cream: + Wee my zippy dooden dooden dooden, dooden dooden dee, + Wee my zippy dooden dooden dooden, dooden dooden dee. + +“Yes, I’ve been pent up in that drawer-like lookin’ berth, till I’ve +growed like a pine-tree with its branches off--straight up and down. My +legs is like a pair of compasses that’s got wet; they are rusty on the +hinges, and won’t work. I’ll play leapfrog up the street, over every +feller’s head, till I get to the Liners’ Hotel; I hope I may be shot if +I don’t. Jube, you villain, stand still there on the deck, and hold up +stiff, you nigger. Warny once--warny twice--warny three times; now I +come.” + +And he ran forward, and putting a hand on each shoulder, jumped over +him. + +“Turn round agin, you young sucking Satan, you; and don’t give one mite +or morsel, or you might ‘break massa’s precious neck,’ p’raps. Warny +once--warny twice--warny three times.” + +And he repeated the feat again. + +“That’s the way I’ll shin it up street, with a hop, skip and a jump. +Won’t I make Old Bull stare, when he finds his head under my coat tails, +and me jist makin’ a lever of him? He’ll think he has run foul of a +snag, _I_ know. Lord, I’ll shack right over their heads, as they do over +a colonist; only when they do, they never say warny wunst, cuss ‘em, +they arn’t civil enough for that. They arn’t paid for it--there is no +parquisite to be got by it. Won’t I tuck in the Champaine to-night, +that’s all, till I get the steam up right, and make the paddles work? +Won’t I have a lark of the rael Kentuck breed? Won’t I trip up a +policeman’s heels, thunder the knockers of the street doors, and ring +the bells and leave no card? Won’t I have a shy at a lamp, and then off +hot foot to the hotel? Won’t I say, ‘Waiter, how dare you do that?’ + +“‘What, Sir?’ + +“‘Tread on my foot.’ + +“‘I didn’t, Sir.’ + +“‘You did, Sir. Take that!’ knock him down like wink, and help him up on +his feet agin with a kick on his western eend. Kiss the barmaid, about +the quickest and wickedest she ever heerd tell of, and then off to bed +as sober as a judge. ‘Chambermaid, bring a pan of coals and air my bed.’ +‘Yes, Sir.’ Foller close at her heels, jist put a hand on each short +rib, tickle her till she spills the red hot coals all over the floor, +and begins to cry over ‘em to put ‘em out, whip the candle out of her +hand, leave her to her lamentations, and then off to roost in no time. +And when I get there, won’t I strike out all abroad--take up the room of +three men with their clothes on--lay all over and over the bed, and feel +once more I am a free man and a ‘_Gentleman at large_.’” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. SEEING LIVERPOOL. + +On looking back to any given period of our life, we generally find that +the intervening time appears much shorter than it really is. We see at +once the starting-post and the terminus, and the mind takes in at one +view the entire space. + +But this observation is more peculiarly applicable to a short passage +across the Atlantic. Knowing how great the distance is, and accustomed +to consider the voyage as the work of many weeks, we are so astonished +at finding ourselves transported in a few days, from one continent to +another, that we can hardly credit the evidence of our own senses. + +Who is there that on landing has not asked himself the question, “Is it +possible that I am in England? It seems but as yesterday that I was in +America, to-day I am in Europe. Is it a dream, or a reality?” + +The river and the docks--the country and the town--the people and their +accent--the verdure and the climate are all new to me. I have not been +prepared for this; I have not been led on imperceptibly, by travelling +mile after mile by land from my own home, to accustom my senses to the +gradual change of country. There has been no border to pass, where the +language, the dress, the habits, and outward appearances assimilate. +There has been no blending of colours--no dissolving views in the +retrospect--no opening or expanding ones in prospect. I have no +difficulty in ascertaining the point where one terminates and the other +begins. + +The change is sudden and startling. The last time I slept on shore, +was in America--to-night I sleep in England. The effect is magical--one +country is withdrawn from view, and another is suddenly presented to my +astonished gaze. I am bewildered; I rouse myself, and rubbing my eyes, +again ask whether I am awake? Is this England? that great country, that +world of itself; Old England, that place I was taught to call home _par +excellence_, the home of other homes, whose flag, I called our flag? +(no, I am wrong, I have been accustomed to call our flag, the flag of +England; our church, not the Church of Nova Scotia, nor the Colonial nor +the Episcopal, nor the Established, but the Church of England.) Is +it then that England, whose language I speak, whose subject I am, the +mistress of the world, the country of Kings and Queens, and nobles and +prelates, and sages and heroes? + +I have read of it, so have I read of old Rome; but the sight of Rome, +Caesar and the senate would not astonish me more than that of London, +the Queen and the Parliament. Both are yet ideal; the imagination has +sketched them, but when were its sketches ever true to nature? I have +a veneration for both, but, gentle reader, excuse the confessions of an +old man, for I have a soft spot in the heart yet, _I love Old England_. +I love its institutions, its literature, its people. I love its law, +because, while it protects property, it ensures liberty. I love its +church, not only because I believe it is the true church, but because +though armed with power, it is tolerant in practice. I love its +constitution, because it combines the stability of a monarchy, with the +most valuable peculiarities of a republic, and without violating nature +by attempting to make men equal, wisely follow its dictates, by securing +freedom to all. + +I like the people, though not all in the same degree. They are not what +they were. Dissent, reform and agitation have altered their character. +It is necessary to distinguish. A _real_ Englishman is generous, loyal +and brave, manly in his conduct and gentlemanly in his feeling. When I +meet such a man as this, I cannot but respect him; but when I find that +in addition to these good qualities, he has the further recommendation +of being a churchman in his religion and a tory in his politics, I know +then that his heart is in the right place, and I love him. + +The drafts of these chapters were read to Mr. Slick, at his particular +request, that he might be assured they contained nothing that would +injure his election as President of the United States, in the event of +the Slickville ticket becoming hereafter the favourite one. This, he +said, was on the cards, strange as it might seem, for making a fool of +John Bull and turning the laugh on him, would be sure to take and be +popular. The last paragraphs, he said, he affectioned and approbated +with all his heart. + +“It is rather tall talkin’ that,” said he; “I like its patronisin’ tone. +There is sunthin’ goodish in a colonist patronisin’ a Britisher. It’s +turnin’ the tables on ‘em; it’s sarvin’ ‘em out in their own way. Lord, +I think I see old Bull put his eye-glass up and look at you, with a dead +aim, and hear him say, ‘Come, this is cuttin’ it rather fat.’ Or, as +the feller said to his second wife, when she tapped him on the shoulder, +‘Marm, my first wife was a _Pursy_, and she never presumed to take that +liberty.’ Yes, that’s good, Squire. Go it, my shirt-tails! you’ll win if +you get in fust, see if you don’t. Patronizin’ a Britisher!!! A critter +that has Lucifer’s pride, Arkwright’s wealth, and Bedlam’s sense, ain’t +it rich? Oh, wake snakes and walk your chalks, will you! Give me your +figgery-four Squire, I’ll go in up to the handle for you. Hit or miss, +rough or tumble, claw or mud-scraper, any way, you damn please, I’m your +man.” + +But to return to my narrative. I was under the necessity of devoting the +day next after our landing at Liverpool, to writing letters announcing +my safe arrival to my anxious friends in Nova Scotia, and in different +parts of England; and also some few on matters of business. Mr. Slick +was very urgent in his request, that I should defer this work till +the evening, and accompany him in a stroll about the town, and at last +became quite peevish at my reiterated refusal. + +“You remind me, Squire,” said he, “of Rufus Dodge, our great ile +marchant of Boston, and as you won’t walk, p’raps you’ll talk, so I’ll +jist tell you the story. + +“I was once at the Cataract House to Niagara. It is jist a short +distance above the Falls. Out of the winders, you have a view of the +splendid white waters, or the rapids of foam, afore the river takes its +everlastin’ leap over the cliff. + +“Well, Rufus come all the way from Boston to see the Falls: he said he +didn’t care much about them hisself, seein’ that he warn’t in the mill +business; but, as he was a goin’ to England, he didn’t like to say he +hadn’t been there, especially as all the English knowed about America +was, that there was a great big waterfall called Niagara, an everlastin’ +Almighty big river called Mississippi, and a parfect pictur of a wappin’ +big man called Kentuckian there. Both t’other ones he’d seen over and +over agin, but Niagara he’d never sot eyes on. + +“So as soon as he arrives, he goes into the public room, and looks at +the white waters, and, sais he, ‘Waiter,’ sais he, ‘is them the falls +down there?’ a-pintin’ by accident in the direction where the Falls +actilly was. + +“‘Yes, Sir,’ sais the waiter. + +“‘Hem!’ sais Rufe, ‘them’s the Falls of Niagara, eh! So I’ve seen the +Falls at last, eh! Well it’s pretty too: they ain’t bad, that’s a fact. +So them’s the Falls of Niagara! How long is it afore the stage starts?’ + +“‘An hour, Sir.’ + +“‘Go and book me for Boston, and then bring me a paper.’ + +“‘Yes, Sir.’ + +“Well he got his paper and sot there a readin’ of it, and every now +and then, he’d look out of the winder and say: ‘So them’s the Falls of +Niagara, eh? Well, it’s a pretty little mill privilege that too, ain’t +it; but it ain’t just altogether worth comin’ so far to see. So I’ve +seen the Falls at last!’ + +“Arter a while in comes a Britisher. + +“‘Waiter,’ says he, ‘how far is it to the Falls?’ + +“‘Little over a half a mile, Sir.’ + +“‘Which way do you get there?’ + +“‘Turn to the right, and then to the left, and then go a-head.’ + +“Rufe heard all this, and it kinder seemed dark to him; so arter +cypherin’ it over in his head a bit, ‘Waiter,’ says he, ‘ain’t them the +Falls of Niagara, I see there?’ + +“‘No, Sir.’ + +“‘Well, that’s tarnation all over now. Not the Falls?’ + +“‘No, Sir.’ + +“‘Why, you don’t mean to say, that them are ain’t the Falls?’ + +“‘Yes, I do, Sir.’ + +“‘Heaven and airth! I’ve come hundreds of miles a puppus to see ‘em, and +nothin’ else; not a bit of trade, or speckelation, or any airthly thing +but to see them cussed Falls, and come as near as 100 cents to a dollar, +startin’ off without sein’ ‘em arter all. If it hadn’t a been for that +are Britisher I was sold, that’s a fact. Can I run down there and back +in half an hour in time for the stage?’ + +“‘Yes, Sir, but you will have no time to see them.’ + +“‘See ‘em, cuss ‘em, I don’t want to see ‘em, I tell you. I want to look +at ‘em, I want to say I was to the Falls, that’s all. Give me my hat, +quick! So them ain’t the Falls! I ha’n’t see’d the Falls of Niagara +arter all. What a devil of a take-in that is, ain’t it?’ And he dove +down stairs like a Newfoundland dog into a pond arter a stone, and out +of sight in no time. + +“Now, you are as like Rufe, as two peas, Squire. You want to say, you +was to Liverpool, but you don’t want to see nothin’.’ + +“Waiter.” + +“Sir.” + +“Is this Liverpool, I see out of the Winder?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Guess I have seen Liverpool then. So this is the great city of +Liverpool, eh? When does the train start for London?” + +“In half an hour, Sir?” + +“Book me for London then, for I have been to Liverpool and seen the +city. Oh, take your place, Squire, you have seen Liverpool; and if you +see as much of all other places, as you have of this here one, afore you +return home, you will know most as much of England as them do that never +was there at all. + +“I am sorry too, you won’t go, Squire,” added he, “for minister seems +kinder dull.” + +“Don’t say another word, Mr. Slick,” said I; “every thing shall give way +to him.” And locking up my writing-desk I said: “I am ready.” + +“Stop, Squire,” said he, “I’ve got a favour to ask of you. Don’t for +gracious sake, say nothin’ before Mr. Hopewell about that ‘ere lark I +had last night arter landin’, it would sorter worry him, and set him off +a-preachin’, and I’d rather he’d strike me any time amost than lectur, +for he does it so tender and kindly, it hurts my feelins _like_, a +considerable sum. I’ve had a pretty how-do-ye-do about it this mornin’, +and have had to plank down handsum’, and do the thing genteel; but +Mister Landlord found, I reckon, he had no fool to deal with, nother. He +comes to me, as soon as I was cleverly up this mornin’, lookin’ as full +of importance, as Jube Japan did when I put the Legation button on him. + +“‘Bad business this, Sir,’ says he; ‘never had such a scene in my house +before, Sir; have had great difficulty to prevent my sarvants takin’ the +law of you.’ + +“‘Ah,’ sais I to myself, ‘I see how the cat jumps; here’s a little tid +bit of extortion now; but you won’t find that no go, I don’t think.’ + +“‘You will have to satisfy them, Sir,’ says he, ‘or take the +consequences.’ + +“‘Sartainly,’ said I, ‘any thin’ you please: I leave it entirely to you; +jist name what you think proper, and I will liquidate it.’ + +“‘I said, I knew you would behave like a gentleman, Sir,’ sais he, ‘for, +sais I, don’t talk to me of law, name it to the gentleman, and he’ll do +what is right; he’ll behave liberal, you may depend.’ + +“‘You said right,’ sais I, ‘and now, Sir, what’s the damage?’ + +“‘Fifty pounds, I should think about the thing, Sir,’ said he. + +“‘Certainly,’ said I, ‘you shall have the fifty pounds, but you must +give me a receipt in full for it.’ + +“‘By all means,’ said he, and he was a cuttin’ off full chisel to get a +stamp, when I sais, ‘Stop,’ sais I, ‘uncle, mind and put in the receipt, +the bill of items, and charge ‘em separate?’ + +“‘Bill of items? sais he. + +“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘let me see what each is to get. Well, there’s the +waiter, now. Say to knockin’ down the waiter and kicking him, so much; +then there’s the barmaid so much, and so on. I make no objection, I am +willin’ to pay all you ask, but I want to include all, for I intend to +post a copy of it in the elegant cabins of each of our splendid New York +Liners. This house convenes the Americans--they all know _me_. I want +them to know how their _Attache_ was imposed on, and if any American +ever sets foot in this cussed house agin I will pay his bill, and post +that up too, as a letter of credit for him.’ + +“‘You wouldn’t take that advantage of me, Sir?’ said he. + +“‘I take no advantage,’ sais I. ‘I’ll pay you what you ask, but you +shall never take advantage agin of another free and enlightened American +citizen, I can tell you.’ + +“‘You must keep your money then, Sir,’ said he, ‘but this is not a fair +deal; no gentleman would do it.’ + +“‘What’s fair, I am willin’ to do,’ sais I; ‘what’s onfair, is what +you want to do. Now, look here: I knocked the waiter down; here is two +sovereigns for him; I won’t pay him nothin’ for the kickin’, for that +I give him out of contempt, for not defendin’ of himself. Here’s three +sovereigns for the bar-maid; she don’t ought to have nothin’, for she +never got so innocent a kiss afore, in all her born days I know, for +I didn’t mean no harm, and she never got so good a one afore nother, +that’s a fact; but then _I_ ought to pay, I do suppose, because I hadn’t +ought to treat a lady that way; it was onhansum’, that’s fact; and +besides, it tante right to give the galls a taste for such things. They +come fast enough in the nateral way, do kisses, without inokilatin’ +folks for ‘em. And here’s a sovereign for the scoldin’ and siscerarin’ +you gave the maid, that spilt the coals and that’s an eend of the +matter, and I don’t want no receipt.’ + +“Well, he bowed and walked off, without sayin’ of a word.” + +Here Mr. Hopewell joined us, and we descended to the street, to commence +our perambulation of the city; but it had begun to rain, and we were +compelled to defer it until the next day. + +“Well, it ain’t much matter, Squire,” said Mr. Slick: “ain’t that +Liverpool, I see out of the winder? Well, then I’ve been to Liverpool. +Book me for London. So I have seen Liverpool at last, eh! or, as Rufus +said, I have felt it too, for this wet day reminds me of the rest of his +story. + +“In about a half hour arter Rufus raced off to the Falls, back he +comes as hard as he could tear, a-puffing and a blowin’ like a sizeable +grampus. You never seed such a figure as he was, he was wet through and +through, and the dry dust stickin’ to his clothes, made him look like a +dog, that had jumped into the water, and then took a roll in the road to +dry hisself; he was a caution to look at, that’s a fact. + +“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘Stranger, did you see the Falls?’ + +“‘Yes,’ sais he, ‘I have see’d ‘em and felt ‘em too; them’s very wet +Falls, that’s a fact. I hante a dry rag on me; if it hadn’t a been for +that ere Britisher, I wouldn’t have see’d ‘em at all, and yet a thought +I had been there all the time. It’s a pity too, that that winder don’t +bear on it, for then you could see it without the trouble of goin’ +there, or gettin’ ducked, or gettin’ skeered so. I got an awful fright +there--I shall never forget it, if I live as long as Merusalem. You know +I hadn’t much time left, when. I found out I hadn’t been there arter +all, so I ran all the way, right down as hard as I could clip; and, +seein’ some folks comin’ out from onder the Fall, I pushed strait in, +but the noise actilly stunned me, and the spray wet me through and +through like a piece of sponged cloth; and the great pourin’, bilin’ +flood, blinded me so I couldn’t see a bit; and I hadn’t gone far in, +afore a cold, wet, clammy, dead hand, felt my face all over. I believe +in my soul, it was the Indian squaw that went over the Falls in the +canoe, or the crazy Englisher, that tried to jump across it. + +“‘Oh creation, how cold it was! The moment that spirit rose, mine fell, +and I actilly thought I should have dropt lumpus, I was so skeered. Give +me your hand, said Ghost, for I didn’t see nothin’ but a kinder dark +shadow. Give me your hand. I think it must ha’ been the squaw, for it +begged for all the world, jist like an Indgian. I’d see you hanged fust, +said I; I wouldn’t touch that are dead tacky hand o’ yourn’ for half a +million o’ hard dollars, cash down without any ragged eends; and with +that, I turned to run out, but Lord love you I couldn’t run. The stones +was all wet and slimy, and onnateral slippy, and I expected every +minute, I should heels up and go for it: atween them two critters the +Ghost and the juicy ledge, I felt awful skeered I tell _you_. So I +begins to say my catechism; what’s your name, sais I? Rufus Dodge. Who +gave you that name? Godfather and godmother granny Eells. What did +they promise for you? That I should renounce the devil and all his +works--works--works--I couldn’t get no farther, I stuck fast there, for +I had forgot it. + +“‘The moment I stopt, ghost kinder jumped forward, and seized me by my +mustn’t-mention’ems, and most pulled the seat out. Oh dear! my heart +most went out along with it, for I thought my time had come. You black +she-sinner of a heathen Indgian! sais I; let me go this blessed minite, +for I renounce the devil and all his works, the devil and all his +works--so there now; and I let go a kick behind, the wickedest you ever +see, and took it right in the bread basket. Oh, it yelled and howled +and screached like a wounded hyaena, till my ears fairly cracked agin. +I renounce you, Satan, sais I; I renounce you, and the world, and the +flesh and the devil. And now, sais I, a jumpin’ on terry firm once more, +and turnin’ round and facin’ the enemy, I’ll promise a little dust more +for myself, and that is to renounce Niagara, and Indgian squaws, and +dead Britishers, and the whole seed, breed and generation of ‘em from +this time forth, for evermore. Amen. + +“‘Oh blazes! how cold my face is yet. Waiter, half a pint of clear +cocktail; somethin’ to warm me. Oh, that cold hand! Did you ever touch a +dead man’s hand? it’s awful cold, you may depend. Is there any marks on +my face? do you see the tracks of the fingers there?’ + +“‘No, Sir,’ sais I,’ I can’t say I do.’ + +“‘Well, then I feel them there,’ sais he, ‘as plain as any thing.’ + +“‘Stranger,’ sais I, ‘it was nothin’ but some poor no-souled critter, +like yourself, that was skeered a’most to death, and wanted to be helped +out that’s all.” + +“‘Skeered!’ said he, ‘sarves him right then; he might have knowed how to +feel for other folks, and not funkify them so peskily; I don’t keer if +he never gets out; but I have my doubts about its bein’ a livin’ human, +I tell _you_. If I hadn’t a renounced the devil and all his works that +time, I don’t know what the upshot would have been, for Old Scratch was +there too. I saw him as plain as I see you; he ran out afore me, and +couldn’t stop or look back, as long as I said catekism. He was in his +old shape of the sarpent; he was the matter of a yard long, and as thick +round as my arm and travelled belly-flounder fashion; when I touched +land, he dodged into an eddy, and out of sight in no time. Oh, there is +no mistake, I’ll take my oath of it; I see him, I did upon my soul. It +was the old gentleman hisself; he come there to cool hisself. Oh, it was +the devil, that’s a fact.’ + +“‘It was nothin’ but a fresh water eel,’ sais I; ‘I have seen thousands +of ‘em there; for the crevices of them rocks are chock full of ‘em. +How can you come for to go, for to talk arter that fashion; you are +a disgrace to our great nation, you great lummokin coward, you. An +American citizen is afeerd of nothin’, but a bad spekilation, or bein’ +found oat.’ + +“Well, that posed him, he seemed kinder bothered, and looked down. + +“‘An eel, eh! well, it mought be an eel,’ sais be, ‘that’s a fact. +I didn’t think of that; but then if it was, it was god-mother granny +Eells, that promised I should renounce the devil and all his works, that +took that shape, and come to keep me to my bargain. She died fifty years +ago, poor old soul, and never kept company with Indgians, or niggers, +or any such trash. Heavens and airth! I don’t wonder the Falls wakes the +dead, it makes such an everlastin’ almighty noise, does Niagara. Waiter, +more cocktail, that last was as weak as water.’ + +“‘Yes, Sir,’ and he swallered it like wink. + +“‘The stage is ready, Sir.’ + +“‘Is it?’ said he, and he jumped in all wet as he was; for time is money +and he didn’t want to waste neither. As it drove off, I heerd him say, +‘Well them’s the Falls, eh! So I have seen the Falls of Niagara and felt +‘em too, eh!’ + +“Now, we are better off than Rufus Dodge was, Squire; for we hante got +wet, and we hante got frightened, but we can look out o’ the winder and +say, ‘Well, that’s Liverpool, eh! so I have--seen Liverpool.’” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. CHANGING A NAME. + +The rain having confined us to the house this afternoon, we sat over +our wine after dinner longer than usual. Among the different topics +that were discussed, the most prominent was the state of the political +parties in this country. Mr. Slick, who paid great deference to the +opinions of Mr. Hopewell, was anxious to ascertain from him what +he thought upon the subject, in order to regulate his conduct and +conversation by it hereafter. + +“Minister,” said he, “what do you think of the politics of the British?” + +“I don’t think about them at all, Sam. I hear so much of such matters at +home, that I am heartily tired of them; our political world is divided +into two classes, the knaves and the dupes. Don’t let us talk of such +exciting, things.” + +“But, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “holdin’ the high and dignified station +I do, as Attache, they will be a-pumpin’ me for everlastinly, will the +great men here, and they think a plaguy sight more of our opinion than +you are aware on; we have tried all them things they are a jawin’ about +here, and they naterally want to know the results. Cooper says not one +Tory called on him when he was to England, but Walter Scott; and that +I take it, was more lest folks should think he was jealous of him, than +any thing else; they jist cut him as dead as a skunk; but among the +Whigs, he was quite an oracle on ballot, univarsal suffrage, and all +other democratic institutions.” + +“Well, he was a ninny then, was Cooper, to go and blart it all out to +the world that way; for if no Tory visited him, I should like you to ask +him the next time you see him, how many gentlemen called upon him? Jist +ask him that, and it will stop him from writing such stuff any more.” + +“But, Minister, jist tell us now, here you are, as a body might say in +England, now what are you?” + +“I am a man, Sam; _Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto_.” + +“Well, what’s all that when it’s fried?” + +“Why, that when away from home, I am a citizen of the world. I belong to +no party, but take an interest in the whole human family.” + +“Well, Minister, if you choose to sing dumb, you can, but I should like +to have you answer me one question now, and if you won’t, why you must +jist do t’other thing, that’s all. Are you a Consarvative?” + +“No.” + +“Are you a Whig?” + +“No.” + +“A Radical?” + +“God forbid!” + +“What in natur’ are you then?” + +“A Tory.” + +“A Tory! well, I thought that a Tory and a Consarvative, were as the +Indgians say, “all same one brudder.” Where is the difference?” + +“You will soon find that out, Sam; go and talk to a Consarvative as +a Tory, and you will find he is a Whig: go and talk to him again as a +Whig, and you will find he is a Tory. They are, for all the world, like +a sturgeon. There is very good beef steaks in a sturgeon, and very good +fish too, and yet it tante either fish or flesh. I don’t like taking +a new name, it looks amazing like taking new principles, or, at all +events, like loosenin’ old ones, and I hante seen the creed of this new +sect yet--I don’t know what its tenets are, nor where to go and look for +‘em. It strikes me they don’t accord with the Tories, and yet arn’t in +tune with the Whigs, but are half a note lower than the one, and half +a note higher than t’other. Now, changes in the body politic are always +necessary more or less, in order to meet the changes of time, and the +changes in the condition of man. When they are necessary, make ‘em, and +ha’ done with ‘em. Make ‘em like men, not when you are forced to do so, +and nobody thanks you, but when you see they are wanted, and are proper; +but don’t alter your name. + +“My wardens wanted me to do that; they came to me, and said ‘Minister,’ +says they, ‘we don’t want _you_ to change, we don’t ask it; jist let +us call you a Unitarian, and you can remain Episcopalian still. We are +tired of that old fashioned name, it’s generally thought unsuited to +the times, and behind the enlightment of the age; it’s only fit for +benighted Europeans. Change the name, you needn’t change any thing else. +What is a name?’ + +“‘Every thing,’ says I, ‘every thing, my brethren; one name belongs to a +Christian, and the other don’t; that’s the difference. I’d die before +I surrendered my name; for in surrenderin’ that, I surrender my +principles.’” + +“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick, “that’s what Brother Eldad used to say. +‘Sam,’ said he, ‘a man with an _alias_ is the worst character in the +world; for takin’ a new name, shows he is ashamed of his old one; and +havin’ an old one, shows his new one is a cheat.’” + +“No,” said Mr. Hopewell, “I don’t like that word Consarvative. Them +folks may be good kind of people, and I guess they be, seein’ that the +Tories support ‘em, which is the best thing I see about them; but I +don’t like changin’ a name.” + +“Well, I don’t know,” said Mr. Slick, “p’raps their old name was so +infarnal dry rotted, they wanted to change it for a sound new one. You +recollect when that super-superior villain, Expected Thorne, brought +an action of defamation agin’ me, to Slickville, for takin’ away his +character, about stealing the watch to Nova Scotia; well, I jist pleaded +my own case, and I ups and sais, ‘Gentlemen of the Jury,’ sais I, +“Expected’s character, every soul knows, is about the wust in all +Slickville. If I have taken it away, I have done him a great sarvice, +for he has a smart chance of gettin’ a better one; and if he don’t find +a swap to his mind, why no character is better nor a bad one.’ + +“Well, the old judge and the whole court larfed right out like any +thin’; and the jury, without stirrin’ from the box, returned a vardict +for the defendant. P’raps now, that mought be the case with the Tories.” + +“The difference,” said Mr. Hopewell, is jist this:--your friend, Mr. +Expected Thorne, had a name he had ought to have been ashamed of, and +the Tories one that the whole nation had very great reason to be +proud of. There is some little difference, you must admit. My English +politics, (mind you, I say English, for they hare no reference to +America,) are Tory, and I don’t want to go to Sir Robert Peel, or Lord +John Russell either.” + +“As for Johnny Russell,” said Mr. Slick, “he is a clever little chap +that; he--” + +“Don’t call him Johnny Russell,” said Mr. Hopewell, “or a little chap, +or such flippant names, I don’t like to hear you talk that way. It +neither becomes you as a Christian nor a gentleman. St. Luke and St. +Paul, when addressing people of rank, use the word ‘[Greek text]’ +which, as nearly as possible, answers to the title of ‘your Excellency.’ +Honour, we are told, should be given to those to whom honour is due; +and if we had no such authority on the subject, the omission of titles, +where they are usual and legal, is, to say the least of it, a vulgar +familiarity, ill becoming an Attache of our embassy. But as I was +saying, I do not require to go to either of those statesmen to be +instructed in my politics. I take mine where I take my religion, from +the Bible. ‘Fear God, honour the King, and meddle not with those that +are given to change.’” + +“Oh, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “you mis’t a figur at our glorious +Revolution, you had ought to have held on to the British; they would +have made a bishop of you, and shoved you into the House of Lords, black +apron, lawn sleeves, shovel hat and all, as sure as rates. ‘The right +reverend, the Lord Bishop of Slickville:’ wouldn’t it look well on +the back of a letter, eh? or your signature to one sent to me, signed +‘Joshua Slickville.’ It sounds better, that, than ‘Old Minister,’ don’t +it?” + +“Oh, if you go for to talk that way, Sam, I am done; but I will shew you +that the Tories are the men to govern this great nation. A Tory I may +say ‘_noscitur a sociis_.’” + +“What in natur is that, when it’s biled and the skin took off?” asked +Mr. Slick. + +“Why is it possible you don’t know that? Have you forgotten that common +schoolboy phrase?” + +“Guess I do know; but it don’t tally jist altogether nohow, as it were. +Known as a Socialist, isn’t it?” + +“If, Sir,” said Mr. Hopewell, with much earnestness, “if instead of +ornamenting your conversation with cant terms, and miserable slang, +picked up from the lowest refuse of our population, both east and west, +you had cultivated your mind, and enriched it with quotations from +classical writers, you would have been more like an Attache, and less +like a peddling clockmaker than you are.” + +“Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “I was only in jeest, but you are in +airnest. What you have said is too true for a joke, and I feel it. I was +only a sparrin’; but you took off the gloves, and felt my short ribs in +a way that has given me a stitch in the side. It tante fair to kick that +way afore you are spurred. You’ve hurt me considerable.” + +“Sam, I am old, narvous, and irritable. I was wrong to speak unkindly +to you, very wrong indeed, and I am sorry for it; but don’t teaze me no +more, that’s a good lad; for I feel worse than you do about it. I beg +your pardon, I--” + +“Well,” said Mr. Slick, “to get back to what we was a sayin’, for you do +talk like a book, that’s a fact; ‘_noscitur a sociis_,’ says you.” + +“Ay, ‘Birds of a feather flock together,’ as the old maxim goes. Now, +Sam, who supported the Whigs?” + +“Why, let me see; a few of the lords, a few of the gentry, the +repealers, the manufacturin’ folks, the independents, the baptists, the +dissentin’ Scotch, the socialists, the radicals, the discontented, and +most of the lower orders, and so on.” + +“Well, who supported the Tories?” + +“Why, the majority of the lords, the great body of landed gentry, the +univarsities, the whole of the Church of England, the whole of the +methodists, amost the principal part of the kirk, the great marchants, +capitalists, bankers, lawyers, army and navy officers, and soon.” + +“Now don’t take your politics from me, Sam, for I am no politician; but +as an American citizen, judge for yourself, which of those two parties +is most likely to be right, or which would you like to belong to.” + +“Well, I must say,” replied he, “I _do_ think that the larnin’, piety, +property, and respectability, is on the Tory side; and where all them +things is united, right most commonly is found a-joggin’ along in +company.” + +“Well now, Sam, you know we are a calculatin’ people, a commercial +people, a practical people. Europe laughs at us for it. Perhaps if +they attended better to their own financial affairs, they would be in a +better situation to laugh. But still we must look to facts and results. +How did the Tories, when they went out of office, leave the kingdom?--At +peace?” + +“Yes, with all the world.” + +“How did the Whigs leave it?” + +“With three wars on hand, and one in the vat a-brewin’ with America. +Every great interest injured, some ruined, and all alarmed at the +impendin’ danger--of national bankruptcy.” + +“Well, now for dollars and cents. How did the Tories leave the +treasury?” + +“With a surplus revenue of millions.” + +“How did the Whigs?” + +“With a deficiency that made the nation scratch their head, and stare +agin.” + +“I could go through the details with you, as far as my imperfect +information extends, or more imperfect memory would let me; but it +is all the same, and always will be, here, in France, with us, in the +colonies, and everywhere else. Whenever property, talent, and virtue are +all on one side, and only ignorant numbers, with a mere sprinkling of +property and talent to agitate ‘em and make use of ‘em, or misinformed +or mistaken virtue to sanction ‘em on the other side, no honest man can +take long to deliberate which side he will choose. + +“As to those conservatives, I don’t know what to say, Sam; I should like +to put you right if I could. But I’ll tell you what puzzles me. I ask +myself what is a Tory? I find he is a man who goes the whole figur’ for +the support of the monarchy, in its three orders, of king, lords, and +commons, as by law established; that he is for the connexion of Church +and State and so on; and that as the wealthiest man in England, he +offers to prove his sincerity, by paying the greatest part of the taxes +to uphold these things. Well, then I ask what is Consarvitism? I am told +that it means, what it imports, a conservation of things as they are. +Where, then, is the difference? _If there is no difference, it is a mere +juggle to change the name: if there is a difference, the word is worse +than a juggle, for it don’t import any_.” + +“Tell you what,” said Mr. Slick, “I heerd an old critter to Halifax once +describe ‘em beautiful. He said he could tell a man’s politicks by his +shirt. ‘A Tory, Sir,’ said he, for he was a pompious old boy was old +Blue-Nose; ‘a Tory, Sir,’ said he, ‘is a gentleman every inch of him, +stock, lock, and barrel; and he puts a clean frill shirt on every day. +A Whig, Sir,’ says he, ‘is a gentleman every other inch of him, and +he puts an onfrilled one on every other day. A Radical, Sir, ain’t no +gentleman at all, and he only puts one on of a Sunday. But a Chartist, +Sir, is a loafer; he never puts one on till the old one won’t hold +together no longer, and drops off in, pieces.’” + +“Pooh!” said Mr. Hopewell, “now don’t talk nonsense; but as I was +a-goin’ to say, I am a plain man, and a straightforward man, Sam; what I +say, I mean; and what I mean, I say. Private and public life are subject +to the same rules; and truth and manliness are two qualities that +will carry you through this world much better than policy, or tact, +or expediency, or any other word that ever was devised to conceal, or +mystify a deviation from the straight line. They have a sartificate of +character, these consarvitives, in having the support of the Tories; but +that don’t quite satisfy me. It may, perhaps, mean no more than this, +arter all--they are the best sarvants we have; but not as good as we +want. However, I shall know more about it soon; and when I do, I will +give you my opinion candidly. One thing, however, is certain, a change +in the institutions of a country I could accede to, approve, and +support, if necessary and good; but I never can approve of either an +individual or a party--‘_changing a name_.’” + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE NELSON MONUMENT. + +The following day being dry, we walked out to view the wonders of this +great commercial city of England, Liverpool. The side-paths were filled +with an active and busy population, and the main streets thronged with +heavily-laden waggons, conveying to the docks the manufactures of the +country, or carrying inward the productions of foreign nations. It was +an animating and busy scene. + +“This,” said Mr. Hopewell, “is solitude. It is in a place like this, +that you feel yourself to be an isolated being, when you are surrounded +by multitudes who have no sympathy with you, to whom you are not only +wholly unknown, but not one of whom you have ever seen before. + +“The solitude of the vast American forest is not equal to this. +Encompassed by the great objects of nature, you recognise nature’s God +every where; you feel his presence, and rely on his protection. Every +thing in a city is artificial, the predominant idea is man; and man, +under circumstances like the present, is neither your friend nor +protector. You form no part of the social system here. Gregarious by +nature, you cannot associate; dependent, you cannot attach yourself; a +rational being, you cannot interchange ideas. In seeking the wilderness +you enter the abode of solitude, and are naturally and voluntarily +alone. On visiting a city, on the contrary, you enter the residence of +man, and if you are forced into isolation there, to you it is worse than +a desert. + +“I know of nothing so depressing as this feeling of unconnected +individuality, amidst a dense population like this. But, my friend, +there is One who never forsakes us either in the throng or the +wilderness, whose ear is always open to our petitions, and who has +invited us to rely on his goodness and mercy.” + +“You hadn’t ought to feel lonely here, Minister,” said Mr. Slick. “It’s +a place we have a right to boast of is Liverpool; we built it, and I’ll +tell you what it is, to build two such cities as New York and Liverpool +in the short time we did, is sunthin’ to brag of. If there had been no +New York, there would have been no Liverpool; but if there had been no +Liverpool, there would have been a New York though. They couldn’t do +nothin’ without us. We had to build them elegant line-packets for ‘em; +they couldn’t build one that could sail, and if she sail’d she couldn’t +steer, and if she sail’d and steer’d, she upsot; there was always a +screw loose somewhere. + +“It cost us a great deal too to build them ere great docks. They cover +about seventy acres, I reckon. We have to pay heavy port dues to keep +‘em up, and pay interest on capital. The worst of it is, too, while we +pay for all this, we hante got the direction of the works.” + +“If you have paid for all these things,” said I, “you had better +lay claim to Liverpool. Like the disputed territory (to which it now +appears, you knew you had no legal or equitable claim), it is probable +you will have half of it ceded to you, for the purpose of conciliation. +I admire this boast of yours uncommonly. It reminds me of the +conversation we had some years ago, about the device on your “naval +button,” of the eagle holding an anchor in its claws--that national +emblem of ill-directed ambition and vulgar pretension.” + +“I thank you for that hint,” said Mr. Slick, “I was in jeest like; but +there is more in it, for all that, than you’d think. It ain’t literal +fact, but it is figurative truth. But now I’ll shew you sunthin’ in +this town, that’s as false as parjury, sunthin that’s a disgrace to this +country and an insult to our great nation, and there is no jeest in it +nother, but a downright lie; and, since you go for to throw up to me our +naval button with its ‘eagle and anchor,’ I’ll point out to you sunthin’ +a hundred thousand million times wus. What was the name o’ that English +admiral folks made such a touss about; that cripple-gaited, one-eyed, +one-armed little naval critter?” + +“Do you mean Lord Nelson?” + +“I do,” said he, and pointing to his monument, he continued, “There +he is as big as life, five feet nothin’, with his shoes on. Now examine +that monument, and tell me if the English don’t know how to brag, as +well as some other folks, and whether they don’t brag too sumtimes, when +they hante got no right to. There is four figures there a representing +the four quarters of the globe in chains, and among them America, a +crouchin’ down, and a-beggin’ for life, like a mean heathen Ingin. Well, +jist do the civil now, and tell me when that little braggin’ feller ever +whipped us, will you? Just tell me the day of the year he was ever able +to do it, since his mammy cut the apron string and let him run to seek +his fortin’. Heavens and airth, we’d a chawed him right up! + +“No, there never was an officer among you, that had any thing to brag +of about us but one, and he wasn’t a Britisher--he was a despisable +Blue-nose colonist boy of Halifax. When his captain was took below +wounded, he was leftenant, so he jist ups and takes command o’ the +Shannon, and fit like a tiger and took our splendid frigate the +Chesapeake, and that was sumthing to brag on. And what did he get for +it? Why colony sarce, half-pay, and leave to make room for Englishers +to go over his head; and here is a lyin’ false monument, erected to this +man that never even see’d one of our national ships, much less smelt +thunder and lightning out of one, that English like, has got this for +what he didn’t do. + +“I am sorry Mr. Lett [Footnote: This was the man that blew up the Brock +monument in Canada. _He was a Patriot_.] is dead to Canada, or I’d give +him a hint about this. I’d say, ‘I hope none of our free and enlightened +citizens will blow this lyin’, swaggerin’, bullyin’ monument up? I +should be sorry for ‘em to take notice of such vulgar insolence as this; +for bullies will brag.’ He’d wink and say, ‘I won’t non-concur with you, +Mr. Slick. I hope it won’t be blowed up; but wishes like dreams come +con_trary_ ways sometimes, and I shouldn’t much wonder if it bragged +till it bust some night.’ It would go for it, that’s a fact. For Mr. +Lett has a kind of nateral genius for blowin’ up of monuments. + +“Now you talk of our Eagle takin’ an anchor in its claws as bad taste. +I won’t say it isn’t; but it is a nation sight better nor this. See what +the little admiral critter is about! why he is a stampin’ and a jabbin’ +of the iron heel of his boot into the lifeless body of a fallen foe! +It’s horrid disgustin’, and ain’t overly brave nother; and to make +matters wus, as if this warn’t bad enough, them four emblem figures, +have great heavy iron chains on ‘em, and a great enormous sneezer of +a lion has one part o’ the chain in its mouth, and is a-growlin’ and +a-grinnin’ and a-snarling at ‘em like mad, as much as to say, ‘if you +dare to move the sixteen hundredth part of an inch, I will fall to and +make mincemeat of you, in less than half no time. I don’t think there +never was nothin’ so bad as this, ever seen since the days of old daddy +Adam down to this present blessed day, I don’t indeed. So don’t come for +to go, Squire, to tarnt me with the Eagle and the anchor no more, for I +don’t like it a bit; you’d better look to your ‘_Nelson monument_’ and +let us alone. So come now!” + +Amidst much that was coarse, and more that was exaggerated, there was +still some foundation for the remarks of the Attache. + +“You arrogate a little too much to yourselves,” I observed, “in +considering the United States as all America. At the time these +brilliant deeds were achieved, which this monument is intended to +commemorate, the Spaniards owned a very much greater portion of the +transatlantic continent than you now do, and their navy composed a part +of the hostile fleets which were destroyed by Lord Nelson. At that time, +also, you had no navy, or at all events, so few ships, as scarcely +to deserve the name of one; nor had you won for yourselves that high +character, which you now so justly enjoy, for skill and gallantry. I +agree with you, however, in thinking the monument is in bad taste. The +name of Lord Nelson is its own monument. It will survive when these +perishable structures, which the pride or the gratitude of his +countrymen have erected to perpetuate his fame, shall have mouldered +into dust, and been forgotten for ever. If visible objects are thought +necessary to suggest the mention of his name oftener that it would +otherwise occur to the mind, they should be such as to improve the +taste, as well as awaken the patriotism of the beholder. As an American, +there is nothing to which you have a right to object, but as a critic, +I admit that there is much that you cannot approve in the ‘_Nelson +Monument_.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. COTTAGES. + +On the tenth day after we landed at Liverpool, we arrived in London and +settled ourselves very comfortably in lodgings at No. 202, Piccadilly, +where every possible attention was paid to us by our landlord and his +wife, Mr. and Mrs. Weeks. We performed the journey in a post-chaise, +fearing that the rapid motion of a rail car might have an unpleasant +effect upon the health of Mr. Hope well. + +Of the little incidents of travel that occurred to us, or of the various +objects of attraction on the route, it is not my intention to give +any account. Our journey was doubtless much like the journeys of other +people, and every thing of local interest is to be found in Guide Books, +or topographical works, which are within the reach of every body. + +This book, however imperfect its execution may be, is altogether of +another kind. I shall therefore pass over this and other subsequent +journeys, with no other remark, than that they were performed, until +something shall occur illustrative of the objects I have in view. + +On this occasion I shall select from my diary a description of the +labourer’s cottage, and the parish church; because the one shews the +habits, tastes, and condition of the poor of this country, in contrast +with that of America--and the other, the relative means of religious +instruction, and its effect on the lower orders. + +On the Saturday morning, while preparing to resume our journey, which +was now nearly half completed, Mr. Hopewell expressed a desire to remain +at the inn where we were, until the following Monday. As the day was +fine, he said he should like to ramble about the neighbourhood, and +enjoy the fresh air. His attention was soon drawn to some very beautiful +new cottages. + +“These,” said he, “are no doubt erected at the expense, and for the +gratification of some great landed proprietor. They are not the abodes +of ordinary labourers, but designed for some favoured dependant or aged +servant. They are expensive toys, but still they are not without their +use. They diffuse a taste among the peasantry--they present them with +models, which, though they cannot imitate in costliness of material or +finish, they can copy in arrangement, and in that sort of decoration, +which flowers, and vines, and culture, and care can give. Let us seek +one which is peculiarly the poor man’s cottage, and let us go in and see +who and what they are, how they live, and above all, how they think and +talk. Here is a lane, let us follow it, till we come to a habitation.” + +We turned into a grass road, bounded on either side by a high straggling +thorn hedge. At its termination was an irregular cottage with a thatched +roof, which projected over the windows in front. The latter were +latticed with diamond-shaped panes of glass, and were four in number, +one on each side of the door and two just under the roof. The door was +made of two transverse parts, the upper half of which was open. On one +side was a basket-like cage containing a magpie, and on the other, a +cat lay extended on a bench, dozing in the warmth of the sun. The blue +smoke, curling upwards from a crooked chimney, afforded proof of some +one being within. + +We therefore opened a little gate, and proceeded through a neat garden, +in which flowers and vegetables were intermixed. It had a gay appearance +from the pear, apple, thorn and cherry being all in full bloom. We were +received at the door by a middle-aged woman, with the ruddy glow of +health on her cheeks, and dressed in coarse, plain, but remarkably neat +and suitable, attire. As this was a cottage selected at random, and +visited without previous intimation of our intention, I took particular +notice of every thing I saw, because I regarded its appearance as a fair +specimen of its constant and daily state. + +Mr. Hopewell needed no introduction. His appearance told what he was. +His great stature and erect bearing, his intelligent and amiable face, +his noble forehead, his beautiful snow-white locks, his precise and +antique dress, his simplicity of manner, every thing, in short, about +him, at once attracted attention and conciliated favour. + +Mrs. Hodgins, for such was her name, received us with that mixture of +respect and ease, which shewed she was accustomed to converse with her +superiors. She was dressed in a blue homespun gown, (the sleeves of +which were drawn up to her elbows and the lower part tucked through her +pocket-hole,) a black stuff petticoat, black stockings and shoes with +the soles more than half an inch thick. She wore also, a large white +apron, and a neat and by no means unbecoming cap. She informed us her +husband was a gardener’s labourer, that supported his family by his +daily work, and by the proceeds of the little garden attached to the +house, and invited us to come in and sit down. + +The apartment into which the door opened, was a kitchen or common room. +On one side, was a large fire-place, the mantel-piece or shelf, of +which was filled with brass candlesticks, large and small, some queer +old-fashioned lamps, snuffers and trays, polished to a degree of +brightness, that was dazzling. A dresser was carried round the wall, +filled with plates and dishes, and underneath were exhibited the +ordinary culinary utensils, in excellent order. A small table stood +before the fire, with a cloth of spotless whiteness spread upon it, as +if in preparation for a meal. A few stools completed the furniture. + +Passing through this place, we were shewn into the parlour, a small room +with a sanded floor. Against the sides were placed some old, dark, and +highly polished chairs, of antique form and rude workmanship. The +walls were decorated with several coloured prints, illustrative of the +Pilgrim’s Progress and hung in small red frames of about six inches +square. The fire-place was filled with moss, and its mantel-shelf had +its china sheep and sheperdesses, and a small looking-glass, the whole +being surmounted by a gun hung transversely. The Lord’s Prayer and the +Ten Commandments worked in worsted, were suspended in a wooden frame +between the windows, which had white muslin blinds, and opened on +hinges, like a door. A cupboard made to fit the corner, in a manner +to economise room, was filled with china mugs, cups and saucers of +different sizes and patterns, some old tea-spoons and a plated tea-pot. + +There was a small table opposite to the window, which Contained half +a dozen books. One of these was large, handsomely bound, and decorated +with gilt edged paper. Mr. Hopewell opened it, and expressed great +satisfaction at finding such an edition of a bible in such a house. Mrs. +Hodgins explained that this was a present from her eldest son, who had +thus appropriated his first earnings to the gratification of his mother. + +“Creditable to you both, dear,” said Mr. Hopewell: “to you, because it +is a proof how well you have instructed him; and to him, that he so well +appreciated and so faithfully remembered those lessons of duty.” + +He then inquired into the state of her family, whether the boy who was +training a peach-tree against the end of the house was her son, and many +other matters not necessary to record with the same precision that I +have enumerated the furniture. + +“Oh, here is a pretty little child!” said he. “Come here, dear, and +shake hands along with me. What beautiful hair she has! and she looks +so clean and nice, too. Every thing and every body here is so neat, so +tidy, and so appropriate. Kiss me, dear; and then talk to me; for I love +little children. ‘Suffer them to come unto me,’ said our Master, ‘for of +such is the kingdom of Heaven:’ that is, that we should resemble these +little ones in our innocence.” + +He then took her on his knee. “Can you say the Lord’s Prayer, dear?” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +“Very good. And the ten Commandments?” + +“Yes, Sir.” + +“Who taught you?” + +“My mother, Sir; and the parson taught me the Catechism.” + +“Why, Sam, this child can say the Lord’s Prayer, the ten Commandments, +and the Catechism. Ain’t this beautiful? Tell me the fifth, dear.” + +And the child repeated it distinctly and accurately. + +“Right. Now, dear, always bear that in mind, especially towards your +mother. You have an excellent mother; her cares and her toils are many; +and amidst them all, how well she has done her duty to you. The only way +she can be repaid, is to find that you are what she desires you to be, +a good girl. God commands this return to be made, and offers you the +reward of length of days. Here is a piece of money for you. And now, +dear,” placing her again upon her feet, “you never saw so old a man +as me, and never will again; and one, too, that came from a far-off +country, three thousand miles off; it would take you a long time to +count three thousand; it is so far. Whenever you do what you ought not, +think of the advice of the ‘old Minister.’” + +Here Mr. Slick beckoned the mother to the door, and whispered something +to her, of which, the only words that met my ear were “a trump,” “a +brick,” “the other man like him ain’t made yet,” “do it, he’ll talk, +then.” + +To which she replied, “I have--oh yes, Sir--by all means.” + +She then advanced to Mr. Hopewell, and asked him if he would like to +smoke. + +“Indeed I would, dear, but I have no pipe here.” + +She said her old man smoked of an evening, after his work was done, and +that she could give him a pipe and some tobacco, if he would condescend +to use them; and going to the cupboard, she produced a long white clay +pipe and some cut tobacco. + +Having filled and lighted his pipe, Mr. Hopewell said, “What church do +you go to, dear?” + +“The parish church, Sir.” + +“Right; you will hear Sound doctrine and good morals preached there. Oh +this a fortunate country, Sam, for the state provides for the religious +instruction of the poor. Where the voluntary system prevails, the poor +have to give from their poverty, or go without; and their gifts are so +small, that they can purchase but little. It’s a beautiful system, a +charitable system, a Christian system. Who is your landlord?” + +“Squire Merton, Sir; and one of the kindest masters, too, that ever was. +He is so good to the poor; and the ladies. Sir, they are so kind, also. +When my poor daughter Mary was so ill with the lever, I do think she +would have died but for the attentions of those young ladies; and when +she grew better, they sent her wine and nourishing things from their own +table. They will be so glad to see you. Sir, at the Priory. Oh, I wish +you could see them!” + +“There it is, Sam,” he continued “That illustrates what I always told +you of their social system here. We may boast of our independence, but +that independence produces isolation. There is an individuality about +every man and every family in America, that gives no right of inquiry, +and imposes no duty of relief on any one. Sickness, and sorrow, and +trouble, are not divulged; joy, success, and happiness are not imparted. +If we are independent in our thoughts and actions, so are we left to +sustain the burden of our own ills. How applicable to our state is +that passage of Scripture, ‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a +stranger intermeddleth not with its joy.’ + +“Now, look at this poor family; here is a clergyman provided for them, +whom they do not, and are not even expected to pay; their spiritual +wants are ministered to, faithfully and zealously, as we see by the +instruction of that little child. Here is a friend upon whom they can +rely in their hour of trouble, as the bereaved mother did on Elisha. +‘And she went up and laid her child that was dead on the bed of the man +of God, and shut the door on him, and went out.’ And when a long train +of agitation, mis-government, and ill-digested changes have deranged +this happy country, as has recently been the case, here is an indulgent +landlord, disposed to lower his rent or give further time for payment, +or if sickness invades any of these cottages, to seek out the sufferer, +to afford the remedies, and by his countenance, his kindness, and +advice, to alleviate their trouble. Here it is, a positive duty arising +from their relative situations of landlord and tenant. The tenants +support the owner, the landlord protects the tenants: the duties are +reciprocal. + +“With _us_ the duties, as far as Christian duties can be said to be +optional, are voluntary; and the voluntary discharge of duties, like +the voluntary support of religion, we know, from sad experience, to be +sometimes imperfectly performed, at others intermitted, and often wholly +neglected. Oh! it is a happy country this, a great and a good country; +and how base, how wicked, how diabolical it is to try to set such +a family as this against their best friends, their pastor and their +landlord; to instil dissatisfaction and distrust into their simple +minds, and to teach them to loathe the hand, that proffers nothing but +regard or relief. It is shocking, isn’t it?” + +“That’s what I often say, Sir,” said Mrs. Hodgins, “to my old man, to +keep away from them Chartists.” + +“Chartists! dear, who are they? I never heard of them.” + +“Why, Sir, they are the men that want the five pints.” + +“Five pints! why you don’t say so; oh! they are bad men, have nothing to +do with them. Five pints! why that is two quarts and a half; that is +too much to drink if it was water; and if any thing else, it is beastly +drunkenness. Have nothing to do with them.” + +“Oh! no, Sir, it is five points of law.” + +“Tut--tut--tut! what have you got to do with law, my dear?” + +“By gosh, Aunty,” said Mr. Slick, “you had better not cut that pie: you +will find it rather sour in the apple sarce, and tough in the paste, I +tell _you_.” + +“Yes, Sir,” she replied, “but they are a unsettling of his mind. What +shall I do? for I don’t like these night meetings, and he always comes +home from ‘em cross and sour-like.” + +“Well, I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Hopewell, “I wish I could see +him; but I can’t, for I am bound on a journey. I am sorry to hear +it, dear. Sam, this country is so beautiful, so highly cultivated, so +adorned by nature and art, and contains so much comfort and happiness, +that it resembles almost the garden of Eden. But, Sam, the Serpent is +here, the Serpent is here beyond a doubt. It changes its shape, and +alters its name, and takes a new colour, but still it is the Serpent, +and it ought to be crushed. Sometimes it calls itself liberal, then +radical, then chartist, then agitator, then repealer, then political +dissenter, then anti-corn leaguer, and so on. Sometimes it stings the +clergy, and coils round them, and almost strangles them, for it knows +the Church is its greatest enemy, and it is furious against it. Then it +attacks the peers, and covers them with its froth and slaver, and then +it bites the landlord. Then it changes form, and shoots at the Queen, or +her ministers, and sets fire to buildings, and burns up corn to increase +distress; and, when hunted away, it dives down into the collieries, or +visits the manufactories, and maddens the people, and urges them on to +plunder and destruction. It’s a melancholy thing to think of; but he is +as of old, alive and active, seeing whom he can allure and deceive, and +whoever listens is ruined for ever. + +“Stay, dear, I’ll tell you what I will do for you. I’ll inquire about +these Chartists; and when I go to London, I will write a little tract +so plain that any child may read it and understand it; and call it _The +Chartist_, and get it printed, and I will send you one for your husband, +and two or three others, to give to those whom they may benefit. + +“And now, dear, I must go. You and I will never meet again in this +world; but I shall often think of you, and often speak of you. I shall +tell my people of the comforts, of the neatness, of the beauty of an +English cottage. May God bless you, and so regulate your mind as to +preserve in you a reverence for his holy word, an obedience to the +commands of your Spiritual Pastor, and a respect for all that are placed +in authority over you!” + +“Well, it is pretty, too, is this cottage,” said Mr. Slick, as we +strolled back to the inn, “but the handsumestest thing is to hear that +good old soul talk dictionary that way, aint it? How nateral he is! +Guess they don’t often see such a ‘postle as that in these diggins. Yes, +it’s pretty is this cottage; but it’s small, arter all. You feel like a +squirrel in a cage, in it; you have to run round and round, and don’t go +forward none. What would a man do with a rifle here? For my part, I have +a taste for the wild woods; it comes on me regular in the fall, like the +lake fever, and I up gun, and off for a week or two, and camp out, and +get a snuff of the spruce-wood air, and a good appetite, and a bit of +fresh ven’son to sup on at night. + +“I shall be off to the highlands this fall; but, cuss em, they hante got +no woods there; nothin’ but heather, and thats only high enough to tear +your clothes. That’s the reason the Scotch don’t wear no breeches, they +don’t like to get ‘em ragged up that way for everlastinly, they can’t +afford it; so they let em scratch and tear their skin, for that will +grow agin, and trowsers won’t. + +“Yes, it’s a pretty cottage that, and a nice tidy body that too, is Mrs. +Hodgins. I’ve seen the time when I would have given a good deal to have +been so well housed as that. There is some little difference atween that +cottage and a log hut of a poor back emigrant settler, you and I know +where. Did ever I tell you of the night I spent at Lake Teal, with old +Judge Sandford?” + +“No, not that I recollect.” + +“Well, once upon a time I was a-goin’ from Mill-bridge to Shadbrooke, +on a little matter of bisness, and an awful bad and lonely road it was, +too. There was scarcely no settlers in it, and the road was all made +of sticks, stones, mud holes, and broken bridges. It was een amost +onpassible, and who should I overtake on the way but the Judge, and his +guide, on horseback, and Lawyer Traverse a-joggin’ along in his gig, at +the rate of two miles an hour at the fardest. + +“‘Mornin,’ sais the Judge, for he was a sociable man, and had a kind +word for every body, had the Judge. Few men ‘know’d human natur’ better +nor he did, and what he used to call the philosophy of life. ‘I am +glad to see you on the road, Mr. Slick, sais he, ‘for it is so bad I +am afraid there are places that will require our united efforts to pass +‘em.’ + +“Well, I felt kinder sorry for the delay too, for I know’d we should +make a poor journey on’t, on account of that lawyer critter’s gig, that +hadn’t no more busness on that rough track than a steam engine had. But +I see’d the Judge wanted me to stay company, and help him along, and so +I did. He was fond of a joke, was the old Judge, and sais he, + +“‘I’m afraid we shall illustrate that passage o’ Scriptur’, Mr. Slick,’ +said he, ‘“And their judges shall be overthrown in stony places.” It’s +jist a road for it, ain’t it?’ + +“Well we chattered along the road this way a leetle, jist a leetle +faster than we travelled, for we made a snail’s gallop of it, that’s a +fact; and night overtook us, as I suspected it would, at Obi Rafuse’s, +at the Great Lake; and as it was the only public for fourteen miles, and +dark was settin’ in, we dismounted, but oh, what a house it was! + +“Obi was an emigrant, and those emigrants are ginerally so fond of +ownin’ the soil, that like misers, they carry as much of it about ‘em +on their parsons, in a common way, as they cleverly can. Some on ‘em +are awful dirty folks, that’s a fact, and Obi was one of them. He kept +public, did Obi; the sign said it was a house of entertainment for man +and beast. For critters that ain’t human, I do suppose it spoke the +truth, for it was enough to make a hoss larf, if he could understand it, +that’s a fact; but dirt, wretchedness and rags, don’t have that effect +on me. + +“The house was built of rough spruce logs, (the only thing spruce about +it), with the bark on, and the cracks and seams was stuffed with moss. +The roof was made of coarse slabs, battened and not shingled, and the +chimbly peeped out like a black pot, made of sticks and mud, the way +a crow’s nest is. The winders were half broke out, and stopped up with +shingles and old clothes, and a great bank of mud and straw all round, +reached half way up to the roof, to keep the frost out of the cellar. It +looked like an old hat on a dung heap. I pitied the old Judge, because +he was a man that took the world as he found it, and made no complaints. +He know’d if you got the best, it was no use complainin’ that the best +warn’t good. + +“Well, the house stood alone in the middle of a clearin’, without an +outhouse of any sort or kind about it, or any fence or enclosure, but +jist rose up as a toodstool grows, all alone in the field. Close behind +it was a thick short second growth of young birches, about fifteen feet +high, which was the only shelter it had, and that was on the wrong side, +for it was towards the south. + +“Well, when we alighted, and got the baggage off, away starts the guide +with the Judge’s traps, and ups a path through the woods to a settler’s, +and leaves us. Away down by the edge of the lake was a little barn, +filled up to the roof with grain and hay, and there was no standin’ room +or shelter in it for the hosses. So the lawyer hitches his critter to +a tree, and goes and fetches up some fodder for him, and leaves him for +the night, to weather it as he could. As soon as he goes in, I takes +Old Clay to the barn, for it’s a maxim of mine always to look out arter +number one, opens the door, and pulls out sheaf arter sheaf of grain as +fast as I could, and throws it out, till I got a place big enough for +him to crawl in. + +“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘old boy,’ as I shot to the door arter him, ‘if that +hole ain’t big enough for you, eat away till it is, that’s all.’ + +“I had hardly got to the house afore the rain, that had threatened all +day, came down like smoke, and the wind got up, and it blew like a young +hurricane, and the lake roared dismal; it was an awful night, and it was +hard to say which was wus, the Storm or the shelter. + +“‘Of two evils,’ sais I to the lawyer, ‘choose the least. It ain’t a bad +thing to be well housed in a night like this, is it?’ + +“The critter groaned, for both cases was so ‘bad he didn’t know which +to take up to defend, so he grinned horrid and said nothin’; and it was +enough to make him grin too, that’s a fact. He looked as if he had got +hold on a bill o’ pains and penalties instead of a bill of costs that +time, you may depend. + +“Inside of the house was three rooms, the keepin’ room, where we was all +half circled round the fire, and two sleepin’ rooms off of it. One of +these Obi had, who was a-bed, groanin’, coughin’, and turnin’ over and +over all the time on the creakin’ bedstead with pleurisy; t’other was +for the judge. The loft was for the old woman, his mother, and the +hearth, or any other soft place we could find, was allocated for lawyer +and me. + +“What a scarecrow lookin’ critter old aunty was, warn’t she? She was all +in rags and tatters, and though she lived ‘longside of the lake the +best part of her emigrant life, had never used water since she was +christened. Her eyes were so sunk in her head, they looked like two +burnt holes in a blanket. Her hair was pushed back, and tied so tight +with an eel-skin behind her head, it seemed to take the hide with it. +I ‘most wonder how she ever shot to her eyes to go to sleep. She had no +stockins on her legs, and no heels to her shoes, so she couldn’t lift +her feet up, for fear of droppin’ off her slippers; but she just shoved +and slid about as if she was on ice. She had a small pipe in her mouth, +with about an inch of a stem, to keep her nose warm, and her skin was +so yaller and wrinkled, and hard and oily, she looked jist like a dried +smoked red herrin’, she did upon my soul. + +“The floor of the room was blacker nor ink, because that is pale +sometimes; and the utenshils, oh, if the fire didn’t purify ‘em now +and ag’in, all the scrubbin’ in the world wouldn’t, they was past that. +Whenever the door was opened, in run the pigs, and the old woman hobbled +round arter them, bangin’ them with a fryin’ pan, till she seemed out +o’ breath. Every time she took less and less notice of ‘em, for she +was ‘most beat out herself, and was busy a gettin’ of the tea-kettle to +bile, and it appeared to me she was a-goin’ to give in and let ‘em sleep +with me and the lawyer, near the fire. + +“So I jist puts the tongs in the sparklin’ coals and heats the eends on +‘em red hot, and the next time they comes in, I watches a chance, outs +with the tongs, and seizes the old sow by the tail, and holds on till +I singes it beautiful. The way she let go ain’t no matter, but if she +didn’t yell it’s a pity, that’s all. She made right straight for the +door, dashed in atween old aunty’s legs, and carries her out on her +back, ridin’ straddle-legs like a man, and tumbles her head over heels +in the duck pond of dirty water outside, and then lays down along side +of her, to put the fire out in its tail and cool itself. + +“Aunty took up the screamin’ then, where the pig left off; but her voice +warn’t so good, poor thing! she was too old for that, it sounded like a +cracked bell; it was loud enough, but it warn’t jist so clear. She came +in drippin’ and cryin’ and scoldin’; she hated water, and what was wus, +this water made her dirtier. It ran off of her like a gutter. The way +she let out agin pigs, travellers and houses of entertainment, was a +caution to sinners. She vowed she’d stop public next mornin’, and bile +her kettle with the sign; folks might entertain themselves and be hanged +to ‘em, for all her, that they might. Then she mounted a ladder and goes +up into the loft-to change. + +“‘Judge’ sais I, ‘I am sorry, too, I singed that pig’s tail arter that +fashion, for the smell of pork chops makes me feel kinder hungry, and if +we had ‘em, no soul could eat ‘em here in such a stye as this. But, dear +me,’ sais I, ‘You’d better move, Sir; that old woman is juicy, and I +see it a comin’ through the cracks of the floor above, like a streak of +molasses. + +“‘Mr. Slick,’ sais he, ‘this is dreadful. I never saw any thing so bad +before in all this country; but what can’t be cured must be endured, I +do suppose. We must only be good-natured and do the best we can, that’s +all. An emigrant house is no place to stop at, is it? There is a tin +case,’ sais he, ‘containin’ a cold tongue and some biscuits, in my +portmanter; please to get them out. You must act as butler to-night, if +you please; for I can’t eat any thing that old woman touches.’ + +“So I spreads one of his napkins on the table, and gets out the +eatables, and then he produced a pocket pistol, for he was a sensible +man was the judge, and we made a small check, for there warn’t enough +for a feed. + +“Arter that, he takes out a night-cap, and fits it on tight, and then +puts on his cloak, and wraps the hood of it close over his head, and +foldin’ himself up in it, he went and laid down without ondressin’. The +lawyer took a stretch for it on the bench, with his gig cushions for a +pillar, and I makes up the fire, sits down on the chair, puts my legs up +on the jamb, draws my hat over my eyes, and folds my arms for sleep. + +“‘But fust and foremost,’ sais I, ‘aunty, take a drop of the strong +waters: arter goin’ the whole hog that way, you must need some,’ and I +poured her out a stiff corker into one of her mugs, put some sugar and +hot water to it, and she tossed it off as if she railly did like it. + +“‘Darn that pig,’ said she, ‘it is so poor, its back is as sharp as a +knife. It hurt me properly, that’s a fact, and has most broke my crupper +bone.’ And she put her hand behind her, and moaned piteous. + +“‘Pig skin,’ sais I, ‘aunty, is well enough when made into a saddle, but +it ain’t over pleasant to ride on bare back that way,’ sais I, ‘is it? +And them bristles ain’t quite so soft as feathers, I do suppose.’ + +“I thought I should a died a holdin’ in of a haw haw that way. Stifling +a larf a’most stifles oneself, that’s a fact. I felt sorry for her, too, +but sorrow won’t always keep you from larfin’, unless you be sorry for +yourself. So as I didn’t want to offend her I ups legs agin to the jam, +and shot my eyes and tried to go to sleep. + +“Well, I can snooze through most any thin’, but I couldn’t get much +sleep that night. The pigs kept close to the door, a shovin’ agin it +every now and then, to see all was right for a dash in, if the bears +came; and the geese kept sentry too agin the foxes; and one old feller +would squake out “all’s well” every five minuts, as he marched up and +down and back agin on the bankin’ of the house. + +“But the turkeys was the wust. They was perched upon the lee side of the +roof, and sometimes an eddy of wind would take a feller right slap off +his legs, and send him floppin’ and rollin’ and sprawlin’ and screamin’ +down to the ground, and then he’d make most as much fuss a-gettin’ up +into line agin. They are very fond of straight, lines is turkeys. I +never see an old gobbler, with his gorget, that I don’t think of a +kernel of a marchin’ regiment, and if you’ll listen to him and watch +him, he’ll strut jist like one, and say, ‘halt! dress!’ oh, he is a +military man is a turkey cock: he wears long spurs, carries a stiff +neck, and charges at red cloth, like a trooper. + +“Well then a little cowardly good natured cur, that lodged in an empty +flour barrel, near the wood pile, gave out a long doleful howl, now and +agin, to show these outside passengers, if he couldn’t fight for ‘em, he +could at all events cry for ‘em, and it ain’t every goose has a mourner +to her funeral, that’s a fact, unless it be the owner. + +“In the mornin’ I wakes up, and looks round for lawyer, but he was gone. +So I gathers up the brans, and makes up the fire, and walks out. The +pigs didn’t try to come in agin, you may depend, when they see’d me; +they didn’t like the curlin’ tongs, as much as some folks do, and pigs’ +tails kinder curl naterally. But there was lawyer a-standin’ up by the +grove, lookin’ as peeked and as forlorn, as an onmated loon. + +“‘What’s the matter of you, Squire?’ sais I. ‘You look like a man that +was ready to make a speech; but your witness hadn’t come, or you hadn’t +got no jury.’ + +“‘Somebody has stole my horse,’ said he. + +“Well, I know’d he was near-sighted, was lawyer, and couldn’t see a pint +clear of his nose, unless it was a pint o’ law. So I looks all round and +there was his hoss, a-standin’ on the bridge, with his long tail hanging +down straight at one eend, and his long neck and head a banging down +straight at t’other eend, so that you couldn’t tell one from t’other or +which eend was towards you. It was a clear cold mornin’. The storm was +over and the wind down, and there was a frost on the ground. The critter +was cold I suppose, and had broke the rope and walked off to stretch his +legs. It was a monstrous mean night to be out in, that’s sartain. + +“‘There is your hoss,’ sais I. + +“‘Where?’ sais he. + +“‘Why on the bridge,’ sais I; “he has got his head down and is a-lookin’ +atween his fore-legs to see where his tail is, for he is so cold, I do +suppose he can’t feel it.’ + +“Well, as soon as we could, we started; but afore we left, sais the +Judge to me, ‘Mr. Slick,’ sais he, ‘here is a plaister,’ taking out +a pound note, ‘a plaister for the skin the pig rubbed off of the old +woman. Give it to her, I hope it is big enough to cover it.’ And he fell +back on the bed, and larfed and coughed, and coughed and larfed, till +the tears ran down his cheeks. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Slick, “yes, Squire, this is a pretty cottage of Marm +Hodgins; but we have cottages quite as pretty as this, our side of the +water, arter all. They are not all like Obi Rafuses, the immigrant. The +natives have different guess places, where you might eat off the floor +a’most, all’s so clean. P’raps we hante the hedges, and flowers, and +vines and fixin’s, and what-nots.” + +“Which, alone,” I said, “make a most important difference. No, Mr. +Slick’, there is nothing to be compared to this little cottage. + +“I perfectly agree with you, Squire,” said Mr. Hopewell, “it is quite +unique. There is not only nothing equal to it, but nothing of its kind +at all like--_an English cottage_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. STEALING THE HEARTS OF THE PEOPLE. + +Shortly after our return to the inn, a carriage drove up to the door, +and the cards of Mr. Merton, and the Reverend Mr. Homily, which +were presented by the servant, were soon followed by the gentlemen +themselves. + +Mr. Merton said he had been informed by Mrs. Hodgins of our visit to her +cottage, and from her account of our conversation and persons, he was +convinced we could be no other than the party described in the “Sayings +and Doings of Mr. Samuel Slick,” as about to visit England with the +Attache. He expressed great pleasure in having the opportunity of making +our acquaintance, and entreated us to spend a few days with him at the +Priory. This invitation we were unfortunately compelled to decline, in +consequence of urgent business in London, where our immediate presence +was indispensable. + +The rector then pressed Mr. Hopewell to preach for him, on the following +day at the parish church, which he also declined. He said, that he +had no sermons with him, and that he had very great objections to +extemporaneous preaching, which he thought should never be resorted to +except in cases of absolute necessity. He, however, at last consented to +do so, on condition that Mrs. Hodgins and her husband attended, and +upon being assured that it was their invariable custom to be present, +he said, he thought it not impossible, that he might make an impression +upon _him_, and as it was his maxim never to omit an opportunity of +doing good, he would with the blessing of God, make the attempt. + +The next day was remarkably fine, and as the scene was new to me, +and most probably will be so to most of my colonial readers, I shall +endeavour to describe it with some minuteness. + +We walked to the church by a path over the hills, and heard the bells of +a number of little churches, summoning the surrounding population to the +House of God. The roads and the paths were crowded with the peasantry +and their children, approaching the church-yard in different directions. +The church and the rectory were contiguous to each other, and situated +in a deep dell. + +The former was a long and rather low structure, originally built of +light coloured stone, which had grown grey with time. It had a large +square steeple, with pointed corners, like turrets, each of which was +furnished with a vane, but some of these ornaments were loose and turned +round in a circle, while others stood still and appeared to be examining +with true rustic curiosity, the condition of their neighbours. + +The old rectory stood close to the church and was very irregularly +built, one part looking as if it had stepped forward to take a peep at +us, and another as if endeavouring to conceal itself from view, behind +a screen of ivy. The windows which were constructed of diamond-shaped +glass, were almost square, and opened on hinges. Nearly half of the +house was covered by a rose-tree, from which the lattices peered very +inquisitively upon the assembled congregation. Altogether it looked like +the residence of a vigilant man, who could both see and be unseen if he +pleased. + +Near the door of the church were groups of men in their clean +smock-frocks and straw hats, and of women in their tidy dark dresses and +white aprons. The children all looked clean, healthy, and cheerful. + +The interior of the church was so unlike that of an American one, that +my attention was irresistibly drawn to its peculiarities. It was low, +and divided in the centre by an arch. The floor was of stone, and from +long and constant use, very uneven in places. The pews were much higher +on the sides than ours, and were unpainted and roughly put together; +while the pulpit was a rude square box, and was placed in the corner. +Near the door stood an ancient stone font, of rough workmanship, and +much worn. + +The windows were long and narrow, and placed very high in the walls. On +the one over the altar was a very old painting, on stained glass, of the +Virgin, with a hoop and yellow petticoat, crimson vest, a fly cap, and +very thick shoes. The light of this window was still further subdued by +a fine old yew-tree, which stood in the yard close behind it. + +There was another window of beautifully stained glass, the light of +which fell on a large monument, many feet square, of white marble. In +the centre of this ancient and beautiful work of art, were two principal +figures, with smaller ones kneeling on each side, having the hands +raised in the attitude of prayer. They were intended to represent some +of the ancestors of the Merton family. The date was as old as 1575. On +various parts of the wall were other and ruder monuments of slate-stone, +the inscriptions and dates of which were nearly effaced by time. + +The roof was of a construction now never seen in America; and the old +oak rafters, which were more numerous, than was requisite, either for +strength or ornament, were massive and curiously put together, giving +this part of the building a heavy and gloomy appearance. + +As we entered the church, Mr. Hopewell said he had selected a text +suitable to the times, and that he would endeavour to save the +poor people in the neighbourhood from the delusions of the chartist +demagogues, who, it appeared, were endeavouring to undermine the throne +and the altar, and bring universal ruin upon the country. + +When he ascended the pulpit to preach, his figure, his great age, and +his sensible and benevolent countenance, attracted universal attention. +I had never seen him officiate till this day; but if I was struck with +his venerable appearance before, I was now lost in admiration of his +rich and deep-toned voice, his peculiar manner, and simple style of +eloquence. + +He took for his text these words: “So Absalom stole the hearts of the +men of Israel.” He depicted, in a very striking manner, the arts of this +intriguing and ungrateful man to ingratiate himself with the people, and +render the government unpopular. He traced his whole course, from his +standing at the crowded thoroughfare, and lamenting that the king had +deputed no one to hear and decide upon the controversies of the people, +to his untimely end, and the destruction of his ignorant followers. He +made a powerful application of the seditious words of Absalom: “Oh that +_I_ were a judge in the land, that every man which hath a suit or cause +might come unto me, and _I_ would do him justice.” He showed the effect +of these empty and wicked promises upon his followers, who in the holy +record of this unnatural rebellion are described as “men who went out in +their simplicity, and knew not anything.” + +He then said that similar arts were used in all ages for similar +purposes; and that these professions of disinterested patriotism were +the common pretences by which wicked men availed themselves of the +animal force of those “who assemble in their simplicity, and know not +any thing,” to achieve their own personal aggrandisement, and warned +them, to give no heed to such dishonest people. He then drew a picture +of the real blessings they enjoyed in this happy country, which, though +not without an admixture of evil, were as many and as great as the +imperfect and unequal condition of man was capable either of imparting +or receiving. + +Among the first of these, he placed the provision made by the state for +the instruction of the poor, by means of an established Church. He said +they would doubtless hear this wise and pious deed of their forefathers +attacked also by unprincipled men; and falsehood and ridicule would be +invoked to aid in the assault; but that he was a witness on its behalf, +from the distant wilderness of North America, where the voice of +gratitude was raised to England, whose missionaries had planted a church +there similar to their own, and had proclaimed the glad tidings of +salvation to those who would otherwise have still continued to live +without its pale. + +He then pourtrayed in a rapid and most masterly manner the sin and the +disastrous consequences of rebellion; pointed out the necessity that +existed for vigilance and defined their respective duties to God, and +to those who, by his permission, were set in authority over them; and +concluded with the usual benediction, which, though I had heard it +on similar occasions all my life, seemed now more efficacious, more +paternal, and more touching than ever, when uttered by him, in his +peculiarly patriarchal manner. + +The abstract I have just given, I regret to say, cannot convey any +adequate idea of this powerful, excellent, and appropriate sermon. It +was listened to with intense interest by the congregation, many of whom +were affected to tears. In the afternoon we attended church again, when +we heard a good, plain, and practical discourse from the rector; but, +unfortunately, he had neither the talent, nor the natural eloquence of +our friend, and, although it satisfied the judgment, it did not affect, +the heart like that of the “Old Minister.” + +At the door we met, on our return, Mrs. Hodgins. “Ah! my dear,” said Mr. +Hopewell, “how do you do? I am going to your cottage; but I am an old +man now; take my arm--it will support me in my walk.” + +It was thus that this good man, while honouring this poor woman, avoided +the appearance of condescension, and received her arm as a favour to +himself. + +She commenced thanking him for his sermon in the morning. She said it +had convinced her William of the sin of the Chartist agitation, and that +he had firmly resolved never to meet them again. It had saved him from +ruin, and made her a happy woman. + +“Glad to hear it has done him good, my dear,” said he; “it does me good, +too, to hear its effect. Now, never remind him of past errors, never +allude to them: make his home cheerful, make it the pleasantest place +he can find any where, and he won’t want to seek amusement elsewhere, +or excitement either; for these seditious meetings intoxicate by their +excitement. Oh! I am very glad I have touched him; that I have prevented +these seditious men from ‘stealing his heart.’” + +In this way they chatted, until they arrived at the cottage, which +Hodgins had just reached by a shorter, but more rugged path. + +“It is such a lovely afternoon,” said Mr. Hopewell, “I believe I will +rest in this arbour here awhile, and enjoy the fresh breeze, and the +perfume of your honeysuckles and flowers.” + +“Wouldn’t a pipe be better, Minister?” said Mr. Slick. “For my part, I +don’t think any thing equal to the flavour of rael good gene_wine_ first +chop tobacco.” + +“Well, it is a great refreshment, is tobacco,” said Mr. Hopewell. “I +don’t care if I do take a pipe. Bring me one, Mr. Hodgins, and one for +yourself also, and I will smoke and talk with you awhile, for they seem +as natural to each other, as eating and drinking do.” + +As soon as these were produced, Mr. Slick and I retired, and requested +Mrs. Hodgins to leave the Minister and her husband together for a while, +for as Mr. Slick observed, “The old man will talk it into him like a +book; for if he was possessed of the spirit of a devil, instead of a +Chartist, he is jist the boy to drive it out of him. Let him be awhile, +and he’ll tame old uncle there, like a cossit sheep; jist see if he +don’t, that’s all.” + +We then walked up and down the shady lane, smoking our cigars, and Mr. +Slick observed, “Well, there is a nation sight of difference, too, ain’t +there, atween this country church, and a country meetin’ house our side +of the water; I won’t say in your country or my country; but I say _our_ +side of the water--and then it won’t rile nobody; for your folks will +say I mean the States, and our citizens will say I mean the colonies; +but you and I know who the cap fits, one or t’other, or both, don’t we? + +“Now here, this old-fashioned church, ain’t quite up to the notch, and +is a leetle behind the enlightment of the age like, with its queer old +fixin’s and what not; but still it looks solemcoly’ don’t it, and the +dim light seems as if we warn’t expected to be a lookin’ about, and as +if outer world was shot out, from sight and thort, and it warn’t _man’s_ +house nother. + +“I don’t know whether it was that dear old man’s preachin’, and he is +a brick ain’t he? or, whether it’s the place, or the place and him +together; but somehow, or somehow else, I feel more serious to-day +than common, that’s a fact. The people too are all so plain dressed, so +decent, so devout and no show, it looks like airnest. + +“The only fashionable people here was the Squire’s sarvants; and they +_did_ look genteel, and no mistake. Elegant men, and most splendid +lookin’ women they was too. I thought it was some noble, or aid’s, +or big bug’s family; but Mrs. Hodgins says they are the people of +the Squire’s about here, the butlers and ladies’ maids; and superfine +uppercrust lookin’ folks they be too. + +“Then every body walks here, even Squire Merton and his splendiriferous +galls walked like the poorest of the poor, there was no carriage to the +door, nor no hosses hitched to the gate, or tied to the back of waggons, +or people gossipin’ outside; but all come in and minded their business, +as if it was worth attendin’ to; and then arter church was finished off, +I liked the way the big folks talked to the little folks, and enquired +arter their families. It may he actin’, but if it is, it’s plaguy good +actin’, I _tell_ you. + +“I’m a thinkin’ it tante a rael gentleman that’s proud, but only a hop. +You’ve seen a hop grow, hante you? It shoots up in a night, the matter +of several inches right out of the ground, as stiff as a poker, straight +up and down, with a spick and span new green coat and a red nose, as +proud as Lucifer. Well, I call all upstarts ‘hops,’ and I believe it’s +only “hops” arter all that’s scorny. + +“Yes, I kinder like an English country church, only it’s a leetle, jist +a leetle too old fashioned for me. Folks look a leetle too much like +grandfather Slick, and the boys used to laugh at him, and call him a +benighted Britisher. Perhaps that’s the cause of my prejudice, and yet I +must say, British or no British, it tante bad, is it? + +“The meetin’ houses ‘our side of the water,’ no matter where, but away +up in the back country, how teetotally different they be! bean’t they? +A great big, handsome wooden house, chock full of winders, painted so +white as to put your eyes out, and so full of light within, that inside +seems all out-doors, and no tree nor bush, nor nothin’ near it but +the road fence, with a man to preach in it, that is so strict and +straight-laced he will do _any thing_ of a week day, and _nothin’_ of +a Sunday. Congregations are rigged out in their spic and span bran new +clothes, silks, satins, ribbins, leghorns, palmetters, kiss-me-quicks, +and all sorts of rigs, and the men in their long-tail-blues, pig-skin +pads calf-skin boots and sheep-skin saddle-cloths. Here they publish a +book of fashions, there they publish ‘em in meetin’; and instead of a +pictur, have the rael naked truth. + +“Preacher there don’t preach morals, because that’s churchy, and he +don’t like neither the church nor its morals; but he preaches doctrine, +which doctrine is, there’s no Christians but themselves. Well, the +fences outside of the meetin’ house, for a quarter of a mile or so, +each side of the house, and each side of the road, ain’t to be seen for +hosses and waggons, and gigs hitched there; poor devils of hosses +that have ploughed, or hauled, or harrowed, or logged, or snaked, or +somethin’ or another all the week, and rest of a Sunday by alterin’ +their gait, as a man rests on a journey by a alterin’ of his sturup, a +hole higher or a hole lower. Women that has all their finery on can’t +walk, and some things is ondecent. It’s as ondecent for a woman to +be seen walkin’ to meetin’, as it is to be caught at--what shall I +say?--why caught at attendin’ to her business to home. + +“The women are the fust and the last to meetin’; fine clothes cost +sunthin’, and if they ain’t showed, what’s the use of them? The men folk +remind me of the hosses to Sable Island. It’s a long low sand-bank on +Nova Scotia coast, thirty miles long and better is Sable Island, and not +much higher than the water. It has awful breakers round it, and picks +up a shockin’ sight of vessels does that island. Government keeps a +super-intender there and twelve men to save wracked people, and there is +a herd of three hundred wild hosses kept there for food for saved crews +that land there, when provision is short, or for super-intender to catch +and break for use, as the case may be. + +“Well, if he wants a new hoss, he mounts his folks on his tame hosses, +and makes a dash into the herd, and runs a wild feller down, lugs him +off to the stable-yard, and breaks him in, in no time. A smart little +hoss he is too, but he always has an _eye to natur’_ arterwards; _the +change is too sudden_, and he’ll off, if he gets a chance. + +“Now that’s the case with these country congregations, we know where. +The women and old tame men folk are, inside; the young wild boys and +ontamed men folk are on the fences, outside a settin’ on the top rail, a +speculatin’ on times or marriages, or markets, or what not, or a walkin’ +round and studyin’ hoss flesh, or a talkin’ of a swap to be completed of +a Monday, or a leadin’ off of two hosses on the sly of the old deacon’s, +takin’ a lick of a half mile on a bye road, right slap a-head, and +swearin’ the hosses had got loose, and they was just a fetchin’ of them +back. + +“‘Whose side-saddle is this?’ + +“‘Slim Sall Dowdie’s.’ + +“‘Shift it on to the deacon’s beast, and put his on to her’n and tie the +two critters together by the tail. This is old Mother Pitcher’s waggon; +her hoss kicks like a grasshopper. Lengthen the breechin’, and when +aunty starts, he’ll make all fly agin into shavin’s, like a plane. Who +is that a comin’ along full split there a horseback?’ + +“‘It’s old Booby’s son, Tom. Well, it’s the old man’s shaft hoss; call +out whoh! and he’ll stop short, and pitch Tom right over his head on the +broad of his back, whap. + +“Tim Fish, and Ned Pike, come scale up here with us boys on the fence.’ +The weight is too great; away goes the fence, and away goes the boys, +all flyin’; legs, arms, hats, poles, stakes, withes, and all, with an +awful crash and an awful shout; and away goes two or three hosses that +have broke their bridles, and off home like wink. + +“Out comes Elder Sourcrout. ‘Them as won’t come in had better stay to +home,’ sais he. And when he hears that them as are in had better stay in +when they be there, he takes the hint and goes back agin. ‘Come, boys, +let’s go to Black Stump Swamp and sarch for honey. We shall be back +in time to walk home with the galls from night meetin’, by airly +candle-light. Let’s go.’ + +“Well, when they want to recruit the stock of tame ones inside meetin’, +they sarcumvent some o’ these wild ones outside; make a dash on ‘em, +catch ‘em, dip ‘em, and give ‘em a name; for all sects don’t always +baptise ‘em as we do, when children, but let ‘em grow up wild in the +herd till they are wanted. They have hard work to break ‘em in, for they +are smart ones, that’s a fact, but, like the hosses of Sable Island, +they have always _an eye to natur’_ arterwards; _the change is too +sudden_, you can’t trust ‘em, at least I never see one as _I_ could, +that’s all. + +“Well, when they come out o’ meetin’, look at the dignity and sanctity, +and pride o’ humility o’ the tame old ones. Read their faces. ‘How does +the print go?’ Why this way, ‘I am a sinner, at least I was once, +but thank fortin’ I ain’t like you, you onconverted, benighted, +good-for-nothin’ critter you.’ Read the ontamed one’s face, what’s the +print there? Why it’s this. As soon as he sees over-righteous stalk by +arter that fashion, it says, ‘How good we are, ain’t we? Who wet his hay +to the lake tother day, on his way to market, and made two tons weigh +two tons and a half? You’d better look as if butter wouldn’t melt in +your mouth, hadn’t you, old Sugar-cane?’ + +“Now jist foller them two rulin’ elders, Sourcrout and Coldslaugh; they +are plaguy jealous of their neighbour, elder Josh Chisel, that exhorted +to-day. ‘How did you like Brother Josh, to-day?’ says Sourcrout, a +utterin’ of it through his nose. Good men always speak through the nose. +It’s what comes out o’ the mouth that defiles a man; but there is no +mistake in the nose; it’s the porch of the temple that. ‘How did you +like Brother Josh?’ + +“‘Well, he wasn’t very peeowerful.’ + +“‘Was he ever peeowerful?’ + +“‘Well, when a boy, they say he was considerable sum as a wrastler.’ + +“Sourcrout won’t larf, because it’s agin rules; but he gig goggles like +a turkey-cock, and says he, ‘It’s for ever and ever the same thing with +Brother Josh. He is like an over-shot mill, one everlastin’ wishy-washy +stream.’ + +“‘When the water ain’t quite enough to turn the wheel, and only +spatters, spatters, spatters,’ says Coldslaugh. + +“Sourcrout gig goggles again, as if he was swallerin’ shelled corn +whole. ‘That trick of wettin’ the hay,’ says he, ‘to make it weigh +heavy, warn’t cleverly done; it ain’t pretty to be caught; it’s only +bunglers do that.’ + +“‘He is so fond of temperance,’ says Coldslaugh, ‘he wanted to make his +hay jine society, and drink cold water, too.’ + +“Sourcrout gig goggles ag’in, till he takes a fit of the asmy, sets down +on a stump, claps both hands on his sides, and coughs, and coughs till +he finds coughing no joke no more. Oh dear, dear convarted men, though +they won’t larf themselves, make others larf the worst kind, sometimes; +don’t they? + +“I do believe, on my soul, if religion was altogether left to the +voluntary in this world, it would die a nateral death; not that _men +wouldn’t support it_, but because it would be supported _under false +pretences_. Truth can’t be long upheld by falsehood. Hypocrisy would +change its features, and intolerance its name; and religion would +soon degenerate into a cold, intriguing, onprincipled, marciless +superstition, that’s a fact. + +“Yes, on the whole, I rather like these plain, decent, onpretendin’, +country churches here, although t’other ones remind me of old times, +when I was an ontamed one too. Yes, I like an English church; but as +for Minister pretendin’ for to come for to go for to preach agin that +beautiful long-haired young rebel, Squire Absalom, for ‘stealin’ the +hearts of the people,’ why it’s rather takin’ the rag off the bush, +ain’t it? + +“Tell you what, Squire; there ain’t a man in their whole church here, +from Lord Canter Berry that preaches afore the Queen, to Parson Homily +that preached afore us, nor never was, nor never will be equal to Old +Minister hisself for ‘stealin’ the hearts of the people.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. NATUR’. + +In the course of our journey, the conversation turned upon the several +series of the “Clockmaker” I had published, and their relative merits. +Mr. Slick appeared to think they all owed their popularity mainly to the +freshness and originality of character incidental to a new country. + +“You are in the wrong pew here, Squire,” said he; “you are, upon my +soul. If you think to sketch the English in a way any one will stop to +look at, you have missed a figur’, that’s all. You can’t do it nohow; +you can’t fix it. There is no contrasts here, no variation of colours, +no light and shade, no nothin’. What sort of a pictur’ would straight +lines of any thing make? Take a parcel of sodjers, officers and all, and +stretch ‘em out in a row, and paint ‘em, and then engrave ‘em, and put +it into one of our annuals, and see how folks would larf, and ask, ‘What +boardin’-school gall did that? Who pulled her up out of standin’ corn, +and sot her up on eend for an artist? they’d say. + +“There is nothin’ here to take hold on. It’s so plaguy smooth and high +polished, the hands slip off; you can’t get a grip of it. Now, take Lord +First Chop, who is the most fashionable man in London, dress him in +the last cut coat, best trowsers, French boots, Paris gloves, and +grape-vine-root cane, don’t forget his whiskers, or mous-stache, or +breast-pins, or gold chains, or any thing; and what have you got?--a +tailor’s print-card, and nothin’ else. + +“Take a lady, and dress her in a’most a beautiful long habit, man’s hat, +stand-up collar and stock, clap a beautiful little cow-hide whip in her +hand, and mount her on a’most a splendiferous white hoss, with long tail +and flowin’ mane, a rairin’ and a cavortin’ like mad, and a champin’ +and a chawin’ of its bit, and makin’ the froth fly from its mouth, a +spatterin’ and white-spottin’ of her beautiful trailin’, skirt like any +thing. And what have you got?--why a print like the posted hand-bills of +a circus. + +“Now spit on your fingers, and rub Lord First Chop out of the slate, and +draw an Irish labourer, with his coat off, in his shirt-sleeves, with +his breeches loose and ontied at the knees, his yarn stockings and thick +shoes on; a little dudeen in his mouth, as black as ink and as short as +nothin’; his hat with devilish little rim and no crown to it, and a hod +on his shoulders, filled with bricks, and him lookin’ as if he was a +singin’ away as merry as a cricket: + + When I was young and unmarried, + my shoes they were new. + But now I am old and am married, + the water runs troo,’ + +Do that, and you have got sunthin’ worth lookin’ at, quite +pictures-quee, as Sister Sall used to say. And because why? _You have +got sunthin’ nateral_. + +“Well, take the angylyferous dear a horseback, and rub her out, well, I +won’t say that nother, for I’m fond of the little critturs, dressed or +not dressed for company, or any way they like, yes, I like woman-natur’, +I tell _you_. But turn over the slate, and draw on t’other side on’t +an old woman, with a red cloak, and a striped petticoat, and a poor +pinched-up, old, squashed-in bonnet on, bendin’ forrard, with a staff +in her hand, a leadin’ of a donkey that has a pair of yaller willow +saddle-bags on, with coloured vegetables and flowers, and red beet-tops, +a goin’ to market. And what have you got? Why a pictur’ worth lookin’ +at, too. Why?--_because it’s natur’_. + +“Now, look here, Squire; let Copley, if he was alive, but he ain’t; and +it’s a pity too, for it would have kinder happified the old man, to see +his son in the House of Lords, wouldn’t it? Squire Copley, you know, was +a Boston man; and a credit to our great nation too. P’raps Europe never +has dittoed him since. + +“Well, if he was above ground now, alive, and stirrin’, why take him +and fetch him to an upper crust London party; and sais you, ‘Old Tenor,’ +sais you, ‘paint all them silver plates, and silver dishes, and silver +coverlids, and what nots; and then paint them lords with their _stars_, +and them ladies’ (Lord if he would paint them with their garters, folks +would buy the pictur, cause that’s nateral) ‘them ladies with their +jewels, and their sarvants with their liveries, as large as life, and +twice as nateral.’ + +“Well, he’d paint it, if you paid him for it, that’s a fact; for there +is no better bait to fish for us Yankees arter all, than a dollar. That +old boy never turned up his nose at a dollar, except when he thought +he ought to get two. And if he painted it, it wouldn’t be bad, I tell +_you_. + +“‘Now,’ sais you, ‘you have done high life, do low life for me, and I +will pay you well. I’ll come down hansum, and do the thing genteel, you +may depend. Then,’ sais you, ‘put in for a back ground that noble, old +Noah-like lookin’ wood, that’s as dark as comingo. Have you done?’ sais +you. + +“‘I guess so,’ sais he. + +“‘Then put in a brook jist in front of it, runnin’ over stones, and +foamin’ and a bubblin’ up like any thing.’ + +“‘It’s in,’ sais he. + +“‘Then jab two forked sticks in the ground ten feet apart, this side of +the brook,’ sais you, ‘and clap a pole across atween the forks. Is that +down?’ sais you. + +“‘Yes,’ sais he. + +“‘Then,’ sais you, ‘hang a pot on that horizontal pole, make a clear +little wood fire onderneath; paint two covered carts near it. Let an +old hoss drink at the stream, and two donkeys make a feed off a patch of +thistles. Have-you stuck that in?’ + +“‘Stop a bit,’ says he, ‘paintin’ an’t quite as fast done as writin’. +Have a little grain of patience, will you? It’s tall paintin’, makin’ +the brush walk at that price. Now there you are,’ sais he. ‘What’s +next? But, mind I’ve most filled my canvass; it will cost you a pretty +considerable penny, if you want all them critters in, when I come to +cypher all the pictur up, and sumtotalize the whole of it.’ + +“‘Oh! cuss the cost!’ sais you. ‘Do you jist obey orders, and break +owners, that’s all you have to do, Old Loyalist.’ + +“‘Very well,’ sais he, ‘here goes.’ + +“‘Well, then,’ sais you, ‘paint a party of gipsies there; mind their +different coloured clothes, and different attitudes, and different +occupations. Here a man mendin’ a harness, there a woman pickin’ a +stolen fowl, there a man skinnin’ a rabbit, there a woman with her +petticoat up, a puttin’ of a patch in it. Here two boys a fishin’, and +there a little gall a playin’ with a dog, that’s a racin’ and a yelpin’, +and a barkin’ like mad.’ + +“‘Well, when he’s done,’ sais you, ‘which pictur do you reckon is the +best now, Squire Copely? speak candid for I want to know, and I ask you +now as a countryman.’ + +“‘Well’ he’ll jist up and tell you, ‘Mr. Poker,’ sais he, ‘your +fashionable party is the devil, that’s a fact. Man made the town, but +God made the country. Your company is as formal, and as stiff, and as +oninterestin’ as a row of poplars; but your gipsy scene is beautiful, +because it’s nateral. It was me painted old Chatham’s death in the House +of Lords; folks praised it a good deal; but it was no great shakes, +_there was no natur’ in it_. The scene was real, the likenesses was +good, and there was spirit in it, but their damned uniform toggery, +spiled the whole thing--it was artificial, and wanted life and natur. +Now, suppose, such a thing in Congress, or suppose some feller skiverd +the speaker with a bowie knife as happened to Arkansaw, if I was to +paint it, it would be beautiful. Our free and enlightened people is so +different, so characteristic and peculiar, it would give a great field +to a painter. To sketch the different style of man of each state, so +that any citizen would sing right out; Heavens and airth if that don’t +beat all! Why, as I am a livin’ sinner that’s the Hoosier of Indiana, or +the Sucker of Illinois, or the Puke of Missouri, or the Bucky of +Ohio, or the Red Horse of Kentucky, or the Mudhead of Tennesee, or the +Wolverine of Michigan or the Eel of New England, or the Corn Cracker of +Virginia! That’s the thing that gives inspiration. That’s the glass of +talabogus that raises your spirits. There is much of elegance, and more +of comfort in England. It is a great and a good country, Mr. Poker, but +there is no natur in it.’ + +“It is as true as gospel,” said Mr. Slick, “I’m tellin’ you no lie. It’s +a fact. If you expect to paint them English, as you have the Blue-Noses +and us, you’ll pull your line up without a fish, oftener than you are +a-thinkin’ on; that’s the reason all our folks have failed. ‘Rush’s book +is jist molasses and water, not quite so sweet as ‘lasses, and not quite +so good as water; but a spilin’ of both. And why? His pictur was of +polished life, where there is no natur. Washington Irving’s book is like +a Dutch paintin’, it is good, because it is faithful; the mop has the +right number of yarns, and each yarn has the right number of twists, +(altho’ he mistook the mop of the grandfather, for the mop of the man of +the present day) and the pewter plates are on the kitchen dresser, and +the other little notions are all there. He has done the most that could +be done for them, but the painter desarves more praise than the subject. + +“Why is it every man’s sketches of America takes? Do you suppose it is +the sketches? No. Do you reckon it is the interest we create? No. Is it +our grand experiments? No. They don’t care a brass button for us, or our +country, or experiments nother. What is it then? It is because they are +sketches of natur. Natur in every grade and every variety of form; from +the silver plate, and silver fork, to the finger and huntin’ knife. Our +artificials Britishers laugh at; they are bad copies, that’s a fact; I +give them up. Let them laugh, and be darned; but I stick to my natur, +and I stump them to produce the like. + +“Oh, Squire, if you ever sketch me, for goodness gracious sake, don’t +sketch me as an Attache to our embassy, with the Legation button, on the +coat, and black Jube Japan in livery. Don’t do that; but paint me in my +old waggon to Nova Scotier, with old Clay before me, you by my side, +a segar in my mouth, and natur all round me. And if that is too +artificial; oh, paint me in the back woods, with my huntin’ coat on, my +leggins, my cap, my belt, and my powder-horn. Paint me with my talkin’ +iron in my hand, wipin’ her, chargin’ her, selectin’ the bullet, placin’ +it in the greased wad, and rammin’ it down. Then draw a splendid oak +openin’ so as to give a good view, paint a squirrel on the tip top of +the highest branch, of the loftiest tree, place me off at a hundred +yards, drawin’ a bead on him fine, then show the smoke, and young squire +squirrel comin’ tumblin’ down head over heels lumpus’, to see whether +the ground was as hard as dead squirrels said it was. Paint me nateral, +I besech you; for I tell you now, as I told you before, and ever shall +say, there is nothin’ worth havin’ or knowin’, or hearin’, or readin’, +or seein’, or tastin’, or smellin’, or feelin’ and above all and more +than all, nothin’ worth affectionin’ but _Natur_. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. THE SOCDOLAGER. + +As soon as I found my friend Mr. Hopewell comfortably settled in his +lodgings, I went to the office of the Belgian Consul and other persons +to obtain the necessary passports for visiting Germany, where I had a +son at school. Mr. Slick proceeded at the same time to the residence of +his Excellency Abednego Layman, who had been sent to this country by the +United States on a special mission, relative to the Tariff. + +On my return from the city in the afternoon, he told me he had presented +his credentials to “the Socdolager,” and was most graciously and +cordially received; but still, I could not fail to observe that there +was an evident air of disappointment about him. + +“Pray, what is the meaning of the Socdolager?” I asked. “I never heard +of the term before.” + +“Possible!” said he, “never heerd tell of ‘the Socdolager,’ why you +don’t say so! The Socdolager is the President of the lakes--he is the +whale of the intarnal seas--the Indgians worshipped him once on a time, +as the king of fishes. He lives in great state in the deep waters, does +the old boy, and he don’t often shew himself. I never see’d him myself, +nor any one that ever had sot eyes on him; but the old Indgians have +see’d him and know him well. He won’t take no bait, will the Socdolager; +he can’t be caught, no how you can fix, he is so ‘tarnal knowin’, and he +can’t be speared nother, for the moment he sees aim taken, he ryles the +water and is out of sight in no tune. _He_ can take in whole shoals of +others hisself, tho’ at a mouthful. He’s a whapper, that’s a fact. I +call our Minister here ‘the Socdolager,’ for our _di_plomaters were +never known to be hooked once yet, and actilly beat all natur’ for +knowin’ the soundin’s, smellin’ the bait, givin’ the dodge, or rylin’ +the water; so no soul can see thro’ it but themselves. Yes, he is ‘a +Socdolager,’ or a whale among _di_plomaters. + +“Well, I rigs up this morning, full fig, calls a cab, and proceeds +in state to our embassy, gives what Cooper calls a lord’s beat of six +thund’rin’ raps of the knocker, presents the legation ticket, and was +admitted to where ambassador was. He is a very pretty man all up his +shirt, and he talks pretty, and smiles pretty, and bows pretty, and he +has got the whitest hand you ever see, it looks as white, as a new bread +and milk poultice. It does indeed. + +“‘Sam Slick,’ sais he, ‘as I’m alive. Well, how do you do, Mr. Slick? I +am ‘nation glad to see you, I affection you as a member of our legation. +I feel kinder proud to have the first literary man of our great nation +as my Attache.’ + +“‘Your knowledge of human natur, (added to your’n of soft sawder,’ sais +I,) ‘will raise our great nation, I guess, in the scale o’ European +estimation.’ + +“He is as sensitive as a skinned eel, is Layman, and he winced at that +poke at his soft sawder like any thing, and puckered a little about +the mouth, but he didn’t say nothin’, he only bowed. He was a Unitarian +preacher once, was Abednego, but he swapt preachin’ for politics, and a +good trade he made of it too; that’s a fact. + +“‘A great change,’ sais I, ‘Abednego, since you was a preachin’ to +Connecticut and I was a vendin’ of clocks to Nova Scotia, ain’t it? +Who’d a thought then, you’d a been “a Socdolager,” and me your “pilot +fish,” eh!’ + +“It was a raw spot, that, and I always touched him on it for fun. + +“‘Sam,’ said he, and his face fell like an empty puss, when it gets a +few cents put into each eend on it, the weight makes it grow twice as +long in a minute. ‘Sam,’ said he, ‘don’t call me that are, except when +we are alone here, that’s a good soul; not that I am proud, for I am +a true Republican;’ and he put his hand on his heart, bowed and smiled +hansum, ‘but these people will make a nickname of it, and we shall never +hear the last of it; that’s a fact. We must respect ourselves, afore +others will respect us. You onderstand, don’t you?’ + +“‘Oh, don’t I,’ sais I, ‘that’s all? It’s only here I talks this way, +because we are at home now; but I can’t help a thinkin’ how strange +things do turn up sometimes. Do you recollect, when I heard you +a-preachin’ about Hope a-pitchin’ of her tent on a hill? By gosh, +it struck me then, you’d pitch, your tent high some day; you did it +beautiful.’ + +“He know’d I didn’t like this change, that Mr. Hopewell had kinder +inoculated me with other guess views on these matters, so he began to +throw up bankments and to picket in the ground, all round for defence +like. + +“‘Hope,’ sais he, ‘is the attribute of a Christian, Slick, for he hopes +beyond this world; but I changed on principle.’ + +“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I changed on interest; now if our great nation is +backed by principal and interest here, I guess its credit is kinder well +built. And atween you and me, Abednego, that’s more than the soft-horned +British will ever see from all our States. Some on ‘em are intarmined to +pay neither debt nor interest, and give nothin’ but lip in retarn.’ + +“‘Now,’ sais he, a pretendin’ to take no notice of this,’ you know we +have the Voluntary with us, Mr. Slick.’ He said “_Mister_” that time, +for he began to get formal on puppus to stop jokes; but, dear me, where +all men are equal what’s the use of one man tryin’ to look big? He must +take to growin’ agin I guess to do that. ‘You know we have the Voluntary +with us, Mr. Slick,’ sais he. + +“‘Jist so,’ sais I. + +“‘Well, what’s the meanin’ of that?’ + +“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘that you support religion or let it alone, as you like; +that you can take it up as a pedlar does his pack, carry it till you are +tired, then lay it down, set on it, and let it support you.” + +“‘Exactly,’ sais he; ‘it is voluntary on the hearer, and it’s jist so +with the minister, too; for his preachin’ is voluntary also. He can +preach or lot it alone, as he likes. It’s voluntary all through. It’s a +bad rule that won’t work both ways.’ + +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘there is a good deal in that, too.’ I said that just +to lead him on. + +“‘A good deal!’ sais he, ‘why it’s every thing. But I didn’t rest on +that alone; I propounded this maxim to myself. Every man, sais I, is +bound to sarve his fellow citizens to his utmost. That’s true; ain’t it, +Mr. Slick?’ + +“‘Guess so,’ sais I. + +“‘Well then, I asked myself this here question: Can I sarve my fellow +citizens best by bein’ minister to Peach settlement, ‘tendin’ on a +little village of two thousand souls, and preachin’ my throat sore, or +bein’ special minister to Saint Jimses, and sarvin’ our great Republic +and its thirteen millions? Why, no reasonable man can doubt; so I give +up preachin’.’ + +“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘Abednego, you are a Socdolager, that’s a fact; you are +a great man, and a great scholard. Now a great scholard, when he can’t +do a sum the way it’s stated, jist states it so--he _can_ do it. Now the +right way to state that sum is arter this fashion: “Which is best, to +endeavour to save the souls of two thousand people under my spiritual +charge, or let them go to Old Nick and save a piece of wild land in +Maine, get pay for an old steamer burnt to Canada, and uphold the slave +trade for the interest of the States.’ + +“‘That’s specious, but not true,’ said he; ‘but it’s a matter rather for +my consideration than your’n,’ and he looked as a feller does when he +buttons his trowsers’ pocket, as much as to say, you have no right to be +a puttin’ of your pickers and stealers in there, that’s mine. ‘We will +do better to be less selfish,’ said he, ‘and talk of our great nation.’ + +“‘Well,’ says I, ‘how do we stand here in Europe? Do we maintain the +high pitch we had, or do we sing a note lower than we did?’ + +“Well, he walked up and down the room, with his hands onder his +coat-tails, for ever so long, without a sayin’ of a word. At last, sais +he, with a beautiful smile that was jist skin deep, for it played on his +face as a cat’s-paw does on the calm waters, ‘What was you a sayin.’ of, +Mr. Slick?’ saw he. + +“‘What’s our position to Europe?’ sais I, ‘jist now; is it letter A, +No. 1?’ + +“‘Oh!’ sais he, and he walked up and down agin, cypherin’ like to +himself; and then says he, ‘I’ll tell you; that word Socdolager, and the +trade of preachin’, and clockmakin’, it would be as well to sink here; +neither on ‘em convene with dignity. Don’t you think so?’ + +“‘Sartainly,’ sais I; ‘it’s only fit for talk over a cigar, alone. It +don’t always answer a good, purpose to blart every thing out. But our +_po_sition,’ says I, among the nations of the airth, is it what our +everlastin’ Union is entitled to?’ + +“‘Because,’ sais he, ‘some day when I am asked out to dinner, some +wag or another of a lord will call me parson, and ask me to crave a +blessin’, jist to raise the larf agin me for havin’ been a preacher.’ + +“‘If he does,’ sais I,’ jist say, my Attache does that, and I’ll jist up +first and give it to him atween the two eyes; and when that’s done, sais +you, my Lord, that’s _your grace_ afore meat; pr’aps your lordship will +_return thanks_ arter dinner. Let him try it, that’s all. But our great +nation,’ sais I, ‘tell me, hante that noble stand we made on the right +of sarch, raised us about the toploftiest?’ + +“‘Oh,’ says he ‘right of sarch! right of sarch! I’ve been tryin’ to +sarch my memory, but can’t find it. I don’t recollect that sarmont about +Hope pitchin’ her tent on the hill. When was it?’ + +“‘It was afore the juvenile-united-democratic-republican association to +Funnel Hall,’ sais I. + +“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘that was an oration--it was an oration that.’ + +“Oh!” sais I, “we won’t say no more about that; I only meant it as a +joke, and nothin’ more. But railly now, Abednego, what is the state of +our legation?” + +“‘I don’t see nothin’ ridikilous,’ sais he, ‘in that are expression, of +Hope pitchin’ her tent on a hill. It’s figurativ’ and poetic, but it’s +within the line that divides taste from bombast. Hope pitchin’ her tent +on a hill! What is there to reprehend in that?’ + +“Good airth and seas,’ sais I, ‘let’s pitch Hope, and her tent, and the +hill, all to Old Nick in a heap together, and talk of somethin’ else. +You needn’t be so perkily ashamed of havin’ preached, man. Cromwell was +a great preacher all his life, but it didn’t spile him as a Socdolager +one bit, but rather helped him, that’s a fact. How ‘av we held our +footin’ here?’ + +“‘Not well, I am grieved to say,’ sais he; ‘not well. The failure of the +United States’ Bank, the repudiation of debts by several of our States, +the foolish opposition we made to the suppression of the slave-trade, +and above all, the bad faith in the business of the boundary question +has lowered us down, down, e’en a’most to the bottom of the shaft.’ + +“‘Abednego,’ sais I, ‘we want somethin’ besides boastin’ and talkin’ +big; we want a dash--a great stroke of policy. Washington hanging Andre +that time, gained more than a battle. Jackson by hanging Arbuthnot and +Anbristher, gained his election. M’Kennie for havin’ hanged them three +citizens will be made an admiral of yet, see if he don’t. Now if Captain +Tyler had said, in his message to Congress, ‘Any State that repudiates +its foreign debts, we will first fine it in the whole amount, and then +cut it off from our great, free, enlightened, moral and intellectual +republic, he would have gained by the dash his next election, and run up +our flag to the mast-head in Europe. He would have been popular to home, +and respected abroad, that’s as clear as mud,’ + +“‘He would have done right, Sir, if he had done that,’ said Abednego, +‘and the right thing is always approved of in the eend, and always +esteemed all through the piece. A dash, as a stroke of policy,’ said he, +‘has sometimes a good effect. General Jackson threatening France with a +war, if they didn’t pay the indemnity, when he knew the King would make +‘em pay it whether or no, was a masterpiece; and General Cass tellin’ +France if she signed the right of sarch treaty, we would fight both her +and England together single-handed, was the best move on the political +chess-board, this century. All these, Sir, are very well in their way, +to produce an effect; but there’s a better policy nor all that, a far +better policy, and one, too, that some of our States and legislators, +and presidents, and Socdolagers, as you call ‘em, in my mind have got to +larn yet, Sam.’ + +“‘What’s that?’ sais I. “For I don’t believe in my soul there is nothin’ +a’most our diplomaters don’t know. They are a body o’ men that does +honour to our great nation. What policy are you a indicatin’ of?’ + +“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘_that honesty is the best policy_.’ + +“When I heerd him say that, I springs right up on eend, like a rope +dancer. ‘Give me your hand, Abednego,’ sais I; ‘you are a man, every +inch of you,’ and I squeezed it so hard, it made his eyes water. ‘I +always knowed you had an excellent head-piece,’ sais I, ‘and now I +see the heart is in the right place too. If you have thrown preachin’ +overboard, you have kept your morals for ballast, any how. I feel kinder +proud of you; you are jist a fit representat_ive_ for our great nation. +You are a Socdolager, that’s a fact. I approbate your notion; it’s as +correct as a bootjack. For nations or individuals, it’s all the same, +honesty _is_ the best policy, and no mistake. That,’ sais I, ‘is the +hill, Abednego, for Hope to pitch her tent on, and no mistake,’ and I +put my finger to my nose, and winked. + +“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘it is; but you are a droll feller, Slick, there is +no standin’ your jokes. I’ll give you leave to larf if you like, but you +must give me leave to win if I can. Good bye. But mind, Sam, our +dignity is at stake. Let’s have no more of Socdolagers, or Preachin’, or +Clockmakin’, or Hope pitchin’ her tent. A word to the wise. Good bye.’ + +“Yes,” said Mr. Slick, “I rather like Abednego’s talk myself. I kinder +think that it will be respectable to be Attache to such a man as that. +But he is goin’ out of town for some time, is the Socdolager. There is +an agricultural dinner, where he has to make a conciliation speech; and +a scientific association, where there is a piece of delicate brag and +a bit of soft sawder to do, and then there are visits to the nobility, +peep at manufactures, and all that sort of work, so he won’t be in town +for a good spell, and until then, I can’t go to Court, for he is to +introduce me himself. Pity that, but then it’ll give me lots o’ time to +study human natur, that is, if there is any of it left here, for I have +some doubts about that. Yes, he is an able lead horse, is Abednego; he +is a’most a grand preacher, a good poet, a first chop orator, a +great diplomater, and a top sawyer of a man, in short--he _is_ a +_Socdolager_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. DINING OUT. + +My visit to Germany was protracted beyond the period I had originally +designed; and, during my absence, Mr. Slick had been constantly in +company, either “dining out” daily, when in town, or visiting from one +house to another in the country. + +I found him in great spirits. He assured me he had many capital stories +to tell me, and that he rather guessed he knew as much of the English, +and a leetle, jist a leetle, grain more, p’raps, than they knew of the +Yankees. + +“They are considerable large print are the Bull family,” said he; “you +can read them by moonlight. Indeed, their faces ain’t onlike the moon +in a gineral way; only one has got a man in it, and the other hain’t +always. It tante a bright face; you can look into it without winkin’. +It’s a cloudy one here too, especially in November; and most all the +time makes you rather sad and solemncoly. Yes, John is a moony man, +that’s a fact, and at the full a little queer sometimes. + +“England is a stupid country compared to our’n. _There it no variety +where there it no natur_. You have class variety here, but no +individiality. They are insipid, and call it perlite. The men dress +alike, talk alike, and look as much alike as Providence will let ‘em. +The club-houses and the tailors have done a good deal towards this, and +so has whiggism and dissent; for they have destroyed distinctions. + +“But this is too deep for me. Ask Minister, he will tell you the cause; +I only tell you the fact. + +“Dinin’ out here, is both heavy work, and light feedin’. It’s monstrous +stupid. One dinner like one rainy day (it’s rained ever since I +been here a’most), is like another; one drawin’-room like another +drawin’-room; one peer’s entertainment, in a general way, is +like another peer’s. The same powdered, liveried, lazy, idle, +good-for-nothin’, do-little, stand-in-the-way-of-each-other, +useless sarvants. Same picturs, same plate, same fixin’s, same +don’t-know-what-to-do-with-your-self-kinder-o’-lookin’-master. Great +folks are like great folks, marchants like marchants, and so on. It’s a +pictur, it looks like life, but’ it tante. The animal is tamed here; he +is fatter than the wild one, but he hante the spirit. + +“You have seen-Old Clay in a pastur, a racin’ about, free from harness, +head and tail up, snortin’, cavortin’, attitudinisin’ of himself. Mane +flowin’ in the wind, eye-ball startin’ out, nostrils inside out a’most, +ears pricked up. _A nateral hoss_; put him in a waggon, with a rael spic +and span harness, all covered over with brass buckles and brass knobs, +and ribbons in his bridle, rael jam. Curb him up, talk Yankee to him, +and get his ginger up. Well, he looks well; but he is ‘_a broke hoss_.’ +He reminds you of Sam Slick; cause when you see a hoss, you think of his +master: but he don’t remind you of the rael ‘_Old Clay_,’ that’s a fact. + +“Take a day here, now in town; and they are so identical the same, that +one day sartificates for another. You can’t get out a bed afore twelve, +in winter, the days is so short, and the fires ain’t made, or the room +dusted, or the breakfast can’t be got, or sunthin’ or another. And if +you did, what’s the use? There is no one to talk to, and books only +weaken your understandin’, as water does brandy. They make you let +others guess for you, instead of guessin’ for yourself. Sarvants spile +your habits here, and books spite your mind. I wouldn’t swap ideas with +any man. I make my own opinions, as I used to do my own clocks; and I +find they are truer than other men’s. The Turks are so cussed heavy, +they have people to dance for ‘em; the English are wus, for they hire +people to think for ‘em. Never read a book, Squire, always think for +yourself. + +“Well, arter breakfast, it’s on hat and coat, ombrella in hand, (don’t +never forget that, for the rumatiz, like the perlice, is always on the +look out here, to grab hold of a feller,) and go somewhere where +there is somebody, or another, and smoke, and then wash it down with a +sherry-cobbler; (the drinks ain’t good here; they hante no variety in +them nother; no white-nose, apple-jack, stone-wall, chain-lightning, +rail-road, hail-storm, ginsling-talabogus, switchel-flip, gum-ticklers, +phlem-cutters, juleps, skate-iron, cast-steel, cock-tail, or nothin’, +but that heavy stupid black fat porter;) then down to the coffee-house, +see what vessels have arrived, how markets is, whether there is a chance +of doin’ any thin’ in cotton or tobacco, whose broke to home, and so +on. Then go to the park, and see what’s a goin’ on there; whether those +pretty critturs, the rads are a holdin’ a prime minister ‘parsonally +responsible,’ by shootin’ at him; or whether there is a levee, or the +Queen is ridin’ out, or what not; take a look at the world, make a visit +or two to kill time, when all at once it’s dark. Home then, smoke a +cigar, dress for dinner, and arrive at a quarter past seven. + +“Folks are up to the notch here when dinner is in question, that’s a +fact, fat, gouty, broken-winded, and foundered as they be. It’s rap, +rap, rap, for twenty minutes at the door, and in they come, one arter +the other, as fast as the sarvants can carry up their names. Cuss +them sarvants! it takes seven or eight of ‘em to carry a man’s name up +stairs, they are so awful lazy, and so shockin’ full of porter. If a +feller was so lame he had to be carried up himself, I don’t believe on +my soul, the whole gang of them, from the Butler that dresses in the +same clothes as his master, to Boots that ain’t dressed at all, could +make out to bowse him up stairs, upon my soul I don’t. + +“Well, you go in along with your name, walk up to old aunty, and make a +scrape, and the same to old uncle, and then fall back. This is done +as solemn, as if a feller’s name was called out to take his place in a +funeral; that and the mistakes is the fun of it. There is a sarvant at +a house I visit at, that I suspicion is a bit of a bam, and the critter +shows both his wit and sense. He never does it to a ‘somebody,’ ‘cause +that would cost him his place, but when a ‘nobody’ has a droll name, +he jist gives an accent, or a sly twist to it, that folks can’t help a +larfin’, no more than Mr. Nobody can feelin’ like a fool. He’s a droll +boy, that; I should like to know him. + +“Well, arter ‘nouncin’ is done, then comes two questions--do I know +anybody here? and if I do, does he look like talk or not? Well, seein’ +that you have no handle to your name, and a stranger, it’s most likely +you can’t answer these questions right; so you stand and use your eyes, +and put your tongue up in its case till it’s wanted. Company are all +come, and now they have to be marshalled two and two, lock and lock, and +go into the dinin’-room to feed. + +“When I first came I was nation proud of that title, ‘the Attache;’ now +I am happified it’s nothin’ but ‘only an Attache,’ and I’ll tell you +why. The great guns, and big bugs, have to take in each other’s ladies, +so these old ones have to herd together. Well, the nobodies go together +too, and sit together, and I’ve observed these nobodies are the +pleasantest people at table, and they have the pleasantest places, +because they sit down with each other, and are jist like yourself, +plaguy glad to get some one to talk to. Somebody can only visit +somebody, but nobody can go anywhere, and therefore nobody sees and +knows twice as much as somebody does. Somebodies must be axed, if they +are as stupid as a pump; but nobodies needn’t, and never are, unless +they are spicy sort o’ folks, so you are sure of them, and they have all +the fun and wit of the table at their eend, and no mistake. + +“I wouldn’t take a title if they would give it to me, for if I had one, +I should have a fat old parblind dowager detailed on to me to take in +to dinner; and what the plague is her jewels and laces, and silks and +sattins, and wigs to me? As it is, I have a chance to have a gall to +take in that’s a jewel herself--one that don’t want no settin’ off, and +carries her diamonds in her eyes, and so on. I’ve told our minister not +to introduce me as an Attache no more, but as Mr. Nobody, from the State +of Nothin’, in America, _that’s natur agin_. + +“But to get back to the dinner. Arter you are in marchin’ order, you +move in through two rows of sarvants in uniform. I used to think they +was placed there for show, but it’s to keep the air off of folks a goin’ +through the entry, and it ain’t a bad thought, nother. + +“Lord, the first time I went to one o’ these grand let offs I felt +kinder skeery, and as nobody was allocated to me to take in, I goes in +alone, not knowin’ where I was to settle down as a squatter, and kinder +lagged behind; when the butler comes and rams a napkin in my hand, and +gives me a shove, and sais he, ‘Go and stand behind your master, sir,’ +sais he. Oh Solomon! how that waked me up. How I curled inwardly when he +did that. ‘You’ve mistaken the child,’ sais I mildly, and I held out +the napkin, and jist as he went to take it, I gave him a sly poke in the +bread basket, that made him bend forward and say ‘eugh.’ ‘Wake Snakes, +and walk your chalks,’ sais I, ‘will you?’ and down I pops on the fust +empty chair. Lord, how white he looked about the gills arterwards; +I thought I should a split when I looked at him. Guess he’ll know an +Attache when he sees him next time. + +“Well, there is dinner. One sarvice of plate is like another sarvice +of plate, any one dozen of sarvants are like another dozen of sarvants, +hock is hock, and champaigne is champaigne--and one dinner is like +another dinner. The only difference is in the thing itself that’s +cooked. Veal, to be good, must look like any thing else but veal; you +mustn’t know it when you see it, or it’s vulgar; mutton must be incog. +too; beef must have a mask on; any thin’ that looks solid, take a spoon +to; any thin’ that looks light, cut with a knife; if a thing looks like +fish, you may take your oath it is flesh; and if it seems rael flesh, +it’s only disguised, for it’s sure to be fish; nothin’ must be +nateral, natur is out of fashion here. This is a manufacturin’ country, +everything is done by machinery, and that that ain’t must be made to +look like it; and I must say, the dinner machinery is parfect. + +“Sarvants keep goin’ round and round in a ring, slow, but sartain, and +for ever, like the arms of a great big windmill, shovin’ dish after +dish, in dum show, afore your nose, for you to see how you like the +flavour; when your glass is empty it’s filled; when your eyes is off +your plate, it’s off too, afore you can say Nick Biddle. + +“Folks speak low here; steam is valuable, and noise onpolite. They call +it a “_subdued tone_.” Poor tame things, they are subdued, that’s a +fact; slaves to an arbitrary tyrannical fashion that don’t leave ‘em no +free will at all. You don’t often speak across a table any more nor you +do across a street, but p’raps Mr. Somebody of West Eend of town, will +say to a Mr. Nobody from West Eend of America: ‘Niagara is noble.’ +Mr. Nobody will say, ‘Guess it is, it got its patent afore the “Norman +_Conquest_,” I reckon, and afore the “_subdued_ tone” come in fashion.’ +Then Mr. Somebody will look like an oracle, and say, ‘Great rivers and +great trees in America. You speak good English.’ And then he will seem +surprised, but not say it, only you can read the words on his face, +‘Upon my soul, you are a’most as white as us.’ + +“Dinner is over. It’s time for ladies to cut stick. Aunt Goosey looks +at the next oldest goosey, and ducks her head, as if she was a goin’ +through a gate, and then they all come to their feet, and the goslins +come to their feet, and they all toddle off to the drawin’ room +together. + +“The decanters now take the “grand tour” of the table, and, like most +travellers, go out with full pockets, and return with empty ones. Talk +has a pair of stays here, and is laced up tight and stiff. Larnin’ is +pedantic; politics is onsafe; religion ain’t fashionable. You must tread +on neutral ground. Well, neutral ground gets so trampled down by both +sides, and so plundered by all, there ain’t any thing fresh or good +grows on it, and it has no cover for game nother. + +“Housundever, the ground is tried, it’s well beat, but nothin’ is put +up, and you get back to where you started. Uncle Gander looks at next +oldest gander hard, bobs his head, and lifts one leg, all ready for a +go, and says, ‘Will you take any more wine?’ ‘No, sais he, ‘but I take +the hint, let’s jine the ladies.’ + +“Well, when the whole flock is gathered in the goose pastur, the +drawin’-room, other little flocks come troopin’ in, and stand, or walk, +or down on chairs; and them that know each other talk, and them that +don’t twirl their thumbs over their fingers; and when they are tired of +that, twirl their fingers over their thumbs. I’m nobody, and so I goes +and sets side-ways on an ottarman, like a gall on a side-saddle, and +look at what’s afore me. And fust I always look at the galls. + +“Now, this I will say, they are amazin’ fine critters are the women +kind here, when they are taken proper care of. The English may stump the +univarse a’most for trainin’ hosses and galls. They give ‘em both plenty +of walkin’ exercise, feed ‘em regular, shoe ‘em well, trim ‘em neat, and +keep a beautiful skin on ‘em. They keep, ‘em in good health, and don’t +house ‘em too much. They are clippers, that’s a fact. There is few +things in natur, equal to a hoss and a gall, that’s well trained and in +good condition. I could stand all day and look at ‘em, and I call myself +a considerable of a judge. It’s singular how much they are alike too, +the moment the trainin’ is over or neglected, neither of ‘em is fit to +be seen; they grow out of shape, and look coarse. + +“They are considerable knowin’ in this kind o’ ware too, are the +English; they vamp ‘em up so well, it’s hard to tell their age, and I +ain’t sure they don’t make ‘em live longer, than where the art ain’t +so well pract_ised_. The mark o’ mouth is kept up in a hoss here by the +file, and a hay-cutter saves his teeth, and helps his digestion. Well, +a dentist does the same good turn for a woman; it makes her pass for +several years younger; and helps her looks, mends her voice, and makes +her as smart as a three year old. + +“What’s that? It’s music. Well, that’s artificial too, it’s scientific +they say, it’s done by rule. Jist look at that gall to the piany: first +comes a little Garman thunder. Good airth and seas, what a crash! it +seems as if she’d bang the instrument all to a thousand pieces. I guess +she’s vexed at somebody and is a peggin’ it into the piany out of spite. +Now comes the singin’; see what faces she makes, how she stretches her +mouth open, like a barn door, and turns up the white of her eyes, like +a duck in thunder. She is in a musical ecstasy is that gall, she feels +good all over, her soul is a goin’ out along with that ere music. Oh, +it’s divine, and she is an angel, ain’t she? Yes, I guess she is, and +when I’m an angel, I will fall in love with her; but as I’m a man, at +least what’s left of me, I’d jist as soon fall in love with one that +was a leetle, jist a leetle more of a woman, and a leetle, jist a leetle +less of an angel. But hullo! what onder the sun is she about, why her +voice is goin’ down her own throat, to gain strength, and here it comes +out agin as deep toned as a man’s; while that dandy feller along side +of her, is singin’ what they call falsetter. They’ve actilly changed +voices. The gall sings like a man, and that screamer like a woman. This +is science: this is taste: this is fashion; but hang me if it’s natur. +I’m tired to death of it, but one good thing is, you needn’t listen +without you like, for every body is talking as, loud as ever. + +“Lord, how extremes meet sometimes, as Minister says. _Here_, how, +fashion is the top of the pot, and that pot hangs on the highest hook on +the crane. In _America_, natur can’t go no farther; it’s the rael thing. +Look at the women kind, now. An Indgian gall, down South, goes most +naked. Well, a splendiferous company gall, here, when she is _full +dressed_ is only _half covered_, and neither of ‘em attract you one mite +or morsel. We dine at two and sup at seven; _here_ they lunch at two, +and dine at seven. The words are different, but they are identical +the same. Well, the singin’ is amazin’ like, too. Who ever heerd them +Italian singers recitin’ their jabber, showin’ their teeth, and cuttin’ +didoes at a great private consart, that wouldn’t take his oath he had +heerd niggers at a dignity ball, down South, sing jist the same, and +jist as well. And then do, for goodness’ gracious’ sake, hear that great +absent man, belongin’ to the House o’ Commons, when the chaplain says +‘Let us pray!’ sing right out at once, as if he was to home, ‘Oh! by all +means,’ as much as to say, ‘me and the powers above are ready to hear +you; but don’t be long about it.’ + +“Ain’t that for all the world like a camp-meetin’, when a reformed +ring-tail roarer calls out to the minister, ‘That’s a fact, Welly Fobus, +by Gosh; amen!’ or when preacher says, ‘Who will be saved?’ answers, ‘Me +and the boys, throw us a hen-coop; the galls will drift down stream on a +bale o’ cotton.’ Well then, _our_ very lowest, and _their_ very highest, +don’t always act pretty, that’s a fact. Sometimes ‘_they repudiate_.’ +You take, don’t you? + +“There is another party to-night; the flock is a thinnin’ off agin; and +as I want a cigar most amazin’ly, let’s go to a divan, and some other +time, I’ll tell you what a swoi_ree_ is. But answer me this here +question now, Squire: when this same thing is acted over and over, day +after day, and no variation, from July to etarnity, don’t you think +you’d get a leetle--jist a leetle more tired of it every day, and wish +for natur once more. If you wouldn’t I would, that’s all.” + + + + +THE SECOND VOLUME. + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE NOSE OF A SPY + +“Squire.” said Mr. Hopewell, “you know Sam well enough, I hope, to make +all due allowances for the exuberance of his fancy. The sketch he has +just given you of London society, like the novels of the present +day, though founded on fact, is very unlike the reality. There may be +assemblages of persons in this great city, and no doubt there are, quite +as insipid and absurd as the one he has just pourtrayed; but you must +not suppose it is at all a fair specimen of the society of this place. +My own experience is quite the reverse. I think it the most refined, +the most agreeable, and the most instructive in the world. Whatever +your favourite study or pursuit may be, here you are sure to find +well-informed and enthusiastic associates. If you have merit, it is +appreciated; and for an aristocratic country, that merit places you on +a level with your superiors in rank in a manner that is quite +incomprehensible to a republican. Money is the great leveller of +distinctions with us; here, it is talent. Fashion spreads many tables +here, but talent is always found seated at the best, if it thinks proper +to comply with certain usages, without which, even genius ceases to be +attractive. + +“On some future occasion, I will enter more at large on this subject; +but now it is too late; I have already exceeded my usual hour for +retiring. ‘Excuse me, Sam,’ said he. ‘I know you will not be offended +with me, but Squire there are some subjects on which Sam may amuse, but +cannot instruct you, and one is, fashionable life in London. You must +judge for yourself, Sir. Good night, my children.’” + +Mr. Slick rose, and opened the door for him, and as he passed, bowed and +held out his hand. “Remember me, your honour, no man opens the door in +this country without being paid for it. Remember me, Sir.” + +“True, Sam,” said the Minister, “and it is unlucky that it does not +extend to opening the mouth, if it did, you would soon make your +fortune, for you can’t keep yours shut. Good night.” + +The society to which I have subsequently had the good fortune to be +admitted, fully justifies the eulogium of Mr. Hopewell. Though many +persons can write well, few can talk well; but the number of those who +excel in conversation is much greater in certain circles in London, than +in any other place. By talking well, I do not mean talking wisely or +learnedly; but agreeably, for relaxation and pleasure, are the principal +objects of social assemblies. This can only be illustrated by instancing +some very remarkable persons, who are the pride and pleasure of every +table they honour and delight with their presence But this may not be. +For obvious reasons, I could not do it if I would; and most assuredly, +I would not do it if I could. No more certain mode could be devised +of destroying conversation, than by showing, that when the citadel is +unguarded, the approach of a friend is as unsafe as that of an enemy. + +Alas! poor Hook! who can read the unkind notice of thee in a late +periodical, and not feel, that on some occasions you must have admitted +to your confidence men who were as unworthy of that distinction as, they +were incapable of appreciating it, and that they who will disregard the +privileges of a table, will not hesitate to violate even the sanctity +of the tomb. Cant may talk of your “_inter pocula_” errors with pious +horror; and pretension, now that its indulgence is safe, may affect to +disclaim your acquaintance; but kinder, and better, and truer men than +those who furnished your biographer with his facts will not fail to +recollect your talents with pride, and your wit and your humour with +wonder and delight. + +We do not require such flagrant examples as these to teach us our duty, +but they are not without their use in increasing our caution. + +When Mr. Hopewell withdrew, Mr. Slick observed: + +“Ain’t that ere old man a trump? He is always in the right place. +Whenever you want to find him, jist go and look for him where he +ought to be, and there you will find him as sure as there is snakes in +Varginy. He is a brick, that’s a fact. Still, for all that, he ain’t +jist altogether a citizen of this world nother. He fishes in deep water, +with a sinker to his hook. He can’t throw a fly as I can, reel out his +line, run down stream, and then wind up, wind up, wind up, and let out, +and wind up again, till he lands his fish, as I do. He looks deep into +things, is a better religionist, polititioner, and bookster than I be: +but then that’s all he does know. If you want to find your way about, or +read a man, come to me, that’s all; for I’m the boy that jist can do +it. If I can’t walk into a man, I can dodge round him; and if he is too +nimble for that, I can jump over him; and if he is too tall for that, +although I don’t like the play, yet I can whip him. + +“Now, Squire, I have been a good deal to England, and crossed this big +pond here the matter of seven times, and know a good deal about it, more +than a great many folks that have writtin’ books on it, p’raps. Mind +what I tell you, the English ain’t what they was. I’m not speakin’ in +jeest now, or in prejudice. I hante a grain of prejudice in me. I’ve +see’d too much of the world for that I reckon. I call myself a candid +man, and I tell you the English are no more like what the English used +to be, when pigs were swine, and Turkey chewed tobacky, than they are +like the Picts or Scots, or Norman, French, or Saxons, or nothin’.” + +“Not what they used to be?” I said. “Pray, what do you mean?” + +“I mean,” said he, “jist what I say. They ain’t the same people no +more. They are as proud, and overbearin’, and concaited, and haughty +to foreigners as ever; but, then they ain’t so manly, open-hearted, and +noble as they used to be, once upon a time. They have the Spy System +now, in full operation here; so jist take my advice, and mind your +potatoe-trap, or you will be in trouble afore you are ten days older, +see if you ain’t.” + +“The Spy System!” I replied. “Good Heavens, Mr. Slick, how can you talk +such nonsense, and yet have the modesty to say you have no prejudice?” + +“Yes, the Spy System,” said he, “and I’ll prove it. You know Dr. +Mc’Dougall to Nova Scotia; well, he knows all about mineralogy, and +geology, and astrology, and every thing a’most, except what he ought to +know, and that is dollar-ology. For he ain’t over and above half well +off, that’s a fact. Well, a critter of the name of Oatmeal, down to +Pictou, said to another Scotchman there one day, ‘The great nateralist +Dr. Mc’Dougall is come to town.’ + +“‘Who?’ says Sawney. + +“‘Dr. Mc’Dougall, the nateralist,’ says Oatmeal. + +“‘Hout, mon,’ says Sawney, ‘he is nae nateral, that chiel; he kens mair +than maist men; he is nae that fool you take him to be.’ + +“Now, I am not such a fool as you take _me_ to be, Squire. Whenever I +did a sum to, school, Minister used to say, ‘Prove it, Sam, and if it +won’t prove, do it over agin, till it will; a sum ain’t right when it +won’t prove.’ Now, I say the English have the Spy System, and I’ll prove +it; nay, more than that, they have the nastiest, dirtiest, meanest, +sneakenest system in the world. It is ten times as bad as the French +plan. In France they have bar-keepers, waiters, chamber galls, guides, +quotillions,--” + +“Postilions, you mean,” I said. + +“Well, postilions then, for the French have queer names for people, +that’s a fact; disbanded sodgers, and such trash, for spies. In England +they have airls and countesses, Parliament men, and them that call +themselves gentlemen and ladies, for spies.” + +“How very absurd!” I said. + +“Oh yes, very absurd,” said Mr. Slick; “whenever I say anythin’ agin +England, it’s very absurd, it’s all prejudice. Nothin’ is strange, +though, when it is said of us, and the absurder it is, the truer it is. +I can bam as well as any man when bam is the word, but when fact is the +play, I am right up and down, and true as a trivet. I won’t deceive you; +I’ll prove it. + +“There was a Kurnel Dun--dun--plague take his name, I can’t recollect +it, but it makes no odds--I know _he_ is Dun for, though, that’s a fact. +Well, he was a British kurnel, that was out to Halifax when I was there. +I know’d him by sight, I didn’t know him by talk, for I didn’t fill then +the dignified situation I now do, of Attache. I was only a clockmaker +then, and I suppose he wouldn’t have dirtied the tip eend of his white +glove with me then, any more than I would sile mine with him now, and +very expensive and troublesome things them white gloves be too; there is +no keepin’ of them clean. For my part, I don’t see why a man can’t make +his own skin as clean as a kid’s, any time; and if a feller can’t be let +shake hands with a gall except he has a glove on, why ain’t he made to +cover his lips, and kiss thro’ kid skin too. + +“But to get back to the kurnel, and it’s a pity he hadn’t had a glove +over his mouth, that’s a fact. Well, he went home to England with his +regiment, and one night when he was dinin’ among some first chop men, +nobles and so on, they sot up considerable late over their claret; and +poor thin cold stuff it is too, is claret. A man _may_ get drowned in +it, but how the plague he can get drunk with it is dark to me. It’s like +every thing else French, it has no substance in it; it’s nothin’ but red +ink, that’s a fact. Well, how it was I don’t know, but so it eventuated, +that about daylight he was mops and brooms, and began to talk somethin’ +or another he hadn’t ought to; somethin’ he didn’t know himself, and +somethin’ he didn’t mean, and didn’t remember. + +“Faith, next mornin’ he was booked; and the first thing he see’d when he +waked was another man a tryin’ on of his shoes, to see how they’d fit to +march to the head of his regiment with. Fact, I assure you, and a fact +too that shows what Englishmen has come to; I despise ‘em, I hate ‘em, I +scorn such critters as I do oncarcumcised niggers.” + +“What a strange perversion of facts,” I replied. + +But he would admit of no explanation. “Oh yes, quite parvarted; not a +word of truth in it; there never is when England is consarned. There is +no beam in an Englishman’s eye; no not a smell of one; he has pulled it +out long ago; that’s the reason he can see the mote in other folks’s +so plain. Oh, of course it ain’t true; it’s a Yankee invention; it’s a +hickory ham and a wooden nutmeg. + +“Well, then, there was another feller got bagged t’other day, as +innocent as could be, for givin’ his opinion when folks was a talkin’ +about matters and things in gineral, and this here one in partikilar. I +can’t tell the words, for I don’t know ‘em, nor care about ‘em; and if I +did, I couldn’t carry ‘em about so long; but it was for sayin’ it +hadn’t ought to have been taken notice of, considerin’ it jist popt out +permiscuous like with the bottle-cork. If he hadn’t a had the clear +grit in him, and showed teeth and claws, they’d a nullified him so, you +wouldn’t have see’d a grease spot of him no more. What do you call that, +now? Do you call that liberty? Do you call that old English? Do you call +it pretty, say now? Thank God, it tante Yankee.” + +“I see you have no prejudice, Mr. Slick,” I replied. + +“Not one mite or morsel,” he replied. “Tho’ I was born in Connecticut, I +have travelled all over the thirteen united univarsal worlds of ourn and +am a citizen at large. No, I have no prejudice. You say I am mistaken; +p’raps I am, I hope I be, and a stranger may get hold of the wrong eend +of a thing sometimes, that’s a fact. But I don’t think I be wrong, or +else the papers don’t tell the truth; and I read it in all the jarnals; +I did, upon my soul. Why man, it’s history now, if such nasty mean doins +is worth puttin’ into a book. + +“What makes this Spy System to England wuss, is that these +eaves-droppers are obliged to hear all that’s said, or lose what +commission they hold; at least so folks tell me. I recollect when I was +there last, for it’s some years since Government first sot up the Spy +System; there was a great feed given to a Mr. Robe, or Robie, or some +such name, an out and out Tory. Well, sunthin’ or another was said over +their cups, that might as well have been let alone, I do suppose, tho’ +dear me, what is the use of wine but to onloosen the tongue, and what +is the use of the tongue, but to talk. Oh, cuss ‘em, I have no patience +with them. Well, there was an officer of a marchin’ regiment there, who +it seems ought to have took down the words and sent ‘em up to the head +Gineral, but he was a knowin’ coon, was officer, and _didn’t hear it_. +No sooner said than done; some one else did the dirty work for him; but +you can’t have a substitute for this, you must sarve in person, so the +old Gineral hawls him right up for it. + +“‘Why the plague, didn’t you make a fuss?’ sais the General, ‘why didn’t +you get right up, and break up the party?’ + +“‘I didn’t hear it,’ sais he. + +“‘You didn’t hear it!’ sais Old Sword-belt, ‘then you had ought to have +heerd it; and for two pins, I’d sharpen your hearin’ for you, so that a +snore of a fly would wake you up, as if a byler had bust.’ + +“Oh, how it has lowered the English in the eyes of foreigners! How +sneakin’ it makes ‘em look! They seem for all the world like scared +dogs; and a dog when he slopes off with his head down, his tail atween +his legs, and his back so mean it won’t bristle, is a caution to +sinners. Lord. I wish I was Queen!” + +“What, of such a degraded race as you say the English are, of such a +mean-spirited, sneaking nation?” + +“Well, they warn’t always so,” he replied. “I will say that, for I +have no prejudice. By natur, there is sunthin’ noble and manly in a +Britisher, and always was, till this cussed Spy System got into fashion. +They tell me it was the Liberals first brought it into vogue. How that +is. I don’t know; but I shouldn’t wonder if it was them, for I know +this, if a feller talks _very_ liberal in politics, put him into office, +and see what a tyrant he’ll make. If he talks very liberal in religion, +it’s because he hante got none at all. If he talks very liberal to the +poor, talk is all the poor will ever get out of him. If he talks liberal +about corn law, it tante to feed the hungry, but to lower wages, and +so on in every thing a most. None is so liberal as those as hante got +nothin’. The most liberal feller I know on is “Old Scratch himself.” If +ever the liberals come in, they should make him Prime Minister. He is +very liberal in religion and would jine them in excludin’ the Bible from +common schools I know. He is very liberal about the criminal code, for +he can’t bear to see criminals punished. He is very liberal in politics, +for he don’t approbate restraint, and likes to let every critter ‘go +to the devil’ his own way. Oh, he should be Head Spy and Prime Minister +that feller. + +“But without jokin’ tho’, if I was Queen, the fust time any o’ my +ministers came to me to report what the spies had said, I’d jist up and +say, ‘Minister,’ I’d say, ‘it is a cussed oninglish, onmanly, niggerly +business, is this of pumpin’, and spyin’, and tattlin’. I don’t like it +a bit. I’ll have neither art nor part in it; I wash my hands clear of +it. It will jist break the spirit of my people. So, minister look here. +The next report that is brought to me of a spy, I’ll whip his tongue out +and whop your ear off, or my name ain’t Queen. So jist mind what I say; +first spy pokes his nose into your office, chop it off and clap it up +over Temple Bar, where they puts the heads of traitors and write these +words over, with your own fist, that they may know the handwritin’, and +not mistake the meanin’, _This is the nose of a Spy_.” + + + + +CHAPTER II. THE PATRON; OR, THE COW’S TAIL. + +Nothing is so fatiguing as sight-seeing. The number and variety of +objects to which your attention is called, and the rapid succession in +which they pass in review, at once wearies and perplexes the mind; and +unless you take notes to refresh your memory, you are apt to find you +carry away with you but an imperfect and indistinct recollection. + +Yesterday was devoted to an inspection of the Tunnel and an +examination of the Tower, two things that ought always to be viewed +in juxta-position; one being the greatest evidence of the science and +wealth of modern times; and the other of the power and pomp of our +forefathers. + +It is a long time before a stranger can fully appreciate the extent +of population and wealth of this vast metropolis. At first, he is +astonished and confused; his vision is indistinct. By degrees he begins +to understand its localities, the ground plan becomes intelligible and +he can take it all in at a view. The map is a large one; it is a chart +of the world. He knows the capes and the bays; he has sailed round them, +and knows their relative distance, and at last becomes aware of the +magnitude of the whole. Object after object becomes more familiar. He +can estimate the population; he compares the amount of it with that +of countries that he is acquainted with, and finds that this one town +contains within it nearly as great a number of souls as all British +North America. He estimates the incomes of the inhabitants, and finds +figures almost inadequate to express the amount. He asks for the +sources from whence it is derived. He resorts to his maxims of political +economy, and they cannot inform him. He calculates the number of acres +of land in England, adds up the rental, and is again at fault. He +inquires into the statistics of the Exchange, and discovers that even +that is inadequate; and, as a last resource, concludes that the whole +world is tributary to this Queen of Cities. It is the heart of the +Universe. All the circulation centres here, and hence are derived all +those streams that give life and strength to the extremities. How vast, +how populous, how rich, how well regulated, how well supplied, how +clean, how well ventilated, how healthy!--what a splendid city! How +worthy of such an empire and such a people! + +What is the result of his experience? _It is, that there is no such +country in the world as England, and no such place in England as London; +that London is better than any other town in winter, and quite as good +as any other place in summer; that containing not only all that he +requires, but all that he can wish, in the greatest perfection, he +desires never to leave it._ + +Local description, however, is not my object; I shall therefore, return +to my narrative. + +Our examination of the Tower and the Tunnel occupied the whole day, and +though much gratified, we were no less fatigued. On returning to our +lodgings, I found letters from Nova Scotia. Among others, was one +from the widow of an old friend, enclosing a memorial to the +Commander-in-Chief, setting forth the important and gratuitous services +of her late husband to the local government of the province, and +soliciting for her son some small situation in the ordnance department, +which had just fallen vacant at Halifax. I knew that it was not only +out of my power to aid her, but that it was impossible for her, however +strong the claims of her husband might be, to obtain her request. These +things are required for friends and dependants in England; and in the +race of competition, what chance of success has a colonist? + +I made up my mind at once to forward her memorial as requested, but +pondered on the propriety of adding to it a recommendation. It could do +no good. At most, it would only be the certificate of an unknown man; of +one who had neither of the two great qualifications, namely, county or +parliamentary interest, but it might do harm. It might, by engendering +ridicule from the insolence of office, weaken a claim, otherwise well +founded. “Who the devil is this Mr. Thomas Poker, that recommends the +prayer of the petition? The fellow imagines all the world must have +heard of him. A droll fellow that, I take it from his name: but all +colonists are queer fellows, eh?” + +“Bad news from home?” said Mr. Slick, who had noticed my abstraction. +“No screw loose there, I hope. You don’t look as if you liked the +flavour of that ere nut you are crackin’ of. Whose dead? and what is to +pay now?” + +I read the letter and the memorial, and then explained from my own +knowledge how numerous and how valuable were the services of my +deceased friend, and expressed my regret at not being able to serve the +memorialist. + +“Poor woman!” said Mr. Hopewell, “I pity her. A colonist has no chance +for these things; they have no patron. In this country merit will always +obtain a patron--in the provinces never. The English are a noble-minded, +generous people, and whoever here deserves encouragement or reward, +is certain to obtain either or both: but it must be a brilliant man, +indeed, whose light can be perceived across the Atlantic.” + +“I entertain, Sir,” I said, “a very strong prejudice against relying +on patrons. Dr. Johnson, after a long and fruitless attendance on Lord +Chesterfield, says: ‘Seven years, my Lord, have now past, since I waited +in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time +I have been pushing on my work, through difficulties, of which it +is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of +publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, +or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never bad +a patron before.” + +“Ah!” said Mr. Hopewell, “a man who feels that he is wrong, is always +angry with somebody else. Dr. Johnson, is not so much to be admired +for the independence that dictated that letter, as condemned for the +meanness and servility of seven years of voluntary degradation. It is no +wonder he spoke with bitterness; for, while he censured his Lordship, +he must have despised himself. There is a great difference between a +literary and a political patron. The former is not needed, and a man +does better without one; the latter is essential. A good book, like +good wine, needs no bush; but to get an office, you want merits or +patrons;--merits so great, that they cannot be passed over, or friends +so powerful, they cannot be refused.” + +“Oh! you can’t do nothin’, Squire,” said Mr. Sick, “send it back to Old +Marm; tell her you have the misfortin to be a colonist; that if her son +would like to be a constable, or a Hogreave, or a thistle-viewer, or +sunthin’ or another of that kind, you are her man: but she has got the +wrong cow by the tail this time. I never hear of a patron, I don’t think +of a frolic I once had with a cow’s tail; and, by hanging on to it like +a snappin’ turtle, I jist saved my life, that’s a fact. + +“Tell you what it is, Squire, take a fool’s advice, for once. Here you +are; I have made you considerable well-known, that’s a fact; and will +introduce you to court, to king and queen, or any body you please. For +our legation, though they can’t dance, p’raps, as well as the French one +can, could set all Europe a dancin’ in wide awake airnest, if it chose. +They darsent refuse us nothin’, or we would fust embargo, and then go +to war. Any one you want to know, I’ll give you the ticket. Look round, +select a good critter, and hold on to the tail, for dear life, and see +if you hante a patron, worth havin’. You don’t want none yourself, but +you might want one some time or another, for them that’s a comin’ arter +you. + +“When I was a half grow’d lad, the bears came down from Nor-West one +year in droves, as a body might say, and our woods near Slickville was +jist full of ‘em. It warn’t safe to go a-wanderin’ about there a-doin’ +of nothin’, I tell _you_. Well, one arternoon, father sends me into the +back pastur’, to bring home the cows, ‘And,’ says he, ‘keep a stirrin’, +Sam, go ahead right away, and be out of the bushes afore sun-set, on +account of the bears, for that’s about the varmints’ supper-time.’ + +“Well, I looks to the sky, and I sees it was a considerable of a piece +yet to daylight down, so I begins to pick strawberries as I goes along, +and you never see any thing so thick as they were, and wherever +the grass was long, they’d stand up like a little bush, and hang in +clusters, most as big and twice as good, to my likin’, as garden ones. +Well, the sun, it appears to me, is like a hoss, when it comes near dark +it mends its pace, and gets on like smoke, so afore I know’d where I +was, twilight had come peepin’ over the spruce tops. + +“Off I sot, hot foot, into the bushes, arter the cows, and as always +eventuates when you are in a hurry, they was further back than common +that time, away ever so fur back to a brook, clean off to the rear of +the farm, so that day was gone afore I got out of the woods, and I got +proper frightened. Every noise I heerd I thought it was a bear, and when +I looked round a one side, I guessed I heerd one on the other, and I +hardly turned to look there before, I reckoned it was behind me, I was +e’en a’most skeered to death. + +“Thinks I, ‘I shall never be able to keep up to the cows if a bear comes +arter ‘em and chases ‘em, and if I fall astarn, he’ll just snap up a +plump little corn fed feller like me in less than half no time. Cryin’,’ +says I, ‘though, will do no good. You must be up and doin’, Sam, or it’s +gone goose with you.’ + +“So a thought struck me. Father had always been a-talkin’ to me about +the leadin’ men, and makin’ acquaintance with the political big bugs +when I growed up and havin’ a patron, and so on. Thinks I, I’ll take +the leadin’ cow for my patron. So I jist goes and cuts a long tough ash +saplin, and takes the little limbs off of it, and then walks along side +of Mooley, as meachin’ as you please, so she mightn’t suspect nothin’, +and then grabs right hold of her tail, and yelled and screamed like mad, +and wallopped away at her like any thing. + +“Well, the way she cut dirt was cautionary; she cleared stumps, ditches, +windfalls and every thing, and made a straight track of it for home as +the crow flies. Oh, she was a dipper: she fairly flow again, and if ever +she flagged, I laid it into her with the ash saplin, and away we started +agin, as if Old Nick himself was arter us. + +“But afore I reached home, the rest of the cows came a bellowin’, and a +roarin’ and a-racin’ like mad arter us, and gained on us too, so as most +to overtake us, jist as I come to the bars of the cow yard, over went +Mooler, like a fox, brought me whap up agin ‘em, which knocked all the +wind out of my lungs and the fire out of my eyes, and laid me sprawlin +on the ground, and every one of the flock went right slap over me, all +but one--poor Brindle. She never came home agin. Bear nabbed her, and +tore her most ridiculous. He eat what he wanted, which was no trifle, I +can tell you, and left the rest till next time. + +“Don’t talk to me, Squire, about merits. We all want a lift in this +world; sunthin’ or another to lay hold on, to help us along--_we want +the cow’s tail_. + +“Tell your friend, the female widder, she has got hold of the wrong cow +by the tail in gettin’ hold of you, for you are nothin’ but a despisable +colonist; but to look out for some patron here, some leadin’ man, or +great lord, to clinch fast hold of him, and stick to him like a leach, +and if he flags, (for patrons, like old Mooley, get tired sometimes), to +recollect the ash saplin, to lay into him well, and keep him at it, and +no fear but he’ll carry her through. He’ll fetch her home safe at last, +and no mistake, depend on it, Squire. The best lesson that little boy +could be taught, is, that of _the Patron, or the Cows Tail_.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. ASCOT RACES. + +To-day I visited Ascot. Race-courses are similar every where, and +present the same objects; good horses, cruel riders, knowing men, dupes, +jockeys, gamblers, and a large assemblage of mixed company. But this +is a gayer scene than most others; and every epithet, appropriate to a +course, diminutive or otherwise, must be in the superlative degree when +applied to Ascot. This is the general, and often the only impression +that most men carry away with them. + +Mr. Slick, who regards these things practically, called my attention to +another view of it. + +“Squire,” said he, “I’d a plaguy sight sooner see Ascot than any thing +else to England. There ain’t nothin’ like it. I don’t mean the racin’, +because they can’t go ahead like us, if they was to die for it. We have +colts that can whip chain lightnin’, on a pinch. Old Clay trotted with +it once all round an orchard, and beat it his whole length, but it +singed his tail properly as he passed it, you may depend. It ain’t its +runnin’ I speak of, therefore, though that ain’t mean nother; but it’s +got another featur’, that you’ll know it by from all others. Oh it’s an +everlastin’ pity you warn’t here, when I was to England last time. Queen +was there then; and where she is, of coarse all the world and its wife +is too. She warn’t there this year, and it sarves folks right. If I was +an angelyferous queen, like her, I wouldn’t go nowhere till I had a +tory minister, and then a feller that had a “trigger-eye” would stand +a chance to get a white hemp-neckcloth. I don’t wonder Hume don’t like +young England; for when that boy grows up, he’ll teach some folks that +they had better let some folks alone, or some folks had better take care +of some folks’ ampersands that’s all. + +“The time I speak of, people went in their carriages, and not by +railroad. Now, pr’aps you don’t know, in fact you can’t know, for you +can’t cypher, colonists ain’t no good at figurs, but if you did know, +the way to judge of a nation is by its private carriages. From Hyde Park +corner to Ascot Heath, is twenty odd miles. Well, there was one whole +endurin’ stream of carriages all the way, sometimes havin’ one or two +eddies, and where the toll-gates stood, havin’ still water for ever so +far. Well, it flowed and flowed on for hours and hours without stoppin’, +like a river; and when you got up to the race-ground, there was the +matter of two or three tiers of carriages, with the hosses off, packed +as close as pins in a paper. + +“It costs near hand to twelve hundred dollars a-year to keep up a +carriage here. Now for goodness’ sake jist multiply that everlastin’ +string of carriages by three hundred pounds each, and see what’s spent +in that way every year, and then multiply that by ten hundred thousand +more that’s in other places to England you don’t see, and then tell me +if rich people here ain’t as thick as huckleberries.” + +“Well, when you’ve done, go to France, to Belgium, and to Prussia, three +sizeable places for Europe, and rake and scrape every private carriage +they’ve got, and they ain’t no touch to what Ascot can show. Well, when +you’ve done your cypherin’, come right back to London, as hard as you +can clip from the race-course, and you won’t miss any of ‘em; the town +is as full as ever, to your eyes. A knowin’ old coon, bred and born to +London, might, but you couldn’t. + +“Arter that’s over, go and pitch the whole bilin’ of ‘em into the +Thames, hosses, carriages, people, and all; and next day, if it warn’t +for the black weepers and long faces of them that’s lost money by it, +and the black crape and happy faces of them that’s got money, or +titles, or what not by it, you wouldn’t know nothin’ about it. Carriages +wouldn’t rise ten cents in the pound in the market. A stranger, like +you, if you warn’t told, wouldn’t know nothin’ was the matter above +common. There ain’t nothin’ to England shows its wealth like this. + +“Says father to me when I came back, ‘Sam,’ sais he, ‘what struck you +most?’ + +“‘Ascot Races,’ sais I. + +“‘Jist like you,’ sais he. ‘Hosses and galls is all you think of. +Wherever they be, there you are, that’s a fact. You’re a chip of the old +block, my boy. There ain’t nothin’ lake ‘em; is there?’ + +“Well, he was half right, was father. It’s worth seein’ for hosses and +galls too; but it’s worth seein’ for its carriage wealth alone. Heavens +and airth, what a rich country it must be that has such a show in that +line as England. Don’t talk of stock, for it may fail; or silver-smiths’ +shops, for you can’t tell what’s plated; or jewels, for they may be +paste; or goods, for they may be worth only half nothin’; but talk of +the carriages, them’s the witnesses that don’t lie. + +“And what do they say? ‘Calcutta keeps me, and China keeps me, and +Bot’ney Bay keeps me, and Canada keeps me, and Nova Scotia keeps me, and +the whales keep me, and the white bears keep me, and every thing on the +airth keeps me, every thing under the airth keeps me. In short, all the +world keeps me.’” + +“No, not all the world, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell; “there are some +repudiative States that _don’t keep me_; and if you go to the auction +rooms, you’ll see some beautiful carriages for sale, that say, ‘the +United States’ Bank used to keep me,’ and some more that say, ‘Nick +Biddle put me down.’” + +“Minister, I won’t stand that,” said Mr. Slick. “I won’t stay here and +hear you belittle Uncle Sam that way for nothin’. He ain’t wuss than +John Bull, arter all. Ain’t there no swindle-banks here? Jist tell me +that. Don’t our liners fetch over, every trip, fellers that cut and run +from England, with their fobs filled with other men’s money? Ain’t +there lords in this country that know how to “repudiate” as well as +ring-tail-roarers in ourn. So come now, don’t throw stones till you put +your window-shutters to, or you may stand a smart chance of gettin’ your +own glass broke, that’s a fact.’ + +“And then, Squire, jist look at the carriages. I’ll bet you a goose and +trimmin’s you can’t find their ditto nowhere. They _are_ carriages, and +no mistake, that’s a fact. Look at the hosses, the harness, the paint, +the linin’s, the well-dressed, lazy, idle, infarnal hansum servants, +(these rascals, I suspicion, are picked out for their looks), look at +the whole thing all through the piece, take it, by and large, stock, +lock, and barrel, and it’s the dandy, that’s a fact. Don’t it cost +money, that’s all? Sumtotalize it then, and see what it all comes to. +It would make your hair stand on eend, I know. If it was all put into +figure, it would reach clean across the river; and if it was all put +into dollars, it would make a solid tire of silver, and hoop the world +round and round, like a wheel. + +“If you want to give a man an idea of England, Squire, tell him of +Ascot; and if you want to cram him, get old Multiplication-table Joe H-- +to cast it up; for he’ll make it come to twice as much as it railly is, +and that will choke him. Yes, Squire, _stick to Ascot_.” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE GANDER PULLING. + +A cunning man is generally a suspicious one, and is as often led into +error himself by his own misconceptions, as protected from imposition by +his habitual caution. + +Mr. Slick, who always acted on a motive, and never on an impulse, and +who concealed his real objects behind ostensible ones, imagined that +everybody else was governed by the same principle of action; and, +therefore, frequently deceived himself by attributing designs to others +that never existed but in his own imagination. + +Whether the following story of the gander pulling was a fancy sketch of +the Attache, or a narrative of facts, _I_ had no means of ascertaining. +Strange interviews and queer conversations he constantly had with +official as well as private individuals, but as he often gave his +opinions the form of an anecdote, for the purpose of interesting his +hearers, it was not always easy to decide whether his stories were facts +or fictions. + +If, on the present occasion, it was of the latter description, it is +manifest that he entertained no very high opinion of the constitutional +changes effected in the government of the colonies by the Whigs, +during their long and perilous rule. If of the former kind, it is to +be lamented that he concealed his deliberate convictions under an +allegorical piece of humour. His disposition to “humbug” was so great, +it was difficult to obtain a plain straightforward reply from him; but +had the Secretary of State put the question to him in direct terms, what +he thought of Lord Durham’s “Responsible government,” and the +practical working of it under Lord Sydenham’s and Sir Charles Bagot’s +administration, he would have obtained a plain and intelligible answer. +If the interview to which he alludes ever did take place, (which I am +bound to add, is very doubtful, notwithstanding the minuteness with +which it is detailed), it is deeply to be regretted that he was not +addressed in that frank manner which could alone elicit his real +sentiments; for I know of no man so competent to offer an opinion on +these subjects as himself. + +To govern England successfully, it is necessary to know the temper of +Englishmen. Obvious as this appears to be, the frequent relinquishment +of government measures, by the dominant party, shows that their own +statesmen are sometimes deficient in this knowledge. + +Mr. Slick says, that if Sir James Graham had consulted him, _he_ could +have shown him how to carry the educational clauses of his favourite +bill This, perhaps, is rather an instance of Mr. Slick’s vanity, than a +proof of his sagacity. But if this species of information is not easy of +attainment here, even by natives, how difficult must it be to govern a +people three thousand miles off, who differ most materially in thought, +word, and deed, from their official rulers. + +Mr. Slick, when we had not met during the day, generally visited me at +night, about the time I usually returned from a dinner-party, and amused +me by a recital of his adventures. + +“Squire,” said he, “I have had a most curious capur to-day, and one that +will interest you, I guess. Jist as I was a settin’ down to breakfast +this mornin’, and was a turnin’ of an egg inside out into a wine-glass, +to salt, pepper and batter it for Red-lane Alley, I received a note from +a Mister Pen, saying the Right Honourable Mr. Tact would be glad, if it +was convenient, if I would call down to his office, to Downin’ Street, +to-day, at four o’clock. Thinks says I to myself, ‘What’s to pay now? Is +it the Boundary Line, or Creole Case, or Colonial Trade, or the Burnin’ +of the Caroline, or Right o’ Sarch? or what national subject is on the +carpet to-day? Howsundever,’ sais I, ‘let the charge be what it will, +slugs, rifle-bullets, or powder, go I must, that’s a fact.’ So I tips +him a shot right off; here’s the draft, Sir; it’s in reg’lar state +lingo. + + “Sir, + + “I have the high honour to acknowledge the receipt of + your letter of this present first of June instant and + note its contents. The conference (subject unknown), + proffered by the Right Honourable Mr. Tact, I accede + to hereby protesting and resarving all rights of + conformation and reniggin’ of our Extraordinary + Embassador, now absent from London, at the great + agricultural meetin’. I would suggest, next time, it + would better convene to business, to insart subject + of discussion, to prevent being taken at a short. + + “I have to assure you of the high consideration of + your most obedient servant to command. + + “THE HON. SAM SLICK, + + “Attache”. + +“Well, when the time comes, I rigs up, puts on the legation coat, calls +a cab, and downs to Downing Street, and looks as dignified as I cleverly +knew how. + +“When I enters the outer door, I sees a man in an arm-chair in the +entry, and he looked like a buster, I tell you, jist ready to blow up +with the steam of all the secrets he had in his byler. + +“‘Can I see Mr. Tact?’ sais I. + +“‘Tell you directly,’ sais he, jist short like; for Englishmen are +kinder costive of words; they don’t use more nor will do, at no time; +and he rings a bell. This brings in his second in command; and sais he, +‘Pray walk in here, if you please, Sir,’ and he led me into a little +plain, stage-coach-house lookin’ room, with nothin’ but a table and two +or three chairs in it; and says he, ‘Who shall I say, Sir?’ + +“‘The Honourable Mr. Slick,’ sais I, ‘Attache of the American Legation +to the court of Saint Jimses’ Victoria.’ + +“Off he sot; and there I waited and waited for ever so long, but he +didn’t come back. Well, I walked to the winder and looked out, but there +was nothin’ to see there; and then I turned and looked at a great big +map on the wall, and there was nothin’ I didn’t know there; and then +I took out my pen-knife to whittle, but my nails was all whittled off +already, except one, and that was made into a pen, and I didn’t like to +spile that; and as there wasn’t any thing I could get hold of, I jist +slivered a great big bit off the leg of the chair, and began to make +a toothpick of it. And when I had got that finished, I begins to get +tired; for nothin’ makes me so peskilly oneasy as to be kept waitin’; +for if a Clockmaker don’t know the valy of time, who the plague does? + +“So jist to pass it away, I began to hum ‘Jim Brown.’ Did you ever hear +it, Squire? it’s a’most a beautiful air, as most all them nigger +songs are. I’ll make you a varse, that will suit a despisable colonist +exactly. + + “I went up to London, the capital of the nation, + To see Lord Stanley, and get a sitivation. + Says he to me, ‘Sam Slick, what can you do?’ + Says I, ‘Lord Stanley, jist as much as you. + Liberate the rebels, and ‘mancipate the niggers. + Hurror for our side, and damn thimble-riggers. + +“Airth and seas! If you was to sing that ‘ere song there, how it would +make ‘em stare; wouldn’t it? Such words as them was never heerd in that +patronage office, I guess; and yet folks must have often thort it too; +that’s a fact. + +“I was a hummin’ the rael ‘Jim Brown,’ and got as far as: + + Play upon the banjo, play upon the fiddle, + Walk about the town, and abuse old Biddle, + +when I stopped right in the middle of it, for it kinder sorter struck it +me warn’t dignified to be a singin’ of nigger-catches that way. So says +I to myself, ‘This ain’t respectful to our great nation to keep a high +functionary a waitin’ arter this fashion, is it? Guess I’d better assart +the honour of our republic by goin’ away; and let him see that it warn’t +me that was his lackey last year.’ + +“Well, jist as I had taken the sleeve of my coat and given my hat a +rub over with it, (a good hat will carry off an old suit of clothes any +time, but a new suit of clothes will never carry off an old hat, so I +likes to keep my hat in good order in a general way). Well, jist as I +had done, in walks the porter’s first leftenant; and sais he, ‘Mr. Tact +will see you, Sir.’ + +“‘He come plaguy near not seein’ of me, then,’ sais I; ‘for I had jist +commenced makin’ tracks as you come in. The next time he sends for me, +tell him not to send till he is ready, will you? For it’s a rule o’ mine +to tag arter no man.’ + +“The critter jist stopped short, and began to see whether that spelt +treason or no. He never heerd freedom o’ speech afore, that feller, I +guess, unless it was somebody a jawin’ of him, up hill and down dale; so +sais I, ‘Lead off, my old ‘coon, and I will foller you, and no mistake, +if you blaze the line well.’ + +“So he led me up stairs, opened a door, and ‘nounced me; and there was +Mr. Tact, sittin’ at a large table, all alone. + +“‘How do you do, Mr. Slick,’ says he. ‘I am very glad to see you. Pray +be seated.’ He really was a very gentlemanlike man, was Squire Tact, +that’s a fact. Sorry I kept you waitin’ so long,’ sais he, ‘but the +Turkish Ambassador was here at the time, and I was compelled to wait +until he went. I sent for you, Sir, a-hem!’ and he rubbed his hand +acrost his mouth, and looked’ up at the cornish, and said, ‘I sent for +you, Sir, ahem!’--(thinks I, I see now. All you will say for half an +hour is only throw’d up for a brush fence, to lay down behind to take +aim through; and arter that, the first shot is the one that’s aimed at +the bird), ‘to explain to you about this African Slave Treaty,’ said he. +‘Your government don’t seem to comprehend me in reference to this Right +of Sarch. Lookin’ a man in the face, to see he is the right man, and +sarchin’ his pockets, are two very different things. You take, don’t +you?’ + +“‘I’m up to snuff, Sir,’ sais I, ‘and no mistake.’ I know’d well enough +that warn’t what he sent for me for, by the way he humm’d and hawed when +he began. + +“‘Taking up a trunk, as every hotel-keeper does and has a right to +do, and examinin’ the name on the brass plate to the eend on’t, is one +thing; forcin’ the lock and ransackin’ the contents, is another. One is +precaution, the other is burglary.’ + +“‘It tante burglary,’ sais I, ‘unless the lodger sleeps in his trunk. +It’s only--’ + +“‘Well,’ says he, a colourin’ up, ‘that’s technical. I leave these +matters to my law officers.’ + +“I larnt that little matter of law from brother Eldad, the lawyer, but +I guess I was wrong there. I don’t think I had ought to have given him +that sly poke; but I didn’t like his talkin’ that way to me. Whenever a +feller tries to pull the wool over your eyes, it’s a sign he don’t think +high of your onderstandin’. It isn’t complimental, that’s a fact. ‘One +is a serious offence, I mean, sais he; ‘the other is not. We don’t want +to sarch; we only want to look a slaver in the face, and see whether +he is a free and enlightened American or not. If he is, the _flag of +liberty_ protects him and _his slaves_; if he ain’t, it don’t protect +him, nor them nother.’ + +“Then he did a leadin’ article on slavery, and a paragraph on +non-intervention, and spoke a little soft sawder about America, and +wound up by askin’ me if he had made himself onderstood. + +“‘Plain as a boot-jack,’ sais I. + +“When that was over, he took breath. He sot back on his chair, put one +leg over the other, and took a fresh departur’ agin. + +“‘I have read your books, Mr. Slick,’ said he, ‘and read ‘em, too, with +great pleasure. You have been a great traveller in your day. You’ve been +round the world a’most, haven’t you?’ + +“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I sharn’t say I hante.’ + +“‘What a deal of information a man of your observation must have +acquired.’ (He is a gentlemanly man, that you may depend. I don’t know +when I’ve see’d one so well mannered.) + +“‘Not so much, Sir, as you would suppose,’ sais I. + +“‘Why how so?’ sais he. + +“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘the first time a man goes round the world, he is plaguy +skeered for fear of fallin’ off the edge; the second time he gets used +to it, and larns a good deal.’ + +“‘Fallin’ off the edge!’ sais he; ‘what an original idea that is. That’s +one of your best. I like your works for that they are original. We have +nothin’ but imitations now. Fallin’ off the the edge, that’s capital. I +must tell Peel that; for he is very fond of that sort of thing.’ + +“He was a very pretty spoken man, was Mr. Tact; he is quite the +gentleman, that’s a fact. I love to hear him talk; he is so very +perlite, and seems to take a likin’ to me parsonally.” + +Few men are so open to flattery as Mr. Slick; and although “soft sawder” + is one of the artifices he constantly uses in his intercourse with +others, he is often thrown off of his guard by it himself. How much +easier it is to discover the weaknesses of others than to see our own! + +But to resume the story. + +“‘You have been a good deal in the colonies, haven’t you?’ said he. + +“‘Considerable sum,’ sais I. Now, sais I to myself, this is the rael +object he sent for me for; but I won’t tell him nothin’. If he’d a up +and askt me right off the reel, like a man, he’d a found me up to the +notch; but he thort to play me off. Now I’ll sarve him out his own way; +so here goes. + +“‘Your long acquaintance with the provinces, and familiar intercourse +with the people,’ sais he, ‘must have made you quite at home on all +colonial topics.’ + +“‘I thought so once,’ sais I; ‘but I don’t think so now no more, Sir.’ + +“‘Why how is that?’ sais he. + +“‘Why, Sir,’ sais I, ‘you can hold a book so near your eyes as not to be +able to read a word of it; hold it off further, and get the right focus, +and you can read beautiful. Now the right distance to see a colony, and +know all about it, is England. Three thousand miles is the right focus +for a political spy-glass. A man livin’ here, and who never was out of +England, knows twice as much about the provinces as I do.’ + +“‘Oh, you are joking,’ sais he. + +“Not a bit,’ sais I. ‘I find folks here that not only know every thing +about them countries, but have no doubts upon any matter, and ask no +questions; in fact, they not only know more than me, but more than the +people themselves do, what they want. It’s curious, but it’s a fact. A +colonist is the most beautiful crittur in natur to try experiments on, +you ever see; for he is so simple and good-natured he don’t know no +better; and so weak, he couldn’t help himself if he did. There’s great +fun in making these experiments, too. It puts me in mind of “Gander +Pulling;” you know what this is, don’t you?’ + +“‘No,’ he said. ‘I never heard of it. Is it an American sport?’ + +“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘it is; and the most excitin’ thing, too, you ever see.’ + +“‘You are a very droll man. Mr Slick,’ said he, ‘a very droll man +indeed. In all your books there is a great deal of fun; but in all +your fun, there is a meanin’. Your jokes hit, and hit pretty hard, too, +sometimes. They make a man think as well as laugh. But, describe this +Gander Pulling.’ + +“‘Well, I’ll tell you how it is,’ sais I. ‘First and foremost, a +ring-road is formed, like a small race-course; then, two great long +posts is fixed into the ground, one on each side of the road, and a rope +made fast by the eends to each post, leavin’ the middle of the rope to +hang loose in a curve. Well, then they take a gander and pick his neck +as clean as a babby’s, and then grease it most beautiful all the way +from the breast to the head, till it becomes as slippery as a soaped +eel. Then they tie both his legs together with a strong piece of cord, +of the size of a halyard, and hang him by the feet to the middle of the +swingin’ rope, with his head downward. All the youngsters, all round the +county, come to see the sport, mounted a horseback. + +“‘Well, the owner of the goose goes round with his hat, and gets so much +a-piece in it from every one that enters for the “Pullin’;” and when all +have entered, they bring their hosses in a line, one arter another; and +at the words, ‘Go ahead!’ off they set, as hard as they can split; and +as they pass under the goose, make a grab at him; and whoever carries +off the head, wins. + +“‘Well, the goose dodges his head and flaps his wings, and swings about +so, it ain’t no easy matter to clutch his neck; and when you do, it’s so +greasy, it slips right through the fingers, like, nothin’. Sometimes it +takes so long, that the hosses are fairly beat out, and can’t scarcely +raise a gallop; and then a man stands by the post, with a heavy loaded +whip, to lash ‘em on, so that they mayn’t stand under the goose, which +ain’t fair. The whoopin’, and hollerin’, and screamin’, and bettin’, +and excitement, beats all; there ain’t hardly no sport equal to it. It’s +great fun _to all except the poor goosey-gander_. + +“‘The game of colony government to Canady, for some years back, puts me +in mind of that exactly. Colonist has had his heels put where his head +used to be, this some time past. He has had his legs tied, and his neck +properly greased, I tell _you_; and the way every parliament man, and +governor, and secretary, gallops round and round, one arter another, a +grabbin’ at poor colonist, ain’t no matter. Every new one on ‘em that +comes, is confident he is a goin’ to settle it; but it slips through his +hand, and off he goes, properly larfed at. + +“‘They have pretty nearly fixed goosey colonist, though; he has got his +neck wrung several times; it’s twisted all a one side, his tongue hangs +out, and he squeaks piteous, that’s a fact. Another good grab or two +will put him out o’ pain; and it’s a pity it wouldn’t, for no created +critter can live long, turned wrong eend up, that way. But the sport +will last long arter that; for arter his neck is broke, it ain’t no easy +matter to get the head off; the cords that tie that on, are as thick +as your finger. It’s the greatest fun out there you ever see, _to all +except poor goosey colonist_. + +“‘I’ve larfed ready to kill myself at it. Some o’ these Englishers that +come out, mounted for the sport, and expect a peerage as a reward for +bringin’ home the head and settlin’ the business for colonist, do cut +such figurs, it would make you split; and they are all so everlastin’ +consaited, they won’t take no advice. The way they can’t do it is +cautionary. One gets throwed, another gets all covered with grease, a +third loses his hat, a fourth gets run away with by his horse, a fifth +sees he can’t do it, makes some excuse, and leaves the ground afore the +sport is over; and now and then, an unfortunate critter gets a hyste +that breaks his own neck. There is only one on ‘em that I have see’d out +there, that can do it right. + +“It requires some experience, that’s a fact. But let John Bull alone for +that; he is a critter that thinks he knows every thing; and if you told +him he didn’t, he wouldn’t believe you, not he. He’d only pity your +ignorance, and look dreadful sorry for you. Oh if you want to see high +life, come and see “a colonial gander pulling.” + +“‘Tying up a goose, Sir, is no great harm,’ sais I, ‘seein’ that a goose +was made to be killed, picked and devoured, and nothin’ else. Tyin’ up +a colonist by the heels is another thing. I don’t think it right; but +I don’t know nothin’; I’ve had the book too close to my eyes. Joe H--e, +that never was there, can tell you twice as much as I can about the +colonies. The focus to see right, as I said afore, is three thousand +miles off.’ + +“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘that’s a capital illustration, Mr. Slick. There is +more in that than meets the ear. Don’t tell me you don’t know nothin’ +about the colonies; few men know so much as you do. I wish to heavens +you was a colonist,’ sais he; ‘if you were, I would offer you a +government.’ + +“‘I don’t doubt it,’ sais I; ‘seein’ that your department have advanced +or rewarded so many colonists already.’ But I don’t think he heard that +shot, and I warn’t sorry for it; for it’s not right to be a pokin’ it +into a perlite man, is it? + +“‘I must tell the Queen that story of _the Gander Pulling_,’ sais he; ‘I +like it amazingly. It’s a capital caricature. I’ll send the idea to H. +B. Pray name some day when you are disengaged; I hope you will give me +the pleasure of dining with me. Will this day fortnight suit you?’ + +“‘Thank you,’ sais I, ‘I shall have great pleasure.’ + +“He railly was a gentlemany man that. He was so good natured, and took +the joke so well, I was kinder sorry I played it off on him. I hante +see’d no man to England I affection so much as Mr. Tact, I swear! I +begin to think, arter all, it was the right of _sarchin’ vessels_ he +wanted to talk to me about, instead of _sarchin’ me_, as I suspicioned. +It don’t do always _to look for motives, men often act without any_. The +next time, if he axes me, I’ll talk plain, and jist tell him what I +_do_ think; but still, if he reads that riddle right, he may larn a good +deal, too, from the story of “the Gander Pulling,” mayn’t he?” + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE BLACK STOLE. + +The foregoing sketch exhibits a personal trait in Mr. Slick’s character, +the present a national one. In the interview, whether real or fanciful, +that he alleges to have had with one of the Secretaries of State, he was +not disposed to give a direct reply, because his habitual caution led +him to suspect that an attempt was made to draw him out on a particular +topic without his being made aware of the object. On the present +occasion, he exhibits that irritability, which is so common among all +his countrymen, at the absurd accounts that travellers give of the +United States in general, and the gross exaggerations they publish of +the state of slavery in particular. + +That there is a party in this country, whose morbid sensibility is +pandered to on the subject of negro emancipation there can be no doubt, +as is proved by the experiment made by Mr. Slick, recorded in this +chapter. + +On this subject every man has a right to his own opinions, but any +interference with the municipal regulations of another country, is so +utterly unjustifiable, that it cannot be wondered at that the Americans +resent the conduct of the European abolishionists, in the most +unqualified and violent manner. + +The conversation that I am now about to repeat, took place on the +Thames. Our visits, hitherto, had been restricted by the rain to London. +To-day, the weather being fine, we took passage on board of a steamer, +and went to Greenwich. + +While we were walking up and down the deck, Mr. Slick again adverted to +the story of the government spies with great warmth. I endeavoured, but +in vain, to persuade him that no regular organized system of espionage +existed in England. He had obtained a garbled account of one or two +occurrences, and his prejudice, (which, notwithstanding his disavowal, +I knew to be so strong, as to warp all his opinions of England and the +English), immediately built up a system, which nothing I could say, +could at all shake. + +I assured him the instances he had mentioned were isolated and +unauthorized acts, told in a very distorted manner but mitigated, as +they really were, when truly related, they were at the time received +with the unanimous disapprobation of every right-thinking man in the +kingdom, and that the odium which had fallen on the relators, was so +immeasurably greater than what had been bestowed on the thoughtless +principals, that there was no danger of such things again occurring in +our day. But he was immovable. + +“Oh, of course, it isn’t true,” he said, “and every Englishman will +swear it’s a falsehood. But you must not expect us to disbelieve it, +nevertheless; for your travellers who come to America, pick up here and +there, some absurd ontruth or another; or, if they are all picked up +already, invent one; and although every man, woman, and child is ready +to take their bible oaths it is a bam, yet the English believe this one +false witness in preference to the whole nation. + +“You must excuse me, Squire; you have a right to your opinion, though +it seems you have no right to blart it out always; but I am a freeman, +I was raised in Slickville, Onion County, State of Connecticut, United +States of America, which _is_ a free country, and no mistake; and I have +a right to my opinion, and a right to speak it, too; and let me see the +man, airl or commoner, parliamenterer or sodger officer, that dare to +report me, I guess he’d wish he’d been born a week later, that’s all. +I’d make a caution of him, _I_ know. I’d polish his dial-plate fust, and +then I’d feel his short ribs, so as to make him larf, a leetle jist a +leetle the loudest he ever heerd. Lord, he’d think thunder and lightnin’ +a mint julip to it. I’d ring him in the nose as they do pigs in my +country, to prevent them rootin’ up what they hadn’t ought.” + +Having excited himself by his own story, he first imagined a case and +then resented it, as if it had occurred. I expressed to him my great +regret that he should visit England with these feelings and prejudices, +as I had hoped his conversation would have been as rational and as +amusing as it was in Nova Scotia, and concluded by saying that I felt +assured he would find that no such prejudice existed here against his +countrymen, as he entertained towards the English. + +“Lord love you!” said he, “I have no prejudice. I am the most candid man +you ever see. I have got some grit, but I ain’t ugly, I ain’t indeed.” + +“But you are wrong about the English; and I’ll prove it to you. Do you +see that turkey there?” said he. + +“Where?” I asked. “I see no turkey; indeed, I have seen none on board. +What do you mean?” + +“Why that slight, pale-faced, student-like Britisher; he is a turkey, +that feller. He has been all over the Union, and he is a goin’ to write +a book. He was at New York when we left, and was introduced to me in the +street. To make it liquorish, he has got all the advertisements about +runaway slaves, sales of niggers, cruel mistresses and licentious +masters, that he could pick up. He is a caterer and panderer to English +hypocrisy. There is nothin’ too gross for him to swaller. We call them +turkeys; first because they travel so fast--for no bird travels hot foot +that way, except it be an ostrich--and second, because they gobble +up every thing that comes in their way. Them fellers will swaller a +falsehood as fast as a turkey does a grasshopper; take it right down +whole, without winkin’. + +“Now, as we have nothin’ above particular to do, ‘I’ll cram him’ for +you; I will show you how hungry he’ll bite at a tale of horror, let it +be never so onlikely; how readily he will believe it, because it is agin +us; and then, when his book comes out, you shall see that all England +will credit it, though I swear I invented it as a cram, and you swear +you heard it told as a joke. They’ve drank in so much that is strong, +in this way, have the English, they require somethin’ sharp enough to +tickle their palates now. Wine hante no taste for a man that drinks +grog, that’s a fact. It’s as weak as Taunton water. Come and walk up and +down deck along with me once or twice, and then we will sit down by him, +promiscuously like; and as soon as I get his appetite sharp, see how I +will cram him.” + +“This steam-boat is very onsteady to-day. Sir,” said Mr. Slick; “it’s +not overly convenient walking, is it?” + +The ice was broken. Mr. Slick led him on by degrees to his travels, +commencing with New England, which the traveller eulogised very much. +He then complimented him on the accuracy of his remarks and the depth +of his reflections, and concluded by expressing a hope that he would +publish his observations soon, as few tourists were so well qualified +for the task as himself. + +Finding these preliminary remarks taken in good part, he commenced the +process of “cramming.” + +“But oh, my friend,” said he, with a most sanctimonious air, “did you +visit, and I am ashamed as an American citizen to ask the question, I +feel the blood a tannin’ of my cheek when I inquire, did you visit the +South? That land that is polluted with slavery, that land where +the boastin’ and crackin’ of freemen pile up the agony pangs on the +corroding wounds inflicted by the iron chains of the slave, until natur +can’t stand it no more; my heart bleeds like a stuck critter, when I +think of this plague spot on the body politic. I ought not to speak +thus; prudence forbids it, national pride forbids it; but genu_wine_ +feelings is too strong for polite forms. ‘Out of the fulness of the +heart the mouth speaketh.’ Have you been there?” + +“Turkey” was thrown off his guard, he opened his wallet, which was well +stocked, and retailed his stories, many of them so very rich, that I +doubted the capacity of the Attache to out-Herod him. Mr. Slick received +these tales with evident horror, and complimented the narrator with a +well simulated groan; and when he had done, said, “Ah, I see how it +is, they have purposely kept dark about the most atrocious features of +slavery. Have you never seen the Gougin’ School?” + +“No, never.” + +“What, not seen the Gougin’ School?” + +“No, Sir; I never heard of it.” + +“Why, you don’t mean to say so?” + +“I do, indeed, I assure you.” + +“Well, if that don’t pass! And you never even heerd tell of it, eh?” + +“Never, Sir. I have never either seen it or heard of it.” + +“I thought as much,” said Mr. Slick. “I doubt if any Britisher ever did +or ever will see it. Well, Sir, in South Carolina, there is a man called +Josiah Wormwood; I am ashamed to say he is a Connecticut man. For a +considerable of a spell, he was a strollin’ preacher, but it didn’t +pay in the long run. There is so much competition in that line in our +country, that he consaited the business was overdone, and he opened a +Lyceum to Charleston South Car, for boxin’, wrestlin’ and other purlite +British accomplishments; and a most a beautiful sparrer he is, too; I +don’t know as I ever see a more scientific gentleman than he is, in +that line. Lately, he has halfed on to it the art of gougin’ or +‘monokolisin,’ as he calls it, to sound grand; and if it weren’t so +dreadful in its consequences, it sartinly is amost allurin’ thing, is +gougin’. The sleight-of-hand is beautiful. All other sleights we know +are tricks; but this is reality; there is the eye of your adversary in +your hand; there is no mistake. It’s the real thing. You feel you have +him; that you have set your mark on him, and that you have took your +satisfaction. The throb of delight felt by a ‘monokolister’ is beyond +all conception.” + +“Oh heavens!” said the traveller, “Oh horror of horrors! I never heard +any thing so dreadful. Your manner of telling it, too, adds to its +terrors. You appear to view the practice with a proper Christian +disgust; and yet you talk like an amateur. Oh, the thing is sickening.” + +“It is, indeed,” said Mr. Slick, “particularly to him that loses his +peeper. But the dexterity, you know, is another thing. It is very +scientific. He has two niggers, has Squire Wormwood, who teach the +wrastlin’ and gouge-sparrin’; but practisin’ for the eye is done for +punishment of runaways. He has plenty of subjects. All the planters +send their fugit_ive_ niggers there to be practised on for an eye. The +scholars ain’t allowed to take more than one eye out of them; if they +do, they have to pay for the nigger; for he is no sort o’ good after, +for nothin’ but to pick oakum. I could go through the form, and give you +the cries to the life, but I won’t; it is too horrid; it really is too +dreadful.” + +“Oh do, I beg of you,” said the traveller. + +“I cannot, indeed; it is too shocking. It will disgust you.” + +“Oh, not at all,” said Turkey, “when I know it is simulated, and not +real, it is another thing.” + +“I cannot, indeed,” said Mr. Slick. “It would shock your philanthropic +soul, and set your very teeth of humanity on edge. But have you ever +seen--the Black Stole?” + +“No.” + +“Never seen the Black Stole?” + +“No, never.” + +“Why, it ain’t possible? Did you never hear of it nother?” + +“No, never. Well now, do tell!” + +“So you never heerd tell of it, nor never sot eyes on it?” + +“Certainly never.” + +“Well, that bangs the bush, now! I suppose you didn’t. Guess you never +did, and never will, nor no other traveller, nother, that ever slept +in shoe-leather. They keep dark about these atrocities. Well, the Black +Stole is a loose kind of shirt-coat, like an English carter’s frock; +only, it is of a different colour. It is black instead of white, and +made of nigger hide, beautifully tanned, and dressed as soft as a glove. +It ain’t every nigger’s hide that’s fit for a stole. If they are too +young, it is too much like kid; if they are too old, it’s like sole +leather, it’s so tough; and if they have been whipt, as all on ‘em have +a’most, why the back is all cut to pieces, and the hide ruined. It +takes several sound nigger skins to make a stole; but when made, it’s a +beautiful article, that’s a fact. + +“It is used on a plantation for punishment. When the whip don’t do its +work, strip a slave, and jist clap on to him the Black Stole. Dress +him up in a dead man’s skin, and it frightens him near about to death. +You’ll hear him screetch for a mile a’most, so ‘tarnally skeered. And +the best of the fun is, that all the rest of the herd, bulls, cows, and +calves, run away from him, jist as if he was a panther.” + +“Fun, Sir! Do you call this fun?” + +“Why sartainly I do. Ain’t it better nor whippin’ to death? “What’s +a Stole arter all? It’s nothin’ but a coat. Philosophizin’ on it, +Stranger, there is nothin’ to shock a man. The dead don’t feel. +Skinnin’, then, ain’t cruel, nor is it immoral. To bury a good hide, is, +waste--waste is wicked. There are more good hides buried in the +States, black and white, every year, than would pay the poor-rates and +state-taxes. They make excellent huntin’-coats, and would make beautiful +razor-straps, bindin’ for books, and such like things; it would make a +noble export. Tannin’ in hemlock bark cures the horrid nigger flavour. +But then, we hante arrived at that state of philosophy; and when it is +confined to one class of the human family, it would be dangerous. +The skin of a crippled slave might be worth more than the critter was +himself; and I make no doubt, we should soon hear of a stray nigger +being shot for his hide, as you do of a moose for his skin, and a bear +for his fur. + +“Indeed, that is the reason (though I shouldn’t mention it as an +Attache), that our government won’t now concur to suppress the slave +trade. They say the prisoners will all be murdered, and their peels +sold; and that vessels, instead of taking, in at Africa a cargo of +humans, will take in a cargo of hides, as they do to South America. As a +Christian, a philanthropist, indeed, as a man, this is a horrid subject +to contemplate, ain’t it?” + +“Indeed it is,” said Turkey. “I feel a little overcome--my head swims--I +am oppressed with nausea--I must go below.” + +“How the goney swallered it all, didn’t he?” said Mr. Slick, with great +glee. “Hante he a most a beautiful twist that feller? How he gobbled it +down, tank, shank and flank at a gulp, didn’t he. Oh! he is a Turkey +and no mistake, that chap. But see here, Squire; jist look through the +skylight. See the goney, how his pencil is a leggin’ it off, for dear +life. Oh, there is great fun in crammin’ those fellers. + +“Now tell me candid, Squire; do you think there is no prejudice in the +Britishers agin us and our free and enlightened country, when they can +swaller such stuff as the Gougin’ School and _Black Stole_?” + + + + +CHAPTER VI. THE PRINCE DE JOINVILLE’S HORSE. + +“There is more in that story, Squire,” said Mr. Hopewell, “of the +Patron, and Sam’s queer illustration of the Cow’s Tail, than you are +aware of. The machinery of the colonies is good enough in itself, but +it wants a safety valve. When the pressure within is too great, there +should be something devised to let off the steam. This is a subject +well worthy of your consideration; and if you have an opportunity of +conversing with any of the ministry, pray draw their attention to it. By +not understanding this, the English have caused one revolution at home, +and another in America.” + +“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick. “It reminds me of what I once saw done by the +Prince de Joinville’s horse, on the Halifax road.” + +“Pardon me,” said Mr. Hopewell, “you shall have an opportunity presently +of telling your story of the Prince’s horse, but suffer me to proceed. + +“England, besides other outlets, has a never-failing one in the +colonies, but the colonies have no outlet. Cromwell and Hampden were +actually embarked on board of a vessel in the Thames, for Boston, when +they were prevented from sailing by an Order in Council. What was the +consequence? The sovereign was dethroned. Instead of leading a small +sect of fanatical puritans, and being the first men of a village in +Massachussets, they aspired to be the first men in an empire, and +succeeded. So in the old colonies. Had Washington been sent abroad +in command of a regiment, Adams to govern a colony, Franklin to make +experiments in an observatory like that at Greenwich, and a more +extended field been opened to colonial talent, the United States would +still have continued to be dependencies of Great Britain. + +“There is no room for men of talent in British America; and by not +affording them an opportunity of distinguishing themselves, or rewarding +them when they do, they are always ready to make one, by opposition. In +comparing their situation with that of the inhabitants of the British +Isles, they feel that they labour under disabilities; these disabilities +they feel as a degradation; and as those who impose that degradation +live three thousand miles off, it becomes a question whether it is +better to suffer or resist.” + +“The Prince de Joinville’s horse,” said Mr. Slick, “is a case in pint.” + +“One moment, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell. + +“The very word ‘dependencies’ shows the state of the colonies. If they +are to be retained, they should be incorporated with Great Britain. +The people should be made to feel, not that they are colonists, but +Englishmen. They may tinker at constitutions as much as they please; +the root of the evil lies deeper than statesmen are aware of. O’Connell, +when he agitates for a repeal of the Union, if he really has no ulterior +objects beyond that of an Irish Parliament, does not know what he is +talking about. If his request were granted, Ireland would become a +province, and descend from being an integral part of the empire, into +a dependency. Had he ever lived in a colony, he would have known the +tendencies of such a condition. + +“What I desire to see, is the very reverse. Now that steam has united +the two continents of Europe and America, in such a manner that you +can travel from Nova Scotia to England, in as short a time as it +once required to go from Dublin to London, I should hope for a united +legislature. Recollect that the distance from New Orleans to the head +of the River is greater than from Halifax N. S., to Liverpool. I do +not want to see colonists and Englishmen arrayed against each other, as +different races, but united as one people, having the same rights and +privileges, each bearing a share of the public burdens, and all having a +voice in the general government. + +“The love of distinction is natural to man. Three millions of people +cannot be shut up in a colony. They will either turn on each other, or +unite against their keepers. The road that leads to retirement in the +provinces, should be open to those whom the hope of distinction invites +to return and contend for the honours of the empire. At present, the +egress is practically closed.” + +“If you was to talk for ever, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “you couldn’t +say more than the Prince de Joinville’s hoss on that subject.” + +The interruption was very annoying; for no man I ever met, so thoroughly +understands the subject of colonial government as Mr. Hopewell. His +experience is greater than that of any man now living, and his views +more enlarged and more philosophical. + +“Go on, Sam,” said he with great good humour. “Let us hear what the +Prince’s horse said.” + +“Well,” said Mr. Slick, “I don’t jist exactly mean to say he spoke, as +Balaam’s donkey did, in good English or French nother; but he did that +that spoke a whole book, with a handsum wood-cut to the fore, and that’s +a fact. + +“About two years ago, one mortal brilin’ hot day, as I was a pokin’ +along the road from Halifax to Windsor, with Old Clay in the waggon, +with my coat off, a ridin’ in my shirt-sleeves, and a thinkin’ how slick +a mint-julep would travel down red-lane, if I had it, I heard such a +chatterin’, and laughin’, and screamin’ as I never a’most heerd afore, +since I was raised. + +“‘What in natur’ is this,’ sais I, as I gave Old Clay a crack of the +whip, to push on. ‘There is some critters here, I guess, that have found +a haw haw’s nest, with a tee hee’s egg in it. What’s in the wind now?’ +Well, a sudden turn of the road brought me to where they was, and who +should they be but French officers from the Prince’s ship, travellin’ +incog. in plain clothes. But, Lord bless you, cook a Frenchman any way +you please, and you can’t disguise him. Natur’ will out, in spite of +all, and the name of a Frencher is written as plain as any thing in his +whiskers, and his hair, and his skin, and his coat, and his boots, and +his air, and his gait, and in everythin’, but only let him open his +mouth, and the cat’s out of the bag in no time, ain’t it? They are droll +boys, is the French, that’s a fact. + +“Well, there was four on ‘em dismounted, a holdin’ of their hosses by +the bridle, and a standin’ near a spring of nice cool water; and there +was a fifth, and he was a layin’ down belly flounder on the ground, a +tryin’ to drink out of the runnin’ spring. + +“‘Parley vous French,’ sais I, ‘Mountsheer?’ At that, they sot to, and +larfed again more than ever, I thought they would have gone into the +high strikes, they hee-hawed so. + +“Well, one on ‘em, that was a Duke, as I found out afterwards, said ‘O +yees, Saar, we spoked English too.’ + +“‘Lawful heart!’ sais I, ‘what’s the joke?’ + +“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘look there, Sare.’ And then they larfed agin, ready to +split; and sore enough, no sooner had the Leftenant layed down to drink, +than the Prince’s hoss kneeled down, and put his head jist over his +neck, and began to drink too. Well, the officer couldn’t get up for the +hoss, and he couldn’t keep his face out of the water for the hoss, and +he couldn’t drink for the hoss, and he was almost choked to death, and +as black in the face as your hat. And the Prince and the officers larfed +so, they couldn’t help him, if they was to die for it. + +“Sais I to myself, ‘A joke is a joke, if it tante carried too far, +but this critter win be strangled, as sure as a gun, if he lays here +splutterin’ this way much longer.’ So I jist gives the hoss a dab in +the mouth, and made him git up; and then sais I, ‘Prince,’ sais I, for I +know’d him by his beard, he had one exactly like one of the old +saint’s heads in an Eyetalian pictur, all dressed to a pint, so sais I, +‘Prince,’ and a plaguy handsum man he is too, and as full of fun as a +kitten, so sais I, ‘Prince,’ and what’s better, all his officers seemed +plaguy proud and fond of him too; so sais I, ‘Prince, voila le condition +of one colonist, which,’ sais I, ‘Prince, means in English, that +leftenant is jist like a colonist.’ + +“‘Commong,’ sais he, ‘how is dat?’ + +“‘Why’ sais I, ‘Prince, whenever a colonist goes for to drink at a +spring of the good things in this world, (and plaguy small springs we +have here too,) and fairly lays down to it, jist as he gets his lips +cleverly to it, for a swig, there is some cussed neck or another, of +some confounded Britisher, pops right over him, and pins him there. He +can’t get up, he can’t back out, and he can’t drink, and he is blacked +and blued in the face, and most choked with the weight.’ + +“‘What country was you man of?’ said he, for he spoke very good for a +Frenchman. + +“With that I straightened myself up, and looked dignified, for I know’d +I had a right to be proud, and no mistake; sais I, ‘Prince, I am an +American citizen.’ How them two words altered him. P’raps there beant no +two words to ditto ‘em. He looked for all the world like a different man +when he seed I wasn’t a mean uncircumcised colonist. + +“‘Very glad to see you, Mr. Yankee,’ said he, ‘very glad indeed. Shall I +have de honour to ride with you a little way in your carriage?’ + +“‘As for the matter of that,’ sais I, ‘Mountsheer Prince, the honour is +all the other way,’ for I can be as civil as any man, if he sets out to +act pretty and do the thing genteel. + +“With that he jumped right in, and then he said somethin’ in French +to the officers; some order or another, I suppose, about comin on and +fetchin’ his hoss with them. I have hearn in my time, a good many men +speak French, but I never see the man yet, that could hold a candle +to _him_. Oh, it was like lightnin’, jist one long endurin’ streak; it +seemed all one sentence and one word. It was beautiful, but I couldn’t +onderstand it, it was so everlastin’ fast. + +“‘Now,’ sais he, ‘set sail.’ And off we sot, at the rate of sixteen +notts an hour. Old Clay pleased him, you may depend; he turned round and +clapped his hands, and larfed, and waved his hat to his officers to +come on; and they whipped, and spurred, and galloped, and raced for dear +life; but we dropped ‘em astarn like any thing, and he larfed again, +heartier than ever There is no people a’most, like to ride so fast as +sailors; they crack on, like a house a fire. + +“Well, arter a while, sais he, ‘Back topsails,’ and I hauled up, and +he jumped down, and outs with a pocket book, and takes a beautiful gold +coronation medal. (It was solid gold, no pinchback, but the rael yaller +stuff, jist fresh from King’s shop to Paris, where his money is made), +and sais he, ‘Mr. Yankee, will you accept that to remember the Prince de +Joinville and his horse by?’ And then he took off his hat and made me a +bow, and if that warn’t a bow, then I never see one, that’s all. I don’t +believe mortal man, unless it was a Philadelphia nigger, could make such +a bow. It was enough to sprain his ankle he curled so low. And then off +he went with a hop, skip, and a jump, sailor fashion, back to meet his +people. + +“Now, Squire, if you see Lord Stanley, tell him that story of the Prince +de Joinville’s horse; but before you get so far as that, pin him by +admissions. When you want to get a man on the hip, ax him a question +or two, and get his answers, and then you have him in a corner, he must +stand and let you put on the bridle. He cant help it no how, he can fix +it. + +“Says you, ‘My Lord’--don’t forget his title--every man likes the sound +of that, it’s music to his ears, it’s like our splendid national air, +Yankee Doodle, you never get tired of it. ‘My Lord,’ sais you, ‘what do +you suppose is the reason the French keep Algiers?’ Well, he’ll up +and say, it’s an outlet for the fiery spirits of France, it gives them +employment and an opportunity to distinguish themselves, and what the +climate and the inimy spare, become valuable officers. It makes good +soldiers out of bad subjects. + +“‘Do you call that good policy?’ sais you. + +“Well, he’s a trump, is Mr. Stanley, at least folks say so; and he’ll +say right off the reel ‘onquestionably it is--excellent policy.’ + +“When he says that, you have him bagged, he may flounder and spring like +a salmon jist caught; but he can’t out of the landin’ net. You’ve got +him, and no mistake. Sais you ‘what outlet have you for the colonies?’ + +“Well, he’ll scratch his head and stare at that, for a space. He’ll +hum and haw a little to get breath, for he never thought of that afore, +since he grow’d up; but he’s no fool, I can tell you, and he’ll out with +his mould, run an answer and be ready for you in no time. He’ll say, +‘They don’t require none. Sir. They have no redundant population. They +are an outlet themselves.’ + +“Sais you, ‘I wasn’t talking of an outlet for population, for France or +the provinces nother. I was talking of an outlet for the clever men, for +the onquiet ones, for the fiery spirits.’ + +“‘For that. Sir,’ he will say, ‘they have the local patronage.’ + +“‘Oh!’ sais you, ‘I warn’t aware. I beg pardon, I have been absent some +time, as long as twenty days or perhaps twenty-five, there must have +been great changes, since I left.’ + +“‘The garrison,’ sais you. + +“‘Is English,’ sais he. + +“‘The armed ships in the harbour?’ + +“‘English.’ + +“‘The governor and his secretary?’ + +“‘English.’ + +“‘The principal officer of customs and principal part of his deputies?’ + +“‘English.’ + +“‘The commissariat and the staff?’ + +“‘English to a man.’ + +“‘The dockyard people?’ + +“‘English.’ + +“‘The postmaster giniral?’ + +“‘English.’ + +“‘What, English?’ sais you, and look all surprise, as if you didn’t +know. ‘I thought he was a colonist, seein’ the province pays so much for +the mails.’ + +“‘No,’ he’ll say, ‘not now; we have jist sent an English one over, for +we find it’s a good thing that.’ + +“‘One word more,’ sais you, ‘and I have done. If your army officers out +there, get leave of absence, do you stop their pay?’ + +“‘No.’ + +“‘Do you sarve native colonists the same way?’ + +“‘No, we stop half their salaries.’ + +“‘Exactly,’ sais you, ‘make them feel the difference. Always make a +nigger feel he is a nigger, or he’ll get sassy, you may depend. As for +patronage,’ sais you, ‘you know as well as I do, that all that’s +not worth havin’, is jist left to poor colonist. He is an officer of +militia, gets no pay and finds his own fit out. Like Don Quixote’s +tailor, he works for nothin’ and finds thread. Any other little matters +of the same kind, that nobody wants, and nobody else will take; if +Blue-nose makes interest for, and has good luck, he can get as a great +favour, to conciliate his countrymen. No, Minister,’ sais you, ‘you are +a clever man, every body sais you are a brick; and if you ain’t, you +talk more like one, than any body I have seen this while past. I don’t +want no office myself, if I did p’raps, I wouldn’t talk about patronage +this way; but I am a colonist, I want to see the colonists remain so. +They _are_ attached to England, that is a fact, keep them so, by making +them Englishmen. Throw the door wide open; patronise them; enlist them +in the imperial sarvice, allow them a chance to contend for honours and +let them win them, if they can. If they don’t, it’s their own fault, and +cuss ‘em they ought to be kicked, for if they ain’t too lazy, there is +no mistake in ‘em, that’s a fact. The country will be proud of them, if +they go ahead. Their language will change then. It will be _our_ army, +the delighted critters will say, not the English army; _our_ navy, _our_ +church, _our_ parliament, _our_ aristocracy, &c., and the word English +will be left out holus-bolus, and that proud, that endearin’ word +“our” will be insarted. Do this, and you will shew yourself the first +statesman of modern times. You’ll rise right up to the top of the pot, +you’ll go clean over Peel’s head, as your folks go over ourn, not by +jumpin’ over him, but by takin’ him by the neck and squeezin’ him +down. You ‘mancipated the blacks, now liberate the colonists and make +Englishmen of them, and see whether the goneys won’t grin from ear to +ear, and shew their teeth, as well as the niggers did. Don’t let +Yankee clockmakers, (you may say that if you like, if it will help your +argument,) don’t let travellin’ Yankee clockmakers tell such stories, +against _your_ justice and _our_ pride as that of the Prince de +Joinville and his horse.’” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. + +“Here,” said Mr. Sick, “is an invitation for you and me, and minister to +go and visit Sir Littleeared Bighead, down to Yorkshire. You can go if +you like, and for once, p’raps it’s worth goin’ to see how these chaps +first kill time, and then how time kills them in turn. Eatin’, +drinkin’, sleepin’, growlin’, fowlin’, and huntin’ kills time; and +gout, aperplexy, dispepsy, and blue devils kills them. They are like two +fightin’ dogs, one dies of the thrashin’ he gets, and t’other dies of +the wounds he got a killin’ of him. Tit for tat; what’s sarce for the +goose, is sarce for the gander. + +“If you want to go, Minister will go with you; but hang me if I do. The +only thing is, it’ll puzzle you to get him away, if he gets down there. +You never see such a crotchical old critter in your life as he is. He +flies right off the handle for nothin’. He goes strayin’ away off in the +fields and gullies, a browsin’ about with a hammer, crackin’ up bits of +stones like walnuts, or pickin’ up old weeds, faded flowers, and what +not; and stands starin’ at ‘em for ever so long, through his eye-glass, +and keeps a savin’ to himself, ‘Wonderful provision of natur!’ Airth and +seas! what does he mean? How long would a man live on such provision, I +should like to know, as them bitter yarbs. + +“Well, then, he’ll jist as soon set down and jaw away by the hour +together with a dirty-faced, stupid little poodle lookin’ child, as +if it was a nice spry little dog he was a trainin’ of for treein’ +partridges; or talk poetry with the galls, or corn-law with the +patriots, or any thing. Nothin’ comes amiss to him. + +“But what provokes me, is to hear him go blartin’ all over the country +about home scenes, and beautiful landscape, and rich vardure. My sakes, +the vardure here is so deep, it looks like mournin’; it’s actilly +dismal. Then there’s no water to give light to the pictur, and no sun to +cheer it; and the hedges are all square; and the lime trees are as stiff +as an old gall that was once pretty, and has grow’d proud on the memory +of it. + +“I don’t like their landscape a bit, there ain’t no natur in it. Oh! if +you go, take him along with you, for he will put you in consait of all +you see, except reform, dissent, and things o’ that kind; for he is an +out and out old Tory, and thinks nothin’ can be changed here for the +better, except them that don’t agree with him. + +“He was a warnin’ you t’other day not to take all I said for Gospel +about society here; but you’ll see who’s right and who’s wrong afore +you’ve done, I know. I described to you, when you returned from Germany, +_Dinin’ out_ to London. Now I’ll give you my opinion of “Life in the +Country.” And fust of all, as I was a sayin’, there is no such thing as +natur’ here. Every thing is artificial; every thing of its kind alike; +and every thing oninterestin’ and tiresome. + +“Well, if London is dull, in the way of West Eend people, the country, I +guess, is a little mucher. Life in the country is different, of course, +from life in town; but still life itself is alike there, exceptin’ again +_class difference_. That is, nobility is all alike, as far as their +order goes; and country gents is alike, as far as their class goes; and +the last especially, when they hante travelled none, everlastin’ flat, +in their own way. Take a lord, now, and visit him to his country seat, +and I’ll tell you what you will find--a sort of Washington State +house place. It is either a rail old castle of the genuine kind, or a +gingerbread crinkum crankum imitation of a thing that only existed in +fancy, but never was seen afore--a thing that’s made modern for use, and +in ancient stile for shew; or else it’s a great cold, formal, slice of a +London terrace, stack on a hill in a wood. + +“Well, there is lawn, park, artificial pond called a lake, deer that’s +fashionablized and civilized, and as little natur in ‘em as the humans +have. Kennel and hounds for parsicutin’ foxes--presarves (not what we +call presarves, quinces and apple sarce, and green gages done in sugar, +but preserves for breedin’ tame partridges and peasants to shoot at), +H’aviaries, Hive-eries, H’yew-veris, Hot Houses, and so on; for they put +an H before every word do these critters, and then tell us Yankees we +don’t speak English. + +“Well, when you have seen an old and a new house of these folks, you +have seen all. Featurs differ a little, but face of all is so alike, +that though p’raps you wouldn’t mistake one for another, yet you’d say +they was all of one family. The king is their father. + +“Now it may seem kinder odd to you, and I do suppose it will, but what +little natur there is to England is among these upper crust nobility. +_Extremes meet_. The most elegant critter in America is an Indgian +chief. The most elegant one in England is a noble. There is natur in +both. You will vow that’s a crotchet of mine, but it’s a fact; and I +will tell you how it is, some other time. For I opine the most charmin’, +most nateral, least artificial, kindest, and condescendenest people here +are rael nobles. Younger children are the devil, half rank makes ‘em +proud, and entire poverty makes ‘em sour. _Strap pride on an empty puss, +and it puts a most beautiful edge on, it cuts like a razor_. They have +to assart their dignity, tother one’s dignity don’t want no assartin’. +It speaks for itself. + +“I won’t enter into particulars now. I want to shew you country life; +because if you don’t want to hang yourself, don’t tarry there, that’s +all; go and look at ‘em, but don’t stay there. If you can’t help it no +how, you can fix it, do it in three days; one to come, one to see, and +one to go. If you do that, and make the fust late, and the last airly, +you’ll get through it; for it won’t only make a day and a half, when +sumtotalized. We’ll fancy it, that’s better than the rael thing, any +time. + +“So lets go to a country gentleman’s house, or “landed,” as they call +‘em, cause they are so infarnally heavy. Well, his house is either an +old onconvenient up and down, crooked-laned place, bad lighted, bad +warmed, and shockin’ cut up in small rooms; or a spic and span formal, +new one, havin’ all or most, according to his puss, of those things, +about lord’s houses, only on a smaller scale. + +“Well, I’ll arrive in time for dinner, I’ll titivate myself up, and down +to drawin’-room, and whose the company that’s to dine there? Why, cuss +‘em, half a dozen of these gents own the country for miles round, so +they have to keep some company at the house, and the rest is neighbours. + +“Now for goodness gracious sake, jist let’s see who they be! Why one or +two poor parsons, that have nothin’ new in ‘em, and nothin’ new on +‘em, goodish sort of people too, only they larf a leetle, jist a leetle +louder at host’s jokes, than at mine, at least, I suspicion it, ‘cause I +never could see nothin’ to larf at in his jokes. One or two country nobs +of brother landed gents, that look as big as if the whole of the three +per cent consols was in their breeches pockets; one or two damsels, that +was young once, but have confessed to bein’ old maids, drop’t the word +‘Miss,’ ‘cause it sounded ridikilous, and took the title of ‘Mrs.’ +to look like widders. Two or three wivewomen of the Chinese stock, a +bustin’ of their stays off a’most, and as fat as show-beef; an oldest +son or two, with the eend of the silver spoon he was born with, a +peepin’ out o’ the corner of his mouth, and his face as vacant as a horn +lantern without a candle in it; a younger son or so jist from college, +who looks as if he had an idea he’d have to airn his livin’, and whose +lantern face looks as if it had had a candle in it, that had e’en amost +burnt the sides out, rather thin and pale, with streaks of Latin and +Greek in it; one or two everlastin’ pretty young galls, so pretty as +there is nothin’ to do, you can’t hardly help bein’ spooney on ‘em. + +“Matchless galls, they be too, for there is no matches for ‘em. The +primur-genitur boy takes all so they have no fortin. Well, a younger son +won’t do for ‘em, for he has no fortin; and t’other primo geno there, +couldn’t if he would, for he wants the estate next to hisn, and has to +take the gall that owns it, or he won’t get it. I pity them galls, I +do upon my soul. It’s a hard fate, that, as Minster sais, in his pretty +talk, to bud, unfold, bloom, wither, and die on the parent stock, and +have no one to pluck the rose, and put it in his bosom, aint it? + +“Dinner is ready, and you lock and lock, and march off two and two, to +t’other room, and feed. Well, the dinner is like town dinner, there aint +much difference, there is some; there is a difference atween a country +coat, and a London coat; but still they look alike, and are intended to +be as near the same as they can. The appetite is better than town folks, +and there is more eatin’ and less talkin’, but the talkin’, like the +eatin’, is heavy and solemcoloy. + +“Now do, Mr. Poker, that’s a good soul, now do, Squire, look at the +sarvants. Do you hear that feller, a blowin’ and a wheesin’ like a hoss +that’s got the heaves? Well he is so fat and lazy, and murders beef and +beer so, he has got the assmy, and walkin’ puts him out o’ breath--aint +it beautiful! Faithful old sarvant that, so attached to the family! +which means the family prog. Always to home! which means he is always +eatin’ and drinkin’, and hante time to go out. So respectful! which +means bowin’ is an everlastin’ sight easier, and safer too, nor talkin’ +is. So honest! which means, parquisites covers all he takes. Keeps every +thin’ in such good order! which means he makes the women do his work. +Puts every thin’ in it’s place, he is so methodical! which means, there +is no young children in the house, and old aunty always puts things back +where she takes ‘em from. For she is a good bit of stuff is aunty, as +thin, tough, and soople as a painter’s palate knife. Oh, Lord! how I +would like to lick him with a bran new cow hide whip, round and round +the park, every day, an hour afore breakfast, to improve his wind, and +teach him how to mend his pace. I’d repair his old bellowses for him, I +know. + +“Then look at the butler, how he tordles like a Terrapin; he has got the +gout, that feller, and no wonder, nother. Every decanter that comes in +has jist half a bottle in it, the rest goes in tastin’, to see it aint +corked. His character would suffer if a bit o’ cork floated in it. Every +other bottle is corked, so he drinks that bottle, and opens another, and +gives master half of it. The housekeeper pets him, calls him Mr., asks +him if he has heard from Sir Philip lately, hintin’ that he is of gentle +blood, only the wrong side of the blanket, and that pleases him. They +are both well to do in the world. Vails count up in time, and they talk +big sometimes, when alone together, and hint at warnin’ off the old +knight, marryin’, and settin’ up a tripe shop, some o’ these days; don’t +that hint about wedlock bring him a nice little hot supper that night, +and don’t that little supper bring her a tumbler of nice mulled wine, +and don’t both on ‘em look as knowin’ as a boiled codfish, and a shelled +oyster, that’s all. + +“He once got warned himself, did old Thomas, so said he, ‘Where do you +intend to go master?’ ‘Me,’ said the old man, scratchin’ his head, and +lookin’ puzzled ‘nowhere.’ ‘Oh, I thought _you_ intend to leave, said +Thomas for _I_ don’t.’ ‘Very good that, Thomas, come I like that.’ The +old knight’s got an anecdote by that, and nanny-goats aint picked +up every day in the country. He tells that to every stranger, every +stranger larfs, and the two parsons larf, and the old ‘Sir’ larfs so, he +wakes up an old sleepin’ cough that most breaks his ribs, and Thomas is +set up for a character. + +“Well, arter servants is gone, and women folks made themselves scarce, +we haul up closer to the table, have more room for legs, and then comes +the most interestin’ part. Poor rates, quarter sessions, turnpikes, +corn-laws, next assizes, rail-roads and parish matters, with a touch +of the horse and dog between primo and secondo genitur, for variety. If +politics turn up, you can read who host is in a gineral way with half an +eye. If he is an ante-corn-lawer, then he is a manufacturer that wants +to grind the poor instead of grain. He is a _new man_ and reformer. If +he goes up to the bob for corn-law, then he wants to live and let live, +is _of an old family_, and a tory. Talk of test oaths bein’ done away +with. Why Lord love you, they are in full force here yet. See what a +feller swears by--that’s his test, and no mistake. + +“Well, you wouldn’t guess now there was so much to talk of, would you? +But hear ‘em over and over every day, the same everlastin’ round, and +you would think the topics not so many arter all, I can tell you. It +soon runs out, and when it does, you must wait till the next rain, for +another freshet to float these heavy logs on. + +“Coffee comes, and then it’s up and jine the ladies. Well, then talk +is tried agin, but it’s no go; they can’t come it, and one of the +good-natured fat old lady-birds goes to the piany, and sits on the music +stool. Oh, Hedges! how it creaks, but it’s good stuff, I guess, it +will carry double this hitch; and she sings ‘I wish I was a butterfly.’ +Heavens and airth! the fust time I heard one of these hugeaceous +critters come out with that queer idee, I thought I should a dropt right +off of the otter man on the floor, and rolled over and over a-laughin’, +it tickled me so, it makes me larf now only to think of it. Well, the +wings don’t come, such big butterflies have to grub it in spite of Old +Nick, and after wishin’ and wishin’ ever so long in vain, one of the +young galls sits down and sings in rael right down airnest, ‘I _won’t_ +be a nun.’ Poor critter! there is some sense in that, but I guess she +will be bleeged to be, for all that. + +“Now eatin’ is done, talkin’ is done, and singin’ is done; so here is +chamber candles, and off to bed, that is if you are a-stayin’ there. +If you ain’t, ‘Mr. Weather Mutton’s carriage is ready, Sir,’ and Mr. +Weather Mutton and Mrs. Weather Mutton and the entire stranger get in, +and when you do, you are in for it, I can tell you. You are in for a +seven mile heat at least of cross country roads, axletree deep, rain +pour-in’ straight up and down like Niagara, high hedges, deep ditches +full of water, dark as Egypt; ain’t room to pass nothin’ if you meet +it, and don’t feel jist altogether easy about them cussed alligators and +navigators, critters that work on rail-roads all day, and on houses and +travellers by night. + +“If you come with Mr. Weather Mutton, you seed the carriage in course. +It’s an old one, a family one, and as heavy as an ox cart. The hosses +are old, family hosses, everlastin’ fat, almighty lazy, and the way +they travel is a caution to a snail. It’s vulgar to go fast, its only +butcher’s hosses trot quick, and besides, there is no hurry--there is +nothin’ to do to home. Affectionate couple! happy man! he takes his +wife’s hand in his--kisses it? No, not he, but he puts his head back in +the corner of the carriage, and goes to sleep, and dreams--of her? Not +he indeed, but of a saddle of mutton and curren’ jelly. + +“Well, if you are a-stoppin’ at Sir Littleeared Bighead’s, you escape +the flight by night, and go to bed and think of homeland natur’. Next +mornin’, or rather next noon, down to breakfast. Oh, it’s awfully +stupid! That second nap in the mornin’ always fuddles the head, and +makes it as mothery as ryled cyder grounds. Nobody looks as sweet as +sugar candy quite, except them two beautiful galls and their honey +lips. But them is only to look at. If you want honey, there is some on +a little cut glass, dug out of a dish. But you can’t eat it, for lookin’ +at the genu_wine_, at least I can’t, and never could. I don’t know what +you can do. + +“P’raps you’d like to look at the picture, it will sarve to pass away +time. They are family ones. And family picture, sarve as a history. Our +Mexican Indgians did all their history in picture. Let’s go round the +room and look. Lawful heart! what a big “Brown ox” that is. Old “Star +and Garters;” father fatted him. He was a prize ox; he eat a thousand +bushel of turnips, a thousand pound of oil cake, a thousand of hay, and +a thousand weight of mangel wurzel, and took a thousand days to fat, and +weighed ever so many thousands too. I don’t believe it, but I don’t +say so, out of manners, for I’ll take my oath he was fatted on porter, +because he looks exactly like the footman on all fours. He is a walking +“_Brown Stout_,” that feller. + +“There is a hunter, come, I like hosses; but this brute was painted when +at grass, and is too fat to look well, guess he was a goodish hoss in +his day though. He ain’t a bad cut that’s a fact. + +“Hullo! what’s this pictur? Why, this is from our side of the water, as +I am a livin’ sinner, this is a New-Foundlander, this dog; yes, and he +is of the true genu_wine_ breed too, look at his broad forehead--his +dew-claws--his little ears; (Sir Littleeared must have been named arter +him), his long hair--his beautiful eye. He is a first chop article +that; but, oh Lord, he is too shockin’ fat altogether. He is like Mother +Gary’s chickens, they are all fat and feathers. A wick run through ‘em +makes a candle. This critter is all hair and blubber, if he goes too +near the grate, he’ll catch into a blaze and set fire to the house. + +“There’s our friend the host with cap and gold tassel on, ridin’ on +his back, and there’s his younger brother, (that died to Cambridge from +settin’ up all night for his degree, and suppin’ on dry mathematics, and +swallerin’ “Newton” whole) younger brother like, walkin’ on foot, and +leadin’ the dog by the head, while the heir is a scoldin’ him for not +goin’ faster. + +“Then, there is an old aunty that a forten come from. She looks like a +bale o’ cotton, fust screwed as tight as possible, and then corded hard. +Lord, if they had only a given her a pinch of snuff, when she was full +dressed and trussed, and sot her a sneezin’, she’d a blowed up, and the +fortin would have come twenty years sooner. + +“Yes, it’s a family pictur, indeed, they are all family picture. They +are all fine animals, but over fed and under worked. + +“Now it’s up and take a turn in the gardens. There is some splendid +flowers on that slope. You and the galls go to look at ‘em, and jist as +you get there, the grass is juicy from the everlastin’ rain, and awful +slippy; up go your heels, and down goes stranger on the broad of his +back, slippin’ and slidin’ and coastin’ right down the bank, slap over +the light mud-earth bed, and crushin’ the flowers as flat as a pancake, +and you yaller ochered all over, clean away from the scruff of your +neck, down to the tip eend of your heel. The galls larf, the helps larf, +and the, bed-room maid larfs; and who the plague can blame them? Old +Marm don’t larf though, because she is too perlite, and besides, she’s +lost her flowers, and that’s no larfin’ matter; and you don’t larf, +‘cause you feel a little the nastiest you ever did, and jist as near +like a fool as to be taken for one, in the dark, that’s a fact. + +“Well, you renew the outer man, and try it agin, and it’s look at the +stable and hosses with Sir Host, and the dogs, and the carriages, +and two American trees, and a peacock, and a guinea hen, and a gold +pheasant, and a silver pheasant, and all that, and then lunch. Who the +plague can eat lunch, that’s only jist breakfasted? + +“So away goes lunch, and off goes you and the ‘Sir,’ a trampousin’ and a +trapsein’ over the wet grass agin (I should like to know what ain’t wet +in this country), and ploughed fields, and wide ditches chock full of +dirty water, if you slip in, to souse you most ridikelous; and over +gates that’s nailed up, and stiles that’s got no steps for fear of +thoroughfare, and through underwood that’s loaded with rain-drops, away +off to tother eend of the estate, to see the most beautiful field of +turnips that ever was seen, only the flies eat all the plants up; and +then back by another path, that’s slumpier than t’other, and twice +as long, that you may see an old wall with two broke-out winders, all +covered with ivy, which is called a ruin. And well named it is, too, for +I tore a bran new pair of trousers, most onhandsum, a scramblin’ over +the fences to see it, and ruined a pair of shoes that was all squashed +out of shape by the wet and mud. + +“Well, arter all this day of pleasure, it is time to rig up in your +go-to-meetin’ clothes for dinner; and that is the same as yesterday, +only stupider, if that’s possible; and that is Life in the Country. + +“How the plague can it be otherwise than dull? If there is nothin’ +to see, there can’t be nothin’ to talk about. Now the town is full of +things to see. There is Babbage’s machine, and Bank Governor’s machine, +and the Yankee woman’s machine, and the flyin’ machine, and all sorts of +machines, and galleries, and tunnels, and mesmerisers, and theatres, and +flower-shows, and cattle-shows, and beast-shows, and every kind of show, +and what’s better nor all, beautiful got-up women, and men turned out in +fust chop style, too. + +“I don’t mean to say country women ain’t handsum here, ‘cause they be. +There is no sun here; and how in natur’ can it be otherways than that +they have good complexions. But it tante safe to be caged with them in +a house out o’ town. Fust thing you both do, is to get spooney, makin’ +eyes and company-faces at each other, and then think of matin’, like +a pair of doves, and that won’t answer for the like of you and me. The +fact is, Squire, if you want to see _women_, you musn’t go to a house +in the country, nor to mere good company in town for it, tho’ there +be first chop articles in both; but you must go among the big bugs the +top-lofty nobility, in London; for since the days of old marm Eve, down +to this instant present time, I don’t think there ever was or ever will +be such splendiferous galls as is there. Lord, the fust time I seed ‘em +it put me in mind of what happened to me at New Brunswick once. Governor +of Maine sent me over to their Governor’s, official-like, with a state +letter, and the British officers axed me to dine to their mess. Well, +the English brags so like niggers, I thought I’d prove ‘em, and set ‘em +off on their old trade jist for fun. So, says I, stranger captain, sais +I, is all these forks and spoons, and plates and covers, and urns, +and what nots, rael genu_wine_ solid silver, the clear thing, and no +mistake. ‘Sartainly,’ said he, ‘we have nothin’ but silver here.’ He +did, upon my soul, just as cool, as if it was all true; well you can’t +tell a mili_tary_ what he sais ain’t credible, or you have to fight +him. It’s considered ongenteel, so I jist puts my finger on my nose, and +winks, as much as to say, ‘I ain’t such a cussed fool as you take me to +be, I can tell you.’ + +“When he seed I’d found him out, he larfed like any thing. Guess he +found that was no go, for I warn’t born in the woods to be scared by +an owl, that’s a fact. Well, the fust time I went to lord’s party, I +thought it was another brag agin; I never see nothin’ like it. Heavens +and airth, I most jumpt out o’ my skin. Where onder the sun, sais I to +myself, did he rake and scrape together such super-superior galls as +these. This party is a kind o’ consarvitory, he has got all the raree +plants and sweetest roses in England here, and must have ransacked the +whole country for ‘em. Knowin’ I was a judge of woman kind, he wants me +to think they are all this way; but it’s onpossible. They are only +“shew frigates” arter all; it don’t stand to reason, they can’t be all +clippers. He can’t put the leake into me that way, so it tante no +use tryin’. Well, the next time, I seed jist such another covey of +partridges, same plumage, same step, and same breed. Well done, sais I, +they are intarmed to pull the wool over my eyes, that’s a fact, but they +won’t find that no easy matter, I know. Guess they must be done now, +they can’t show another presarve like them agin in all Britain. What +trouble they do take to brag here, don’t they? Well, to make a long +story short; how do you think it eventuated, Squire? Why every party I +went to, had as grand a shew as them, only some on ‘em was better, fact +I assure you, it’s gospel truth; there ain’t a word of a lie in it, +text to the letter. I never see nothin’ like it, since I was raised, nor +dreamed nothin’ like it, and what’s more, I don’t think the world has +nothin’ like it nother. It beats all natur. It takes the rag off quite. +If that old Turk, Mahomed, had seed these galls, he wouldn’t a bragged +about his beautiful ones in paradise so for everlastinly, I know; for +these English heifers would have beat ‘em all holler, that’s a fact. For +my part, I call myself a judge. I have an eye there ain’t no deceivin’. +I have made it a study, and know every pint about a woman, as well as I +do about a hoss; therefore, if I say so, it must be so, and no mistake. +I make all allowances for the gear, and the gettin’ up, and the vampin’, +and all that sort o’ flash; but toggery won’t make an ugly gall handsum, +nohow you can fix it. It may lower her ugliness a leetle, but it won’t +raise her beauty, if she hante got none. But I warn’t a talkin’ of +nobility; I was a talkin’ of Life in the Country. But the wust of it is, +when galls come on the carpet, I could talk all day; for the dear little +critters, I _do_ love ‘em, that’s a fact. Lick! it sets me crazy a’most. +Well, where was we? for petticoats always puts every thing out o’ my +head. Whereabouts was we?” + +“You were saying that there were more things to be seen in London than +in the country.” + +“Exactly; now I have it. I’ve got the thread agin. So there is. + +“There’s England’s Queen, and England’s Prince, and Hanover’s King, and +the old Swordbelt that whopped Bony; and he is better worth seem’ than +any man now livin’ on the face of the univarsal airth, let t’other one +be where he will, that’s a fact. He is a great man, all through the +piece, and no mistake. If there was--what do you call that word, when +one man’s breath pops into ‘nother man’s body, changin’ lodgins, like?” + +“Do you mean transmigration?” + +“Yes; if there was such a thing as that, I should say it was old Liveoak +himself, Mr. Washington, that was transmigrated into him, and that’s no +mean thing to say of him, I tell you. + +“Well now, there’s none o’ these things to the country; and it’s so +everlastin’ stupid, it’s only a Britisher and a nigger that could live +in an English country-house. A nigger don’t like movin’, and it would +jist suit him, if it warn’t so awful wet and cold. + + “Oh if I was President of these here United States, + I’d suck sugar candy and swing upon de gates; + And them I didn’t like, I’d strike ‘em off de docket, + And the way we’d go ahead, would be akin to Davy Crockit. + With my zippy dooden, dooden dooden, dooden dooden dey, + With my zippy dooden, dooden dooden, dooden dooden dey. + +“It might do for a nigger, suckin’ sugar candy and drinkin’ mint-julep; +but it won’t do for a free and enlightened citizen like me. A country +house--oh goody gracious! the Lord presarve me from it, I say. If ever +any soul ever catches me there agin, I’ll give ‘em leave to tell me of +it, that’s all. Oh go, Squire, by all means; you will find it monstrous +pleasant, I know you will. Go and spend a week there; it will make you +feel up in the stirrups, I know. Pr’aps nothin’ can exceed it. It takes +the rag off the bush quite. It caps all, that’s a fact, does ‘Life in +the Country.’” + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. BUNKUM. + +I am not surprised at the views expressed by Mr. Slick in the previous +chapter. He has led too active a life, and his habits and thoughts are +too business-like to admit of his enjoying retirement, or accommodating +himself to the formal restraints of polished society. And yet, after +making this allowance for his erratic life, it is but fair to add that +his descriptions were always exaggerated; and, wearied as he no doubt +was by the uniformity of country life, yet in describing it, he has +evidently seized on the most striking features, and made them more +prominent than they really appeared, even to his fatigued and prejudiced +vision. + +In other respects, they are just the sentiments we may suppose would +be naturally entertained by a man like the Attache, under such +circumstances. On the evening after that on which he had described “Life +in the Country” to me, he called with two “orders” for admission to the +House of Commons, and took me down with him to hear the debates. + +“It’s a great sight,” said he. “We shall see all their uppercrust +men put their best foot out. There’s a great musterin’ of the tribes, +to-night, and the Sachems will come out with a great talk. There’ll be +some sport, I guess; some hard hittin’, scalpin’, and tomahawkin’. To +see a Britisher scalp a Britisher is equal to a bullfight, anytime. You +don’t keer whether the bull, or the horse, or the rider is killed, none +of ‘em is nothin’ to you; so you can enjoy it, and hurror for him that +wins. I don’t keer who carries the day, the valy of a treat of julep, +but I want to see the sport. It’s excitin’, them things. Come, let’s +go.” + +We were shown into a small gallery, at one end of the legislative +wall (the two side ones being appropriated to members), and with some +difficulty found sitting room in a place that commanded a view of the +whole house. We were unfortunate. All the great speakers, Lord Stanley, +Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Shiel, and Lord John Russell, had +either already addressed the Chair, and were thereby precluded by the +rules of the House from coming forward again, or did not choose to +answer second-rate men. Those whom we did hear, made a most wretched +exhibition. About one o’clock, the adjournment took place, and we +returned, fatigued and disappointed. + +“Did you ever see the beat of that, Squire?” said Mr. Slick. “Don’t that +take the rag off quite? Cuss them fellers that spoke, they are wuss than +assembly men, hang me if they aint; and _they_ aint fit to tend a bear +trap, for they’d be sure to catch themselves, if they did, in their own +pit-fall. + +“Did you hear that Irishman a latherin’ away with both arms, as if he +was tryin’ to thrash out wheat, and see how bothered he looked, as if +he couldn’t find nothin’ but dust and chaff in the straw? Well, that +critter was agin the Bill, in course, and Irish like, used every +argument in favour of it. Like a pig swimmin’ agin stream, every time +he struck out, he was a cuttin’ of his own throat. He then blob blob +blobbered, and gog gog goggled, till he choked with words and passion, +and then sot down. + +“Then that English Radical feller, that spoke with great voice, and +little sense. Aint he a beauty, without paint, that critter? He know’d +he had to vote agin the Bill, ‘cause it was a Government Bill, and be +know’d he had to speak for _Bunkum_, and therefore--” + +“_Bunkum!_” I said, “pray, what is that?” + +“Did you never hear of Bunkum?” + +“No, never.” + +“Why, you don’t mean to say you don’t know what that is?” + +“I do not indeed.” + +“Not Bunkum? Why, there is more of it to Nova Scotia every winter, than +would paper every room in Government House, and then curl the hair of +every gall in the town. Not heer of _Bunkum_? why how you talk!” + +“No, never.” + +“Well, if that don’t pass! I thought every body know’d that word. I’ll +tell you then, what Bunkum is. All over America, every place likes to +hear of its members to Congress, and see their speeches, and if they +don’t, they send a piece to the paper, enquirin’ if their member died a +nateral death, or was skivered with a bowie knife, for they hante seen +his speeches lately, and his friends are anxious to know his fate. Our +free and enlightened citizens don’t approbate silent members; it don’t +seem to them as if Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown was right +represented, unless Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown, makes +itself heard and known, ay, and feared too. So every feller in bounden +duty, talks, and talks big too, and the smaller the State, the louder, +bigger, and fiercer its members talk. + +“Well, when a critter talks for talk sake, jist to have a speech in +the paper to send to home, and not for any other airthly puppus but +electioneering, our folks call it _Bunkum_. Now the State o’ Maine is a +great place for _Bunkum_--its members for years threatened to run foul +of England, with all steam on, and sink her, about the boundary line, +voted a million of dollars, payable in pine logs and spruce boards, up +to Bangor mills--and called out a hundred thousand militia, (only they +never come,) to captur’ a saw mill to New Brunswick--that’s _Bunkum_. +All that flourish about Right o’ Sarch was _Bunkum_--all that brag about +hangin’ your Canada sheriff was _Bunkum_. All the speeches about the +Caroline, and Creole, and Right of Sarch, was _Bunkum_, In short, +almost all that’s said _in Congress_ in _the colonies_, (for we set +the fashions to them, as Paris galls do to our milliners,) and all over +America is _Bunkum_. + +“Well, they talk Bunkum here too, as well as there. Slavery speeches are +all Bunkum; so are reform speeches, too. Do you think them fellers that +keep up such an everlastin’ gab about representation, care one cent +about the extension of franchise? Why no, not they; it’s only to secure +their seats to gull their constituents, to get a name. Do you think +them goneys that make such a touss about the Arms’ Bill, care about the +Irish? No, not they; they want Irish votes, that’s all--it’s _Bunkum_. +Do you jist go and mesmerise John Russell, and Macauley, and the other +officers of the regiment of Reformers, and then take the awkward squad +of recruits--fellers that were made drunk with excitement, and then +enlisted with the promise of a shillin’, which they never got, the +sargeants having drank it all; go and mesmerise them all, from General +Russell down to Private Chartist, clap ‘em into a caterwaulin’ or +catalapsin’ sleep, or whatever the word is, and make ‘em tell the +secrets of their hearts, as Dupotet did the Clear-voyancing gall, and +jist hear what they’ll tell you. + +“Lord John will say--‘I was sincere!’ (and I believe on my soul he was. +He is wrong beyond all doubt, but he is an honest man, and a clever man, +and if he had taken his _own_ way more, and given Powlet Thompson _his_ +less, he would a’ been a great colony secretary; and more’s the pity +he is in such company. He’ll get off his beam ends, and right +himself though, yet, I guess.) Well, he’d say--‘I was sincere, I was +disinterested; but I am disappointed. I have awakened a pack of hungry +villains who have sharp teeth, long claws, and the appetite of the +devil. They have swallered all I gave ‘em, and now would eat me up +without salt, if they could. Oh, that I could hark back! _there is no +satisfyin’ a movement party_.’ + +“Now what do the men say, (I don’t mean men of rank, but the men in +the ranks),--‘Where’s all the fine things we were promised when Reform +gained the day?’ sais they, ‘ay, where are they? for we are wuss off +than ever, now, havin’ lost all our old friends, and got bilked by our +new ones tarnationly. What did all their fine speeches end in at last? +Bunkum; damn the thing but Bunkum. + +“But that aint the wust of it, nother. Bunkum, like lyin’, is plaguy apt +to make a man believe his own bams at last. From telling ‘em so often, +he forgets whether he grow’d ‘em or dreamt ‘em, and so he stands’ +right up on end, kisses the book, and swears to ‘em, as positive as the +Irishman did to the gun, which he said he know’d ever since it was a +pistol. Now, _that’s Bunkum_. + +“But to get back to what we was a talkin’ of, did you ever hear such bad +speakin’ in your life, now tell me candid? because if you have, I never +did, that’s all. Both sides was bad, it aint easy to say which is wus, +six of one and half a dozen of t’other, nothin to brag of nary way. That +government man, that spoke in their favour, warn’t his speech rich? + +“Lord love you! I aint no speaker, I never made but one speech since I +was raised, and that was afore a Slickville legislatur, and then I broke +down. I know’d who I was a talkin’ afore; they was men that had cut +their eye-teeth, and that you could’nt pull the wool over their eyes, +nohow you could fix it, and I was young then. Now I’m growed up, I +guess, and I’ve got my narves in the right place, and as taught as a +drum; and I _could_ speak if I was in the House o’ Commons, that’s a +fact. If a man was to try there, that was worth any thin’, he’d find he +was a flute without knowin’ it. They don’t onderstand nothin’ but Latin +and Greek, and I’d buoy out them sand banks, keep the lead agoin’, stick +to the channel, and never take ground, I know. The way I’d cut water +aint no matter. Oh Solomon! what a field for good speakin’ that question +was to-night, if they only had half an eye, them fellers, and what +a’most a beautiful mess they made of it on both sides! + +“I ain’t a vain man, and never was. You know, Squire, I hante a mossel +of it in my composition; no, if you was to look at me with a ship’s +glass you wouldn’t see a grease spot of it in me. I don’t think any of +us Yankees is vain people; it’s a thing don’t grow in our diggins. We +have too much sense in a giniral way for that; indeed if we wanted any, +we couldn’t get none for love nor money, for John Bull has a monopoly +of it. He won’t open the trade. It’s a home market he looks to, and the +best of it is, he thinks he hante none to spare. + +“Oh, John Bull, John Bull, when you are full rigged, with your white +cravat and white waistcoat like Young England, and have got your +go-to-meetin’ clothes on, if you ain’t a sneezer, it’s a pity, that’s +all. No, I ain’t a vain man, I despise it, as I do a nigger; but, +Squire, what a glorious field the subject to-night is for a man that +knows what’s what, and was up to snuff, ain’t it? Airth and seas! if I +was there, I could speak on either side; for like Waterloo it’s a fair +field; it’s good ground for both parties. Heavens what a speech I could +make! I’d electrify ‘em and kill ‘em dead like lightnin’, and +then galvanise ‘em and fetch’ em to life agin, and then give them +exhiliratin’ gass and set ‘em a larfin’, till they fairly wet themselves +agin with cryin’. Wouldn’t it be fun, that’s all? I could sting Peel +so if I liked, he’d think a galley nipper had bit him, and he’d spring +right off the floor on to the table at one jump, gout or no gout, ravin’ +mad with pain and say, ‘I’m bit thro’ the boot by Gosh;’ or if I was +to take his side, for I care so little about the British, all sides is +alike to me, I’d make them Irish members dance like ravin’, distractin’ +bed bugs. I’d make ‘em howl, first wicked and then dismal, I know. + +“But they can’t do it, to save their souls alive; some has it in ‘em and +can’t get it out, physic ‘em as you would, first with vanity, and then +with office; others have got a way out, but have nothin’ to drive thro’ +the gate; some is so timid, they can’t go ahead; and others are in such +an infarnal hurry, they spend the whole time in false starts. + +“No, there, is no good oratory to parliament now, and the English brag +so, I doubt if it ever was so good, as they say it was in old times. At +any rate, it’s all got down to “Bunkum” now. It’s makin’ a speech for +newspapers and not for the House. It’s to tell on voters and not on +members. Then, what a row they make, don’t they? Hear, hear, hear; +divide, divide, divide; oh, oh, oh; haw, haw, haw. It tante much +different from stump oratory in America arter all, or speakin’ off a +whiskey barrel, is it? It’s a sort of divil me-kear-kind o’ audience; +independent critters, that look at a feller full in the face, as sarcy +as the divil; as much as to say, ‘Talk away, my old ‘coon, you won’t +alter me, I can tell you, it’s all _Bunkum_.’ + +“Lord, I shall never forget poor old Davy Crocket’s last speech; there +was no “bunkum” in that. He despised it; all good shots do, they aim +right straight for the mark and hit it. There’s no shootin’ round the +ring, with them kinder men. Poor old feller, he was a great hunter; a +great shot with the rifle, a great wit, and a great man. He didn’t leave +his _span_ behind him, when he slipt off the handle, I know. + +“Well he stood for an election and lost it, just afore he left the +States; so when it was over, he slings his powder horn on, over his +shoulders, takes his “Betsey,” which was his best rifle, onder his arm, +and mounts on a barrel, to talk it into his constituents, and take leave +of ‘em. + +“‘Feller citizens,’ sais he, ‘we’ve had a fair stand-up fight for it, +and I’m whipped, that are a fact; and thar is no denyin’ of it. I’ve +come now to take my leave of you. You may all go to H--l, and I’ll go to +Texas.’ + +“And he stepped right down, and went over the boundary, and jined the +patriots agin Mexico, and was killed there. + +“Why it will never be forgot, that speech. It struck into the bull’s eye +of the heart. It was noble. It said so much in a few words, and left +the mind to fill the gaps up. The last words is a sayin’ now, and +always will be, to all etarnity. Whenever a feller wants to shew how +indifferent he is, he jist sais, ‘you may go to (hem, hem, you know,) +and I’ll go to Texas.’ There is no _Bunkum_ in that, Squire. + +“Yes, there is no good speakin’ there, speakin’ is no use. Every +feller is pledged and supports his party. A speech don’t alter no man’s +opinions; yes it _may_ alter his _opinions_, but it don’t alter his +vote, that ain’t his’n, it’s his party’s. Still, there is some credit +in a good speech, and some fun too. No feller there has any ridicule; he +has got no ginger in him, he can neither crack his whip, nor lay it on; +he can neither cut the hide nor sting it. Heavens! if I was there I and +I’m sure it’s no great boastin’ to say I’m better than such fellers, as +them small fry of white bait is. If I was there, give me a good subject +like that to-night, give me a good horn of lignum vitae--” + +“Lignum vitae--what’s that?” + +“Lord-o-massy on us! you don’t know nothin’, Squire. Where have you been +all your born days, not to know what lignum vitae is? why lignum vitae, +is hot brandy and water to be sure, pipin’ hot, scald an iron pot amost, +and spiced with cloves and sugar in it, stiff enough to make a tea-spoon +stand up in it, as straight as a dead nigger. Wine ain’t no good, it +goes off as quick as the white beads off of champaign does, and then +leaves a stupid head-ache behind it. But give me the subject and a horn +of lignum vitae (of the wickedest kind), and then let a feller rile me, +so as to get my back up like a fightin’ cat’s, and I’ll tell you +what I’d do, I’d sarve him as our Slickville boys sarve the cows to +California. One on ‘em lays hold of the tail, and the other skins her +as she runs strait an eend. Next year, it’s all growed ready for another +flayin’. Fact, I assure you. Lord! I’d skin a feller so, his hide would +never grow agin; I’d make a caution of him to sinners, I know. + +“Only hear them fellers now talk of extendin’ of the representation; +why the house is a mob now, plaguy little better, I assure you. Like the +house in Cromwell’s time, they want “Sam Slick’s” purge. But talkin’ +of mobs, puts me in mind of a Swoi-ree, I told you I’d describe that to +you, and I don’t care if I do now, for I’ve jist got my talkin’ tacks +aboard. A Swoi-ree is-- + +“We’ll talk of that some other time, Mr. Slick,” said I; “it is now near +two o’clock, I must retire.” + +“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose it is e’en a’most time to be a movin’. +But, Squire, you are a Britisher, why the plague don’t you get into the +house? you know more about colony matters than the whole bilin’ of” them +put together, quite as much about other things, and speak like a--” + +“Come, come, Mr. Slick,” said I, rising and lighting my bed-room candle, +“it is now high time to bid you good night, for you are beginning to +talk _Bunkum_.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. THROWING THE LAVENDER. + +Mr. Slick’s character, like that of many of his countrymen, is not so +easily understood as a person might suppose. We err more often than we +are aware of, when we judge of others by ourselves. English tourists +have all fallen into this mistake, in their, estimate of the Americans. +They judge them by their own standard; they attribute effects to wrong +causes, forgetting that a different tone of feeling, produced by a +different social and political state from their own, must naturally +produce dissimilar results. + +Any person reading the last sketch containing the account, given by Mr. +Slick of the House of Commons, his opinion of his own abilities as a +speaker, and his aspiration after a seat in that body, for the purpose +of “skinning,” as he calls it, impertinent or stupid members, could not +avoid coming to the conclusion that he was a conceited block-head; and +that if his countrymen talked in that absurd manner, they must be the +weakest, and most vain-glorious people in the world. + +That he is a vain man, cannot be denied--self-taught men are apt to be +so every where; but those who understand the New England humour, will +at once perceive, that he has spoken in his own name merely as a +personification, and that the whole passage means after all, when +transposed into that phraseology which an Englishman would use, very +little more than this, that the House of Commons presented a noble +field for a man of abilities as a public speaker; but that in fact, it +contained very few such persons. We must not judge of words or phrases, +when used by foreigners, by the sense we attribute to them, but +endeavour to understand the meaning they attach to them themselves. + +In Mexico, if you admire any thing, the proprietor immediately says, +“Pray do me the honour to consider it yours, I shall be most happy, if +you will permit me, to place it upon you, (if it be an ornament), or to +send it to your hotel,” if it be of a different description. All +this means in English, a present; in Mexican Spanish, a civil speech, +purporting that the owner is gratified, that it meets the approbation +of his visiter. A Frenchman, who heard this grandiloquent reply to his +praises of a horse, astonished his friend, by thanking him in terms +equally amplified, accepting it, and riding it home. + +Mr. Slick would be no less amazed, if understood literally. He has used +a peculiar style; here again, a stranger would be in error, in supposing +the phraseology common to all Americans. It is peculiar only to a +certain class of persons in a certain state of life, and in a particular +section of the States. Of this class, Mr. Slick is a specimen. I do +not mean to say he is not a vain man, but merely that a portion only of +that, which appears so to us, is vanity, and that the rest and by far +the greater portion too, is local or provincial peculiarity. + +This explanation is due to the Americans, who have been grossly +misrepresented, and to the English, who have been egregiously deceived, +by persons attempting to delineate character, who were utterly incapable +of perceiving those minute lights and shades, without which, a portrait +becomes a contemptible daub, or at most a mere caricature. + +“A droll scene that at the house o’ represen_tatives_ last night,” said +Mr. Slick when we next met, “warn’t it? A sort o’ rookery, like that +at the Shropshire Squire’s, where I spent the juicy day. What a darned +cau-cau-cawin’ they keep, don’t they? These members are jist like the +rooks, too, fond of old houses, old woods, old trees, and old harnts. +And they are jist as proud, too, as they be. Cuss ‘em, they won’t visit +a new man, or new plantation. They are too aristocratic for that. They +have a circle of their own. Like the rooks, too, they are privileged to +scour over the farmers’ fields all round home, and play the very devil. + +“And then a fellow can’t hear himself speak for ‘em; divide, divide, +divide, question, question, question; cau, cau, cau, cau, cau, cau. Oh! +we must go there again. I want you to see Peel, Stanley, Graham, Shiel, +Russell, Macauley, Old Joe, and so on. These men are all upper crust +here. Fust of all, I want to hear your opinion of ‘em. I take you to be +a considerable of a good judge in these matters.” + +“No Bunkum, Mr. Slick.” + +“D---- that word Bunkum! If you say that ‘ere agin, I won’t say another +syllable, so come now. Don’t I know who you are? You know every mite, +and morsel as well as I do, that you be a considerable of a judge of +these critters, though you are nothin’ but an outlandish colonist; and +are an everlastin’ sight better judge, too, if you come to that, than +them that judge _you_. Cuss ‘em, the state would be a nation sight +better sarved, if one o’ these old rooks was sent out to try trover for +a goose, and larceny for an old hat, to Nova Scotia, and you was sent +for to take the ribbons o’ the state coach here; hang me if it wouldn’t. +You know that, and feel your oats, too, as well as any one. So don’t be +so infarnal mealy-mouthed, with your mock modesty face, a turnin’ up +of the whites of your eyes as if you was a chokin’, and savin’ ‘No +_Bun-kum_, Mr. Slick.’ Cuss that word Bunkum! I am sorry I ever told you +that are story, you will be for everlastinly a throwin’ up of that are, +to me now. + +“Do you think if I warnted to soft sawder you, I’d take the white-wash +brush to you, and slobber it, on, as a nigger wench does to a board +fence, or a kitchen wall to home, and put your eyes out with the lime? +No, not I; but I could tickel you though, and have done it afore now, +jist for practice, and you warn’t a bit the wiser. Lord, I’d take a +camel’s-hair brush to you, knowin’ how skittish and ticklesome you are, +and do it so it would feel good. I’d make you feel kinder pleasant, I +know, and you’d jist bend your face over to it, and take it as kindly as +a gall does a whisper, when your lips keep jist a brushin’ of the cheek +while you are a talkin’. I wouldn’t go to shock you by a doin’ of it +coarse; you are too quick, and too knowin’ for that. You should smell +the otter o’ roses, and sniff, sniff it up your nostrils, and say to +yourself, ‘How nice that is, ain’t it? Come, I like that, how sweet +it stinks!’ I wouldn’t go for to dash scented water on your face, as a +hired lady does on a winder to wash it, it would make you start back, +take out your pocket-handkercher, and say, “Come, _Mister_ Slick, no +nonsense, if you please.” I’d do it delicate, I know my man: I’d use a +light touch, a soft brush, and a smooth oily rouge.” + +“Pardon me,” I said, “you overrate your own powers, and over-estimate +my vanity. You are flattering yourself now, you can’t flatter me, for I +detest it.” + +“Creation, man,” said Mr. Slick, “I have done it now afore your face, +these last five minutes, and you didn’t know it. Well, if that don’t +bang the bush. It’s tarnation all over that. Tellin’ you, you was so +knowin’, so shy if touched on the flanks; how difficult you was to +take-in, bein’ a sensible, knowin’ man, what’s that but soft sawder? You +swallowed it all. You took it off without winkin’, and opened your mouth +as wide as a young blind robbin does for another worm, and then down +went the Bunkum about making you a Secretary of State, which was rather +a large bolus to swaller, without a draft; down, down it went, like a +greased-wad through a smooth rifle bore; it did, upon my soul. Heavens! +what a take in! what a splendid sleight-of-hand! I never did nothin’ +better in all my born days. I hope I may be shot, if I did. Ha! ha! ha! +ain’t it rich? Don’t it cut six inches on the rib of clear shear, that. +Oh! it’s han_sum_, that’s a fact.” + +“It’s no use to talk about it, Mr. Slick,” I replied; “I plead guilty. +You took me in then. You touched a weak point. You insensibly flattered +my vanity, by assenting to my self-sufficiency, in supposing I was +exempt from that universal frailty of human nature; you “_threw the +Lavender_” well.” + +“I did put the leake into you, Squire, that’s a fact,” said he; “but let +me alone, I know what I am about; let me talk on, my own way. Swaller +what you like, spit out what is too strong for you; but don’t put a +drag-chain on to me, when I am a doin’ tall talkin’, and set my wheels +as fast as pine stumps. You know me, and I know you. You know my speed, +and I know your bottom don’t throw back in the breetchin’ for nothin’ +that way.” + +“Well, as I was a-sayin’, I want you to see these great men, as they +call ‘em. Let’s weigh ‘em, and measure ‘em, and handle ‘em, and then +price ‘em, and see what their market valy is. Don’t consider ‘em as +Tories, or Whigs, or Radicals; we hante got nothin’ to do with none o’ +them; but consider ‘em as statesmen. It’s pot-luck with ‘em all; take +your fork as the pot biles up, jab it in, and fetch a feller up, see +whether he is beef, pork or mutton; partridge, rabbit or lobster; +what his name, grain and flavour is, and how you like him. Treat ‘em +indifferent, and treat ‘em independent. + +“I don’t care a chaw o’ tobacky for the whole on ‘em; and none on ‘em +care a pinch o’ snuff for you or any Hortentort of a colonist that ever +was or ever will be. Lord love you! if you was to write like Scott, and +map the human mind like Bacon, would it advance you a bit in prefarment? +Not it. They have done enough for the colonists, they have turned ‘em +upside down, and given ‘em responsible government? What more do the +rascals want? Do they ask to be made equal to us? No, look at their +social system, and their political system, and tell ‘em your opinion +like a man. You have heard enough of their opinions of colonies, and +suffered enough from their erroneous ones too. You have had Durham +reports, and commissioners’ reports, and parliament reports till your +stomach refuses any more on ‘em. And what are they? a bundle of mistakes +and misconceptions, from beginnin’ to eend. They have travelled by +stumblin’, and have measured every thing by the length of their knee, +as they fell on the ground, as a milliner measures lace, by the bendin’ +down of the forefinger--cuss ‘em! Turn the tables on ‘em. Report on +_them_, measure _them_, but take care to keep your feet though, don’t be +caught trippin’, don’t make no mistakes. + +“Then we’ll go to the Lords’ House--I don’t mean to meetin’ house, +though we must go there too, and hear Me Neil and Chalmers, and them +sort o’ cattle; but I mean the house where the nobles meet, pick out +the big bugs, and see what sort o’ stuff they are made of. Let’s take +minister with us--he is a great judge of these things. I should like you +to hear his opinion; he knows every thin’ a’most, though the ways of the +world bother him a little sometimes; but for valyin’ a man, or stating +principles, or talkin’ politics, there ain’t no man equal to him, +hardly. He is a book, that’s a fact; it’s all there what you want; all +you’ve got to do is to cut the leaves. Name the word in the index, he’ll +turn to the page, and give you day, date, and fact, for it. There is no +mistake in him. + +“That cussed provokin’ visit of yours to Scotland will shove them things +into the next book, I’m afeered. But it don’t signify nothin’; you can’t +cram all into one, and we hante only broke the crust yet, and p’rhaps +it’s as well to look afore you leap too, or you might make as big a fool +of yourself, as some of the Britishers have a-writin’ about us and the +provinces. Oh yes, it’s a great advantage havin’ minister with you. +He’ll fell the big stiff trees for you; and I’m the boy for the +saplin’s, I’ve got the eye and the stroke for them. They spring so +confoundedly under the axe, does second growth and underwood, it’s +dangerous work, but I’ve got the sleight o’ hand for that, and we’ll +make a clean field of it. + +“Then come and survey; take your compass and chain to the ground and +measure, and lay that off--branch and bark the spars for snakin’ off the +ground; cord up the fire-wood, tie up the hoop poles, and then burn off +the trash and rubbish. Do it workman-like. Take your time to it as if +you was workin’ by the day. Don’t hurry, like job work; don’t slobber it +over, and leave half-burnt trees and logs strewed about the surface, but +make smack smooth work. Do that, Squire, do it well, and that is, only +half as good as you can, if you choose, and then--” + +“And then,” said I, “I make no doubt you will have great pleasure ‘_in +throwin’ the Lavender again_.” + + + + +CHAPTER X. AIMING HIGH. + +“What do you intend to do, Squire, with your two youngest boys?” said +Mr. Slick to me to-day, as we were walking in the Park. + +“I design them,” I said, “for professions. One I shall educate for a +lawyer, and the other for a clergyman.” + +“Where?” + +“In Nova Scotia.” + +“Exactly,” says he. “It shews your sense; it’s the very place for ‘em. +It’s a fine field for a young man; I don’t know no better one no where +in the whole univarsal world. When I was a boy larnin’ to shoot, sais +father to me, one day, ‘Sam,’ sais he, ‘I’ll give you a lesson in +gunnin’ that’s worth knowin’. “_Aim high_,” my boy; your gun naterally +settles down a little takin’ sight, cause your arm gets tired, and +wabbles, and the ball settles a little while it’s a travellin’, +accordin’ to a law of natur, called Franklin’s law; and I obsarve you +always hit below the mark. Now, make allowances for these things in +gunnin’, and “aim high,” for your life, always. And, Sam,’ sais he, +‘I’ve seed a great deal of the world, all mili_tary_ men do. ‘I was to +Bunker’s Hill durin’ the engagement, and I saw Washington the day he was +made President, and in course must know more nor most men of my age; +and I’ll give you another bit of advice, “Aim high” in life, and if you +don’t hit the bull’s eye, you’ll hit the “fust circles,” and that ain’t +a bad shot nother.’ + +“‘Father,’ sais I, ‘I guess I’ve seed more of the world than you have, +arter all.’ + +“‘How so, Sam?’ sais he. + +“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘father, you’ve only been to Bunker’s Hill, and that’s +nothin’; no part of it ain’t too steep to plough; it’s only a sizeable +hillock, arter all. But I’ve been to the Notch on the White Mountain, +so high up, that the snow don’t melt there, and seed five States all to +once, and half way over to England, and then I’ve seed Jim Crow dance. +So there now?’ He jist up with the flat of his hand, and gave me a wipe +with it on the side of my face, that knocked me over; and as I fell, he +lent me a kick on my musn’t-mention-it, that sent me a rod or so afore I +took ground on all fours. + +“‘Take that, you young scoundrel!’ said he, ‘and larn to speak +respectful next time to an old man, a mili_tary_ man, and your father, +too.’ + +“It hurt me properly, you may depend. ‘Why,’ sais I, as I picked myself +up, ‘didn’t you tell me to “aim high,” father? So I thought I’d do it, +and beat your brag, that’s all.’ + +“Truth is, Squire, I never could let a joke pass all my life, without +havin’ a lark with it. I was fond of one, ever since I was knee high to +a goose, or could recollect any thin’ amost; I have got into a horrid +sight of scrapes by ‘em, that’s a fact. I never forgot that lesson +though, it was kicked into me: and lessons that are larnt on the right +eend, ain’t never forgot amost. I _have_ “aimed high” ever since, and +see where I be now. Here I am an Attache, made out of a wooden clock +pedlar. Tell you what, I shall be “embassador” yet, made out of nothin’ +but an “Attache,” and I’ll be President of our great Republic, and +almighty nation in the eend, made out of an embassador, see if I don’t. +That comes of “aimin’ high.” What do you call that water near your +coach-house?” + +“A pond.” + +“Is there any brook runnin’ in, or any stream runnin’ out?” + +“No.” + +“Well, that’s the difference between a lake and a pond. Now, set that +down for a traveller’s fact. Now, where do you go to fish?” + +“To the lakes, of course; there are no fish in the ponds.” + +“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick, “that is what I want to bring you to; there +is no fish in a pond, there is nothin’ but frogs. Nova Scotia is only +a pond, and so is New Brunswick, and such outlandish, out o’ the way, +little crampt up, stagnant places. There is no ‘big fish’ there, nor +never can be; there ain’t no food for ‘em. A colony frog!! Heavens and +airth, what an odd fish that is? A colony pollywog! do, for gracious +sake, catch one, put him into a glass bottle full of spirits, and send +him to the Museum as a curiosity in natur. So you are a goin’ to make +your two nice pretty little smart boys a pair of colony frogs, eh? Oh! +do, by all means. + +“You’ll have great comfort in ‘em, Squire. Monstrous comfort. It will +do your old heart good to go down to the edge of the pond on the fust of +May, or thereabouts, accordin’ to the season, jist at sun down, and hear +‘em sing. You’ll see the little fellers swell out their cheeks, and roar +away like young suckin’ thunders. For the frogs beat all natur there for +noise; they have no notion of it here at all. I’ve seed Englishmen that +couldn’t sleep all night, for the everlastin’ noise these critters made. +Their frogs have somethin’ else to do here besides singin’. Ain’t it a +splendid prospect that, havin’ these young frogs settled all round you +in the same mud-hole, all gathered in a nice little musical family +party. All fine fun this, till some fine day we Yankee storks will come +down and gobble them all up, and make clear work of it. + +“No, Squire, take my advice now for once; jist go to your colony +minister when he is alone. Don’t set down, but stand up as if you was in +airnest, and didn’t come to gossip, and tell him, ‘Turn these ponds into +a lake,’ sais you, my lord minister, give them an inlet and an outlet. +Let them be kept pure, and sweet, and wholesome, by a stream, runnin’ +through. Fish will live there then if you put them in, and they will +breed there, and keep up the stock. At present they die; it ain’t big +enough; there ain’t room. If he sais he hante time to hear you, and asks +you to put it into writin’, do you jist walk over to his table, take up +his lignum vitae ruler into your fist, put your back to the door, and +say ‘By the ‘tarnal empire, you _shall_ hear me; you don’t go out of +this, till I give you the butt eend of my mind, I can tell you. I am an +old bull frog now; the Nova Scotia pond is big enough for me; I’ll get +drowned if I get into a bigger one, for I hante got no fins, nothin’ but +legs and arms to swim with, and deep water wouldn’t suit me, I ain’t fit +for it, and I must live and die there, that’s my fate as sure as rates.’ +If he gets tired, and goes to get up or to move, do you shake the big +ruler at him, as fierce as a painter, and say, ‘Don’t you stir for your +life; I don’t want to lay nothin’ _on_ your head, I only want to put +somethin’ _in_ it. I am a father and have got youngsters. I am a native, +and have got countrymen. Enlarge our sphere, give us a chance in the +world.’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say, ‘this minute, Sir, or I’ll put you in +charge of a policeman.’ ‘Let you out is it,’ sais you. ‘Oh! you feel +bein’ pent up, do you? I am glad of it. The tables are turned now, +that’s what we complain of. You’ve stood at the door, and kept us in; +now I’ll keep you in awhile. I want to talk to you, that’s more than you +ever did to us. How do you like bein’ shut in? Does it feel good? Does +it make your dander rise?’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say agin, ‘this moment, +Sir, how dare you.’ Oh! you are in a hurry, are you?’ sais you. ‘You’ve +kept me in all my life; don’t be oneasy if I keep you in five minutes.’ + +“‘Well, what do you want then?’ he’ll say, kinder peevish; ‘what do you +want?’ ‘I don’t want nothin’ for myself,’ sais you. ‘I’ve got all I +can get in that pond; and I got that from the Whigs, fellers I’ve been +abusin’ all my life; and I’m glad to make amends by acknowledging this +good turn they did me; for I am a tory, and no mistake. I don’t want +nothin’; but I want to be an _Englishman_. I don’t want to be an +English _subject_; do you understand that now? If you don’t, this is the +meanin’, that there is no fun in bein’ a fag, if you are never to have a +fag yourself. Give us all fair play. Don’t move now,’ sais you, ‘for I’m +gettin’ warm; I’m gettin’ spotty on the back, my bristles is up, and I +might hurt you with this ruler; it’s a tender pint this, for I’ve rubbed +the skin off of a sore place; but I’ll tell you a gospel truth, and mind +what I tell you, for nobody else has sense enough, and if they had, they +hante courage enough. If you don’t make _Englishmen of us_, the force of +circumstances will _make Yankees_ of us, as sure as you are born.’ He’ll +stare at that. He is a clever man, and aint wantin’ in gumption. He +is no fool, that’s a fact. ‘Is it no compliment to you and your +institutions this?’ sais you. ‘Don’t it make you feel proud that even +independence won’t tempt us to dissolve the connexion? Ain’t it a noble +proof of your good qualities that, instead of agitatin’ for Repeal of +the Union, we want a closer union? But have we no pride too? We would be +onworthy of the name of Englishmen, if we hadn’t it, and we won’t stand +beggin’ for ever I tell _you_. Here’s our hands, give us yourn; let’s +be all Englishmen together. Give us a chance, and if us, young English +boys, don’t astonish you old English, my name ain’t Tom Poker, that’s +all.’ ‘Sit down,’ he’ll say, ‘Mr. Poker;’ there is a great deal in that; +sit down; I am interested.’ + +“The instant he sais that, take your ruler, lay it down on the table, +pick up your hat, make a scrape with your hind leg, and say, ‘I regret +I have detained you so long, Sir. I am most peskily afraid my warmth +has kinder betrayed me into rudeness. I really beg pardon, I do upon +my soul. I feel I have smashed down all decency, I am horrid ashamed of +myself.’ Well, he won’t say you hante rode the high hoss, and done the +unhandsum thing, because it wouldn’t be true if he did; but he’ll say, +‘Pray be seated. I can make allowances, Sir, even for intemperate zeal. +And this is a very important subject, very indeed. There is a monstrous +deal in what you say, though you have, I must say, rather a peculiar, +an unusual, way of puttin’ it.’ Don’t you stay another minit though, +nor say another word, for your life; but bow, beg pardon, hold in your +breath, that your face may look red, as if you was blushin’, and back +out, starn fust. Whenever you make an impression on a man, stop; your +reasonin’ and details may ruin you. Like a feller who sais a good thing, +he’d better shove off, and leave every one larfin’ at his wit, than stop +and tire them out, till they say what a great screw augur that is. Well, +if you find he opens the colonies, and patronises the smart folks, leave +your sons there if you like, and let ‘em work up, and work out of it, if +they are fit, and time and opportunity offers. But one thing is sartain, +_the very openin’ of the door will open their minds_, as a matter of +course. If he don’t do it, and I can tell you before hand he won’t--for +they actilly hante got time here, to think of these things--send your +boys here into the great world. Sais you to the young Lawyer, ‘Bob,’ +sais you, ‘“aim high.” If you don’t get to be Lord Chancellor, I shall +never die in peace. I’ve set my heart on it. It’s within your reach, if +you are good for anything. Let me see the great seal--let me handle it +before I die--do, that’s a dear; if not, go back to your Colony pond, +and sing with your provincial frogs, and I hope to Heaven the fust +long-legged bittern that comes there will make a supper of you.” + +“Then sais you to the young parson, ‘Arthur,’ sais you ‘Natur jist +made you for a clergyman. Now, do you jist make yourself ‘Archbishop of +Canterbury.’ My death-bed scene will be an awful one, if I don’t see you +‘the Primate’; for my affections, my hopes, my heart, is fixed on it. +I shall be willin’ to die then, I shall depart in peace, and leave this +world happy. And, Arthur,’ sais you, ‘they talk and brag here till one +is sick of the sound a’most about “Addison’s death-bed.” Good people +refer to it as an example, authors as a theatrical scene and hypocrites +as a grand illustration for them to turn up the whites of their cold +cantin’ eyes at. Lord love you, my son,’ sais you, ‘let them brag of it; +but what would it be to mine; you congratulatin’ me on goin’ to a better +world, and me congratulatin’ you on bein’ “Archbishop.” Then,’ sais you, +in a starn voice like a boatsan’s trumpet--for if you want things to be +remembered, give ‘em effect, “Aim high,” Sir,’ sais you. Then like my +old father, fetch him a kick on his western eend, that will lift him +clean over the table, and say ‘that’s the way to rise in the world, you +young sucking parson you. “Aim high,” Sir.’ + +“Neither of them will ever forget it as long as they live. The hit does +that; for a kick is a very _striking_ thing, that’s a fact. There +has been _no good scholars since birch rods went out o’ school, and +sentiment went in_.” + +“But you know,” I said, “Mr. Slick, that those high prizes in the +lottery of life, can, in the nature of things, be drawn but by few +people, and how many blanks are there to one-prize in this world.” + +“Well, what’s to prevent your boys gettin’ those prizes, if colonists +was made Christians of, instead of outlawed, exiled, transported, +oncarcumcised heathen Indgean niggers, as they be. If people don’t put +into a lottery, how the devil can they get prizes? will you tell +me that. Look at the critters here, look at the publicans, taylors, +barbers, and porters’ sons, how the’ve rose here, ‘in this big lake,’ +to be chancellors and archbishops; how did they get them? They ‘aimed +high,’ and besides, all that, like father’s story of the gun, by ‘aiming +high,’ though they may miss the mark, they will be sure to hit the +upper circles. Oh, Squire, there is nothing like ‘aiming high,’ in this +world.” + +“I quite agree with you, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell. “I never heard you +speak so sensibly before. Nothing can be better for young men than +“Aiming high.” Though they may not attain to the highest honours, +they may, as you say, reach to a most respectable station. But surely, +Squire, you will never so far forget the respect that is due to so high +an officer as a Secretary of State, or, indeed, so far forget yourself +as to adopt a course, which from its eccentricity, violence, and +impropriety, must leave the impression that your intellects are +disordered. Surely you will never be tempted to make the experiment?” + +“I should think not, indeed,” I said. “I have no desire to become an +inmate of a lunatic asylum.” + +“Good,” said he; “I am satisfied. I quite agree with Sam, though. +Indeed, I go further. I do not think he has advised you to recommend +your boys to ‘aim high enough.’” + +“Creation! said Mr. Slick, “how much higher do you want provincial frogs +to go, than to be ‘Chancellor’ and ‘Primate?’ + +“I’ll tell you, Sam; I’d advise them to ‘aim higher’ than earthly +honours. I would advise them to do their duty, in any station of life in +which it shall please Providence to place them; and instead of striving +after unattainable objects here, to be unceasing in their endeavours to +obtain that which, on certain conditions, is promised to all hereafter. +In their worldly pursuits, as men, it is right for them to ‘_aim high_;’ +but as Christians, it is also their duty to ‘_aim higher_.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XI. A SWOI-REE. + +Mr. Slick visited me late last night, dressed as if he had been at a +party, but very cross, and, as usual when in that frame of mind, he +vented his ill-humour on the English. + +“Where have you been to-night, Mr. Slick?” + +“Jist where the English hosses will be,” he replied, “when Old Clay +comes here to this country;--no where. I have been on a stair-case, +that’s where I have been; and a pretty place to see company in, ain’t +it? I have been jammed to death in an entry, and what’s wus than all, I +have given one gall a black eye with my elbow, tore another one’s frock +off with my buttons, and near about cut a third one’s leg in two with my +hat. Pretty well for one night’s work, ain’t it? and for me too, that’s +so fond of the dear little critturs, I wouldn’t hurt a hair of their +head, if I could help it, to save my soul alive. What a spot o’ work! + +“What the plague do people mean here by askin’ a mob to their house, +and invitin’ twice as many as can get into it? If they think it’s +complimental, they are infarnally mistaken, that’s all: it’s an insult +and nothin’ else, makin’ a fool of a body that way. Heavens and airth! I +am wringing wet! I’m ready to faint! Where’s the key of your cellaret? I +want some brandy and water. I’m dead; bury me quick, for I won’t be +nice directly. Oh dear! how that lean gall hurt me! How horrid sharp her +bones are! + +“I wish to goodness you’d go to a Swoi-ree oncet, Squire, jist oncet--a +grand let off, one that’s upper crust and rael jam. It’s worth seein’ +oncet jist as a show, I tell _you_, for you have no more notion of it +than a child. All Halifax, if it was swept up clean and shook out into a +room, wouldn’t make one swoi-ree. I have been to three to night, and all +on ‘em was mobs--regular mobs. The English are horrid fond of mobs, and +I wonder at it too; for of all the cowardly, miserable, scarry mobs, +that ever was seen in this blessed world, the English is the wust. +Two dragoons will clear a whole street as quick as wink, any time. The +instant they see ‘em, they jist run like a flock of sheep afore a couple +of bull dogs, and slope off properly skeered. Lawful heart, I wish +they’d send for a dragoon, all booted, and spurred, and mounted, and let +him gallop into a swoi-ree, and charge the mob there. He’d clear ‘em out +_I_ know, double quick: he’d chase one quarter of ‘em down stairs head +over heels, and another quarter would jump out o’ the winders, and break +their confounded necks to save their lives, and then the half that’s +left, would he jist about half too many for comfort. + +“My first party to-night wus a conversation one; that is for them that +_could_ talk; as for me I couldn’t talk a bit, and all I could think +was, ‘how infarnal hot it is! I wish I could get in!’ or, ‘oh dear, if +I could only get out!’ It was a scientific party, a mob o’ men. Well, +every body expected somebody would be squashed to death, and so ladies +went, for they always go to executions. They’ve got a kinder nateral +taste for the horrors, have women. They like to see people hanged or +trod to death, when they can get a chance. It _was_ a conversation +warn’t it? that’s all. I couldn’t understand a word I heard. Trap shale +Greywachy; a petrified snail, the most important discovery of modern +times. Bank governor’s machine weighs sovereigns, light ones go to the +right, and heavy ones to the left. + +“‘Stop,’ says I, ‘if you mean the sovereign people here, there are none +on ‘em light. Right and left is both monstrous heavy; all over weight, +every one on ‘em. I’m squeezed to death.’ + +“‘Very good, Mr. Slick. Let me introduce you to ----,’ they are whipt +off in the current, and I don’t see ‘em again no more. ‘A beautiful shew +of flowers, Madam, at the garden: they are all in full blow now. The +rhododendron--had a tooth pulled when she was asleep.’ ‘Please to let me +pass, Sir.’ ‘With all my heart, Miss, if I could; but I can’t move; if I +could I would down on the carpet, and you should walk over me. Take care +of your feet, Miss, I am off of mine. Lord bless me! what’s this? why as +I am a livin’ sinner, it’s half her frock hitched on to my coat button. +Now I know what that scream meant.’ + +“‘How do you do, Mr. Slick? When did you come?’ ‘Why I came--’ he +is turned round, and shoved out o’ hearin.’ ‘Xanthian marbles at the +British Museum are quite wonderful; got into his throat, the doctor +turned him upside down, stood him on his head, and out it came--his own +tunnel was too small.’ ‘Oh, Sir, you are cuttin’ me.’ ‘Me, Miss! Where +had I the pleasure of seein’ you before, I never cut a lady in my life, +could’nt do so rude a thing. Havn’t the honour to recollect you.’ ‘Oh, +Sir, take it away, it cuts me.’ Poor thing, she is distracted, I don’t +wonder. She’s drove crazy, though I think she must have been mad to come +here at all. ‘Your hat, Sir.’ ‘Oh, that cussed French hat is it? Well, +the rim is as stiff and as sharp as a cleaver, that’s a fact, I don’t +wonder it cut you.’ ‘Eddis’s pictur--capital painting, fell out of the +barge, and was drowned.’ ‘Having been beat on the shillin’ duty; they +will attach him on the fourpence, and thimble rigg him out of that.’ +‘They say Sugden is in town, hung in a bad light, at the Temple +Church.’----‘Who is that?’ ‘Lady Fobus; paired off for the Session; +Brodie operated.’----Lady Francis; got the Life Guards; there will be +a division to-night.’----That’s Sam Slick; I’ll introduce you; +made a capital speech in the House of Lords, in answer to +Brougham--Lobelia--voted for the bill--The Duchess is very fond +of----Irish Arms--’ + +“Oh! now I’m in the entry. How tired I am! It feels shockin’ cold here, +too, arter comin’ out o’ that hot room. Guess I’ll go to the grand +musical party. Come, this will do; this is Christian-like, there is room +here; but the singin’ is in next room, I will go and hear them. Oh! here +they are agin; it’s a proper mob this. Cuss, these English, they can’t +live out of mobs. Prince Albert is there in that room; I must go and see +him. He is popular; he is a renderin’ of himself very agreeable to the +English, is Prince: he mixes with them as much as he can; and shews +his sense in that. Church steeples are very pretty things: that one to +Antwerp is splendiriferous; it’s everlastin’ high, it most breaks your +neck layin’ back your head to look at it; bend backward like a hoop, and +stare at it once with all your eyes, and you can’t look up agin, you are +satisfied. It tante no use for a Prince to carry a head so high as that, +Albert knows this; he don’t want to be called the highest steeple, +cause all the world knows he is about the top loftiest; but he want’s to +descend to the world we live in. + +“With a Queen all men love, and a Prince all men like, royalty has a +root in the heart here. Pity, too, for the English don’t desarve to have +a Queen; and such a Queen as they have got too, hang me if they do. They +ain’t men, they hante the feelin’s or pride o’ men in ‘em; they ain’t +what they used to be, the nasty, dirty, mean-spirited, sneakin’ skunks, +for if they had a heart as big as a pea--and that ain’t any great size, +nother--cuss ‘em, when any feller pinted a finger at her to hurt her, or +even frighten her, they’d string him right up on the spot, to the lamp +post. Lynch him like a dog that steals sheep right off the reel, and +save mad-doctors, skary judges, and Chartist papers all the trouble of +findin’ excuses. And, if that didn’t do, Chinese like, they’d take the +whole crowd present and sarve _them_ out. They’d be sure to catch the +right one then. I wouldn’t shed blood, because that’s horrid; it shocks +all Christian people, philosophisin’ legislators, sentimental ladies, +and spooney gentlemen. It’s horrid barbarous that, is sheddin’ blood; I +wouldn’t do that, I’d jist hang him. A strong cord tied tight round his +neck would keep that precious mixtur, traitor’s blood, all in as close +as if his mouth was corked, wired, and white-leaded, like a champagne +bottle. + +“Oh dear! these are the fellers that come out a travellin’ among us, +and sayin’ the difference atween you and us is ‘the absence of loyalty.’ +I’ve heard tell a great deal of that loyalty, but I’ve seen precious +little of it, since I’ve been here, that’s a fact. I’ve always told you +these folks ain’t what they used to be, and I see more and more, on +‘em every day. Yes, the English are like their hosses, they are so fine +bred, there is nothin’ left of ‘em now but the hide, hair, and shoes. + +“So Prince Albert is there in that room; I must get in there and see +him, for I have never sot eyes on him since I’ve been here, so here +goes. Onder, below there, look out for your corns, hawl your feet in, +like turtles, for I am a comin’. Take care o’ your ribs, my old ‘coons, +for my elbows are crooked. Who wants to grow? I’ll squeeze you out as a +rollin’-pin does dough, and make you ten inches taller. I’ll make good +figures of you, my fat boys and galls, I know. Look out for scaldin’s +there. Here I am: it’s me, Sam Slick, make way, or I’ll walk right over +you, and cronch you like lobsters. ‘Cheap talkin’, or rather thinkin’, +sais I; for in course I couldn’t bawl that out in company here; they +don’t understand fun, and would think it rude, and ongenteel. I have to +be shockin’ cautious what I say here, for fear I might lower our great +nation in the eyes of foreigners. I have to look big and talk big the +whole blessed time, and I am tired of it. It ain’t nateral to me; and, +besides braggin’ and repudiatin’ at the same time, is most as bad as +cantin’ and swearin’. It kinder chokes me. I thought it all though, and +said it all to myself. ‘And,’ sais I, ‘take your time, Sam; you can’t do +it, no how, you can fix-it. You must wait your time, like other folks. +Your legs is tied, and your arms is tied down by the crowd, and you +can’t move an inch beyond your nose. The only way is, watch your chance, +wait till you can get your hands up, then turn the fust two persons +that’s next to you right round, and slip between them like a turn stile +in the park, and work your passage that way. Which is the Prince? That’s +him with the hair carefully divided, him with the moustaches. I’ve seed +him; a plaguy handsum man he is, too. Let me out now. I’m stifled, I’m +choked. My jaws stick together, I can’t open ‘em no more; and my wind +won’t hold out another minute. + +“I have it now, I’ve got an idea. See if I don’t put the leake into +‘em. Won’t I _do_ them, that’s all? Clear the way there, the Prince is a +comin’, _and_ so is the Duke. And a way is opened: waves o’ the sea roll +hack at these words, and I walks right out, as large as life, and the +fust Egyptian that follers is drowned, for the water has closed +over him. Sarves him right, too, what business had he to grasp my +life-preserver without leave. I have enough to do to get along by my own +wit, without carry in’ double. + +“‘Where is the Prince? Didn’t they say he was a comin’? Who was that +went out? He don’t look like the Prince; he ain’t half so handsum, that +feller, he looks, like a Yankee.’ ‘Why, that was Sam Slick.’ ‘Capital, +that! What a droll feller he is; he is always so ready! He desarves +credit for that trick.’ Guess I do; but let old Connecticut alone; +us Slickville boys always find a way to dodge in or out embargo or no +embargo, blockade or no blockade, we larnt that last war. + +“Here I am in the street agin; the air feels handsum. I have another +invitation to-night, shall I go? Guess I will. All the world is at these +two last places, I reckin there will be breathin’ room at the next; and +I want an ice cream to cool my coppers, shockin’ bad.--Creation! It is +wus than ever; this party beats t’other ones all holler. They ain’t no +touch to it. I’ll jist go and make a scrape to old uncle and aunty, and +then cut stick; for I hante strength to swiggle my way through another +mob. + +“‘You had better get in fust, though, hadn’t you, Sam? for here you +are agin wracked, by gosh, drove right slap ashore atween them two fat +women, and fairly wedged in and bilged. You can’t get through, and can’t +get out, if you was to die for it.’ ‘Can’t I though? I’ll try; for I +never give in, till I can’t help it. So here’s at it. Heave off, put +all steam on, and back out, starn fust, and then swing round into the +stream. That’s the ticket, Sam.’ It’s done; but my elbow has took that +lady that’s two steps furder down on the stairs, jist in the eye, and +knocked in her dead light. How she cries! how I apologize, don’t I? +And the more I beg pardon, the wus she carries on. But it’s no go; if I +stay, I must fust fight somebody, and then marry _her_; for I’ve spiled +her beauty, and that’s the rule here, they tell me.’ + +“So I sets studen sail booms, and cracks on all sail, and steers for +home, and here I am once more; at least what’s left of me, and that +ain’t much more nor my shader. Oh dear! I’m tired, shockin’ tired, +almost dead, and awful thirsty; for Heaven’s sake, give me some lignum +vitae, for I am so dry, I’ll blow away in dust. + +“This is a Swoi-ree, Squire, this is London society; this is rational +enjoyment, this is a meeting of friends, who are so infarnal friendly +they are jammed together so they can’t leave each other. Inseparable +friends; you must choke ‘em off, or you can’t part ‘em. Well, I ain’t +jist so thick and intimate with none o’ them in this country as all that +comes to nother. I won’t lay down my life for none on ‘em; I don’t see +no occasion for it, _do you_? + +“I’ll dine with you, John Bull, if you axe me; and I ain’t nothin’ above +particular to do, and the cab hire don’t cost more nor the price of a +dinner; but hang me if ever I go to a Swoi-ree agin. I’ve had enough of +that, to last me _my_ life, I know. A dinner I hante no objection to, +though that ain’t quite so bright as a pewter button nother, when you +don’t know you’re right and left, hand man. And an evenin’ party, I +wouldn’t take my oath I wouldn’t go to, though I don’t know hardly what +to talk about, except America; and I’ve bragged so much about that, I’m +tired of the subject. But a _Swoi-ree is the devil, that’s a fact_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. TATTERSALL’S OR, THE ELDER AND THE GRAVE DIGGER. + +“Squire,” said Mr. Slick, “it ain’t rainin’ to-day; suppose you come +along with me to Tattersall’s. I have been studyin’ that place a +considerable sum to see whether it is a safe shop to trade in or no. But +I’m dubersome; I don’t like the cut of the sportin’ folks here. If I can +see both eends of the rope, and only one man has hold of one eend, and +me of the tother, why I know what I am about; but if I can only see my +own eend, I don’t know who I am a pullin’ agin. I intend to take a rise +out o’ some o’ the knowin’ ones here, that will make ‘em scratch their +heads, and stare, I know. But here we are. Cut round this corner, into +this Lane. Here it is; this is it to the right.” + +We entered a sort of coach-yard, which was filled with a motley and +mixed crowd of people. I was greatly disappointed in Tattersall’s. +Indeed, few things in London have answered my expectations. They have +either exceeded or fallen short of the description I had heard of them. +I was prepared, both from what I was told by Mr. Slick, and heard, from +others, to find that there were but very few gentlemen-like looking men +there; and that by far the greater number neither were, nor affected to +be, any thing but “knowing ones.” I was led to believe that there +would be a plentiful use of the terms _of art_, a variety of provincial +accent, and that the conversation of the jockeys and grooms would be +liberally garnished with appropriate slang. + +The gentry portion of the throng, with some few exceptions, it was said, +wore a dissipated look, and had that peculiar appearance of incipient +disease, that indicates a life of late hours, of excitement, and +bodily exhaustion. Lower down in the scale of life, I was informed, +intemperance had left its indelible marks. And that still further down, +were to be found the worthless lees of this foul and polluted stream of +sporting gentlemen, spendthrifts, gamblers, bankrupts, sots, sharpers +and jockeys. + +This was by no means the case. It was just what a man might have +expected to have found a great sporting exchange and auction mart, of +horses and carriages, to have been, in a great city like London, had he +been merely told that such was the object of the place, and then left +to imagine the scene. It was, as I have before said, a mixed and motley +crowd; and must necessarily be so, where agents attend to bid for their +principals, where servants are in waiting upon their masters, and above +all, where the ingress is open to every one. + +It is, however, unquestionably the resort of gentlemen. In a great and +rich country like this, there must, unavoidably, be a Tattersall’s; and +the wonder is, not that it is not better, but that it is not infinitely +worse. Lake all striking pictures, it had strong lights and shades. +Those who have suffered, are apt to retaliate; and a man who has been +duped, too often thinks he has a right to make reprisals. Tattersall’s, +therefore, is not without its privateers. Many persons of rank and +character patronize sporting, from a patriotic but mistaken notion, +that it is to the turf alone the excellence of the English horse is +attributable. + +One person of this description, whom I saw there for a short time, I had +the pleasure of knowing before; and from him I learned many interesting +anecdotes of individuals whom he pointed out as having been once well +known about town, but whose attachment to gambling had effected their +ruin. Personal stories of this kind are, however, not within the scope +of this work. + +As soon as we entered, Mr. Slick called my attention to the carriages +which were exhibited for sale, to their elegant shape and “beautiful +fixins,” as he termed it; but ridiculed, in no measured terms, their +enormous weight. “It is no wonder,” said he, “they have to get fresh +hosses here every ten miles, and travellin’ costs so much, when the +carriage alone is enough to kill beasts. What would Old Bull say, if +I was to tell him of one pair of hosses carryin’ three or four people, +forty or fifty miles a-day, day in and day out, hand runnin’ for a +fortnight? Why, he’d either be too civil to tell me it was a lie, or +bein’ afeerd I’d jump down his throat if he did, he’d sing dumb, and let +me see by his looks, he thought so, though. + +“I intend to take the consait out of these chaps, and that’s a fact. If +I don’t put the leak into ‘em afore I’ve done with them, my name ain’t +Sam Slick, that’s a fact. I’m studyin’ the ins and the outs of this +place, so as to know what I am about, afore I take hold; for I feel +kinder skittish about my men. Gentlemen are the lowest, lyinest, +bullyinest, blackguards there is, when they choose to be; ‘specially if +they have rank as well as money. A thoroughbred cheat, of good blood, +is a clipper, that’s a fact. They ain’t right up-and-down, like a cow’s +tail, in their dealin’s; and they’ve got accomplices, fellers that +will lie for ‘em like any thing, for the honour of their company; and +bettin’, onder such circumstances, ain’t safe. + +“But, I’ll tell you what is, if you have got a hoss that can do it, and +no mistake: back him, hoss agin hoss, or what’s safer still, hoss agin +time, and you can’t be tricked. Now, I’ll send for Old Clay, to come in +Cunard’s steamer, and cuss ‘em they ought to bring over the old hoss and +his fixins, free, for it was me first started that line. The way old Mr. +Glenelg stared, when I told him it was thirty-six miles shorter to go +from Bristol to New York by the way of Halifax, than to go direct warn’t +slow. It stopt steam for that hitch, that’s a fact, for he thort I was +mad. He sent it down to the Admiralty to get it ciphered right, and it +took them old seagulls, the Admirals a month to find it out. + +“And when they did, what did they say? Why, cuss ‘em, says they, ‘any +fool knows that.’ Says I, ‘If that’s the case you are jist the boys then +that ought to have found it out right off at oncet.’ + +“Yes, Old Clay ought to go free, but he won’t; and guess I am able to +pay freight for him, and no thanks to nobody. Now, I’ll tell you what, +English trottin’ is about a mile in two minutes and forty-seven seconds, +and that don’t happen oftener than oncet in fifty years, if it was ever +done at all, for the English brag so there is no telling right. Old Clay +_can_ do his mile in two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. He _has_ done +that, and I guess he _could_ do more. I have got a car, that is as light +as whalebone, and I’ll bet to do it with wheels and drive myself. I’ll +go in up to the handle, on Old Clay. I have a hundred thousand dollars +of hard cash made in the colonies, I’ll go half of it on the old hoss, +hang me if I don’t, and I’ll make him as well knowd to England as he is +to Nova Scotia. + +“I’ll allow him to be beat at fust, so as to lead ‘em on, and Clay is +as cunnin’ as a coon too, if he don’t get the word g’lang (go along) +and the Indgian skelpin’ yell with it, he knows I ain’t in airnest, and +he’ll allow me to beat him and bully him like nothin’. He’ll pretend to +do his best, and sputter away like a hen scratchin’ gravel, but he won’t +go one mossel faster, for he knows I never lick a free hoss. + +“Won’t it be beautiful? How they’ll all larf and crow, when they see me +a thrashin’ away at the hoss, and then him goin’ slower, the faster I +thrash, and me a threatenin’ to shoot the brute, and a talkin’ at the +tip eend of my tongue like a ravin’ distracted bed bug, and offerin’ +to back him agin, if they dare, and planken down the pewter all round, +takin’ every one up that will go the figur’, till I raise the bets to +the tune of fifty thousand dollars. When I get that far, they may +stop their larfin’ till next time, I guess. That’s the turn of the +fever--that’s the crisis--that’s my time to larf then. + +“I’ll mount the car then, take the bits of list up, put ‘em into right +shape, talk a little Connecticut Yankee to the old hoss, to set his +ebenezer up, and make him rise inwardly, and then give the yell,” (which +he uttered in his excitement in earnest; and a most diabolical one it +was. It pierced me through and through, and curdled my very blood, it +was the death shout of a savage.) “G’lang you skunk, and turn out your +toes pretty,” said he, and he again repeated this long protracted, +shrill, infernal yell, a second time. + +Every eye was instantly turned upon us. Even Tattersall suspended his +“he is five years old--a good hack--and is to be sold,” to give time for +the general exclamation of surprise. “Who the devil is that? Is he +mad? Where did _he_ come from? Does any body know him? He is a devilish +keen-lookin’ fellow that; what an eye he has! He looks like a Yankee, +that fellow.” + +“He’s been here, your honour, several days, examines every thing and +says nothing; looks like a knowing one, your honour. He handles a hoss +as if he’d seen one afore to-day, Sir.” + +“Who is that gentleman with him?” + +“Don’t know, your honour, never saw him before; he looks like a +furriner, too.” + +“Come, Mr. Slick,” said I, “we are attracting too much attention here, +let us go.” + +“Cuss ‘em,” said he, “I’ll attract more attention afore I’ve done yet, +when Old Clay comes, and then I’ll tell ‘em who I am--Sam Slick, +from Slickville, Onion County, State of Connecticut, United States of +America. But I do suppose we had as good make tracks, for I don’t want +folks to know me yet. I’m plaguy sorry I let put that countersign of Old +Clay too, but they won’t onderstand it. Critters like the English, that +know everything have generally weak eyes, from studyin’ so hard. + +“Did you take notice of that critter I was a handlin’ of, Squire? that +one that’s all drawed up in the middle like a devil’s darnin’ needle; +her hair a standin’ upon eend as if she was amazed at herself, and +a look out of her eye, as if she thort the dogs would find the steak +kinder tough, when they got her for dinner. Well, that’s a great mare +that ‘are, and there ain’t nothin’ onder the sun the matter of her, +except the groom has stole her oats, forgot to give her water, and let +her make a supper sometimes off of her nasty, mouldy, filthy beddin’. I +hante see’d a hoss here equal to her a’most--short back, beautiful rake +to the shoulder, great depth of chest, elegant quarter, great stifle, +amazin’ strong arm, monstrous nice nostrils, eyes like a weasel, all +outside, game ears, first chop bone and fine flat leg, with no gum on no +part of it. She’s a sneezer that; but she’ll be knocked down for twenty +or thirty pound, because she looks as if she was used up. + +“I intended to a had that mare, for I’d a made her worth twelve hundred +dollars. It was a dreadful pity, I let go, that time, for I actilly +forgot where I was. I’ll know better next hitch, for boughten wit is +the best in a general way. Yes, I’m peskily sorry about that mare. Well, +swappin’ I’ve studied, but I doubt if it’s as much the fashion here as +with us; and besides, swappin’ where you don’t know the county and its +tricks, (for every county has its own tricks, different from others), is +dangersome too. I’ve seen swaps where both sides got took in. Did ever I +tell you the story of the “Elder and the grave-digger?” + +“Never,” I replied; “but here we are at our lodgings. Come in, and tell +it to me.” + +“Well,” said he, “I must have a glass of mint julip fust, to wash down +that ere disappointment about the mare. It was a dreadful go that. I +jist lost a thousand dollars by it, as slick as grease. But it’s an +excitin’ thing is a trottin’ race, too. When you mount, hear the word +‘Start!’ and shout out ‘G’lang!’ and give the pass word.” + +Good heavens! what a yell he perpetrated again. I put both hands to my +ears, to exclude the reverberations of it from the walls. + +“Don’t be skeered, Squire; don’t be skeered. We are alone now: there is +no mare to lose. Ain’t it pretty? It makes me feel all dandery and on +wires like.” + +“But the grave-digger?” said I. + +“Well,” says he, “the year afore I knowed you, I was a-goin’ in the +fall, down to Clare, about sixty miles below Annapolis, to collect some +debts due to me there from the French. And as I was a-joggin’ on along +the road, who should I overtake but Elder Stephen Grab, of Beechmeadows, +a mounted on a considerable of a clever-lookin’ black mare. The Elder +was a pious man; at least he looked like one, and spoke like one too. +His face was as long as the moral law, and p’rhaps an inch longer, and +as smooth as a hone; and his voice was so soft and sweet, and his tongue +moved so ily on its hinges, you’d a thought you might a trusted him with +ontold gold, if you didn’t care whether you ever got it agin or no. He +had a bran new hat on, with a brim that was none of the smallest, to +keep the sun from makin’ his inner man wink, and his go-to-meetin’ +clothes on, and a pair of silver mounted spurs, and a beautiful white +cravat, tied behind, so as to have no bows to it, and look meek. If +there was a good man on airth, you’d a said it was him. And he seemed to +feel it, and know it too, for there was a kind of look o’ triumph about +him, as if he had conquered the Evil One, and was considerable well +satisfied with himself. + +“‘H’are you,’ sais I, ‘Elder, to-day? Which way are you from?” + +“‘From the General Christian Assembly, sais he, ‘to Goose Creek. We had +a “_most refreshin’ time on’t_.” There was a great “_outpourin’ of the +spirit_.”’ + +“‘Well, that’s awful,’ says I, ‘too. The magistrates ought to see to +that; it ain’t right, when folks assemble that way to worship, to be +a-sellin’ of rum; and gin, and brandy, and spirits, is it?’ + +“‘I don’t mean that,’ sais he, ‘although, p’rhaps, there was too much of +that wicked traffic too, I mean the preachin’. It was very peeowerful; +there was “_many sinners saved_.” + +“‘I guess there was plenty of room for it,’ sais I, ‘onless that +neighbourhood has much improved since I knowed it last.’ + +“‘It’s a sweet thing,’ sais he. ‘Have you ever “_made profession_,” Mr. +Slick?’ + +“‘Come,’ sais I to myself, ‘this is cuttin’ it rather too fat. I must +put a stop to this. This ain’t a subject for conversation with such a +cheatin’, cantin’, hippocrytical skunk as this is. Yes,’ sais I, ‘long +ago. My profession is that of a clockmaker, and I make no pretension +to nothin’ else. But come, let’s water our hosses here and liquor +ourselves.’ + +“And we dismounted, and gave ‘em a drop to wet their mouths. + +“‘Now,’ sais I, a-takin’ out of a pocket-pistol that I generally +travelled with, ‘I think I’ll take a drop of grog;’ and arter helpin’ +myself, I gives the silver cover of the flask a dip in the brook, (for +a clean rinse is better than a dirty wipe, any time), and sais I, ‘Will +you have a little of the “_outpourin’ of the spirit?_” What do you say, +Elder?’ + +“‘Thank you,’ sais he, ‘friend Slick. I never touch liquor, it’s agin +our rules.’ + +“And he stooped down and filled it with water, and took a mouthful, and +then makin’ a face like a frog afore he goes to sing, and swellin’ his +cheeks out like a Scotch bagpiper, he spit it all out. Sais he, ‘That +is so warm, it makes me sick; and as I ain’t otherwise well, from the +celestial exhaustion of a protracted meetin’, I believe I will take a +little drop, as medicine.’ + +“Confound him! if he’d a said he’d only leave a little drop, it would a +been more like the thing; for he e’en a’most emptied the whole into the +cup, and drank it off clean, without winkin’. + +“‘It’s a “_very refreshin’ time_,”’ sais I, ‘ain’t’ it?’ But he didn’t +make no answer. Sais I, ‘that’s a likely beast of yourn, Elder,’ and I +opened her mouth, and took a look at her, and no easy matter nother, I +tell you, for she held on like a bear trap, with her jaws. “‘She won’t +suit you,’ sais he, “with a smile, ‘Mr. Slick.’ + +“‘I guess not,’ sais I. + +“‘But she’ll jist suit the French,’ sais he. + +“‘It’s lucky she don’t speak French then,’ sais I, ‘or they’d soon +find her tongue was too big for her mouth. That critter will never see +five-and-twenty, and I’m a thinkin’, she’s thirty year old, if she is a +day.’ + +“‘I was a thinkin’, said he, with a sly look out o’ the corner of his +eye, as if her age warn’t no secret to him. ‘I was a thinkin’ it’s time +to put her off, and she’ll jist suit the French. They hante much for +hosses to do, in a giniral way, but to ride about; and you won’t say +nothin’ about her age, will you? it might endamnify a sale.’ + +“‘Not I,’ sais I, ‘I skin my own foxes, and let other folks skin +their’n. I have enough to do to mind my own business, without +interferin’ with other people’s.’ + +“‘She’ll jist suit the French,’ sais he; ‘they don’t know nothin’ about +hosses, or any thing else. They are a simple people, and always will be, +for their priests keep ‘em in ignorance. It’s an awful thing to see them +kept in the outer porch of darkness that way, ain’t it?’ + +“‘I guess you’ll put a new pane o’ glass in their porch,’ sais I, ‘and +help some o’ them to see better; for whoever gets that mare, will have +his eyes opened, sooner nor he bargains for, I know.’ + +“Sais he, ‘she ain’t a bad mare; and if she could eat bay, might do a +good deal of work yet,’ and he gave a kinder chuckle laugh at his own +joke, that sounded like the rattles in his throat, it was so dismal and +deep, for he was one o’ them kind of fellers that’s too good to larf, +was Steve. + +“Well, the horn o’ grog he took, began to onloosen his tongue; and I got +out of him, that she come near dyin’ the winter afore, her teeth was +so bad, and that he had kept her all summer in a dyke pasture up to her +fetlocks in white clover, and ginn’ her ground oats, and Indgian meal, +and nothin’ to do all summer; and in the fore part of the fall, biled +potatoes, and he’d got her as fat as a seal, and her skin as slick as an +otter’s. She fairly shined agin, in the sun. + +“‘She’ll jist suit the French’, said he, ‘they are a simple people and +don’t know nothin’, and if they don’t like the mare, they must blame +their priests for not teachin’ ‘em better. I shall keep within the +strict line of truth, as becomes a Christian man. I scorn to take a man +in.’ + +“Well, we chatted away arter this fashion, he a openin’ of himself and +me a walk in’ into him; and we jogged along till we came to Charles +Tarrio’s to Montagon, and there was the matter of a thousand French +people gathered there, a chatterin’, and laughin’, and jawin’, and +quarrellin’, and racin’, and wrastlin’, and all a givin’ tongue, like a +pack of village dogs, when an Indgian comes to town. It was town meetin’ +day. + +“Well, there was a critter there, called by nickname, ‘Goodish Greevoy,’ +a mounted on a white pony, one o’ the scariest little screamers, you +ever see since you was born. He was a tryin’ to get up a race, was +Goodish, and banterin’ every one that had a hoss to run with him. + +“His face was a fortin’ to a painter. His forehead was high and narrer, +shewin’ only a long strip o’ tawny skin, in a line with his nose, the +rest bein’ covered with hair, as black as ink, and as iley as a seal’s +mane. His brows was thick, bushy and overhangin’, like young brush-wood +on a cliff, and onderneath, was two black peerin’ little eyes, that kept +a-movin’ about, keen, good-natured, and roguish, but sot far into his +skull, and looked like the eyes of a fox peepin’ out of his den, when +he warn’t to home to company hisself. His nose was high, sharp, and +crooked, like the back of a reapin’ hook, and gave a plaguy sight +of character to his face, while his thinnish lips, that closed on a +straight line, curlin’ up at one eend, and down at the other, shewed, if +his dander was raised, he could be a jumpin’, tarin’, rampagenous devil +if he chose. The pint of his chin projected and turned up gently, as if +it expected, when Goodish lost his teeth, to rise in the world in rank +next to the nose. When good natur’ sat on the box, and drove, it warn’t +a bad face; when Old Nick was coachman, I guess it would be as well to +give Master Frenchman the road. + +“He had a red cap on his head, his beard hadn’t been cut since last +sheep shearin’, and he looked as hairy as a tarrier; his shirt collar, +‘which was of yaller flannel, fell on his shoulders loose, and a black +hankercher was tied round his neck, slack like a sailor’s. He wore a +round jacket and loose trowsers of homespun with no waistcoat, and his +trowsers was held up by a gallus of leather on one side, and of old cord +on the other. Either Goodish had growed since his clothes was made, or +his jacket and trowsers warn’t on speakin’ tarms, for they didn’t meet +by three or four inches, and the shirt shewed atween them like a yaller +militia sash round him. His feet was covered with moccasins of ontanned +moose hide, and one heel was sot off with an old spur and looked sly +and wicked. He was a sneezer that, and when he flourished his great long +withe of a whip stick, that looked like a fishin’ rod, over his head, +and yelled like all possessed, he was a caution, that’s a fact. + +“A knowin’ lookin’ little hoss, it was too, that he was mounted on. Its +tail was cut close off to the stump, which squared up his rump, and made +him look awful strong in the hind quarters. His mane was “hogged” which +fulled out the swell and crest of the neck, and his ears being +cropped, the critter had a game look about him. There was a proper good +onderstandin’ between him and his rider: they looked as if they had +growed together, and made one critter--half hoss, half man with a touch +of the devil. + +“Goodish was all up on eend by what he drank, and dashed in and out of +the crowd arter a fashion, that was quite cautionary, callin’ out, ‘Here +comes “the grave-digger.” Don’t be skeered, if any of you get killed, +here is the hoss that will dig his grave for nothin’. Who’ll run a lick +of a quarter of a mile, for a pint of rum. Will you run?’ said he, a +spunkin’ up to the Elder, ‘come, let’s run, and whoever wins, shall go +the treat.’ + +“The Elder smiled as sweet as sugar candy, but backed out; he was too +old, he said, now to run. + +“‘Will you swap hosses, old broad cloth then?’ said the other, ‘because +if you will, here’s at you.’ + +“Steve took a squint at pony, to see whether that cat would jump or no, +but the cropt ears, the stump of a tail, the rakish look of the horse, +didn’t jist altogether convene to the taste or the sanctified habits of +the preacher. The word no, hung on his lips, like a wormy apple, jist +ready to drop the fust shake; but before it let go, the great strength, +the spryness, and the oncommon obedience of pony to the bit, seemed to +kinder balance the objections; while the sartan and ontimely eend that +hung over his own mare, during the comin’ winter, death by starvation, +turned the scale. + +“‘Well,’ said he, slowly, ‘if we like each other’s beasts, friend, and +can agree as to the boot, I don’t know as I wouldn’t trade; for I don’t +care to raise colts, havin’ plenty of hoss stock on hand, and perhaps +you do.’ + +“‘How old is your hoss?’ said the Frenchman. + +“‘I didn’t raise it,’ sais Steve, ‘Ned Wheelock, I believe, brought her +to our parts.’ + +“‘How old do you take her to be?’ + +“‘Poor critter, she’d tell you herself, if she could,’ said he, ‘for +she knows best, but she can’t speak; and I didn’t see her, when she was +foalded.’ + +“‘How old do you think?’ + +“‘Age,’ sais Steve, ‘depens on use, not on years. A hoss at five, if ill +used, is old; a hoss at eight, if well used is young.’ + +“‘Sacry footry!’ sais Goodish, ‘why don’t you speak out like a man? Lie +or no lie, how old is she?’ + +“‘Well, I don’t like to say,’ sais Steve, ‘I know she is eight for +sartain, and it may be she’s nine. If I was to say eight, and it turned +out nine, you might be thinkin’ hard of me. I didn’t raise it. You can +see what condition she is in; old hosses ain’t commonly so fat as that, +at least I never, see one that was.’ + +“A long banter then growed out of the ‘boot money.’ The Elder, asked +7 pounds 10s. Goodish swore he wouldn’t give that for him and his hoss +together; that if they were both put up to auction that blessed minute, +they wouldn’t bring it. The Elder hung on to it, as long as there was +any chance of the boot, and then fort the ground like a man, only givin’ +an inch or so at a time, till he drawed up and made a dead stand, on one +pound. + +“Goodish seemed willing to come to tarms too; but like a prudent man, +resolved to take a look at the old mare’s mouth, and make some kind of +a guess at her age; but the critter knowed how to keep her own secrets, +and it was ever so long, afore he forced her jaws open, and when he did, +he came plaguy near losin’ of a finger, for his curiosity; and as he +hopped and danced about with pain, he let fly such a string of oaths, +and sacry-cussed the Elder and his mare, in such an all-fired passion, +that Steve put both his hands up to his ears, and said, ‘Oh, my dear +friend, don’t swear, don’t swear; it’s very wicked. I’ll take your pony, +I’ll ask no boot, if you will only promise not to swear. You shall have +the mare as she stands. I’ll give up and swap even; and there shall be +no after claps, nor ruin bargains, nor recantin’, nor nother, only don’t +swear.’ + +“Well, the trade was made, the saddles and bridles was shifted, and +both parties mounted their new hosses. ‘Mr. Slick,’ sais Steve,’ who was +afraid he would lose the pony, if he staid any longer, ‘Mr. Slick,’ +sais he, ‘the least said, is the soonest mended, let’s be a movin’, this +scene of noise and riot is shockin’ to a religious man, ain’t it?’ and +he let go a groan, as long as the embargo a’most. + +“Well, we had no sooner turned to go, than the French people sot up a +cheer that made all ring again; and they sung out, “La Fossy Your,” “La +Fossy Your,” and shouted it agin and agin ever so loud. + +“‘What’s that?’ sais Steve. + +“Well, I didn’t know, for I never heerd the word afore; but it don’t do +to say you don’t know, it lowers you in the eyes of other folks. If you +don’t know What another man knows he is shocked at your ignorance. But +if he don’t know what you do, he can find an excuse in a minute. Never +say you don’t know. + +“‘So,’ sais I, ‘they jabber so everlastin’ fast, it ain’t no easy matter +to say what they mean; but it sounds like “good bye,” you’d better +turn round and make ‘em a bow, for they are very polite people, is the +French.’ + +“So Steve turns and takes off his hat, and makes them a low bow, and +they larfs wus than ever, and calls out again, “La Fossy Your,” “La +Fossy Your.” He was kinder ryled, was the Elder. His honey had begun +to farment, and smell vinegery. ‘May be, next Christmas,’ sais he, ‘you +won’t larf so loud, when you find the mare is dead. Goodish and the old +mare are jist alike, they are all tongue them critters. I rather think +it’s me,’ sais he, ‘has the right to larf, for I’ve got the best of this +bargain, and no mistake. This is as smart a little hoss as ever I see. +I know where I can put him off to great advantage. I shall make a good +day’s work of this. It is about as good a hoss trade as I ever made. The +French don’t know nothin’ about hosses; they are a simple people, their +priests keep ‘em in ignorance on purpose, and they don’t know nothin’.’ + +“He cracked and bragged considerable, and as we progressed we came +to Montagon Bridge. The moment pony sot foot on it, he stopped short, +pricked up the latter eends of his ears, snorted, squeeled and refused +to budge an inch. The Elder got mad. He first coaxed and patted, and +soft sawdered him, and then whipt and spurred, and thrashed him like any +thing. Pony got mad too, for hosses has tempers as well as Elders; so he +turned to, and kicked right straight up on eend, like Old Scratch, and +kept on without stoppin’ till he sent the Elder right slap over his +head slantendicularly, on the broad of his back into the river, and he +floated down thro’ the bridge and scrambled out at t’other side. + +“Creation! how he looked. He was so mad, he was ready to bile over; and +as it was he smoked in the sun, like a tea-kettle. His clothes stuck +close down to him, as a cat’s fur does to her skin, when she’s out in +the rain, and every step he took his boots went squish, squash, like an +old woman churnin’ butter; and his wet trowsers chafed with a noise like +a wet flappin’ sail. He was a shew, and when he got up to his hoss, and +held on to his mane, and first lifted up one leg and then the other to +let the water run out of his boots. I couldn’t hold in no longer, but +laid back and larfed till I thought on my soul I’d fall off into the +river too. + +“‘Elder,’ says I, ‘I thought when a man jined your sect, ‘he could never +“_fall off agin_,” but I see you ain’t no safer than other folks arter +all.’ + +“‘Come,’ says he, ‘let me be, that’s a good soul, it’s bad enough, +without being larfed at, that’s a fact. I can’t account for this caper, +no how.’ + +“‘It’s very strange too, ain’t it! What on airth got into the hoss to +make him act so ugly. Can you tell, Mr. Slick?’ + +“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘he don’t know English yet, that’s all. He waited for +them beautiful French oaths that Goodish used. Stop the fust Frenchman +you meet and give him a shillin’ to teach you to swear, and he’ll go +like a lamb.’ + +“I see’d what was the matter of the hoss by his action as soon as we +started; but I warn’t agoin’ for to let on to him about it. I wanted to +see the sport. Well, he took his hoss by the bridle and led him over the +bridge, and he follered kindly, then he mounted, and no hoss could go +better. Arter a little, we came to another bridge agin, and the same +play was acted anew, same coaxin’, same threatenin’, and same thrashin’; +at last pony put down his head, and began to shake his tail, a gettin’ +ready for another bout of kickin’; when Steve got off and led him, and +did the same to every bridge we come to. + +“‘It’s no use,’ sais I, ‘you must larn them oaths, he’s used to ‘em +and misses them shocking. A sailor, a hoss, and a nigger ain’t no good +without you swear at ‘em; it comes kinder nateral to them, and they look +for it, fact I assure you. Whips wear out, and so do spurs, but a good +sneezer of a cuss hain’t no wear out to it; it’s always the same.’ + +“‘I’ll larn him sunthin’, sais he, ‘when I get him to home, and out o’ +sight that will do him good, and that he won’t forget for one while, I +know.’ + +“Soon arter this we came to Everett’s public-house on the bay, and +I galloped up to the door, and went as close as I cleverly could on +purpose, and then reined up short and sudden, when whap goes the pony +right agin the side of the house, and nearly killed himself. He never +stirred for the matter of two or three minutes. I actilly did think he +had gone for it, and Steve went right thro’ the winder on to the floor, +with a holler noise, like a log o’ wood thrown on to the deck of a +vessel. ‘Eugh!’ says he, and he cut himself with the broken glass quite +ridikilous. + +“‘Why,’ sais Everett, ‘as I am a livin’ sinner this is “the +Grave-digger,” he’ll kill you, man, as sure as you are born, he is the +wickedest hoss that ever was seen in these clearins here; and he is +as blind as a bat too. No man in Nova Scotia can manage that hoss but +Goodish Greevoy, and he’d manage the devil that feller, for he is man, +horse, shark, and sarpent all in one, that Frenchman. What possessed you +to buy such a varmint as that?’ + +“‘Grave digger!’ said doleful Steve, ‘what is that?’ + +“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘they went one day to bury a man, down to Clare did +the French, and when they got to the grave, who should be in it but the +pony. He couldn’t see, and as he was a feedin’ about, he tumbled in head +over heels and they called him always arterwards ‘the Grave-digger.’” + +“‘Very simple people them French,’ sais I, ‘Elder; they don’t know +nothin’ about hosses, do they? Their priests keep them in ignorance on +purpose.’ + +“Steve winced and squinched his face properly; and said the glass in +his hands hurt him. Well, arter we sot all to rights, we began to jog +on towards Digby. The Elder didn’t say much, he was as chop fallen as +a wounded moose; at last, says he, ‘I’ll ship him to St. John, and sell +him. I’ll put him on board of Captain Ned Leonard’s vessel, as soon as I +get to Digby.’ Well, as I turned my head to answer him, and sot eyes on +him agin, it most sot me a haw, hawin’ a second time, he _did_ look so +like Old Scratch. Oh Hedges! how haggardised he was! His new hat was +smashed down like a cap on the crown of his head, his white cravat was +bloody, his face all scratched, as if he had been clapper-clawed by a +woman, and his hands was bound up with rags, where the glass cut ‘em. +The white sand of the floor of Everett’s parlour had stuck to his +damp clothes, and he looked like an old half corned miller, that was a +returnin’ to his wife, arter a spree. A leetle crest fallen for what he +had got, a leetle mean for the way he looked, and a leetle skeered +for what he’d catch, when he got to home. The way he sloped warn’t no +matter. He was a pictur, and a pictur I must say, I liked to look at. + +“And now Squire, do you take him off too, ingrave him, and bind him up +in your book, and let others look at it, and put onder it ‘_the Elder +and the Grave-digger_.’” + +“Well, when we got to town, the tide was high, and the vessel jist ready +to cast off, and Steve, knowin’ how skeer’d pony was of the water, got +off to lead him, but the critter guessed it warn’t a bridge, for he +smelt salt water on both sides of him, and ahead too, and budge he +wouldn’t. Well, they beat him most to death, but he beat back agin with +his heels, and it was a drawd fight. Then they goes to the fence and +gets a great strong pole, and puts it across his hams, two men at each +eend of the pole, and shoved away, and shoved away, till they progressed +a yard or so; when pony squatted right down on the pole, throwd over the +men, and most broke their legs, with his weight. + +“At last, the captain fetched a rope, and fixes it round his neck, with +a slip knot, fastens it to the windlass, and dragged him in as they do +an anchor, and tied him by his bridle to the boom; and then shoved off, +and got under weigh. + +“Steve and I sot down on the wharf, for it was a beautiful day, and +looked at them driftin’ out in the stream, and hystin’ sail, while the +folks was gettin’ somethin’ ready for us to the inn. + +“When they had got out into the middle of the channel, took the breeze, +and was all under way, and we was about turnin’ to go back, I saw the +pony loose, he had slipped his bridle, and not likin’ the motion of the +vessel, he jist walked overboard, head fust, with a most a beautiful +splunge. + +“‘_A most refreshin’ time_,’ said I, ‘Elder, that critter has of it. I +hope _that sinner will be saved_.’ + +“He sprung right up on eend, as if he had been stung by a galley nipper, +did Steve, ‘Let me alone,’ said he. ‘What have I done to be jobed, that +way? Didn’t I keep within the strict line o’ truth? Did I tell that +Frenchman one mossel of a lie? Answer me, that, will you? I’ve been +cheated awful; but I scorn to take the advantage of any man. You +had better look to your own dealin’s, and let me alone, you pedlin’, +cheatin’ Yankee clockmaker you.’ + +“‘Elder,’ sais I, ‘if you warn’t too mean to rile a man, I’d give you a +kick on your pillion, that would send you a divin’ arter your hoss; but +you ain’t worth it. Don’t call me names tho’, or I’ll settle your coffee +for you, without a fish skin, afore you are ready to swaller it I can +_tell_ you. So keep your mouth shut, my old coon, or your teeth might +get sun-burnt. You think you are angry with me; but you aint; you are +angry with yourself. You know you have showd yourself a proper fool for +to come, for to go, for to talk to a man that has seed so much of the +world as I have, bout “_refreshin’ time_,” and “_outpourin’ of spirit_,” + and “_makin’ profession_” and what not; and you know you showd yourself +an everlastin’ rogue, a meditatin’ of cheatin’ that Frenchman all +summer. It’s biter bit, and I don’t pity you one mossel; it sarves +you right. But look at the grave-digger; he looks to me as if he was a +diggin’ of his own grave in rael right down airnest.’ + +“The captain havin’ his boat histed, and thinkin’ the hoss would swim +ashore of hisself, kept right straight on; and the hoss swam this way, +and that way, and every way but the right road, jist as the eddies took +him. At last, he got into the ripps off of Johnston’s pint, and they +wheeled him right round and round like a whip-top. Poor pony! he got +his match at last. He struggled, and jumpt, and plunged and fort, like +a man, for dear life. Fust went up his knowin’ little head, that had no +ears; and he tried to jump up and rear out of it, as he used to did +out of a mire hole or honey pot ashore; but there was no bottom there; +nothin’ for his hind foot to spring from; so down he went agin ever so +deep: and then he tried t’other eend, and up went his broad rump, that +had no tail; but there was nothin’ for the fore feet to rest on nother; +so he made a summerset, and as he went over, he gave out a great long +end wise kick to the full stretch of his hind legs. + +“Poor feller! it was the last kick he ever gave in this world; he sent +his heels straight up on eend, like a pair of kitchen tongs, and the +last I see of him was a bright dazzle, as the sun shined on his iron +shoes, afore the water closed over him for ever. + +“I railly felt sorry for the poor old ‘grave-digger,’ I did upon my +soul, for hosses and ladies are two things, that a body can’t help +likin’. Indeed, a feller that hante no taste that way ain’t a man at +all, in my opinion. Yes, I felt ugly for poor ‘grave-digger,’ though I +didn’t feel one single bit so for that cantin’ cheatin’, old Elder. So +when I turns to go, sais I, ‘Elder,’ sais I, and I jist repeated his own +words--‘I guess it’s your turn to laugh now, for you have got the best +of the bargain, and no mistake. Goodish and the old mare are jist alike, +all tongue, ain’t they? But these French is a simple people, so they +be; they don’t know nothin’, that’s a fact. Their priests keep ‘em in +ignorance a puppus. + +“The next time you tell your experience to the great Christian meetin’ +to Goose Creek, jist up and tell ‘em, from beginnin’ to eend, the story +of the--‘_Elder and the Grave-digger_.’” + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. LOOKING BACK. + +In the course of the evening, Mr. Hopewell adverted to his return as +a matter of professional duty, and spoke of it in such a feeling and +earnest manner, as to leave no doubt upon my mind, that we should not be +able to detain him long in this country, unless his attention should be +kept fully occupied by a constant change of scene. + +Mr. Slick expressed to me the same fear, and, knowing that I had been +talking of going to Scotland, entreated me not to be long absent, for he +felt convinced that as soon as he should be left alone, his thoughts and +wishes would at once revert to America. + +“I will try to keep him up,” said he, “as well as I can, but I can’t do +it alone. If you do go, don’t leave us long. Whenever I find him dull, +and can’t cheer him up no how I can fix it, by talk, or fun, or sight +seein’ or nothin’, I make him vexed, and that excites him, stirs him up +with a pot stick, and is of great sarvice to him. I don’t mean actilly +makin’ him wrathy in airnest, but jist rilin of him for his own good, by +pokin’ a mistake at him. I’ll shew you, presently, how I do it.” + +As soon as Mr. Hopewell rejoined us, he began to inquire into the +probable duration of our visit to this country, and expressed a wish to +return, as soon as possible, to Slickville. + +“Come, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, tapping him on the shoulder, “as +father used to say, we must ‘right about face’ now. When we are at home +let us think of home, when we are here, let us think of this place. Let +us look a-head, don’t let’s look back, for we can’t see nothin’ there.” + +“Indeed, Sam,” said he, with a sad and melancholy air, “it would be +better for us all if we looked back oftener than we do. From the errors +of the past, we might rectify our course for the future. Prospective sin +is often clothed in very alluring garments; past sin appears in all its +naked deformity. Looking back, therefore--” + +“Is very well,” said Mr. Slick, “in the way of preachin’; but lookin’ +back when you can’t see nothin’, as you are now, is only a hurtin’ of +your eyes. I never hear that word, ‘lookin’ back,’ that I don’t think of +that funny story of Lot’s wife.” + +“Funny story of Lot’s wife, Sir! Do you call that a funny story, Sir?” + +“I do, Sir.” + +“You do, Sir?” + +“Yes, I do, Sir; and I defy you or any other man to say it ain’t a funny +story.” + +“Oh dear, dear,” said Mr. Hopewell, “that I should have lived to see +the day when you, my son, would dare to speak of a Divine judgment as a +funny story, and that you should presume so to address me.” + +“A judgment, Sir?” + +“Yes, a judgment, Sir.” + +“Do you call the story of Lot’s wife a judgment?” + +“Yes, I do call the story of Lot’s wife a judgment; a monument of the +Divine wrath for the sin of disobedience.” + +“What! Mrs. Happy Lot? Do you call her a monument of wrath? Well, well, +if that don’t beat all, Minister. If you had a been a-tyin’ of the +night-cap last night I shouldn’t a wondered at your talkin’ at that +pace. But to call that dear little woman, Mrs. Happy Lot, that dancin’, +laughin’ tormentin’, little critter, a monument of wrath, beats all to +immortal smash.” + +“Why who are you a-talkin’ of, Sam?” + +“Why, Mrs. Happy Lot, the wife of the Honourable Cranbery Lot, of +Umbagog, to be sure. Who did you think I was a-talkin’ of?” + +“Well, I thought you was a-talkin’ of--of--ahem--of subjects too serious +to be talked of in that manner; but I did you wrong, Sam; I did you +injustice. Give me your hand, my boy. It’s better for me to mistake and +apologize, than for you to sin and repent. I don’t think I ever heard of +Mr. Lot, of Umbagog, or of his wife either. Sit down here, and tell me +the story, for ‘with thee conversing, I forget all time.’” + +“Well, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “I’ll tell you the ins and outs of it; +and a droll story it is too. Miss Lot was the darter of Enoch Mosher, +the rich miser of Goshen; as beautiful a little critter too, as ever +slept in shoe-leather. She looked for all the world like one of the +Paris fashion prints, for she was a parfect pictur’, that’s a fact. +Her complexion was made of white and red roses, mixed so beautiful, you +couldn’t tell where the white eended, or the red begun, natur’ had +used the blendin’ brush so delicate. Her eyes were screw augurs, I tell +_you_; they bored right into your heart, and kinder agitated you, and +made your breath come and go, and your pulse flutter. I never felt +nothin’ like ‘em. When lit up, they sparkled like lamp reflectors; and +at other tunes, they was as soft, and mild, and clear as dew-drops that +hang on the bushes at sun-rise. When she loved, she loved; and when she +hated, she hated about the wickedest you ever see. Her lips were like +heart cherries of the carnation kind; so plump, and fall, and hard, you +felt as if you could fall to and eat ‘em right up. Her voice was like a +grand piany, all sorts o’ power in it; canary-birds’ notes at one eend, +and thunder at t’other, accordin’ to the humour she was in, for she +was a’most a grand bit of stuff was Happy, she’d put an edge on a knife +a’most. She was a rael steel. Her figur’ was as light as a fairy’s, and +her waist was so taper and tiny, it seemed jist made for puttin’ an +arm round in walkin’. She was as ac_tive_ and springy on her feet as a +catamount, and near about as touch me-not a sort of customer too. +She actilly did seem as if she was made out of steel springs and +chicken-hawk. If old Cran, was to slip off the handle, I think I should +make up to her, for she is ‘a salt,’ that’s a fact, a most a heavenly +splice. + +“Well, the Honourable Cranbery Lot put in for her, won her, and married +her. A good speculation it turned out too, for he got the matter of one +hundred thousand of dollars by her, if he got a cent. As soon as they +were fairly welded, off they sot to take the tour of Europe, and they +larfed and cried, and kissed and quarrelled, and fit and made up all +over the Continent, for her temper was as onsartain as the climate +here--rain one minit and sun the next; but more rain nor sun. + +“He was a fool, was Cranbery. He didn’t know how to manage her. His +bridle hand warn’t good, I tell you. A spry, mettlesome hoss, and a dull +critter with no action, don’t mate well in harness, that’s a fact. + +“After goin’ every where, and every where else amost, where should they +get to but the Alps. One arternoon, a sincerely cold one it was too, and +the weather, violent slippy, dark overtook them before they reached the +top of one of the highest and steepest of them mountains, and they had +to spend the night at a poor squatter’s shanty. + +“Well, next mornin’, jist at day-break, and sun-rise on them everlastin’ +hills is tall sun-rise, and no mistake, p’rhaps nothin was ever seen so +fine except the first one, since creation. It takes the rag off quite. +Well, she was an enterprisin’ little toad, was Miss Lot too, afeered of +nothin’ a’most; so nothin’ would sarve her but she must out and have a +scramb up to the tip-topest part of the peak afore breakfast. + +“Well, the squatter there, who was a kind o’ guide, did what he could to +dispersuade her, but all to no purpose; go she would, and a headstrong +woman and a runaway hoss are jist two things it’s out of all reason to +try to stop; The only way is to urge ‘em on, and then, bein’ contr_ary_ +by natur’, they stop of themselves. + +“‘Well,’ sais the guide, ‘if you will go, marm, do take this pike staff, +marm,’ sais he; (a sort of walkin’-stick with a spike to the eend of +it), ‘for you can’t get either up or down them slopes without it, it is +so almighty slippy there.’ So she took the staff, and off she sot and +climbed and climbed ever so far, till she didn’t look no bigger than a +snowbird. + +“At last she came to a small flat place, like a table, and then she +turned round to rest, get breath, and take a look at the glorious view; +and jist as she hove-to, up went her little heels, and away went her +stick, right over a big parpendicular cliff, hundreds and hundreds, and +thousands of feet deep. So deep, you couldn’t see the bottom for the +shadows, for the very snow looked black down there. There is no way in, +it is so steep, but over the cliff; and no way out, but one, and that +leads to t’other world. I can’t describe it to you, though. I have see’d +it since myself. There are some things too big to lift; some, too big +to carry after they be lifted; and some too grand for the tongue to +describe too. There’s a notch where dictionary can’t go no farther, as +well as every other created thing, that’s a fact. P’rhaps if I was to +say it looked like the mould that that ‘are very peak was cast in, afore +it was cold and stiff, and sot up on eend, I should come as near the +mark as any thing I know on. + +“Well away she slid, feet and hands out, all flat on her face, right +away, arter her pike staff. Most people would have ginn it up as gone +goose, and others been so frightened as not to do any thing at all; or +at most only jist to think of a prayer, for there was no time to say +one. + +“But not so Lot’s ‘wife. She was of a conquerin’ natur’. She never gave +nothin’ up, till she couldn’t hold on no longer. She was one o’ them +critters that go to bed mistress, and rise master; and just as she +got to the edge of the precipice, her head hangin’ over, and her eyes +lookin’ down, and she all but ready to shoot out and launch away into +bottomless space, the ten commandments brought her right short up. Oh, +she sais, the sudden joy of that sudden stop swelled her heart so big, +she thought it would have bust like a byler; and, as it was, the great +endurin’ long breath she drew, arter such an alfired escape, almost +killed her at the ebb, it hurt her so.” + +“But,” said Mr. Hopewell, “how did the ten commandments save her? Do you +mean that figuratively, or literally. Was it her reliance on providence, +arising from a conscious observance of the decalogue all her life, or +was it a book containing them, that caught against some thing, and stopt +her descent. It is very interesting. Many a person, Sam, has been saved +when at the brink of destruction, by laying fast hold on the bible. Who +can doubt, that the commandments had a Divine origin? Short, simple and +yet comprehensive; the first four point to our duty to our Maker, the +last six, towards our social duties. In this respect there is a great +similarity of structure, to that excellent prayer given us--” + +“Oh, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “I beg your pardon, I do, indeed, I +don’t mean that at all; and I do declare and vow now, I wasn’t a playin’ +possum with you, nother. I won’t do it no more, I won’t, indeed.” + +“Well, what did you mean then?” + +“Why I meant her ten fingers, to be sure. When a woman clapper claws her +husband, we have a cant tarm with us boys of Slickville, savin’ she gave +him her ten commandments.” + +“And a very improper expression too, Sir,” said Mr. Hopewell; “a very +irreverent, indecent, and I may say profane expression; I am quite +shocked. But as you say you didn’t mean it, are sorry for it, and will +not repeat it again, I accept your apology, and rely on your promise. Go +on, Sir.” + +“Well, as I was a savin’, the moment she found herself a coasting of it +that way, flounder fashion, she hung on by her ten com--I mean her ten +fingers, and her ten toes, like grim death to a dead nigger, and it +brought her up jist in time. But how to get back was the question? To +let go the hold of any one hand was sartain death, and there was nobody +to help her, and yet to hold on long that way, she couldn’t, no how she +could fix it. + +“So what does she do, (for nothin’ equals a woman for contrivances), but +move one finger at a time, and then one toe at a time, till she gets +a new hold, and then crawls backward, like a span-worm, an inch at a +hitch. Well, she works her passage this way, wrong eend foremost, by +backin’ of her paddles for the matter of half an hour or so, till she +gets to where it was roughish, and somethin’ like standin’ ground, when +who should come by but a tall handsome man, with a sort of a half coat, +half cloak-like coverin’ on, fastened round the waist with a belt, and +havin’ a hood up, to ambush the head. + +“The moment she clapt eyes on him, she called to him for help. ‘Oh,’ +sais she, ‘for heaven’s sake, good man, help me up! Jist take hold of my +leg and draw me back, will you, that’s a good soul?’ And then she +held up fust one leg for him, and then the other, most beseechin’, but +nothin’ would move him. He jist stopt, looked back for a moment and then +progressed agin. + +“Well, it ryled her considerable. Her eyes actilly snapped with fire, +like a hemlock log at Christmas: (for nothin’ makes a woman so mad as a +parsonal slight, and them little ankles of hern were enough to move the +heart of a stone, and make it jump out o’ the ground, that’s a fact, +they were such fine-spun glass ones), it made her so mad, it gave her +fresh strength; and makin’ two or three onnateral efforts, she got clear +back to the path, and sprung right up on eend, as wicked as a she-bear +with a sore head. But when she got upright agin, she then see’d what a +beautiful frizzle of a fix she was in. She couldn’t hope to climb far; +and, indeed, she didn’t ambition to; she’d had enough of that, for one +spell. But climbin’ up was nothin’, compared to goin’ down hill without +her staff; so what to do, she didn’t know. + +“At last, a thought struck her. She intarmined to make that man help +her, in spite of him. So she sprung forward for a space, like a painter, +for life or death, and caught right hold of his cloak. ‘Help--help me!’ +said she, ‘or I shall go for it, that’s sartain. Here’s my puss, my +rings, my watch, and all I have got; but oh, help me! for the love of +God, help me, or my flint is fixed for good and all.’ + +“With that, the man turned round, and took one glance at her, as if he +kinder relented, and then, all at once, wheeled back again, as amazed as +if he was jist born, gave an awful yell, and started off as fast as he +could clip, though that warn’t very tall runnin’ nother, considerin’ the +ground. But she warn’t to be shook off that way. She held fast to his +cloak, like a burr to a sheep’s tail, and raced arter him, screamin’ and +screechin’ like mad; and the more she cried, the louder he yelled, till +the mountains all echoed it and re-echoed it, so that you would have +thought a thousand devils had broke loose, a’most. + +“Such a gettin’ up stairs you never did see. + +“Well, they kept up this tantrum for the space of two or three hundred +yards, when they came to a small, low, dismal-lookin’ house, when +the man gave the door a kick, that sent the latch a flyin’ off to the +t’other eend of the room, and fell right in on the floor, on his face, +as flat as a flounder, a groanin’ and a moanin’ like any thing, and +lookin’ as mean as a critter that was sent for, and couldn’t come, and +as obstinate as a pine stump. + +“‘What ails you?’ sais she, ‘to act like Old Scratch that way? You ought +to be ashamed of yourself, to behave so to a woman. What on airth is +there about me to frighten you so, you great onmannerly, onmarciful, +coward, you. Come, scratch up, this minute.’ + +“Well, the more she talked, the more he groaned; but the devil a word, +good or bad, could she get out of him at all. With that, she stoops +down, and catches up his staff, and says she, ‘I have as great a mind to +give you a jab with this here toothpick, where your mother used to spank +you, as ever I had in all my life. But if you want it, my old ‘coon, you +must come and get it; for if you won’t help me, I shall help myself.’ + +“Jist at that moment, her eyes being better accustomed to the dim light +of the place, she see’d a man, a sittin’ at the fur eend of the room, +with his back to the wall, larfin’ ready to kill himself. He grinned +so, he showed his corn-crackers from ear to ear. She said, he stript his +teeth like a catamount, he look’d so all mouth. + +“Well, that encouraged her, for there ain’t much harm in a larfin’ man; +it’s only them that never larf that’s fearfulsome. So sais she ‘My good +man, will you he so kind as to lend me your arm down this awful peak, +and I will reward you handsomely, you may depend.’ + +“Well, he made no answer, nother; and thinkin’ he didn’t onderstand +English, she tried him in Italian, and then in broken French, and then +bungled out a little German; but no, still no answer. He took no more +notice of her and her mister, and senior, and mountsheer, and mynheer, +than if he never heerd them titles, but jist larfed on. + +“She stopped a minit, and looked at him full in the face, to see what he +meant by all this ongenteel behaviour, when all of a sudden, jist as she +moved one step nearer to him, she saw he was a dead man, and had been so +long there, part of the flesh had dropt off or dried off his face; and +it was that that made him grin that way, like a fox-trap. It was the +bone-house they was in. The place where poor, benighted, snow-squalled +stragglers, that perish on the mountains, are located, for their friends +to come and get them, if they want ‘em; and if there ain’t any body that +knows ‘em or cares for ‘em, why they are left there for ever, to dry +into nothin’ but parchment and atomy, as it’s no joke diggin’ a grave in +that frozen region. + +“As soon as she see’d this, she never said another blessed word, but +jist walked off with the livin’ man’s pike, and began to poke her way +down the mountain as careful as she cleverly could, dreadful tired, and +awful frighted. + +“Well, she hadn’t gone far, afore she heard her name echoed all round +her--Happy! Happy! Happy! It seemed from the echoes agin, as if there +was a hundred people a yelling it put all at once. + +“Oh, very happy,’ said she, ‘very happy, indeed; guess you’d find it +so if you was here. I know I should feel very happy if I was out of it, +that’s all; for I believe, on my soul, this is harnted ground, and the +people in it are possessed. Oh, if I was only to home, to dear Umbagog +agin, no soul should ever ketch me in this outlandish place any more, +_I_ know.’ + +“Well, the sound increased and increased so, like young thunder she was +e’en a’most skeared to death, and in a twitteration all over; and her +knees began to shake so, she expected to go for it every minute; when a +sudden turn of the path show’d her her husband and the poor squatter a +sarchin’ for her. + +“She was so overcome with fright and joy, she could hardly speak--and it +warn’t a trifle that would toggle her tongue, that’s a fact. It was +some time after she arrived at the house afore she could up and tell the +story onderstandable; and when she did, she had to tell it twice over, +first in short hand, and then in long metre, afore she could make out +the whole bill o’ parcels. Indeed, she hante done tellin’ it yet, and +wherever she is, she works round, and works round, till she gets Europe +spoke of, and then she begins, ‘That reminds me of a most remarkable +fact. Jist after I was married to Mr. Lot, we was to the Alps.’ + +“If ever you see her, and she begins that way, up hat and cut stick, +double quick, or you’ll find the road over the Alps to Umbagog, a little +the longest you’ve ever travelled, I know. + +“Well, she had no sooner done than Cranbery jumps up on eend, and sais +he to the guide, ‘Uncle,’ sais he, ‘jist come along with me, that’s a +good feller, will you? We must return that good Samaritan’s’ cane to +him; and as he must be considerable cold there, I’ll jist warm his hide +a bit for him, to make his blood sarculate. If he thinks I’ll put that +treatment to my wife, Miss Lot, into my pocket, and walk off with it, +he’s mistaken in the child, that’s all, Sir. He may be stubbeder than I +be, Uncle, that’s a fact; but if he was twice as stubbed, I’d walk +into him like a thousand of bricks. I’ll give him a taste of my breed. +Insultin’ a lady is a weed we don’t suffer to grow in our fields +to Umbagog. Let him be who the devil he will, log-leg or +leather-breeches--green-shirt or blanket-coat--land-trotter or +river-roller, I’ll let him know there is a warrant out arter him, I +know.” + +“‘Why,’ sais the guide, ‘he couldn’t help himself, no how he could work +it. He is a friar, or a monk, or a hermit, or a pilgrim, or somethin’ +or another of that kind, for there is no eend to them, they are so many +different sorts; but the breed he is of, have a vow never to look at a +woman, or talk to a woman, or touch a woman, and if they do, there is a +penance, as long as into the middle of next week.’ + +“‘Not look at a woman?’ sais Cran, ‘why, what sort of a guess world +would this be without petticoats?--what a superfine superior tarnation +fool he must be, to jine such a tee-total society as that. Mint julip I +could give up, I _do_ suppose, though I had a plaguy sight sooner not +do it, that’s a fact: but as for womankind, why the angeliferous +little torments, there is no livin’ without _them_. What do you think, +stranger?’ + +“‘Sartainly,’ said Squatter; ‘but seein’ that the man had a vow, why it +warn’t his fault, for he couldn’t do nothin’ else. Where _he_ did wrong, +was _to look back_; if he hadn’t a _looked back_, he wouldn’t have +sinned.’ + +“‘Well, well,’ sais Cran, ‘if that’s the case, it is a hoss of another +colour, that. I won’t look back nother, then. Let him he. But he is +erroneous considerable.’ + +“So you see, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “where there is nothin’ to be +gained, and harm done, by this retrospection, as you call it, why I +think lookin’ a-head is far better than--_lookin’ back_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. CROSSING THE BORDER. + +The time had now arrived when it was necessary for me to go to +Scotland, for a few days. I had two very powerful reasons for this +excursion:--first, because an old and valued friend of mine was there, +whom I had not met for many years, and whom I could not think of leaving +this country without seeing again; and secondly, because I was desirous +of visiting the residence of my forefathers on the Tweed, which, +although it had passed out of their possession many years ago, was still +endeared to me as their home, as the scene of the family traditions; and +above all, as their burial place. + +The grave is the first stage on the journey, from this to the other +world. We are permitted to escort our friends so far, and no further; it +is there we part for ever. It is there the human form is deposited, when +mortality is changed for immortality. This burial place contains no one +that I have ever seen or known; but it contains the remains of those +from whom I derived my lineage and my name. I therefore naturally +desired to see it. + +Having communicated my intention to my two American companions, I was +very much struck with the different manner in which they received the +announcement. + +“Come back soon, Squire,” said Mr. Slick; “go and see your old friend, +if you must, and go to the old campin’ grounds of your folks; though the +wigwam I expect has gone long ago, but don’t look at anythin’ else. +I want we should visit the country together. I have an idea from what +little I have seed of it, Scotland is over-rated. I guess there is a +good deal of romance about their old times; and that, if we knowed all, +their old lairds warn’t much better, or much richer than our Ingian +chiefs; much of a muchness. Kinder sorter so, and kinder sorter not so, +no great odds. Both hardy, both fierce; both as poor as Job’s Turkey, +and both tarnation proud, at least, that’s my idea to a notch. + +“I have often axed myself what sort of a gall that splenderiferous, +‘Lady of the Lake’ of Scott’s was, and I kinder guess she was a +red-headed Scotch heifer, with her hair filled with heather, and +feather, and lint, with no shoes and stockings to her feet, and that + + “Her lips apart + Like monument of Grecian art” + +meant that she stared with her eyes and mouth wide open, like other +county galls that never see’d nothing before--a regilar screetch owl +in petticoats. And I suspicion, that Mr. Rob Roy was a sort of thievin’ +devil of a white Mohawk, that found it easier to steal cattle, than +raise them himself; and that Loch Katrin, that they make such a touss +about, is jist about equal to a good sizeable duck-pond in our country; +at least, that’s my idea. For I tell you it does not do to follow arter +a poet, and take all he says for gospel. + +“Yes, let’s go and see Sawney in his “Ould _Reeky_.” Airth and seas! if +I have any nose at all, there never was a place so well named as that. +Phew! let me light a cigar to get rid of the fogo of it. + +“Then let’s cross over and see “Pat at Home;” let’s look into +matters and things there, and see what “Big Dan” is about, with his +“association” and “agitation” and “repail” and “tee-totals.” Let’s see +whether it’s John Bull or Patlander that’s to blame, or both on ‘em; six +of one and half-a-dozen of tother. By Gosh! Minister would talk, more +sense in one day to Ireland, than has been talked there since the +rebellion; for common sense is a word that don’t grow like Jacob’s +ladder, in them diggins, I guess. It’s about, as stunted as Gineral +Nichodemus Ott’s corn was. + +“The Gineral was takin’ a ride with a southerner one day over his farm +to Bangor in Maine, to see his crops, fixin mill privileges and what +not, and the southerner was a turning up his nose at every thing amost, +proper scorney, and braggin’ how things growed on his estate down south. +At last the Gineral’s ebenezer began to rise, and he got as mad as a +hatter, and was intarmed to take a rise out of him. + +“‘So,’ says he, ‘stranger,’ says he, ‘you talk about your Indgian corn, +as if nobody else raised any but yourself. Now I’ll bet you a thousand +dollars, I have corn that’s growd so wonderful, you can’t reach the top +of it a standin’ on your horse.’ + +“‘Done,’ sais Southener, and ‘Done,’ sais the General, and done it was. + +“‘Now,’ sais the Giniral, ‘stand up on your saddle like a circus rider, +for the field is round that corner of the wood there.’ And the entire +stranger stood up as stiff as a poker. ‘Tall corn, I guess,’ sais he, +‘if I can’t reach it, any how, for I can e’en a’most reach the top o’ +them trees. I think I feel them thousand dollars of yourn, a marchin’ +quick step into my pocket, four deep. Reach your corn, to be sure I +will. Who the plague, ever see’d corn so tall, that a man couldn’t reach +it a horseback.’ + +“‘Try it,’ sais the Gineral, as he led him into the field, where the +corn was only a foot high, the land was so monstrous, mean and so +beggarly poor. + +“‘Reach it,’ sais the Gineral. + +“‘What a damned Yankee trick,’ sais the Southener. ‘What a take in +this is, ain’t it?’ and he leapt, and hopt, and jumped like a snappin’ +turtle, he was so mad. Yes, common sense to Ireland, is like Indgian +corn to Bangor, it ain’t overly tall growin’, that’s a fact. We must see +both these countries together. It is like the nigger’s pig to the West +Indies “little and dam old.” + +“Oh, come back soon, Squire, I have a thousand things, I want to tell +you, and I shall forget one half o’ them, if you don’t; and besides,” + said he in an onder tone, “_he_” (nodding his head towards Mr. +Hopewell,) “will miss you shockingly. He frets horridly about his flock. +He says, ‘’Mancipation and Temperance have superceded the Scriptures +in the States. That formerly they preached religion there, but now they +only preach about niggers and rum.’ Good bye, Squire.” + +“You do right, Squire,” said Mr. Hopewell, “to go. That which has to +be done, should be done soon, for we have not always the command of our +time. See your friend, for the claims of friendship are sacred; and see +your family tomb-stones also, for the sight of them, will awaken a train +of reflections in a mind like yours, at once melancholy and elevating; +but I will not deprive you of the pleasure you will derive from first +impressions, by stripping them of their novelty. You will be pleased +with the Scotch; they are a frugal, industrious, moral and intellectual +people. I should like to see their agriculture, I am told it is by far +the best in Europe. + +“But, Squire, I shall hope to see you soon, for I sometimes think duty +calls me home again. Although my little flock has chosen other shepherds +and quitted my fold, some of them may have seen their error, and wish to +return. And ought I not to be there to receive them? It is true, I am no +longer a labourer in the vineyard, but my heart is there. I should like +to walk round and round the wall that encloses it, and climb up, and +look into it, and talk to them that are at work there. I might give some +advice that would be valuable to them. The blossoms require shelter, and +the fruit requires heat, and the roots need covering in Winter. The vine +too is luxuriant, and must be pruned, or it will produce nothing but +wood. It demands constant care and constant labour; I had decorated the +little place with flowers too, to make it attractive and pleasant. + +“But, ah me! dissent will pull all these up like weeds, and throw them +out; and scepticism will raise nothing but gaudy annuals. The perennials +will not flourish without cultivating and enriching the ground; _their +roots are in the heart_. The religion of our Church, which is the same +as this of England, is a religion which inculcates love: filial love +towards God; paternal love to those committed to our care; brotherly +love, to our neighbour, nay, something more than is known by that term +in its common acceptation, for we are instructed to love our neighbour +as ourselves. + +“We are directed to commence our prayer with “Our Father.” How much +of love, of tenderness, of forbearance, of kindness, of liberality, is +embodied in that word--children: of the same father, members of the same +great human family I Love is the bond of union--love dwelleth in the +heart; and the heart must be cultivated, that the seeds of affection may +germinate in it. + +“Dissent is cold and sour; it never appeals to the affections, but it +scatters denunciations, and rules by terror. Scepticism is proud +and self-sufficient. It refuses to believe in mysteries and deals in +rhetoric and sophistry, and flatters the vanity, by exalting human +reason. My poor lost flock will see the change, and I fear, feel it too. +Besides, absence is a temporary death. Now I am gone from them, they +will forget my frailties and infirmities, and dwell on what little good +might have been in me, and, perhaps, yearn towards me. + +“If I was to return, perhaps I could make an impression on the minds of +some, and recall two or three, if not more, to a sense of duty. What a +great thing that would be, wouldn’t it? And if I did, I would get our +bishop to send me a pious, zealous, humble-minded, affectionate, able +young man, as a successor; and I would leave my farm, and orchard, and +little matters, as a glebe for the Church. And who knows but the +Lord may yet rescue Slickville from the inroads of ignorant fanatics, +political dissenters, and wicked infidels? + +“And besides, my good friend, I have much to say to you, relative to +the present condition and future prospects of this great country. I have +lived to see a few ambitious lawyers, restless demagogues, political +preachers, and unemployed local officers of provincial regiments, +agitate and sever thirteen colonies at one time from the government of +England. I have witnessed the struggle. It was a fearful, a bloody and +an unnatural one. My opinions, therefore, are strong in proportion as my +experience is great. I have abstained on account of their appearing like +preconceptions from saying much to you yet, for I want to see more of +this country, and to be certain, that I am quite right before I speak. + +“When you return, I will give you my views on some of the great +questions of the day. Don’t adopt them, hear them and compare them with +your own. I would have you think for yourself, for I am an old man now +and sometimes I distrust my powers of mind. + +“The state of this country you, in your situation, ought to be +thoroughly acquainted with. It is a very perilous one. Its prosperity, +its integrity, nay its existence as a first-rate power, hangs by a +thread, and that thread but little better and stronger than a cotton +one. _Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat_. I look in vain for that +constitutional vigour, and intellectual power, which once ruled the +destinies of this great nation. + +“There is an aberration of intellect, and a want of self-possession here +that alarms me. I say, alarms me, for American as I am by birth, and +republican as I am from the force of circumstances, I cannot but regard +England with great interest, and with great affection. What a beautiful +country! What a noble constitution! What a high minded, intelligent, and +generous people! When the Whigs came into office, the Tories were not +a party, they were the people of England. Where and what are they now? +Will they ever have a lucid interval, or again recognise the sound of +their own name? And yet, Sam, doubtful as the prospect of their recovery +is, and fearful as the consequences of a continuance of their malady +appear to be, one thing is most certain, _a Tory government is the +proper government for a monarchy, a suitable one for any country, but +it is the only one for England_. I do not mean an ultra one, for I am +a moderate man, and all extremes are equally to be avoided. I mean a +temperate, but firm one: steady to its friends, just to its enemies, and +inflexible to all. “When compelled to yield, it should be by the force +of reason, and never by the power of agitation. Its measures should be +actuated by a sense of what is right, and not what is expedient, for +to concede is to recede--to recede is to evince weakness--and to betray +weakness is to invite attack. + +“I am a stranger here. I do not understand this new word, Conservatism. +I comprehend the other two, Toryism and Liberalism. The one is a +monarchical, and the other a republican word. The term, Conservatism, +I suppose, designates a party formed out of the moderate men of both +sides, or rather, composed of Low-toned Tories and High Whigs. I do not +like to express a decided opinion yet, but my first impression is always +adverse to mixtures, for a mixture renders impure the elements of which +it is compounded. Every thing will depend on the preponderance of the +wholesome over the deleterious ingredients. I will analyse it carefully. +See how one neutralizes or improves the other, and what the effect of +the compound is likely to be on the constitution. I will request our +Ambassador, Everett, or Sam’s friend, the Minister Extraordinary, +Abednego Layman, to introduce me to Sir Robert Peel, and will endeavour +to obtain all possible information from the best possible source. + +“On your return I will give you a candid and deliberate opinion.” + +After a silence of some minutes, during which he walked up and down +the room in a fit of abstraction, he suddenly paused, and said, as if +thinking aloud-- + +“Hem, hem--so you are going to cross the border, eh? That northern +intellect is strong. Able men the Scotch, a little too radical in +politics, and a little too liberal, as it is called, in a matter of much +greater consequence; but a superior people, on the whole. They will give +you a warm reception, will the Scotch. Your name will insure that; and +they are clannish; and another warm reception will, I assure you, await +you here, when, returning, you again _Cross the Border_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE IRISH PREFACE. + +Gentle reader, + +If an Irishman were asked what a preface was, he would, without +hesitation reply, that it was the last chapter of a book, and we should +unquestionably pronounce that answer to be a bull; for how can prefatory +remarks be valedictory ones? A few moments’ consideration, however, +would induce us to withdraw such a hasty opinion, and convince us that +his idea is, after all, a correct one. It is almost always the part +that is last written, and _we_ perpetrate the bull, by placing it at the +beginning instead of the end of the book, and denominating our parting +words introductory remarks. + +The result of our arrangement is, that nobody reads it. The public do +not want to hear an apology or explanation, until it first ascertains, +whether the one can be accepted, or the other is required. This +contemptuous neglect arises from two causes, first because it is out +of place, and secondly because it too often contains a great deal +of twaddle. Unfortunately, one half of what is said in this world is +unmeaning compliment. A man who wishes to mark his respect for you, +among other inconvenient methods of shewing it, offers to accompany you +to the Hall. You are in consequence arrested in your progress. You are +compelled to turn on your pursuer, and entreat him not to come to the +door. After a good deal of lost time he is prevailed upon to return. +This is not fair. Every man should be suffered to depart in peace. + +Now, it is my intention to adopt the Irish definition. The word preface +is a misnomer. What I have to say I shall put into my last chapter, and +assign to it its proper place. I shall also adopt another improvement, +on the usual practice. I shall make it as short as possible, and speak +to the point. + +My intention then, gentle reader, was when I commenced this work, to +write but one volume, and at some future time to publish a second. +The materials, however, were so abundant, that selection became very +difficult, and compression much more so. To touch as many topics as I +designed, I was compelled to extend it to its present size, and I still +feel that the work is only half done. Whether I shall ever be able to +supply this deficiency I cannot say. I do not doubt your kind reception; +I have experienced too much indulgence and favour at your hands, to +suppose that you will withdraw it from one whom you have honoured with +repeated marks of approbation; but I entertain some fears that I shall +not be able to obtain the time that is necessary for its completion, +and that if I can command the leisure, my health will insist on a prior +claim to its disposal. + +If, however, I shall be enabled so to do, it is my intention, hereafter +to add another series of the Sayings and Doings of the Attache, so as to +make the work as complete as possible. + +I am quite confident it is not necessary to add, that the sentiments +uttered by Mr. Slick, are not designed either as an expression of those +of the author, or of the Americans who visit this country. With respect +to myself no disavowal is necessary; but I feel it due to my American +friends, for whose kindness I can never be sufficiently grateful, +and whose good opinion I value too highly to jeopardise it by any +misapprehension, to state distinctly, that I have not the most remote +idea of putting Mr. Slick forward, as a representative of any opinions, +but his own individual ones. They are peculiar to himself. +They naturally result from his shrewdness--knowledge of human +nature--quickness of perception and appreciation of the ridiculous on +the one hand; and on the other from his defective education, ignorance +of the usages of society, and sudden elevation, from the lower walks of +life, to a station for which he was wholly unqualified. + +I have endeavoured, as far as it was possible, in a work of this kind, +to avoid all personal allusions to _private_ persons, or in any way to +refer to scenes that may be supposed to have such a hearing. Should any +one imagine that he can trace any resemblance, to any private occurrence +I can only assure him that such resemblance is quite accidental. + +On the other hand, I have lost no opportunity of inculcating what I +conceive to be good sound constitutional doctrines. Loyal myself, a +great admirer of the monarchical form of government; attached to British +Institutions, and a devoted advocate for the permanent connexion +between the parent State, and its transatlantic possessions, I have not +hesitated to give utterance to these opinions. Born a Colonist, it is +natural I should have the feelings of one, and if I have obtruded +local matters on the notice of the reader oftener than may be thought +necessary, it must be remembered that an inhabitant of those distant +countries has seldom an opportunity of being heard. I should feel, +therefore, if I were to pass over in silence our claims or our +interests, I was affording the best justification for that neglect, +which for the last half century, has cramped our energies, paralized our +efforts, and discouraged and disheartened ourselves. England is liberal +in concessions, and munificent in her pecuniary grants to us; but is +so much engrossed with domestic politics, that she will bestow upon us +neither time nor consideration. + +It has been my object, therefore, to convey to the public some important +truths, under a humorous cover, which, without the amusement afforded by +the wrapper would never be even looked at. + +This portion of the work requires no apology. To do as I have done, is +a duty incumbent on any person who has the means of doing good, afforded +him by such an extensive circulation of his works, as I have been +honoured with. + +I have already expressed some doubts whether I shall be enabled to +furnish a second series of this work or not. In this uncertainty, I will +not omit this, perhaps my only opportunity, of making my most grateful +acknowledgments, for the very great measure of indulgence I have +received, from the public on both sides of the Atlantic, and of +expressing a hope that Mr. Slick, who has been so popular as a +Clockmaker may prove himself equally deserving of favour as “an +Attache.” + +I have the honour to subscribe myself, + +Your most obedient servant, + +THE AUTHOR. + +London, July 1st., 1843. + + +THE END. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s The Attache, by Thomas Chandler Haliburton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATTACHE *** + +***** This file should be named 7823-0.txt or 7823-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/2/7823/ + +Produced by Gardner Buchanan + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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