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Title: The Attache; or, Sam Slick in England (V1)
Author: Thomas Chandler Haliburton
Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7821]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on May 19, 2003]
Edition: 10
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ATTACHE V1 ***
This etext was produced by Gardner Buchanan.
THE ATTACHE; OR,
SAM SLICK IN ENGLAND.
BY THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
(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
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, be 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 he 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 he 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."
END OF VOL. I.
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