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+The Project Gutenberg eBook of Nature and Human Nature, by Thomas Chandler Haliburton
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
+most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
+of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you
+will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before
+using this eBook.
+
+Title: Nature and Human Nature
+
+Author: Thomas Chandler Haliburton
+
+Release Date: November 10, 2002 [eBook #6112]
+[Most recently updated: April 14, 2022]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+Produced by: Don Lainson
+
+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE ***
+
+
+
+
+Nature and Human Nature
+
+by Thomas Chandler Haliburton
+
+1855
+
+
+
+
+Hominem, pagina nostra sapit.—MART
+
+Eye nature’s walks, shoot folly as it flies,
+And catch the manners living as they rise.—POPE
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+ CHAPTER I. A SURPRISE
+ CHAPTER II. CLIPPERS AND STEAMERS
+ CHAPTER III. A WOMAN’S HEART
+ CHAPTER IV. A CRITTER WITH A THOUSAND VIRTUES AND BUT ONE VICE
+ CHAPTER V. A NEW WAY TO LEARN GAELIC
+ CHAPTER VI. THE WOUNDS OF THE HEART
+ CHAPTER VII. FIDDLING AND DANCING, AND SERVING THE DEVIL
+ CHAPTER VIII. STITCHING A BUTTON-HOLE
+ CHAPTER IX. THE PLURAL OF MOOSE
+ CHAPTER X. A DAY ON THE LAKE.—PART I
+ CHAPTER XI. A DAY ON THE LAKE.—PART II
+ CHAPTER XII. THE BETROTHAL
+ CHAPTER XIII. A FOGGY NIGHT
+ CHAPTER XIV. FEMALE COLLEGES
+ CHAPTER XV. GIPSEYING
+ CHAPTER XVI. THE WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD
+ CHAPTER XVII. LOST AT SEA
+ CHAPTER XVIII. HOLDING UP THE MIRROR
+ CHAPTER XIX. THE BUNDLE OF STICKS
+ CHAPTER XX. TOWN AND COUNTRY
+ CHAPTER XXI. THE HONEYMOON
+ CHAPTER XXII. A DISH OF CLAMS
+ CHAPTER XXIII. THE DEVIL’S HOLE; OR, FISH AND FLESH
+ CHAPTER XXIV. THE CUCUMBER LAKE
+ CHAPTER XXV. THE RECALL
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER I.
+A SURPRISE.
+
+
+Thinks I to myself, as I overheard a person inquire of the servant at
+the door, in an unmistakeable voice and tone, “Is the Squire to hum?”
+that can be no one else than my old friend Sam Slick the Clockmaker.
+But it could admit of no doubt when he proceeded, “If he is, tell him
+_I_ am here.”
+
+“Who shall I say, Sir?”
+
+The stranger paused a moment, and then said, “It’s such an everlastin’
+long name, I don’t think you can carry it all to wunst, and I don’t
+want it broke in two. Tell him it’s a gentleman that calculates to hold
+a protracted meeten here to-night. Come, don’t stand starin’ there on
+the track, you might get run over. Don’t you hear the eng_ine_ coming?
+Shunt off now.”
+
+“Ah, my old friend,” said I, advancing, and shaking him by the hand,
+“how are you?”
+
+“As hearty as a buck,” he replied, “though I can’t jist jump quite so
+high now.”
+
+“I knew you,” I said, “the moment I heard your voice, and if I had not
+recognised that, I should have known your talk.”
+
+“That’s because I am a Yankee, Sir,” he said, “no two of us look alike,
+or talk alike; but being free and enlightened citizens, we jist talk as
+we please.”
+
+“Ah, my good friend, you always please when you talk, and that is more
+than can be said of most men.”
+
+“And so will you,” he replied, “if you use soft sawder that way. Oh,
+dear me! it seems but the other day that you laughed so at my theory of
+soft sawder and human natur’, don’t it? They were pleasant days, warn’t
+they? I often think of them, and think of them with pleasure too. As I
+was passing Halifax harbour, on my way hum in the ‘Black Hawk,’ the
+wind fortunately came ahead, and thinks I to myself, I will put in
+there, and pull foot1 for Windsor and see the Squire, give him my
+Journal, and spend an hour or two with him once more. So here I am, at
+least what is left of me, and dreadful glad I am to see you too; but as
+it is about your dinner hour I will go and titivate up a bit, and then
+we will have a dish of chat for desert, and cigars, to remind us of
+by-gones, as we stroll through your shady walks here.”
+
+1 The Americans are not entitled to the credit or ridicule, whichever
+people may be disposed to bestow upon them, for the extraordinary
+phrases with which their conversation is occasionally embellished. Some
+of them have good classical authority. That of “pull-foot” may be
+traced to Euripides.
+“ἀναίρων ἐκ δώματων ποδὰ”
+
+
+My old friend had worn well; he was still a wiry athletic man, and his
+step as elastic and springy as ever. The constant exercise he had been
+in the habit of taking had preserved his health and condition, and
+these in their turn had enabled him to maintain his cheerfulness and
+humour. The lines in his face were somewhat deeper, and a few
+straggling grey hairs were the only traces of the hand of time. His
+manner was much improved by his intercourse with the great world; but
+his phraseology, in which he appeared to take both pride and pleasure,
+was much the same as when I first knew him. So little indeed was he
+changed, that I could scarcely believe so many years had elapsed since
+we made our first tour together.
+
+It was the most unexpected and agreeable visit. He enlivened the
+conversation at dinner with anecdotes that were often too much for the
+gravity of my servant, who once or twice left the room to avoid
+explosive outbreaks of laughter. Among others, he told me the following
+whimsical story.
+
+“When the ‘Black Hawk’ was at Causeau, we happened to have a queer
+original sort of man, a Nova Scotia doctor, on board, who joined our
+party at Ship Harbour, for the purpose of taking a cruise with us. Not
+having anything above particular to do, we left the vessel and took
+passage in a coaster for Prince Edward’s Island, as my commission
+required me to spend a day or two there, and inquire about the
+fisheries. Well, although I don’t trade now, I spekelate sometimes when
+I see a right smart chance, and especially if there is fun in the
+transaction. So, sais I, ‘Doctor, I will play possum1 with these folks,
+and take a rise out of them, that will astonish their weak narves, _I_
+know, while I put several hundred dollars in my pocket at the same
+time.’ So I advertised that I would give four pounds ten shillings for
+the largest Hackmetack knee in the island, four pounds for the second,
+three pounds ten shillings for the third, and three pounds for the
+fourth biggest one. I suppose, Squire, you know what a ship’s knee is,
+don’t you? It is a crooked piece of timber, exactly the shape of a
+man’s leg when kneeling. It forms two sides of a square, and makes a
+grand fastening for the side and deck beams of a vessel.
+
+1 The opossum, when chased by dogs, will often pretend to be dead, and
+thus deceives his pursuers.
+
+
+“‘What in the world do you want of only four of those knees?’ said the
+Doctor.
+
+“‘Nothing,’ said I, ‘but to raise a laugh on these critters, and make
+them pay real handsome for the joke.’
+
+“Well, every bushwhacker and forest ranger in the island thought he
+knew where to find four enormous ones, and that he would go and get
+them, and say nothing to nobody, and all that morning fixed for the
+delivery they kept coming into the shipping place with them. People
+couldn’t think what under the light of the living sun was going on, for
+it seemed as if every team in the province was at work, and all the
+countrymen were running mad on junipers. Perhaps no livin’ soul ever
+see such a beautiful collection of ship-timber afore, and I am sure
+never will again in a crow’s age. The way these ‘old oysters’ (a
+nick-name I gave the islanders, on account of their everlastin’ beds of
+this shell-fish) opened their mugs and gaped was a caution to dying
+calves.
+
+“At the time appointed, there were eight hundred sticks on the ground,
+the very best in the colony. Well, I went very gravely round and
+selected the four largest, and paid for them cash down on the nail,
+according to contract. The goneys seed their fix, but didn’t know how
+they got into it. They didn’t think hard of me, for I advertised for
+four sticks only, and I gave a very high price for them; but they did
+think a little mean of themselves, that’s a fact, for each man had but
+four pieces, and they were too ridiculous large for the thunderin’
+small vessels built on the island. They scratched their heads in a way
+that was harrowing, even in a stubble field.
+
+“‘My gracious,’ sais I, ‘hackmetacks, it seems to me, is as thick in
+this country as blackberries in the Fall, after the robins have left to
+go to sleep for the winter. Who on earth would have thought there was
+so many here? Oh, children of Israel! What a lot there is, ain’t there?
+Why, the father of this island couldn’t hold them all.’
+
+“‘Father of this island,’ sais they, ‘who is he?’
+
+“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘ain’t this Prince Edward’s?’
+
+“‘Why, yes,’ sais they, looking still more puzzled.
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘in the middle of Halifax harbour is King George’s
+Island, and that must be the father of this.’
+
+“Well if they could see any wit in that speech, it is more than I
+could, to save my soul alive; but it is the easiest thing in the world
+to set a crowd off a tee-heeing. They can’t help it, for it is
+electrical. Go to the circus now, and you will hear a stupid joke of
+the clown; well, you are determined you won’t laugh, but somehow you
+can’t help it no how you can fix it, although you are mad with yourself
+for doing so, and you just roar out and are as big a fool as all the
+rest.
+
+“Well it made them laugh, and that was enough for me.
+
+“Sais I, ‘the wust of it is, gentle_men_, they are all so shocking
+large, and there is no small ones among them; they can’t be divided
+into lots, still, as you seem to be disappointed, I will make you an
+offer for them, cash down, all hard gold.’ So I gave them a bid at a
+very low figure, say half nothing, ‘and,’ sais I, ‘I advise you not to
+take it, they are worth much more, if a man only knows what to do with
+them. Some of your traders, I make no manner of doubt, will give you
+twice as much if you will only take your pay in goods, at four times
+their value, and perhaps they mightent like your selling them to a
+stranger, for they are all responsible government-men, and act
+accordin’ ‘to the well understood wishes of the people.’ I shall sail
+in two hours, and you can let me know; but mind, I can only buy all or
+none, for I shall have to hire a vessel to carry them. After all,’ sais
+I, ‘perhaps we had better not trade, for,’ taking out a handful of
+sovereigns from my pocket, and jingling them, ‘there is no two ways
+about it; these little fellows are easier to carry by a long chalk than
+them great lummokin’ hackmetacks. Good bye, gentle_men_.’
+
+“Well, one of the critters, who was as awkward as a wrong boot, soon
+calls out, ‘woh,’ to me, so I turns and sais ‘well, “old hoss,” what do
+you want?’ At which they laughed louder than before.
+
+“Sais he, ‘we have concluded to take your offer.’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘there is no back out in me, here is your money, the
+knees is mine.’ So I shipped them, and had the satisfaction to oblige
+them, and put two hundred and fifty pounds in my pocket. There are
+three things, Squire, I like in a spekelation:—_First._ A fair shake;
+_Second._ A fair profit; and _Third,_ a fair share of fun.”
+
+In the course of the afternoon, he said, “Squire, I have brought you my
+Journal, for I thought when I was a startin’ off, as there were some
+things I should like to point out to my old friend, it would be as well
+to deliver it myself and mention them, for what in natur’ is the good
+of letter writing? In business there is nothing like a good face to
+face talk. Now, Squire, I am really what I assume to be—I am, in fact,
+Sam Slick the Clockmaker, and nobody else. It is of no consequence
+however to the world whether this is really my name or an assumed one.
+If it is the first, it is a matter of some importance to take care of
+it and defend it; if it is a fictitious one, it is equally so to
+preserve my incognito. I may not choose to give my card, and may not
+desire to be known. A satirist, like an Irishman, finds it convenient
+sometimes to shoot from behind a shelter. Like him, too, he may
+occasionally miss his shot, and firing with intent to do bodily harm is
+almost as badly punished as if death had ensued. And besides, an
+anonymous book has a mystery about it. Moreover, what more right has a
+man to say to you, ‘Stand and deliver your name,’ than to say, ‘Stand
+and fork out your purse’—I can’t see the difference for the life of me.
+Hesitation betrays guilt. If a person inquires if you are to home, the
+servant is directed to say No, if you don’t want to be seen, and choose
+to be among the missing. Well, if a feller asks if I am _the Mr_ Slick,
+I have just as good a right to say, ‘Ask about and find out.’
+
+“People sometimes, I actilly believe, take you for me. If they do, all
+I have to say is they are fools not to know better, for we neither act
+alike, talk alike, nor look alike, though perhaps we may think alike on
+some subjects. You was bred and born here in Nova Scotia, and not in
+Connecticut, and if they ask you where I was raised, tell them I warn’t
+raised at all, but was found one fine morning pinned across a clothes
+line, after a heavy washing to hum. It is easy to distinguish an editor
+from the author, if a reader has half an eye, and if he hain’t got
+that, it’s no use to offer him spectacles, that’s a fact. Now, by trade
+I am a clockmaker, and by birth I have the honour to be a Yankee. I use
+the word honour, Squire, a purpose, because I know what I am talking
+about, which I am sorry to say is not quite so common a thing in the
+world as people suppose. The English call all us Americans, Yankees,
+because they don’t know what they are talking about, and are not aware
+that it is only the inhabitants of New England who can boast of that
+appellation.1
+
+1 Brother Jonathan is the general term for all. It originated thus.
+When General Washington, after being appointed commander of the army of
+the Revolutionary War, came to Massachusetts to organize it, and make
+preparations for the defence of the country, he found a great want of
+ammunition and other means necessary to meet the powerful foe he had to
+contend with, and great difficulty to obtain them. If attacked in such
+condition, the cause at once might be hopeless. On one occasion at that
+anxious period, a consultation of the officers and others was had, when
+it seemed no way could be devised to make such preparations as was
+necessary. His Excellency Jonathan Trumbull, the elder, was then
+Governor of the State of Connecticut, on whose judgment and aid the
+General placed the greatest reliance, and remarked, “We must consult
+‘Brother Jonathan’ on the subject. The General did so, and the Governor
+was successful in supplying many of the wants of the army. When
+difficulties arose, and the army was spread over the country, it became
+a by-word, “We must consult Brother Jonathan.” The term Yankee is still
+applied to a portion, but “Brother Jonathan” has now become a
+designation of the whole country, as John Bull is for
+England.—BARTLETT’S AMERICANISMS.
+
+
+“The southerners, who are both as proud and as sarcy as the British,
+call us Eastern folk Yankees as a term of reproach, because having no
+slaves, we are obliged to be our own niggers and do our own work, which
+is’nt considered very genteel, and as we are intelligent, enterprising,
+and skilful, and therefore too often creditors of our more luxurious
+countrymen, they do not like us the better for that, and not being
+Puritans themselves, are apt to style us scornfully, those ‘d—d
+Yankees.’
+
+“Now all this comes of their not knowing what they are talking about.
+Even the New Englanders themselves, cute as they be, often use the word
+foolishly; for, Squire, would you believe it, none of them, though they
+answer to and acknowledge the appellation of Yankee with pride, can
+tell you its origin. I repeat, therefore, I have the honour to be a
+Yankee. I don’t mean to say that word is ‘all same,’ as the Indians
+say, as perfection; far from it, for we have some peculiarities common
+to us all. Cracking and boasting is one of these. Now braggin’ comes as
+natural to me as scratchin’ to a Scotchman. I am as fond of rubbing
+myself agin the statue of George the Third, as he is of se-sawing his
+shoulders on the mile-stones of the Duke of Argyle. Each in their way
+were great benefactors, the one by teaching the Yankees to respect
+themselves, and the other by putting his countrymen in an upright
+posture of happiness. So I can join hands with the North Briton, and
+bless them both.
+
+“With this national and nateral infirmity therefore, is it to be
+wondered at if, as my ‘Sayings and Doings’ have become more popular
+than you or I ever expected, that I should crack and boast of them? I
+think not. If I have a claim, my role is to go ahead with it. Now don’t
+leave out my braggin’, Squire, because you are afraid people will think
+it is you speaking, and not me, or because you think it is bad taste as
+you call it. I know what I am at, and don’t go it—blind. My Journal
+contains much for my own countrymen as well as the English, for we
+expect every American abroad to sustain the reputation in himself of
+our great nation.
+
+“Now our Minister to Victoria’s Court, when he made his brag speech to
+the great agricultural dinner at Gloucester last year, didn’t intend
+that for the British, but for us. So in Congress no man in either house
+can speak or read an oration more than an hour long, but he can send
+the whole lockrum, _includin’ what he didn’t say,_ to the papers. One
+has to brag before foreign assemblies, the other before a Congress, but
+both have an eye to the feelings of the Americans at large, and their
+own constituents in particular. Now that is a trick others know as well
+as we do. The Irish member from Kil_many,_ and him from Kil_more_, when
+he brags there never was a murder in either, don’t expect the English
+to believe it, for he is availed they know better, but the brag pleases
+the patriots to home, on account of its impudence.
+
+“So the little man, Lord Bunkum, when he opens Oxford to Jew and
+Gentile, and offers to make Rothschild Chancellor instead of Lord
+Derby, and tells them old dons, the heads of colleges, as polite as a
+stage-driver, that he does it out of pure regard to them, and only to
+improve the University, don’t expect them to believe it; for he gives
+them a sly wink when he says so, as much as to say, how are you off for
+Hebrew, my old septuagenarians? Droll boy is Rothey, for though he
+comes from the land of _Ham,_ he don’t eat _pork._ But it pleases the
+sarcumsised Jew, and the unsarcumsised tag-rag and bobtail that are to
+be admitted, and who verily do believe (for their bump of conceit is
+largely developed) that they can improve the Colleges by granting
+educational excursion tickets.
+
+“So Paddy O’Shonnosey the member for Blarney, when he votes for
+smashing in the porter’s lodges of that Protestant institution, and
+talks of Toleration and Equal Rights, and calls the Duke of Tuscany a
+broth of a boy, and a light to illumine heretical darkness, don’t talk
+this nonsense to please the outs or ins, for he don’t care a snap of
+his finger for either of them, nor because he thinks it right, for it’s
+plain he don’t, seeing that he would fight till he’d run away before
+Maynooth should be sarved arter that fashion; but he does it, because
+he knows it will please him, or them, that sent him there.
+
+“There are two kinds of boastin’, Squire, act_ive_ and pass_ive_. The
+former belongs exclusively to my countrymen, and the latter to the
+British. A Yankee openly asserts and loudly proclaims his superiority.
+John Bull feels and looks it. He don’t give utterance to this
+conviction. He takes it for granted all the world knows and admits it,
+and he is so thoroughly persuaded of it himself, that, to use his own
+favourite phrase, he don’t care a fig if folks don’t admit it. His
+vanity, therefore, has a sublimity in it. He thinks, as the Italians
+say, ‘that when nature formed him, she broke the mould.’ There never
+was, never can, and never will be, another like him. His boastin’,
+therefore, is passive. He shows it and acts it; but he don’t proclaim
+it. He condescends and is gracious, patronizes and talks down to you.
+Let my boastin’ alone therefore, Squire, if you please. You know what
+it means, what bottom it has, and whether the plaster sticks on the
+right spot or not.
+
+“So there is the first division of my subject. Now for the second. But
+don’t go off at half-cock, narvous like. I am not like the black
+preacher that had forty-eleven divisions. I have only a few more
+remarks to make. Well, I have observed that in editin’ my last Journal,
+you struck out some scores I made under certain passages and maxims,
+because you thought they were not needed, or looked vain. I know it
+looks consaited as well as you do, but I know their use also. I have my
+own views of things. Let them also be as I have made them. They warn’t
+put there for nothin’. I have a case in pint that runs on all fours
+with it, as brother Josiah the lawyer used to say, and if there was
+anythin’ wantin’ to prove that lawyers were not strait up and down in
+their dealings, that expression would show it.
+
+“I was to court wunst to Slickville, when he was addressin’ of the
+jury. The main points of his argument he went over and over again, till
+I got so tired I took up my hat and walked out. Sais I to him, arter
+court was prorogued and members gone home,
+
+“‘Sy,’ sais I, ‘why on airth did you repeat them arguments so often? It
+was everlastin’ yarny.’
+
+“‘Sam,’ sais he, and he gave his head a jupe, and pressed his lips
+close, like a lemon-squeezer, the way lawyers always do when they want
+to look wise, ‘_when I can’t drive a nail with one blow, I hammer away
+till I do git it in._ Some folks’ heads is as hard as hackmetacks—you
+have to bore a hole in it first to put the nail in, to keep it from
+bendin’, and then it is as touch as a bargain if you can send it home
+and clinch it.’
+
+“Now maxims and saws are the sumtotalisation of a thing. Folks won’t
+always add up the columns to see if they are footed right, but show ’em
+the amount and result, and _that_ they are able to remember and carry
+away with them. No—no, put them Italics in, as I have always done. They
+show there is truth at the bottom. I like it, for it’s what I call
+sense on the short-cards—do you take? Recollect always, you are not Sam
+Slick, and I am not you. The greatest compliment a Britisher would
+think he could pay you, would be to say, ‘I should have taken you for
+an Englishman.’ Now the greatest compliment he can pay me is to take me
+for a Connecticut Clockmaker, who hoed his way up to the Embassy to
+London, and preserved so much of his nationality, after being so long
+among foreigners. Let the Italics be—you ain’t answerable for them, nor
+my boastin’ neither. When you write a book of your own, leave out both
+if you like, but as you only edit my Journal, if you leave them out,
+just go one step further, and leave out Sam Slick also.
+
+“There is another thing, Squire, upon which I must make a remark, if
+you will bear with me. In my last work you made me speak purer English
+than you found in my Journal, and altered my phraseology, or rather my
+dialect. Now, my dear Nippent—”
+
+“Nippent!” said I, “what is that?”
+
+“The most endearing word in the Indian language for friend,” he said,
+“only it’s more comprehensive, including ally, foster-brother,
+life-preserver, shaft-horse, and everything that has a human tie in
+it.”
+
+“Ah, Slick,” I said, “how skilled you are in soft sawder! You laid that
+trap for me on purpose, so that I might ask the question, to enable you
+to throw the lavender to me.”
+
+“Dod drot that word soft sawder,” said he, “I wish I had never invented
+it. I can’t say a civil thing to anybody now, but he looks arch, as if
+he had found a mare’s nest, and says, ‘Ah, Slick! none of your soft
+sawder now.’ But, my dear nippent, by that means you destroy my
+individuality. I cease to be the genuine itinerant Yankee Clockmaker,
+and merge into a very bad imitation. You know I am a natural character,
+and always was, and act and talk naturally, and as far as I can judge,
+the little alteration my sojourn in London with the American embassy
+has made in my pronunciation and provincialism, is by no means an
+improvement to my Journal. The moment you take away my native dialect,
+I become the representative of another class, and cease to be your old
+friend ‘Sam Slick, the Clockmaker.’ Bear with me this once, Squire, and
+don’t tear your shirt, I beseech you, for in all probability it will be
+the last time it will be in your power to subject me to the ordeal of
+criticism, and I should like, I confess, to remain true to myself and
+to Nature to the last.
+
+“On the other hand, Squire, you will find passages in this Journal that
+have neither Yankee words nor Yankee brag in them. Now pray don’t go as
+you did in the last, and alter them by insarten here and there what you
+call ‘Americanisms,’ so as to make it more in character and uniform;
+that is going to t’other extreme, for I can write as pure English, if I
+can’t speak it, as anybody can.1 My education warn’t a college one,
+like my brothers, Eldad’s and Josiah’s, the doctor and lawyer; but it
+was not neglected for all that. Dear old Minister was a scholar, every
+inch of him, and took great pains with me in my themes, letters, and
+composition. ‘Sam,’ he used to say, ‘there are four things needed to
+write well: first, master the language grammatically; second, master
+your subject; third, write naturally; fourth, let your heart as well as
+your hand guide the pen.’ It ain’t out of keeping therefore for me to
+express myself decently in composition if I choose. It warn’t out of
+character, with Franklin, and he was a poor printer boy, nor
+Washington, and he was only a land-surveyor, and they growed to be
+‘some punkins’ too.
+
+1 The reader will perceive from a perusal of this Journal, that Mr
+Slick, who is always so ready to detect absurdity in others, has in
+this instance exhibited a species of vanity by no means uncommon in
+this world. He prides himself more on composition, to which he has but
+small pretensions, than on those things for which the public is willing
+enough to give him full credit. Had he however received a classical
+education, it may well be doubted whether he would have been as useful
+or successful a man as President of Yale College, as he has been as an
+itinerant practical Clockmaker.
+
+
+“An American clockmaker ain’t like a European one. He may not be as
+good a workman as t’other one, but he can do somethin’ else besides
+makin’ wheels and pulleys. One always looks forward to rise in the
+world, the other to attain excellence in his line. I am, as I have
+expressed it in some part of this Journal, not ashamed of having been a
+tradesman—I glory in it; but I should indeed have been ashamed if, with
+the instruction I received from dear old Minister, I had always
+remained one. No, don’t alter my Journal. I am just what I am, and
+nothing more or less. You can’t measure me by English standards; you
+must take an American one, and that will give you my length, breadth,
+height, and weight to a hair. If silly people take you for me, and put
+my braggin’ on your shoulders, why jist say, ‘You might be mistakened
+for a worse fellow than he is, that’s all.’ Yes, yes, let my talk
+remain ‘down-east talk,’1 and my writin’ remain clear of cant terms
+when you find it so.
+
+1 It must not be inferred from this expression that Mr Slick’s talk is
+all “pure down-east dialect.” The intermixture of Americans is now so
+great, in consequence of their steamers and railroads, that there is
+but little pure provincialism left. They have borrowed from each other
+in different sections most liberally, and not only has the vocabulary
+of the south and west contributed its phraseology to New England, but
+there is recently an affectation in consequence of the Mexican war, to
+naturalise Spanish words, some of which Mr Slick, who delights in this
+sort of thing, has introduced into this Journal.—ED.
+
+
+“I like Yankee words—I learned them when young. Father and mother used
+them, and so did all the old folks to Slickville. There is both fun,
+sense, and expression in ’em too, and that is more than there is in
+Taffy’s, Pat’s, or Sawney’s brogue either. The one enriches and
+enlarges the vocabulary, the other is nothing but broken English, and
+so confoundedly broken too, you can’t put the pieces together
+sometimes. Again, my writing, when I freeze down solid to it, is just
+as much in character as the other. Recollect this—Every woman in our
+country who has a son knows that he may, and thinks that he will,
+become President of the United States, and that thought and that chance
+make that boy superior to any of his class in Europe.
+
+“And now, Squire,” said he, “I believe there has been enough said about
+myself and my Journal. Sposen we drink success to the ‘human nature,’
+or ‘men and things,’ or whatever other name you select for this
+Journal, and then we will talk of something else.”
+
+“I will drink that toast,” I said, “with all my heart, and now let me
+ask you how you have succeeded in your mission about the fisheries?”
+
+“First rate,” he replied; “we have them now, and no mistake!”
+
+“By the treaty?” I inquired.
+
+“No,” he said, “I have discovered the dodge, and we shall avail of it
+at once. By a recent local law foreigners can hold real estate in this
+province now. And by a recent Act of Parliament our vessels can obtain
+British registers. Between these two privileges, a man don’t deserve to
+be called an American who can’t carry on the fisheries in spite of all
+the cruisers, revenue officers, and prohibitary laws under the sun. It
+is a peaceable and quiet way of getting possession, and far better than
+fighting for them, while it comports more with the dignity of our great
+and enlightened nation.”
+
+“What do you think,” I said, “of the Elgin treaty as a bargain?”
+
+After some hesitation, he looked up and smiled.
+
+“We can’t complain,” said he. “As usual we have got hold of the right
+eend of the rope, and got a vast deal more than we expected. The truth
+is, the English are so fond of trade, and so afraid of war, if we will
+only give them cotton, and flour at a fair price, and take their
+manufactures in return, we can bully them into anythin’ almost. It is a
+positive fact, there were fifty deserters from the British army taken
+off of the wreck of the ‘San Francisco,’ and carried to England. John
+Bull pretended to wink at it, hired a steamer, and sent them all out
+again to us. Lord! how our folks roared when they heard it; and as for
+the President, he laughed like a hyena over a dead nigger. Law sakes
+alive man! Make a question between our nation and England about fifty
+desarters, and if the ministers of the day only dared to talk of
+fighting, the members of all the manufactoren towns in England, the
+cottonocracy of Great Britain, would desert too!
+
+“It’s nateral, as an American, I should be satisfied with the treaty;
+but I’ll tell you what I _am_ sorry for. I am grieved we asked, or your
+Governor-General granted, a right to us to land on these shores and
+make our fish. Lord Elgin ought to have known that every foot of the
+sea-coast of Nova Scotia has been granted, and is now private property.
+
+“To concede a privilege to land, with a proviso to respect the rights
+of the owner, is nonsense. This comes of not sending a man to negociate
+who is chosen by the people, not for his rank, but for his ability and
+knowledge. The fact is, I take blame to myself about it, for I was
+pumped who would do best and be most acceptable to us Americans. I was
+afeared they would send a Billingsgate contractor, who is a plaguy
+sight more posted up about fisheries than any member of parliament, or
+a clever colonist (not a party man), and they know more than both the
+others put together; and I dreaded if they sent either, there would be
+a _quid pro quo,_ as Josiah says, to be given, afore we got the
+fisheries, if we ever got them, at all. ‘So,’ sais I, out of a bit of
+fun, for I can’t help taken a rise out of folks no how I can fix it,
+‘send us a lord. We are mighty fond of noblemen to Washington, and
+toady them first-rate. It will please such a man as Pierce to show him
+so much respect as to send a peer to him. He will get whatever he
+asks.’
+
+“Well, they fell into the trap beautiful. They sent us one, and we
+rowed him up to the very head waters of Salt River in no time.1 But I
+am sorry we asked the privilege to land and cure fish. I didn’t think
+any created critter would have granted that. Yes, I foresee trouble
+arising out of this. Suppose ‘Cayenne Pepper,’ as we call the captain
+that commanded the ‘Cayenne’ at Grey Town, was to come to a port in
+Nova Scotia, and pepper it for insultin’ our flag by apprehenden
+trespassers (though how a constable is to arrest a crew of twenty men
+unless, Irishman like, he surrounds them, is a mystery to me). What
+would be done in that case? Neither you nor I can tell, Squire. But
+depend upon it, there is a tempestical time comin’, and it is as well
+to be on the safe side of the fence when there is a chance of kicking
+going on.
+
+1 To row up Salt River is a common phrase, used generally to denote
+political defeat. The distance to which a party is rowed up Salt River
+depends entirely upon the magnitude of the majority against him. If the
+defeat is overwhelming, the unsuccessful party is said “to be rowed up
+to the very head waters of Salt River.” The phrase has its origin in
+the fact that there is a small stream of that name in Kentucky, the
+passage of which is made difficult and laborious, as well by its
+tortuous course as by numerous shallows and bars. The real application
+of the phrase is to the unhappy wight who propels the boat, but
+politically, in slang usage, it means the man rowed up, the
+passenger—I. INMAN.
+
+
+“The bombardment of Grey Town was the greatest and bravest exploit of
+modern times. We silenced their guns at the first broadside, and shut
+them up so sudden that envious folks like the British now swear they
+had none, while we lost only one man in the engagement, but he was
+drunk and fell overboard. What is the cannonade of Sebastopool to that?
+Why it sinks into insignificance.”
+
+He had hardly ceased speaking, when the wheels of a carriage were heard
+rapidly approaching the door. Taking out his watch, and observing the
+hour, he said: “Squire, it is now eleven o’clock. I must be a movin’.
+Good bye! I am off to Halifax. I am goin’ to make a night flight of it.
+The wind is fair, and I must sail by daylight to-morrow morning.
+Farewell!”
+
+He then shook hands most cordially with me, and said: “Squire, unless
+you feel inclined at some future day to make the tour of the States
+with me, or somethin’ turns up I am not availed of, I am afraid you
+have seen the last Journal of your old friend ‘Sam Slick.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II.
+CLIPPERS AND STEAMERS.
+
+
+Whoever has taken the trouble to read the “Wise Saws” of Mr Slick, will
+be prepared to resume the thread of his narrative without explanation,
+if indeed these unconnected selections deserve the appellation. But as
+this work may fall into the hands of many people who never saw its
+predecessor, it may be necessary to premise that our old friend Sam,
+having received a commission from the President of the United States,
+to visit the coast of Nova Scotia, and report to him fully on the state
+of the fisheries, their extent and value, the manner in which they were
+prosecuted, and the best mode of obtaining a participation in them, he
+proceeded on his cruise in a trading vessel, called the “Black Hawk,”
+whereof Timothy Cutler was master, and Mr Eldad Nickerson the pilot.
+The two preceding volumes contained his adventures at sea, and in the
+harbours of the province, to the westward of Halifax. The present work
+is devoted to his remarks on “nature and human nature.”
+
+While amusing himself fishing within three miles of the coast, off La
+Haive, in contravention of the treaty, he narrowly escaped capture by
+the British cruiser “Spitfire,” commanded by Captain Stoker. By a
+skilful manoeuvre, he decoyed the man-of-war, in the eagerness of the
+chase, on to a sand-bar, when he dexterously slipt through a narrow
+passage between two islands, and keeping one of them in a line between
+the “Black Hawk” and her pursuer, so as to be out of the reach of her
+guns, he steered for the eastern shore of Nova Scotia, and was soon out
+of sight of the islands behind which his enemy lay embedded in the
+sand; from this point the narrative is resumed in Mr Slick’s own
+words.1
+
+1 His remarks on the fisheries I have wholly omitted, for they have now
+lost their interest. His observations on “nature and human nature” are
+alone retained, as they may be said to have a universal
+application.—ED.
+
+
+“I guess,” said I, “Captain, the ‘Spitfire’ will have to put into
+Halifax to report herself and be surveyed, so we may pursue our course
+in peace. But this ‘Black Hawk’ is a doll, ain’t she? don’t she skim
+over the water like a sea gull? The truth is, Cutler, when you ain’t in
+a hurry, and want to enjoy yourself at sea, as I always do, for I am a
+grand sailor, give me a clipper. She is so light and buoyant, and the
+motion so elastic, it actilly exilerates your spirits. There is
+something like life in her gait, and you have her in hand like a horse,
+and you feel as if you were her master, and directed her movements. I
+ain’t sure you don’t seem as if you were part of her yourself. Then
+there is room to show skill and seamanship, and if you don’t in reality
+go as quick as a steamer, you seem to go faster, if there is no visible
+object to measure your speed by, and that is something, for the white
+foam on the leeward side rushes by you in rips, raps, and rainbows like
+Canadian rapids.
+
+“Then if she is an atrysilly1 like this, and she is doing her
+prettiest, and actilly laughs again, she is so pleased, why you are
+satisfied, for you don’t make the breeze, you take it as you find it,
+like all other good gifts of Providence, and say, ‘ain’t she going like
+wink, how she forges ahead, don’t she?’ Your attention is kept alive,
+too, watchin’ the wind, and trimmin’ sail to it accordingly, and the
+jolly ‘Oh, heave oh,’ of the sailors is music one loves to listen to,
+and if you wish to take a stretch for it in your cloak on deck, on the
+sunny or shady side of the companion-way, the breeze whistles a nice
+soft lullaby for you, and you are off in the land of Nod in no time.”
+
+1 The Atricilla, or laughing sea-gull. Its note resembles a coarse
+laugh. Hence its name. It is very common in the Bahamas.
+
+
+“Dreaming of Sophy Collingwood,” sais the Captain, “and the witch of
+Eskisooney, eh?”
+
+“Yes, dreamin’ of bright eyes and smilin’ faces, or anythin’ else
+that’s near and dear, for to my idea, the heart gives the subject for
+the head to think upon. In a fair wind and a charmin’ day like this, I
+never coiled up on the deck for a nap in my life, that I had’nt
+pleasant dreams. You feel as if you were at peace with all the world in
+general, and yourself in partikeler, and that it is very polite of
+folks to stay to home ashore, and let you and your friends enjoy
+yourselves without treadin’ on your toes, and wakin’ of you up if
+asleep, or a jostlin’ of you in your turn on the quarter-deck, or
+over-hearin’ of your conversation.
+
+“And ain’t you always ready for your meals, and don’t you walk into
+them in rael right down earnest? Oh, nothing ever tastes so good to me
+as it does at sea. The appetite, like a sharp knife, makes the meat
+seem tender, and the sea air is a great friend of digestion, and always
+keeps company with it. Then you don’t care to sit and drink after
+dinner as you do at an hotel of an idle day, for you want to go on
+deck, light your cigar, take a sweep round the horizon with your glass
+to see if there is any sail in sight, glance at the sky to ascertain if
+the breeze is likely to hold, and then bring yourself to anchor on a
+seat, and have a dish of chat for a dessert with the captain, if he is
+a man of books like you, Cutler, or a man of reefs, rocks, and
+sandbars, fish, cordwood, and smugglin’, or collisions, wracks, and
+salvage, like the pilot.
+
+“Then, if you have a decent sample or two of passengers on board, you
+can discuss men and things, and women and nothings, law, physick, and
+divinity, or that endless, tangled ball of yarn, politicks, or you can
+swap anecdotes, and make your fortune in the trade. And by the same
+trail of thought we must give one or two of these Blue-Noses now and
+then a cast on board with us to draw them out. “Well, if you want to
+read, you can go and turn in and take a book, and solitudinise to it,
+and there is no one to disturb you. I actilly learned French in a
+voyage to Calcutta, and German on my way home. I got enough for common
+use. It warn’t all pure gold; but it was kind of small change, and
+answered every purpose of trade or travel. Oh, it’s no use a talkin’;
+where time ain’t the main object, there’s nothin’ like a sailin’ vessel
+to a man who ain’t sea-sick, and such fellows ought to be cloriformed,
+put to bed, and left there till the voyage is over. They have no
+business to go to sea, if they are such fools as not to know how to
+enjoy themselves.
+
+“Then sailors are characters; they are men of the world, there is great
+self-reliance in them. They have to fight their way in life through
+many trials and difficulties, and their trust is in God and their own
+strong arm. They are so much in their own element, they seem as if they
+were born on the sea, cradled on its billows, and, like Mother Carey’s
+chickens, delighted in its storms and mountain waves. They walk, talk,
+and dress differently from landsmen. They straddle as they pace the
+deck, so as to brace the body and keep their trowsers up at the same
+time; their gait is loose, and their dress loose, and their limbs
+loose; indeed, they are rather too fond _of slack._ They climb like
+monkeys, and depend more on their paws than their legs. They tumble up,
+but never down. They count, not by fingers, it is tedious, but by
+hands; they put a part for the whole, and call themselves hands, for
+they are paid for the use of them, and not their heads.
+
+“Though they are two-handed they are not close-fisted fellows. They
+despise science, but are fond of practical knowledge. When the sun is
+over the foreyard, they know the time of day as well as the captain,
+and call for their grog, and when they lay back their heads, and turn
+up the bottom of the mug to the sky, they call it in derision taking an
+observation. But though they have many characteristics in common, there
+is an individuality in each that distinguishes him from the rest. He
+stands out in bold relief—I by myself, I. He feels and appreciates his
+importance. He knows no plural. The word ‘our’ belongs to landsmen;
+‘my’ is the sailor’s phrase—my ship, my captain, my messmate, my watch
+on deck, ‘my eyes!’ ‘you lubber, don’t you know that’s _me?’_ I like to
+listen to their yarns and their jokes, and to hear them sing their
+simple ditties. The odd mixture of manliness and childishness—of
+boldness and superstitious fears; of preposterous claims for wages and
+thoughtless extravagance; of obedience and discontent—all goes to make
+the queer compound called ‘Jack.’ How often have I laughed over the fun
+of the forecastle in these small fore and aft packets of ourn! and I
+think I would back that place for wit against any bar-room in New York
+or New Orleans, and I believe they take the rag off of all creation.
+
+“But the cook is my favourite. He is a scientific man, and so skilful
+in compounds, he generally goes by the name of doctor. I like the daily
+consultation with him about dinner: not that I am an epicure; but at
+sea, as the business of life is eating, it is as well to be master of
+one’s calling. Indeed, it appears to be a law of nature, that those who
+have mouths should understand what to put in them. It gratifies the
+doctor to confer with him, and who does it not please to be considered
+a man of importance? He is therefore a member of the Privy Council, and
+a more useful member he is too than many Right Honourables I know
+of—who have more acres than ideas. The Board assembles after breakfast,
+and a new dish is a great item in the budget. It keeps people in good
+humour the rest of the day, and affords topics for the table. To eat to
+support existence is only fit for criminals. Bread and water will do
+that; but to support and gratify nature at the same time is a noble
+effort of art, and well deserves the thanks of mankind. The cook too
+enlivens the consultation by telling marvellous stories about strange
+dishes he has seen. He has eaten serpents with the Siamese, monkeys in
+the West Indies, crocodiles and sloths in South America, and cats,
+rats, and dogs with the Chinese; and of course, as nobody can
+contradict him, says they are delicious. Like a salmon, you must give
+him the line, even if it wearies you, before you bag him; but when you
+do bring him to land his dishes are savoury. They have a relish that is
+peculiar to the sea, for _where there is no garden, vegetables are
+always most prized._ The glorious onion is duly valued, for as there is
+no mistress to be kissed, who will dare to object to its aroma?
+
+“Then I like a Sunday at sea in a vessel like this, and a day like
+this, when the men are all clean and tidy, and the bell rings for
+prayers, and all hands are assembled aft to listen to the captain as he
+reads the Church Service. It seems like a family scene. It reminds me
+of dear old Minister and days gone by, when he used to call us round
+him, and repeated to us the promise ‘that when two or three were
+gathered together in God’s name, he would grant their request.’ The
+only difference is, sailors are more attentive and devout than
+landsmen. They seem more conscious that they are in the Divine
+presence. They have little to look upon but the heavens above and the
+boundless ocean around them. Both seem made on purpose for _them—_the
+sun to guide them by day, and the stars by night, the sea to bear them
+on its bosom, and the breeze to waft them on their course. They feel
+how powerless they are of themselves; how frail their bark; how
+dependent they are on the goodness and mercy of their Creator, and that
+it is He alone who can rule the tempest and control the stormy deep.
+Their impressions are few, but they are strong. It is the world that
+hardens the heart, and the ocean seems apart from it.
+
+“They are noble fellows, sailors, and I love them; but, Cutler, how are
+they used, especially where they ought to be treated best, on board of
+men-of-war? The moment a ship arrives in port, the anchor cast and the
+sails furled—what dees the captain do? the popular captain too, the
+idol of the men; he who is so kind and so fond of them? Why, he calls
+them aft, and says, ‘Here, my lads, here is lots of cash for you, now
+be off ashore and enjoy yourselves.’ And they give three cheers for
+their noble commander—their good-hearted officer—the sailor’s
+friend—the jolly old blue jacket,—and they bundle into the boats, and
+on to the beach, like school-boys. And where do they go? Well, we won’t
+follow them, for I never was in them places where they _do_ go, and so
+I can’t describe them, and one thing I must say, I never yet found any
+place answer the picture drawn of it. But if half only of the accounts
+are true that I have heerd of them, they must be the devil’s own
+seminaries of vice—that’s a fact. Every mite and morsel as bad as the
+barrack scenes that we read of lately.
+
+“Well, at the end of a week back come the sailors. They have had a
+glorious lark and enjoyed themselves beyond anything in the world, for
+they are pale, sick, sleepy, tired out, cleaned out, and kicked out,
+with black eyes, broken heads, swelled cheeks, minus a few teeth, half
+their clothes, and all their money.
+
+“‘What,’ says the captain, ‘what’s the matter with you, Tom Marlin,
+that you limp so like a lame duck?’
+
+“‘Nothing, your honour,’ says Tom, twitching his forelock, and making a
+scrape with his hind leg, ‘nothing, your honour, but a scratch from a
+bagganet.’
+
+“‘What! a fight with the soldiers, eh? The cowardly rascals to use
+their side arms!’
+
+“‘We cleared the house of them, Sir, in no time.’
+
+“‘That’s right. Now go below, my lads, and turn in and get a good
+sleep. I like to see my _lambs_ enjoy themselves. It does my heart
+good.’
+
+“And yet, Cutler, that man is said to be a father to his crew.”
+
+“Slick,” said Cutler, “what a pity it is you wouldn’t always talk that
+way!” Now if there is any created thing that makes me mad, it is to
+have a feller look admiren at me, when I utter a piece of plain common
+sense like that, and turn up the whites of his eyes like a duck in
+thunder, as much as to say, what a pity it is you weren’t broughten up
+a preacher. It ryles me considerable, I tell you.
+
+“Cutler,” said I, “did you ever see a colt in a pasture, how he would
+race and chase round the field, head, ears, and tail up, and stop
+short, snort as if he had seen the ghost of a bridle, and off again hot
+foot?”
+
+“Yes,” said he, “I have, but you are not a colt, nor a boy either.”
+
+“Well, did you ever see a horse when unharnessed from a little, light
+waggon, and turned out to grass, do nearly the same identical thing,
+and kick up his heels like mad, as much as to say, I am a free nigger
+now?”
+
+“Well, I have,” said he.
+
+“Stop,” said I, a touchin’ of him on his arm; “what in the world is
+that?” and I pointed over the taffrail to the weather-bow.
+
+“Porpoises,” said he.
+
+“What are they a doin’ of?”
+
+“Sportin’ of themselves.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “and do you place man below the beasts of the field
+and the fishes of the sea? What in natur’ was humour given to us for
+but for our divarsion? What sort of a world would this be if every
+fellow spoke sermons and talked homilies, and what in that case would
+parsons do? I leave you to cypher that out, and then prove it by
+algebra; but I’ll tell you what they wouldn’t do, I’ll be hanged if
+they’d strike for higher wages, for fear they should not get any at
+all.”
+
+“I knock under,” said he; “you may take my hat; now go on and finish
+the comparison between Clippers and Steamers.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “as I was a sayin’, Captain, give me a craft like this,
+that spreads its wings like a bird, and looks as if it was born, not
+made, a whole-sail breeze, and a seaman every inch of him like you on
+the deck, who looks you in the face, in a way as if he’d like to say,
+only bragging ain’t genteel, Ain’t she a clipper now, and ain’t I the
+man to handle her? Now this ain’t the case in a steamer. They ain’t
+vessels, they are more like floating factories; you see the steam
+machines and the enormous fires, and the clouds of smoke, but you don’t
+visit the rooms where the looms are, that’s all. They plough through
+the sea dead and heavy, like a subsoiler with its eight-horse team;
+there is no life in ’em; they can’t dance on the waters as if they
+rejoiced in their course, but divide the waves as a rock does in a
+river; they seem to move more in defiance of the sea than as if they
+were in an element of their own.
+
+“They puff and blow like boasters braggin’ that they extract from the
+ocean the means to make it help to subdue itself. It is a war in the
+elements, fire and water contendin’ for victory. They are black, dingy,
+forbiddin’ looking sea monsters. It is no wonder the superstitious
+Spaniard, when he first saw one, said: ‘A vessel that goes against the
+tide, and against the wind, and without sails, goes against God,’ or
+that the simple negro thought it was a sea-devil. They are very well
+for carrying freight, because they are beasts of burden, but not for
+carrying travellers, unless they are mere birds of passage like our
+Yankee tourists, who want to have it to say I was _‘thar.’_ I hate
+them. The decks are dirty; your skin and clothes are dirty; and your
+lungs become foul; smoke pervades everythin’, and now and then the
+condensation gives you a shower of sooty water by way of variety, that
+scalds your face and dyes your coat into a sort of pepper-and-salt
+colour.
+
+“You miss the sailors, too. There are none on board—you miss the nice
+light, tight-built, lathy, wiry, active, neat, jolly crew. In their
+place you have nasty, dirty, horrid stokers; some hoisting hot cinders
+and throwing them overboard (not with the merry countenances of
+niggers, or the cheerful sway-away-my-boys expression of the Jack Tar,
+but with sour, cameronean-lookin’ faces, that seem as if they were
+dreadfully disappointed they were not persecuted any longer—had no
+churches and altars to desecrate, and no bishops to anoint with the oil
+of hill-side maledictions as of old), while others are emerging from
+the fiery furnaces beneath for fresh air, and wipe a hot dirty face
+with a still dirtier shirt sleeve, and in return for the nauseous
+exudation, lay on a fresh coat of blacking; tall, gaunt wretches, who
+pant for breath as they snuff the fresh breeze, like porpouses, and
+then dive again into the lower regions. They are neither seamen nor
+landsmen, good whips nor decent shots, their hair is not woolly enough
+for niggers, and their faces are too black for white men. They ain’t
+amphibious animals, like marines and otters. They are Salamanders. But
+that’s a long word, and now they call them stokers for shortness.
+
+“Then steamers carry a mob, and I detest mobs, especially such ones as
+they delight in—greasy Jews, hairy Germans, Mulatto-looking Italians,
+squalling children, that run between your legs and throw you down, or
+wipe the butter off their bread on your clothes; Englishmen that will
+grumble, and Irishmen that will fight; priests that won’t talk, and
+preachers that will harangue; women that will be carried about, because
+they won’t lie still and be quiet; silk men, cotten men, bonnet men,
+iron men, trinket men, and every sort of shopmen, who severally know
+nothing in the world but silk, cotten, bonnets, iron, trinkets, and so
+on, and can’t talk of anythin’ else; fellows who walk up and down the
+deck, four or five abreast when there are four or five of the same
+craft on board, and prevent any one else from promenadin’ by sweepin’
+the whole space, while every lurch the ship gives, one of them tumbles
+atop of you, or treads on your toes, and then, instead of apoligisin’,
+turns round and abuses you like a pick-pocket for stickin’ your feet
+out and trippin’ people up. Thinkin’ is out of the question, and as for
+readin’, you might as well read your fortune in the stars.
+
+“Just as you begin, that lovely-lookin’, rosy-cheeked, wicked-eyed
+gall, that came on board so full of health and spirits, but now looks
+like a faded striped ribbon, white, yeller, pink, and brown—dappled all
+over her face, but her nose, which has a red spot on it—lifts up a pair
+of lack-lustre peepers that look glazed like the round dull
+ground-glass lights let into the deck, suddenly wakes up squeamish, and
+says, ‘Please, Sir, help me down; I feel so ill.’ Well, you take her up
+in your arms, and for the first time in your life hold her head from
+you, for fear she will reward you in a way that ain’t no matter, and
+she feels as soft as dough, and it seems as if your fingers left dents
+in her putty-like arms, and you carry her to the head of the stairs,
+and call out for the stewardess, and a waiter answers, ‘Stewardess is
+tight, Sir.’
+
+“‘I am glad of it, she is just the person I want. I wish all the other
+passengers were tight also.’
+
+“‘Lord, Sir, that ain’t it—she is mops and brooms.’
+
+“‘Mops and brooms, I suppose she is, she must have plenty use for them,
+I reckon, to keep all snug and tidy down there.’
+
+“‘Good gracious, Sir, don’t you understand, she is half seas over.’
+
+“‘True, so we all are, the captain said so to-day at twelve o’clock, I
+wish we were over altogether. Send her up.’
+
+“‘No, no, Sir, she is more than half shaved.’
+
+“‘The devil! does she shave? I don’t believe she is a woman at all. I
+see how it is, you have been putting one of the sailors into
+petticoats.’ And the idea makes even the invalid gall laugh.
+
+“‘No, no, Sir, she is tipsy.’
+
+“‘Then why the plague couldn’t you say so at once. I guess you kinder
+pride yourself in your slang. Help me to assist this lady down to her
+friends.’
+
+“Well, when you return on deck, lo and behold, your seat is occupied,
+and you must go and stand by the rail till one is vacant, when another
+gall that ain’t ill, but inconveniently well, she is so full of chat,
+says, ‘Look, look, Sir, dear me, what is that, Sir? a porpoise. Why you
+don’t, did you ever! well, I never see a porpoise afore in all my born
+days! are they good to eat, Sir?’
+
+“‘Excellent food for whales, Miss.’
+
+“‘Well I never! do they swallow them right down?’
+
+“‘I guess they do, tank, shank, and flank, at one gulp.’
+
+“‘Why how in the world do they ever get—’ but she don’t finish the
+sentence, for the silk man, cotten man, iron man, or trinket man, which
+ever is nearest, says, ‘There is a ship on the lee-bow.’ He says that
+because it sounds sailor-like, but it happens to be the weather-bow,
+and you have seen her an hour before.
+
+“‘Can you make her out?’ sais he; that’s another sea tarm he has picked
+up; he will talk like a horse-marine at last.
+
+“‘Yes,’ sais you, ‘she is a Quang-Tonger.’
+
+“‘A Quang-Tonger?’ sais the gall, and before the old coon has disgested
+that hard word, she asks, ‘what in natur is that?’
+
+“‘Why, Miss, Quang-Tong is a province of China, and Canton is the
+capital; all the vessels at Canton are called Quang-Tongers, but
+strangers call them Chinese Junks. Now, Miss, you have seen two new
+things to-day, a bottle-nosed porpoise and—’
+
+“‘Was that a bottle-nosed porpoise, Sir? why you don’t say so! why, how
+you talk, why do they call them bottle-noses?’
+
+“‘Because, Miss, they make what is called velvet corks out of their
+snouts. They are reckoned the best corks in the world. And then, you
+have seen a Chinese Junk?’
+
+“‘A Chinese Junk,’ sais the astonished trinket man. ‘Well I vow! a
+Chinese Junk, do tell!’ and one gall calls Jeremiah Dodge, and the
+other her father and her sister, Mary Anne Matilda Jane, to come and
+see the Chinese Junk, and all the passengers rush to the other side,
+and say, ‘whare, whare,’ and the two discoverers say, ‘there, there;’
+and you walk across the deck and take one of the evacuated seats you
+have been longin’ for; and as you pass you give a wink to the officer
+of the watch, who puts his tongue in his cheek as a token of
+approbation, and you begin to read again, as you fancy, in peace.
+
+“But there is no peace in a steamer, it is nothin’ but a large
+calaboose,1 chock full of prisoners. As soon as you have found your
+place in the book, and taken a fresh departure, the bonnet man sais,
+‘Please, Sir, a seat for a lady,’ and you have to get up and give it to
+his wife’s lady’s-maid. His wife ain’t a lady, but having a lady’s-maid
+shows she intends to set up for one when she gets to home. To be a
+lady, she must lay in a lot of airs, and to brush her own hair and
+garter her own stockins is vulgar; if it was known in First Avenue,
+Spruce Street, in Bonnetville, it would ruin her as a woman of fashion
+for ever.
+
+1 Calaboose is a Southern name for jail.
+
+
+“Now bonnet man wouldn’t ask you to get up and give your place to his
+wife’s hired help, only he knows you are a Yankee, and we Yankees, I
+must say, are regularly fooled with women and preachers; just as much
+as that walking advertisement of a milliner is with her lady’s-maid.
+All over America in rail carriages, stage coaches, river steamers, and
+public places, of all sorts, every critter that wears a white choker,
+and looks like a minister, has the best seat given him. He expects it,
+as a matter of course, and as every female is a lady, every woman has a
+right to ask you to quit, without notice, for her accommodation. Now
+it’s all very well and very proper to be respectful to preachers; and
+to be polite and courteous to women, and more especially those that are
+unprotected; but there is a limit, tother side of which lies absurdity.
+
+“Now if you had seen as much of the world as I have, and many other
+travelled Yankees, when bonnet man asked you to give up your seat to
+the maid, you would have pretended not to understand English, and not
+to know what he wanted, but would have answered him in French and
+offered him the book, and said certainly you would give it to him with
+pleasure, and when he said he didn’t speak French, but what he desired
+was your place for the lady, you would have addressed her in German,
+and offered her the book, and when they looked at each other, and
+laughed at their blunder, in thus taking you for a Yankee, perhaps the
+man next to you would have offered his seat, and then when old bonnet
+man walked off to look at the Chinese Junk, you would have entered into
+conversation with the lady’s-maid, and told her it was a rise you took
+out of the old fellow to get her along-side of you, and she would enjoy
+the joke, and you would have found her a thousand times more handsome
+and more conversational and agreeable than her mistress.
+
+“But this wouldn’t last long, for the sick gall would be carried up on
+deck agin, woman like, though ill, very restless, and chock full of
+curiosity to see the Chinese Junk also; so you are caught by your own
+bam, and have to move again once more. The bell comes in aid, and
+summons you to dinner. Ah, the scene in the Tower of Babel is
+rehearsed; what a confusion of tongues! what a clatter of knives and
+forks and dishes! the waiter that goes and won’t come back; and he who
+sees, pities but can’t help you; and he who is so near _sighted,_ he
+can’t _hear;_ and he who is intercepted, and made prisoner on his way.
+
+“What a profusion of viands—but how little to eat! this is cold; that
+under-done; this is tough; that you never eat; while all smell oily;
+oh, the only dish you did fancy, you can’t touch, for that horrid
+German has put his hand into it. But it is all told in one short
+sentence; two hundred and fifty passengers supply two hundred and fifty
+reasons themselves, why I should prefer a sailing vessel with a small
+party to a crowded steamer. If you want to see them in perfection go
+where I have been it on board the California boats, and Mississippi
+river crafts. The French, Austrian, and Italian boats are as bad. The
+two great Ocean lines, American and English, are as good as anything
+bad can be, but the others are all abominable. They are small worlds
+over-crowded, and while these small worlds exist, the evil will remain;
+for alas, their passengers go backward and forward, they don’t
+emigrate—they migrate; they go for the winter and return for the
+spring, or go in the spring and return in the fall.
+
+“Come, Commodore, there is old Sorrow ringing his merry bell for us to
+go to dinner. I have an idea we shall have ample room; a good appetite,
+and time enough to eat and enjoy it: come, Sir, let us, like true
+Americans, never refuse to go where duty calls us.”
+
+After dinner, Cutler reverted to the conversation we had had before we
+went below, though I don’t know that I should call it conversation,
+either; for I believe I did, as usual, most of the talking myself.
+
+“I agree with you,” said he, “in your comparative estimate of a sailing
+vessel and a steamer, I like the former the best myself. It is more
+agreeable for the reasons you have stated to a passenger, but it is
+still more agreeable to the officer in command of her on another
+account. In a sailing vessel, all your work is on deck, everything is
+before you, and everybody under your command. One glance of a seaman’s
+eye is sufficient to detect if anything is amiss, and no one man is
+indispensable to you. In a steamer the work is all below, the machinery
+is out of your sight, complicated, and one part dependent on another.
+If it gets out of order you are brought up with a round turn, all
+standing, and often in a critical situation too. You can’t repair
+damage easily; sometimes, can’t repair at all.
+
+“Whereas carrying away a sail, a spar, a topmast, or anything of that
+kind, impedes but don’t stop you, and if it is anything very serious
+there are a thousand ways of making a temporary rig that will answer
+till you make a port. But what I like best is, when my ship is in the
+daldrums, I am equal to the emergency; there is no engineer to bother
+you by saying this can’t be done, or that won’t do, and to stand jawing
+and arguing instead of obeying and doing. Clippers of the right lines,
+size, and build, well found, manned, and commanded, will make nearly as
+good work, in ordinary times, as steamers. Perhaps it is prejudice
+though, for I believe we sailors are proverbial for that. But, Slick,
+recollect it ain’t all fair weather sailing like this at sea. There are
+times when death stares you wildly in the face.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “as if he would like to know you the next time he
+came for you, so as not to apprehend the wrong one. He often leaves the
+rascal and seizes the honest man; my opinion is, he don’t see very
+well.”
+
+“What a droll fellow you are,” said he; “it appears to me as if you
+couldn’t be serious for five minutes at a time. I can tell you, if you
+were on a rocky lee-shore, with the wind and waves urging you on, and
+you barely holding your own, perhaps losing ground every tack, you
+wouldn’t talk quite so glibly of death. Was you ever in a real heavy
+gale of wind?”
+
+“Warn’t I,” said I; “the fust time I returned from England it blew
+great guns all the voyage, one gale after another, and the last always
+wuss than the one before. It carried away our sails as fast as we bent
+them.”
+
+“That’s nothing unusual,” said Cutler; “there are worse things than
+that at sea.”
+
+“Well, I’ll tell you,” sais I, “what it did; and if that ain’t an
+uncommon thing, then my name ain’t Sam Slick. It blew all the hair off
+my dog, except a little tuft atween his ears. It did, upon my soul. I
+hope I may never leave—”
+
+“Don’t swear to it, Slick,” said he, “that’s a good fellow. It’s
+impossible.”
+
+“Attestin’ to it will make _your_ hair stand on eend too, I suppose,”
+said I; “but it’s as true as preachin’ for all that. What will you bet
+it didn’t happen?”
+
+“Tut, man, nonsense,” said he, “I tell you the thing is impossible.”
+
+“Ah!” said I, “that’s because you have been lucky, and never saw a
+riprorious hurricane in all your life. I’ll tell you how it was. I
+bought a blood-hound from a man in Regent’s Park, just afore I sailed,
+and the brute got sea-sick, and then took the mange, and between that
+and death starin’ him in the face, his hair all came off, and in course
+it blew away. Is that impossible?”
+
+“Well, well,” said he, “you have the most comical way with you of any
+man I ever see. I am sure it ain’t in your nature to speak of death in
+that careless manner, you only talked that way to draw me out. I know
+you did. It’s not a subject however to treat lightly, and if you are
+not inclined to be serious just now, tell us a story.”
+
+“Serious,” sais I, “I am disposed to be; but not sanctimonious, and you
+know that. But here goes for a story, which has a nice little moral in
+it too.
+
+“‘Once on a time, when pigs were swine, and turkeys chewed tobacco, and
+little birds built their nests in old men’s beards.’
+
+“Pooh!” said he, turning off huffy like, as if I was a goin’ to bluff
+him off. “I wonder whether supper is ready?”
+
+“Cutler,” sais I, “come back, that’s a good fellow, and I’ll tell you
+the story. It’s a short one, and will just fill up the space between
+this and tea-time. It is in illustration of what you was a sayin’, that
+it ain’t always fair weather sailing in this world. There was a
+jack-tar once to England who had been absent on a whaling voyage for
+nearly three years, and he had hardly landed when he was ordered off to
+sea again, before he had time to go home and see his friends. He was a
+lamentin’ this to a shipmate of his, a serious-minded man, like you.
+
+“Sais he, ‘Bill, it breaketh my heart to have to leave agin arter this
+fashion. I havn’t seen Polly now goin’ on three years, nor the little
+un either.’ And he actilly piped his eye.
+
+“‘It seemeth hard, Tom,’ said Bill, tryin’ to comfort him; ‘it seemeth
+hard; but I’m an older man nor you be, Tom, the matter of several
+years;’ and he gave his trowsers a twitch (you know they don’t wear
+galluses, though a gallus holds them up sometimes), shifted his quid,
+gave his nor’wester a pull over his forehead, and looked solemncholly,
+‘and my experience, Tom, is, that _this life ain’t all beer and
+skittles.’_
+
+“Cutler, there is a great deal of philosophy in that maxim: a preacher
+couldn’t say as much in a sermon an hour long, as there is in that
+little story with that little moral reflection at the eend of it.
+
+“‘_This life ain’t all leer and skittles._’ Many a time since I heard
+that anecdote—and I heard it in Kew Gardens, of all places in the
+world—when I am disappointed sadly, I say that saw over, and console
+myself with it. I can’t expect to go thro’ the world, Cutler, as I have
+done: stormy days, long and dark nights, are before me. As I grow old I
+shan’t be so full of animal spirits as I have been. In the natur of
+things I must have my share of aches, and pains, and disappointment, as
+well as others; and when they come, nothing will better help me to bear
+them than that little simple reflection of the sailor, which appeals so
+directly to the heart. Sam, _this life ain’t all beer and skittles,
+that’s a fact.”_
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III.
+A WOMAN’S HEART.
+
+
+As we approached the eastern coast, “Eldad,” sais I, to the pilot, “is
+there any harbour about here where our folks can do a little bit of
+trade, and where I can see something of ‘Fishermen at home?’”
+
+“We must be careful now how we proceed, for if the ‘Spitfire’ floats at
+the flood, Captain Stoker will try perhaps to overhaul us.”
+
+“Don’t we want to wood and water, and ain’t there some repairs
+wanting,” sais I, and I gave him a wink. “If so we can put into port;
+but I don’t think we will attempt to fish again within the treaty
+limits, for it’s dangerous work.”
+
+“Yes,” sais he, touching his nose with the point of his finger, “all
+these things are needed, and when they are going on, the mate and I can
+attend to the business of the owners.” He then looked cautiously round
+to see that the captain was not within hearing.
+
+“Warn’t it the ‘Black Hawk’ that was chased?” said he. “I think that
+was our name then.”
+
+“Why, to be sure it was,” said I.
+
+“Well,” sais he, “this is the ‘Sary Ann’ of New Bedford now,” and
+proceeding aft he turned a screw, and I could hear a board shift in the
+stern. “Do you mind that?” said he: “well, you can’t see it where you
+stand just now at present; but the ‘Sary Ann’ shows her name there now,
+and we have a set of papers to correspond. I guess the Britisher can’t
+seize her, because the ‘Black Hawk’ broke the treaty; can he?” And he
+gave a knowing jupe of his head, as much as to say, ain’t that grand?
+
+“Now our new captain is a strait-laced sort of man, you see; but the
+cantin’ fellow of a master you had on board before, warn’t above a
+dodge of this kind. If it comes to the scratch, you must take the
+command again, for Cutler won’t have art nor part in this game; and we
+may be reformed out afore we know where we are.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “there is no occasion, I guess; put us somewhere a
+little out of sight, and we won’t break the treaty no more. I reckon
+the ‘Spitfire,’ after all, would just as soon be in port as looking
+after us. It’s small potatoes for a man-of-war to be hunting poor game,
+like us little fore and afters.”
+
+“As you like,” he said, “but we are prepared, you see, for the mate and
+men understand the whole thing. It ain’t the first time they have
+escaped by changing their sign-board.”
+
+“Exactly,” said I, “a ship ain’t like a dog that can only answer to one
+name; and ‘Sary Ann’ is as good as the ‘Black Hawk,’ every mite and
+morsel. There is a good deal of fun in altering sign-boards. I
+recollect wunst, when I was a boy, there was a firm to Slickville who
+had this sign over their shop:
+
+‘Gallop and More,
+Taylors.’
+
+
+“Well, one Saturday-night brother Josiah and I got a paintbrush, and
+altered it in this way:
+
+‘Gallop and 8 More
+Taylors
+Make a man.’
+
+
+“Lord, what a commotion it made. Next day was Sunday; and as the folks
+were going to church, they stood and laughed and roared like anything.
+It made a terrible hulla-bulloo.
+
+“‘Sam,’ said Minister to me, ‘what in natur is all that ondecent noise
+about so near the church-door.’
+
+“I told him. It was most too much for him, but he bit in his breath,
+and tried to look grave; but I see a twinkle in his eye, and the corner
+of his mouth twitch, the way your eyelid does sometimes when a nerve
+gets a dancing involuntarily.
+
+“‘A very foolish joke, Sam,’ he said; ‘it may get you into trouble.’
+
+“‘Why, Minister,’ said I, ‘I hope you don’t think that—’
+
+“‘No,’ said he, ‘I don’t think at all, I know it was you, for it’s just
+like you. But it’s a foolish joke, for, Sam:
+
+“‘Honour and worth from no condition rise—’
+
+
+“‘Exactly,’ sais I.
+
+“‘Stitch well your part, there all the honour lies.’
+
+
+“‘Sam, Sam,’ said he, ‘you are a bad boy,’ and he put on a serious
+face, and went in and got his gown ready for service.
+
+“The ‘Sary Ann’ for the ‘Black Hawk,’” sais I to myself, “well that
+ain’t bad either; but there are more chests of tea and kegs of brandy,
+and such like, taken right by the custom-house door at Halifax in loads
+of hay and straw, than comes by water, just because it is the
+onlikeliest way in the world any man would do it. But it is only some
+of the Bay of Fundy boys that are up to that dodge. Smugglers in
+general haven’t the courage to do that. Dear me!” sais I to myself,
+“when was there ever a law that couldn’t be evaded; a tax that couldn’t
+be shuffled off like an old slipper; a prohibition that a smuggler
+couldn’t row right straight through, or a treaty that hadn’t more holes
+in it than a dozen supplemental ones could patch up? _It’s a high fence
+that can’t be scaled, and a strong one that can’t be broke down. When
+there are accomplices in the house, it is easier to get the door
+unlocked than to force it. Receivers make smugglers. Where there are
+not informers, penalties are dead letters._ The people here like to see
+us, for it is their interest, and we are safe as long as they are
+friendly. I don’t want to smuggle, for I scorn such a pettifogin’
+business, as Josiah would call it; but I must and will see how the
+thing works, so as to report it to the President.”
+
+“Well, Eldad,” sais I, “I leave all this to you. I want to avoid a
+scrape if I can, so put us in a place of safety, and be careful how you
+proceed.”
+
+“I understand,” said he. “Now, Mr Slick, look yonder,” pointing towards
+the shore. “What is that?”
+
+“A large ship under full sail,” said I, “but it is curious she has got
+the wind off shore, and just dead on end to us.”
+
+“Are you sure,” said he, “it is a ship, for if we get foul of her, we
+shall be sunk in a moment, and every soul on board perish.”
+
+“Is it a cruiser?” sais I; “because if it is, steer boldly for her, and
+I will go on board of her and show my commission as an officer of our
+everlastin’ nation. Captain,” said I, “what is that stranger?”
+
+He paused for a moment, shaded his eyes with his hand, and examined
+her. “A large square-rigged vessel,” he said, “under a heavy press of
+canvas,” and resumed his walk on the deck.
+
+After a while the pilot said: “Look again, Mr Slick, can you make her
+out now?”
+
+“Why,” sais I, “she is only a brigantine; but ask the skipper.”
+
+He took his glass and scrutinized her closely, and as he replaced it in
+the binnacle said: “We are going to have southerly weather I think; she
+loomed very large when I first saw her, and I took her for a ship; but
+now she seems to be an hermaphrodite. It’s of no consequence to us
+however what she is, and we shall soon near her.”
+
+“Beyond that vessel,” said the pilot, “there is a splendid harbour, and
+as there has been a head wind for some time, I have no doubt there are
+many coasters in there, from the masters of whom you can obtain much
+useful information on the object of your visit, while we can drive a
+profitable trade among them and the folks ashore. How beautifully these
+harbours are situated,” he continued, “for carrying on the fisheries,
+and Nova Scotian though I be, I must say, I do think in any other part
+of the world there would be large towns here.”
+
+“I think so too, Eldad,” sais I, “but British legislation is at the
+bottom of all your misfortunes, after all, and though you are as lazy
+as sloths, and as idle as that fellow old Blowhard saw, who lay down on
+the grass all day to watch the vessels passing, and observe the motion
+of the crows, the English, by breaking up your monopoly of
+inter-colonial and West India trade and throwing it open to us, not
+only without an equivalent, but in the face of our prohibitory duties,
+are the cause of all your poverty and stagnation. They are rich and
+able to act like fools if they like in their own affairs, but it was a
+cruel thing to sacrifice you, as they have done, and deprive you of the
+only natural carrying trade and markets you had. The more I think of it
+the less I blame you. It is a wicked mockery to lock men up, and then
+taunt them with want of enterprise, and tell them they are idle.”
+
+“Look at that vessel again, Sir,” said Eldad; “she don’t make much
+headway, does she?”
+
+“Well, I took the glass again and examined her minutely, and I never
+was so stumpt in my life.
+
+“Pilot,” said I, “is that the same vessel?”
+
+“The identical,” said he.
+
+“I vow to man,” sais I, “as I am a livin’ sinner, that is neither a
+ship, nor a brigantine, nor a hermaphrodite, but a topsail schooner,
+that’s a fact. What in natur’ is the meanin’ of all this? Perhaps the
+captain knows,” so I called him again.
+
+“Cutler, that vessel is transmografied again,” sais I; “look at her.”
+
+“Pooh,” said he, “that’s not the same vessel at all. The two first we
+saw are behind that island. That one is nothing but a coaster. You
+can’t take me in, Slick. You are always full of your fun, and taking a
+rise out of some one or another, and I shall be glad when we land, you
+will then have some one else to practise on.”
+
+In a short time the schooner vanished, and its place was supplied by a
+remarkable white cliff, which from the extraordinary optical delusion
+it occasions gives its name to the noble port which is now called Ship
+Harbour. I have since mentioned this subject to a number of mariners,
+and have never yet heard of a person who was not deceived in a similar
+manner. As we passed through the narrows, we entered a spacious and
+magnificent basin, so completely land-locked that a fleet of vessels of
+the largest size may lay there unmoved by any wind. There is no haven
+in America to be compared with it.
+
+“You are now safe,” said the pilot; “it is only twelve leagues from
+Halifax, and nobody would think of looking for you here. The fact is,
+_the nearer you hide the safer you be._”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I; “what you seek you can’t find, but when you ain’t
+looking for a thing, you are sure to stumble on it.”
+
+“If you ever want to run goods, Sir,” said he, “the closer you go to
+the port the better. Smugglers ain’t all up to this, so they seldom
+approach the lion’s den, but go farther and fare worse. Now we may
+learn lessons from dumb animals. They know we reason on probabilities,
+and therefore always do what is improbable. “We _think_ them to be
+fools, but they _know_ that we are. The fox sees we always look for him
+about his hole, and therefore he carries on his trade as far from it,
+and as near the poultry yard, as possible. If a dog kills sheep, and
+them Newfoundlanders are most uncommon fond of mutton, I must say, he
+never attacks his neighbour’s flock, for he knows he would be suspected
+and had up for it, but sets off at night, and makes a foray like the
+old Scotch on the distant borders.
+
+“He washes himself, for marks of blood is a bad sign, and returns afore
+day, and wags his tail, and runs round his master, and looks up into
+his face as innocent as you please, as much as to say, ‘Squire, here I
+have been watchin’ of your property all this live-long night, it’s
+dreadful lonely work, I do assure you, and oh, how glad I am to see the
+shine of your face this morning.’
+
+“And the old boss pats his head, fairly took in, and says, ‘That’s a
+good dog, what a faithful honest fellow you be, you are worth your
+weight in gold.’
+
+“Well, the next time he goes off on a spree in the same quarter, what
+does he see but a border dog strung up by the neck, who has been seized
+and condemned as many an innocent fellow has been before him on
+circumstantial evidence, and he laughs and says to himself, ‘What fools
+humans be, they don’t know half as much as we dogs do.’ So he thinks it
+would be as well to shift his ground, where folks ain’t on the watch
+for sheep-stealers, and he makes a dash into a flock still farther off.
+
+“Them Newfoundlanders would puzzle the London detective police, I
+believe they are the most knowin’ coons in all creation, don’t you?”
+
+“Well, they are,” sais I, “that’s a fact, and they have all the same
+passions and feelings we have, only they are more grateful than man is,
+and you can by kindness lay one of them under an obligation he will
+never forget as long as he lives, whereas an obligation scares a man,
+for he snorts and stares at you like a horse at an engine, and is e’en
+most sure to up heels and let you have it, like mad. The only thing
+about dogs is, they can’t bear rivals, they like to have all attention
+paid to themselves exclusively. I will tell you a story I had from a
+British colonel.
+
+“He was stationed in Nova Scotia, with his regiment, when I was a
+venden of clocks there. I met him to Windsor, at the Wilcox Inn. He was
+mightily taken with my old horse Clay, and offered me a most an
+everlastin’ long price for him; he said if I would sell him, he
+wouldn’t stand for money, for he never see such an animal in all his
+born days, and so on. But old Clay was above all price, his ditto was
+never made yet, and I don’t think ever will be. I had no notion to sell
+him, and I told him so, but seein’ he was dreadful disappointed, for a
+rich Englishman actually thinks money will do anything and get
+anything, I told him if ever I parted with him he should have him on
+condition he would keep him as long as he lived, and so on.
+
+“Well, it pacified him a bit, and to turn the conversation, sais I,
+‘Colonel,’ sais I, ‘what a most an almighty everlastin’ super superior
+Newfoundler that is,’ a pointin’ to his dog; ‘creation,’ sais I, ‘if I
+had a regiment of such fellows, I believe I wouldn’t be afraid of the
+devil. My,’ sais I, ‘what a dog! would you part with him? I’de give
+anything for him.’
+
+“I said that a purpose to show him I had as good a right to keep my
+horse as he had his long-haired gentleman.
+
+“‘No,’ sais he, with a sort of half smile at my ignorance in pokin’
+such a question at him (for a Britisher abroad thinks he has privileges
+no one else has), ‘no, I don’t want to part with him. I want to take
+him to England with me. See, he has all the marks of the true breed:
+look at his beautiful broad forehead, what an intellectual one it is,
+ain’t it? then see his delicate mouse-like ears, just large enough to
+cover the orifice, and that’s all.’
+
+“‘Orifice,’ said I, for I hate fine words for common use, they are like
+go-to-meeting’ clothes on week days, onconvenient, and look too all
+fired jam up. Sais I, ‘what’s that when it’s fried. I don’t know that
+word?’
+
+“‘Why, ear-hole,’ said he.
+
+“‘Oh,’ sais I, simple like, ‘I take now.’
+
+“He smiled and went on. ‘Look at the black roof of his mouth,’ said he,
+‘and do you see the dew claw, that is a great mark? Then feel that
+tail, that is his rudder to steer by when swimming. It’s different from
+the tail of other dogs, the strength of that joint is surprising. But
+his chest, Sir, his chest, see how that is formed on purpose for
+diving. It is shaped internally like a seal’s. And then, observe the
+spread of that webbed foot, and the power of them paddles. There are
+two kinds of them, the short and the long haired, but I think those
+shaggy ones are the handsomest. They are very difficult to be got now
+of the pure breed. I sent to the Bay of Bulls for this one. To have
+them in health you must make them stay out of doors in all weather, and
+keep them cool, and above all not feed them too high. Salt fish seems
+the best food for them, they are so fond of it. Singular that, ain’t
+it? but a dog is natural, Sir, and a man ain’t.
+
+“‘Now, you never saw a codfish at the table of a Newfoundland merchant
+in your life. He thinks it smells too much of the shop. In fact, in my
+opinion the dog is the only gentleman there. The only one, now that the
+Indian is extinct, who has breeding and blood in that land of oil,
+blubber, and icebergs.’
+
+“Lord, I wish one of them had been there to have heard him, wouldn’t he
+a harpooned him? that’s all. He made a considerable of a long yarn of
+it, and as it was a text he had often enlarged on, I thought he never
+would have ended, but like other preachers, when he got heated, spit on
+the slate, rub it all out, and cypher it over again. Thinks I to
+myself, I’ll play you a bit, my boy.
+
+“‘Exactly,’ sais I, ‘there is the same difference in dogs and horses as
+there is in men. Some are noble by nature, and some vulgar; each is
+known by his breed.’
+
+“‘True,’ said he, ‘very true,’ and he stood up a little straighter as
+if it did him good to hear a republican say that, for his father was an
+Earl. ‘A very just remark,’ said he, and he eyed me all over, as if he
+was rather surprised at my penetration.
+
+“‘But the worst of it,’ sais I, ‘is that a high bred dog or horse and a
+high bred man are only good for one thing. A pointer will point—a blood
+horse run—a setter will set—a bull dog fight—and a Newfoundlander will
+swim; but what else are they good for? Now a duke is a duke, and the
+devil a thing else. All you expect of him is to act and look like one
+(and I could point out some that don’t even do that). If he writes a
+book, and I believe a Scotch one, by the help of his tutor, did once,
+or makes a speech, you say, Come now, that is very well for a duke, and
+so on. Well, a marquis ain’t quite so high bred, and he is a little
+better, and so on, downwards; when you get to an earl, why, he may be
+good for more things than one. I ain’t quite sure a cross ain’t
+desirable, and in that way that you couldn’t improve the intelligence
+of both horses, noblemen, and dogs—don’t you think so, Sir?’ sais I.
+
+“‘It is natural for you,’ said he, not liking the smack of democracy
+that I threw in for fun, and looking uneasy. ‘So,’ sais he (by way of
+turning the conversation), ‘the sagacity of dogs is very wonderful. I
+will tell you an anecdote of this one that has surprised everybody to
+whom I have related it.
+
+“‘Last summer my duties led me to George’s Island. I take it for
+granted you know it. It is a small island situated in the centre of the
+harbour of Halifax, has a powerful battery on it, and barracks for the
+accommodation of troops. There was a company of my regiment stationed
+there at the time. I took this dog and a small terrier, called Tilt, in
+the boat with me. The latter was a very active little fellow that the
+General had given me a few weeks before. He was such an amusing
+creature, that he soon became a universal favourite, and was suffered
+to come into the house (a privilege which was never granted to this
+gentleman, who paid no regard to the appearance of his coat, which was
+often wet and dirty), and who was therefore excluded.
+
+“‘The consequence was, Thunder was jealous, and would not associate
+with him, and if ever he took any liberty, he turned on him and
+punished him severely. This however he never presumed to do in my
+presence, as he knew I would not suffer it, and therefore, when they
+both accompanied me in my walks, the big dog contented himself with
+treating the other with perfect indifference and contempt. Upon this
+occasion, Thunder lay down in the boat and composed himself to sleep,
+while the little fellow, who was full of life and animation, and
+appeared as if he did not know what it was to close his eyes, sat up,
+looked over the gunwale, and seemed to enjoy the thing uncommonly. He
+watched the motions of the men, as if he understood what was required
+of them, and was anxious they should acquit themselves properly.’
+
+“‘He knew,’ said I, ‘it was what sailors call the _dog watch.’_
+
+“‘Very _good,’_ said he, but looking all the time as if he thought the
+interruption very _bad._
+
+“‘After having made my inspection, I returned to the boat, for the
+purpose of recrossing to the town, when I missed the terrier. Thunder
+was close at my heels, and when I whistled for the other, wagged his
+tail and looked up in my face, as if he would say, Never mind that
+foolish dog, I am here, and that is enough, or is there anything you
+want me to do?
+
+“‘After calling in vain, I went back to the barracks, and inquired of
+the men for Tilt, but no one appeared to have seen him or noticed his
+motions.
+
+“‘After perambulating the little island in vain, I happened to ask the
+sentry if he knew where he was.
+
+“‘Yes, Sir,’ said he, ‘he is buried in the beach.’
+
+“‘Buried in the beach,’ said I, with great anger, ‘who dared to kill
+him? Tell me, Sir, immediately.’
+
+“‘That large dog did it, Sir. He enticed him down to the shore by
+playing with him, pretending to crouch and then run after him; and then
+retreating and coaxing him to chase him; and when he got him near the
+beach, he throttled him in an instant, and then scratched a hole in the
+shingle and buried him, covering him up with the gravel. After that he
+went into the water, and with his paws washed his head and face, shook
+himself, and went up to the barracks. You will find the terrier, just
+down there, Sir.’
+
+“‘And sure enough there was the poor little fellow, quite dead, and yet
+warm.
+
+“‘In the mean time Thunder, who had watched our proceedings from a
+distance, as soon as he saw the body exhumed, felt as if there was a
+court-martial holding over himself, plunged into the harbour and swam
+across to the town, and hid himself for several days, until he thought
+the affair had blown over; and then approached me anxiously and
+cautiously, lest he should be apprehended and condemned. As I was
+unwilling to lose both my dogs, I was obliged to overlook it, and take
+him back to my confidence. A strange story, ain’t it, Mr Slick.’
+
+“‘Well, it is,’ sais I, ‘but dogs do certainly beat all natur, that’s a
+fact.’
+
+“But to get back to the ‘Black Hawk:’ as soon as we anchored, I
+proposed to Cutler that we should go ashore and visit the ‘natives.’
+While he was engaged giving his orders to the mate, I took the
+opportunity of inquiring of the pilot about the inhabitants. This is
+always a necessary precaution. If you require light-houses, buoys, and
+sailing directions to enter a port, you want similar guides when you
+land. The navigation there is difficult also, and it’s a great thing to
+know who you are going to meet, what sort of stuff they are made of,
+and which way to steer, so as to avoid hidden shoals and sand-bars, for
+every little community is as full of them as their harbour. It don’t
+do, you know, to talk tory in the house of a radical, to name a bishop
+to a puritan, to let out agin smugglin’ to a man who does a little bit
+of business that way himself; or, as the French say, ‘to talk of a rope
+in a house where the squatter has been hanged.’ If you want to please a
+guest, you must have some of his favourite dishes at dinner for him;
+and if you want to talk agreeably to a man, you must select topics he
+has a relish for.
+
+“So,” sais I, “where had we better go, Pilot, when we land?”
+
+“Do you see that are white one-story house there?” said he. “That is a
+place, though not an inn, where the owner, if he is at home, will
+receive the likes of you very hospitably. He is a capital fellow in his
+way, but as hot as pepper. His name is Peter McDonald, and he is
+considerable well to do in the world. He is a Highlander; and when
+young went out to Canada in the employment of the North-west Fur
+Company, where he spent many years, and married, broomstick fashion, I
+suppose, a squaw. Alter her death he removed, with his two half-caste
+daughters, to St John’s, New Brunswick; but his girls I don’t think
+were very well received, on account of their colour, and he came down
+here and settled at Ship Harbour, where some of his countrymen are
+located. He is as proud as Lucifer, and so are his galls. Whether it is
+that they have been slighted, and revenge it on all the rest of the
+world, I don’t know; or whether it is Highland and Indian pride mixed,
+I ain’t sartified; but they carry their heads high, and show a stiff
+upper lip, I tell you. I don’t think you will get much talk out of
+them, for I never could.”
+
+“Well, it don’t follow,” said I, “by no manner of means, Eldad, because
+they wouldn’t chat to you, that they wouldn’t open their little mugs to
+me. First and foremost recollect, Mr Nickerson, you are a married man,
+and it’s no use for a gall to talk it into you; and then, in the next
+place, you see you know a plaguey sight more about the shape, make, and
+build of a craft like this than you do about the figure-head, waist,
+and trim of a gall. You are a seaman, and I am a landsman; you know how
+to bait your hooks for fish, and I know the sort of tackle women will
+jump at. See if I don’t set their clappers a going, like those of a
+saw-mill. Do they speak English?”
+
+“Yes,” said he, “and they talk Gaelic and French also; the first two
+they learned from their father, and the other in Canada.”
+
+“Are they pretty?”
+
+“The eldest is beautiful,” said he; “and there is something in her
+manner you can’t help thinking she is a lady. You never saw such a
+beautiful figure as she is in your life.”
+
+Thinks I to myself, “that’s all you know about it, old boy.” But I
+didn’t say so, for I was thinking of Sophy at the time.
+
+We then pushed off, and steered for Peter McDonald’s, Indian Peter, as
+the pilot said the fishermen called him. As we approached the house he
+came out to meet us. He was a short, strong-built, athletic man, and
+his step was as springy as a boy’s. He had a jolly, open, manly face,
+but a quick, restless eye, and the general expression of his
+countenance indicated at once good nature and irascibility of temper.
+
+“Coot tay, shentlemen,” he said, “she is glad to see you; come, walk
+into her own house.” He recognised and received Eldad kindly, who
+mentioned our names and introduced us, and he welcomed us cordially. As
+soon as we were seated, according to the custom of the north-west
+traders, he insisted upon our taking something to drink, and calling to
+his daughter Jessie in Gaelic, he desired her to bring whiskey and
+brandy. As I knew this was a request that on such an occasion could not
+be declined without offence, I accepted his offer with thanks, and no
+little praise of the virtues of whiskey; the principal recommendation
+of which, I said, “was that there was not a headache in a hogshead of
+it.”
+
+“She believes so herself,” he said, “it is petter ash all de rum,
+prandy, shin, and other Yanke pyson in the States; ta Yankies are
+cheatin smugglin rascals.”
+
+The entrance of Jessie fortunately gave a turn to this complimentary
+remark; when she set down the tray, I rose and extended my hand to her,
+and said in Gaelic, “_Cair mur tha thu mo gradh_ (how do you do, my
+dear), _tha mi’n dochas gam biel thu slan_ (I hope you are quite
+well).”
+
+The girl was amazed, but no less pleased. How sweet to the ear are the
+accents of the paternal language, or the mother tongue as we call it,
+for it is women who teach us to talk. It is a bond of union! Whoever
+speaks it, when we are in a land of strangers, is regarded as a
+relative. I shall never forget when I was in the bazaar at Calcutta,
+how my heart leaped at hearing the voice of a Connecticut man as he was
+addressing a native trader.
+
+“Tell you what, stranger,” said he, “I feel as mad as a meat axe, and I
+hope I may be darned to all darnation, if I wouldn’t chaw up your ugly
+mummyised corpse, hair, hide, and hoof, this blessed minute, as quick
+as I would mother’s dough-nuts, if I warn’t afraid you’d pyson me with
+your atimy, I’ll be dod drotted if I wouldn’t.”
+
+Oh, how them homespun words, coarse as they were, cheered my drooping
+spirits, and the real Connecticut nasal twang with which they were
+uttered sounded like music to my ears; how it brought up home and
+far-off friends to my mind, and how it sent up a tear of mingled joy
+and sadness to my eye.
+
+Peter was delighted. He slapped me on the back with a hearty good will,
+in a way nearly to deprive me of my breath, welcomed me anew, and
+invited us all to stay with him while the vessel remained there. Jessie
+replied in Gaelic, but so rapidly I could only follow her with great
+difficulty, for I had but a smattering of it, though I understood it
+better than I could speak it, having acquired it in a very singular
+manner, as I will tell you by and by. Offering her a chair, she took it
+and sat down after some hesitation, as if it was not her usual habit to
+associate with her father’s visitors, and we were soon on very sociable
+terms. I asked the name of the trading post in the north-west where
+they had resided, and delighted her by informing her I had once been
+there myself on business of John Jacob Astor’s New York Fur Company,
+and staid with the Governor, who was the friend and patron of her
+father’s. This was sufficient to establish us at once on something like
+the footing of old friends. When she withdrew, Peter followed her out,
+probably to give some directions for our evening meal.
+
+“Well, well,” said the pilot, “if you don’t beat all! I never could get
+a word out of that girl, and you have loosened her tongue in rale right
+down earnest, that’s a fact.”
+
+“Eldad,” sais I, “there is two sorts of pilotage, one that enables you
+to steer through life, and another that carries you safely along a
+coast, and there is this difference between them: This universal globe
+is all alike in a general way, and the knowledge that is sufficient for
+one country will do for all the rest of it, with some slight
+variations. Now you may be a very good pilot on this coast, but your
+knowledge is no use to you on the shores of England. A land pilot is a
+fool if he makes shipwreck wherever he is, but the best of coast pilots
+when he gets on a strange shore is as helpless as a child. Now a woman
+is a woman all over the world, whether she speaks Gaelic, French,
+Indian, or Chinese; there are various entrances to her heart, and if
+you have experience, you have got a compass which will enable you to
+steer through one or the other of them, into the inner harbour of it.
+Now, Minister used to say that Eve in Hebrew meant talk, for providence
+gave her the power of chattyfication on purpose to take charge of that
+department. Clack then you see is natural to them; _talk therefore to
+them as they like, and they will soon like to talk to you._ If a woman
+was to put a Bramah lock on her heart, a skilful man would find his way
+into it if he wanted to, I know. That contrivance is set to a
+particular word; find the letters that compose it, and it opens at
+once. The moment I heard the Gaelic, I knew I had discovered the
+cypher—I tried it and succeeded. _Tell you what, Pilot, love and skill
+laugh at locks, for them that can’t be opened can be picked. The
+mechanism of the human heart, when you thoroughly understand it, is,
+like all the other works of nature, very beautiful, very wonderful, but
+very simple. When it does not work well, the fault is not in the
+machinery, but in the management.”_
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV.
+A CRITTER WITH A THOUSAND VIRTUES AND BUT ONE VICE.
+
+
+Soon after McDonald had returned and resumed his seat, a tall thin man,
+dressed in a coarse suit of homespun, entered the room, and addressing
+our host familiarly as Squire Peter, deposited in the corner a
+fishing-rod, and proceeded to disencumber himself of a large salmon
+basket apparently well filled, and also two wallets, one of which
+seemed to contain his clothes, and the other, from the dull heavy sound
+it emitted as he threw it on the floor, some tools. He was about forty
+years of age. His head, which was singularly well formed, was covered
+with a luxuriant mass of bushy black curls. His eyes were large, deep
+set, and intelligent, his forehead expansive and projecting, and his
+eyebrows heavy and shaggy. When addressing Peter he raised them up in a
+peculiar manner, nearly to the centre of his forehead, and when he
+ceased they suddenly dropped and partially concealed his eyes.
+
+It was impossible not to be attracted by a face that had two such
+remarkable expressions; one of animation, amiability, and intelligence;
+and the other of total abstraction. He bent forward, even after he
+relieved himself of his load, and his attitude and gait suggested the
+idea of an American land-surveyor, who had been accustomed to carry
+heavy weights in the forest. Without condescending to notice the party,
+further than bestowing on us a cursory glance to ascertain whether he
+knew any of us, he drew up to the chimney corner, and placing the soles
+of his boots perpendicularly to the fire (which soon indicated by the
+vapour arising from them that he had been wading in water), he asked in
+a listless manner and without waiting for replies, some unconnected
+questions of the landlord: as, “Any news, Peter? how does the world use
+you? how are the young ladies? how is fish this season? macarel plenty?
+any wrecks this year, Peter, eh? any vessels sinking and dead men
+floating; silks, satins, ribbons, and gold watches waiting to be picked
+up? Glorious coast this! the harvest extends over the whole year.” And
+then he drew his hand over his face as if to suppress emotion, and
+immediately relapsed into silence and stared moodily into the fire.
+
+Peter seemed to understand that no answer was required, and therefore
+made none, but asked him where he had come from?
+
+“Where did he come from?” said the stranger, who evidently applied the
+question to a fish in his basket, and not to himself, “originally from
+the lake, Peter, where it was spawned, and whither it annually returns.
+You ought to understand that, Mac, for you have a head on your
+shoulders, and that is more than half the poor wretches that float
+ashore here from the deep have. It’s a hard life, my friend, going to
+sea, and hard shores sailors knock against sometimes, and still harder
+hearts they often find there. A stone in the end of a stocking is a
+sling for a giant, and soon puts an end to their sufferings; a
+punishment for wearing gold watches, a penalty for pride. Jolly tars
+eh? oh yes, very jolly! it’s a jolly sight, ain’t it, to see two
+hundred half-naked, mangled, and disfigured bodies on the beach, as I
+did the other day?” and he gave a shudder at the thought that seemed to
+shake the very chair he sat on. “It’s lucky their friends don’t see
+them, and know their sad fate. They were lost at sea! that is enough
+for mothers and wives to hear. The cry for help, when there is none to
+save, the shriek of despair, when no hope is left, the half-uttered
+prayer, the last groan, and the last struggle of death, are all hushed
+in the storm, and weeping friends know not what they lament.”
+
+After a short pause, he continued:
+
+“That sight has most crazed me. What was it you asked? Oh, I have it!
+you asked where he came from? From the lake, Peter, where he was
+spawned, and where he returned you see, to die. You were spawned on the
+shores of one of the bays of the Highlands of Scotland. Wouldn’t you
+like to return and lay your bones there, eh? From earth you came, to
+earth you shall return. Wouldn’t you like to go back and breathe the
+air of childhood once more before you die? Love of home, Peter, is
+strong; it is an instinct of nature; but, alas! the world is a
+Scotchman’s home—anywhere that he can make money. Don’t the mountains
+with their misty summits appear before you sometimes in your sleep?
+Don’t you dream of their dark shadows and sunny spots, their heathy
+slopes and deep deep glens? Do you see the deer grazing there, and hear
+the bees hum merrily as they return laden with honey, or the grouse
+rise startled, and whirr away to hide itself in its distant covert? Do
+the dead ever rise from their graves and inhabit again the little
+cottage that looks out on the stormy sea? Do you become a child once
+more, and hear your mother’s voice, as she sings the little simple air
+that lulls you to sleep, or watch with aching eyes for the returning
+boat that brings your father, with the shadows of evening, to his
+humble home? And what is the language of your dreams? not English,
+French, or Indian, Peter, for they have been learned for trade or for
+travel, but Gaelic, for that was the language of love. Had you left
+home early, Mac, and forgotten its words or its sounds, had all trace
+of it vanished from your memory as if it had never been, still would
+you have heard it, and known it, and talked it in your dreams. Peter,
+it is the voice of nature, and that is the voice of God!”
+
+“She’ll tell her what she treams of sometimes,” said McDonald, “she
+treams of ta mountain dew—ta clear water of life.”
+
+“I will be bound you do,” said the doctor, “and I do if you don’t, so,
+Peter, my boy, give me a glass; it will cheer my heart, for I have been
+too much alone lately, and have seen such horrid sights, I feel dull.”
+
+While Peter (who was a good deal affected with this reference to his
+native land) was proceeding to comply with his request, he relapsed
+into his former state of abstraction, and when the liquor was presented
+to him, appeared altogether to have forgotten that he had asked for it.
+
+“Come, Toctor,” said the host, touching him on the shoulder, “come,
+take a drop of this, it will cheer you up; you seem a peg too low
+to-day. It’s the genuine thing, it is some the Governor, Sir Colin
+Campbell, gave me.”
+
+“None the better for that, Peter, none the better for that, for the
+rich give out of their abundance, the poor from their last cup and
+their last loaf; one is the gift of station, the other the gift of the
+heart.”
+
+“Indeed then, she is mistakened, man. It was the gift of as
+true-hearted a Highlander as ever lived. I went to see him lately,
+about a grant of land. He was engaged writing at the time, and an
+officher was standing by him for orders, and sais he to me, ‘My good
+friend, could you call to-morrow? for I am very busy to-day, as you
+see.’ Well, I answered him in Gaelic that the wind was fair, and I was
+anxious to go home, but if he would be at leisure next week I would
+return again. Oh, I wish you had seen him, Doctor, when he heard his
+native tongue. He threw down his pen, jumped up like a boy, and took me
+by the hand, and shook it with all his might. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘I haven’t
+heard that for years; the sound of it does my heart good. You must come
+again and see me after the steamer has left for England. What can I do
+for you? So I told him in a few words I wanted a grant of two hundred
+acres of land adjoining this place. And he took a minute of my name,
+and of Skip Harbour, and the number of my lot, and wrote underneath an
+order for the grant. ‘Take that to the Surveyor-General,’ said he, ‘and
+the next time you come to Halifax the grant will be ready for you.’
+Then he rang the bell, and when the servant came, he ordered him to
+fill a hamper of whiskey and take it down to my vessel.’
+
+“Did you get the grant?” said the stranger.
+
+“Indeed she did,” said Peter, “and when she came to read it, it was for
+five instead of two hundred acres.”
+
+“Good!” said the other. “Come, I like that. Fill me another glass and I
+will drink his health.”
+
+“Well done, old boy!” said I to myself, “you know how to carry your
+sentimentality to market anyhow. Doctor, doctor! So you are a doctor,”
+sais I to myself, “are you? Well, there is something else in you than
+dough pills, and salts, and senna, at any rate, and that is more than
+most of your craft have, at all events. I’ll draw you out presently,
+for I never saw a man with that vein of melancholy in him, that didn’t
+like fun, providin’ his sadness warn’t the effect of disease. So here’s
+at you; I’ll make the fun start or break a trace, I know.”
+
+Cutler and I had been talking horse when he came in; a sort of talk I
+rather like myself, for I consait I know a considerable some about it,
+and ain’t above getting a wrinkle from others when I can. “Well,” sais
+I, “Capting, we was a talking about horses when the doctor came in.”
+
+“Captain,” said the doctor, turning round to Cutler, “Captain, excuse
+me, Sir, how did you reach the shore?”
+
+“In the boat,” said Cutler.
+
+“Ah!” said the other with animation, “was all the crew saved?”
+
+“We were in no danger whatever, Sir; my vessel is at anchor in the
+harbour.”
+
+“Ah,” replied the doctor, “that’s fortunate, very fortunate;” and
+turned again to the fire, with an air, as I thought, of disappointment,
+as if he had expected a tale of horror to excite him.
+
+“‘Well, Mr Slick,” said the captain, “let us hear your story about _the
+horse that had a thousand virtues and only one vice.”_
+
+At the sound of my name, the stranger gave a sudden start and gazed
+steadily at me, his eyebrows raised in the extraordinary manner that I
+have described, something like the festoon of a curtain, and a smile
+playing on his face as if expecting a joke and ready to enter into it,
+and enjoy it. All this I observed out of the corner of my eye, without
+appearing to regard him or notice his scrutiny.
+
+Sais I, “when I had my tea-store in Boston, I owned the fastest
+trotting horse in the United States; he was a sneezer, I tell you. I
+called him Mandarin—a very appropriate name, you see, for my business.
+It was very important for me to attract attention. Indeed, you must do
+it, you know, in our great cities, or you are run right over, and
+crushed by engines of more power. Whose horse is that? Mr Slick’s the
+great tea-merchant. That’s the great Mandarin, the fastest beast in all
+creation—refused five thousand dollars for him, and so on. Every
+wrapper I had for my tea had a print of him on it. It was action and
+reaction, you see. Well, this horse had a very serious fault that
+diminished his value in my eyes down to a hundred dollars, as far as
+use and comfort went. Nothing in the world could ever induce him to
+cross a bridge. He had fallen through one when he was a colt, and got
+so all-fired frightened he never forgot it afterwards. He would stop,
+rear, run back, plunge, and finally kick if you punished him too hard,
+and smash your waggon to pieces, but cross he never would. Nobody knew
+this but me, and of course I warn’t such a fool as to blow upon my own
+beast. At last I grew tired of him and determined to sell him; but as I
+am a man that always adheres to the truth in my horse trades, the
+difficulty was, how to sell him and not lose by him. Well, I had to go
+to Charleston, South Carolina, on business, and I took the chance to
+get rid of Mr Mandarin, and advertised him for sale. I worded the
+notice this way:
+
+“‘A gentleman, being desirous of quitting Boston on urgent business for
+a time, will dispose of a first-rate horse, that he is obliged to leave
+behind him. None need apply but those willing to give a long price. The
+animal may be seen at Deacon Seth’s livery stables.’
+
+“Well, it was soon known that Mandarin was for sale, and several
+persons came to know the lowest figure. ‘Four thousand dollars,’ said
+I, ‘and if I didn’t want to leave Boston in a hurry, six would be the
+price.’
+
+“At last young Mr Parker, the banker’s son from Bethany, called and
+said he wouldn’t stand for the price, seeing that a hundred dollars was
+no more than a cord of wood in his pocket (good gracious, how the
+doctor laughed at that phrase!), but would like to inquire a little
+about the critter, confidential like.
+
+“‘I will answer any questions you ask,’ I said, candidly.
+
+“‘Is he sound?’
+
+“‘Sound as a new hackmetack trenail. Drive it all day, and you can’t
+broom it one mite or morsel.’
+
+“‘Good in harness?’
+
+“‘Excellent.’
+
+“‘Can he do his mile in two fifteen?’
+
+“‘He has done it.’
+
+“‘Now between man and man,’ sais he, ‘what is your reason for selling
+the horse, Slick? for you are not so soft as to be tempted by price out
+of a first chop article like that.’
+
+“‘Well, candidly,’ sais I, ‘for I am like a cow’s tail, straight up and
+down in my dealing, and ambition the clean thing.’”
+
+“Straight up and down!” said the doctor aloud to himself; ‘straight up
+and down like a cow’s tail.’ Oh Jupiter! what a simile! and yet it
+ain’t bad, for one end is sure to be in the dirt. A man may be the
+straight thing, that is right up and down, like a cow’s tail, but hang
+me if he can be the clean thing anyhow he can fix it.” And he stretched
+out his feet to their full length, put his hands in his trowsers
+pocket, held down his head, and clucked like a hen that is calling her
+chickens. I vow I could hardly help bustin’ out a larfin myself, for it
+warn’t a slow remark of hisn, and showed fun; in fact, I was sure at
+first he was a droll boy.
+
+“Well, as I was a sayin’, sais I to Mr Parker, ‘Candidly, now, my only
+reason for partin’ with that are horse is, that I want to go away in a
+hurry out of Boston clear down to Charleston, South Carolina, and as I
+can’t take him with me, I prefer to sell him.”
+
+“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘the beast is mine, and here is a cheque for your
+money.’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘Parker, take care of him, for you have got a
+fust-rate critter. He is all sorts of a horse, and one that is all I
+have told you, and more too, and no mistake.’
+
+“Every man that buys a new horse, in a general way, is in a great hurry
+to try him. There is sumthin’ very takin’ in a new thing. A new watch,
+a new coat, no, I reckon it’s best to except a new spic and span coat
+(for it’s too glossy, and it don’t set easy, till it’s worn awhile, and
+perhaps I might say a new saddle, for it looks as if you warn’t used to
+ridin’, except when you went to Meetin’ of a Sabbaday, and kept it
+covered all the week, as a gall does her bonnet, to save it from the
+flies); but a new waggon, a new sleigh, a new house, and above all a
+new wife, has great attractions. Still you get tired of them all in a
+short while; you soon guess the hour instead of pullin’ out the watch
+for everlastin’. The waggon loses its novelty, and so does the sleigh,
+and the house is surpassed next month by a larger and finer one, and as
+you can’t carry it about to show folks, you soon find it is too
+expensive to invite them to come and admire it. But the wife; oh, Lord!
+In a general way, there ain’t more difference between a grub and a
+butterfly, than between a sweetheart and wife. Yet the grub and the
+butterfly is the same thing, only, differently rigged out, and so is
+the sweetheart and wife. Both critters crawl about the house, and ain’t
+very attractive to look at, and both turn out so fine and so painted
+when they go abroad, you don’t scarcely know them agin. Both, too, when
+they get out of doors, seem to have no other airthly object but to show
+themselves. They don’t go straight there and back again, as if there
+was an end in view, but they first flaunt to the right, and then to the
+left, and then everywhere in general, and yet nowhere in particular. To
+be seen and admired is the object of both. They are all finery, and
+that is so in their way they can neither sit, walk, nor stand
+conveniently in it. They are never happy, but when on the wing.”
+
+“Oh, Lord!” said the doctor to himself, who seemed to think aloud; “I
+wonder if that is a picture or a caricature?”
+
+Thinks I, “old boy, you are sold. I said that a purpose to find you
+out, for I am too fond of feminine gender to make fun of them. You are
+a single man. If you was married, I guess you wouldn’t ask that are
+question.”
+
+But I went on. “Now a horse is different, you never get tired of a good
+one. He don’t fizzle out1 like the rest. You like him better and better
+every day. He seems a part of yourself; he is your better half, your
+‘_hal_ter _he_go’ as I heard a cockney once call his fancy gall.
+
+1 Fizzle out. To prove a failure.
+
+
+“This bein’ the case, as I was a sayin’, as soon as a man gits a new
+one, he wants to try him. So Parker puts Mandarin into harness, and
+drives away like wink for Salem, but when he came to the bridge, the
+old coon stopt, put forward his ears, snorted, champed his bit, and
+stamped his fore feet. First Parker coaxed him, but that did no good,
+and then he gave him the whip, and he reared straight up on eend, and
+nearly fell over into his waggon. A man that was crossing over at the
+time took him by the head to lead him, when he suddenly wheeled half
+round, threw him in the mud, and dragged him in the gutter, as he
+backed up agin the side walk all standin’. Parker then laid on the
+whip, hot and heavy; he gave him a most righteous lickin’. Mandarin
+returned blow for blow, until he kicked the waggon all to flinders.
+
+“Well, I must say that for his new owner, he was a plucky fellow, as
+well as Mandarin, and warn’t agoin’ to cave in that way. So he takes
+him back to the livery stables, and puts him into another carriage, and
+off he starts agin, and thinkin’ that the horse had seen or smelt
+sumthen at that bridge to scare him, he tries another, when the same
+scene was acted over again, only he was throwed out, and had his
+clothes nearly tore off. Well, that afternoon, up comes Parker to me,
+choking with rage.
+
+“‘Slick,’ said he, ‘that is the greatest devil of a horse I ever see.
+He has dashed two carriages all to shivereens, and nearly tuckard the
+innerds out of me and another man. I don’t think you have acted
+honestly by me.’
+
+“‘Parker,’ said I, ‘don’t you use words that you don’t know the meanin’
+of, and for goodness gracious sake don’t come to me to teach you
+manners, I beseech you, for I am a rough schoolmaster, I tell _you._ I
+answered every question you asked me, candidly, fair and square, and
+above board.’
+
+“‘Didn’t you know,’ said he, ‘that no living man could git that horse
+across a bridge, let him do his darndest?’
+
+“‘I did,’ said I, ‘know it to my cost, for he nearly killed me in a
+fight we had at the Salem Pike.’
+
+“‘How could you then tell me, Sir, your sole reason for parting with
+him was, that you wanted to leave Boston and go to Charleston?’
+
+“‘Because, Sir,’ I replied, ‘it was the literal truth. Boston, you know
+as well as I do, is almost an island, and go which way you will, you
+must cross a bridge to get out of it. I said I wanted to quit the city,
+and was compelled to leave my horse behind. How could I ever quit the
+place with that tormented beast? And warn’t I compelled to leave him
+when Old Scratch himself couldn’t make him obey orders? If I had a
+waited to leave town till he would cross a bridge, I should have had to
+have waited till doomsday.’
+
+“He scratched his head and looked foolish. ‘What a devil of a sell,’
+said he. ‘That will be a standing joke agin me as long as I live.’
+
+“‘I don’t see that,’ said I, ‘if you had been deceived, you might have
+called it a sell, but you bought him with your eyes and ears open, and
+a full knowledge of the truth. And, after all, where will you go to
+better yourself? for the most that can be said is, you have got _a
+critter with a thousand virtues and but one vice._’
+
+“‘Oh, get out!’ said he, ‘and let me alone.’ And he walked off, and
+looked as sheepish as you please.”
+
+“‘Oh dear!” said the doctor; “oh dear.” And he placed his hands on his
+ribs, and walked round the room in a bent position, like a man affected
+with colic, and laughed as if he was hysterical, saying, “Oh dear! Oh,
+Mr Slick, that’s a capital story. Oh, you would make a new man of me
+soon, I am sure you would, if I was any time with you. I haven’t
+laughed before that way for many a long day. Oh, it does me good. There
+is nothing like fun, is there? I haven’t any myself, but I do like it
+in others. Oh, we need it. We need all the counterweights we can muster
+to balance the sad relations of life. _God has made sunny spots in the
+heart; why should we exclude the light from them?”_
+
+“Stick a pin in that, Doctor,” says I, “for it’s worth rememberin’ as a
+wise saw.”
+
+He then took up his wallet, and retired to his room to change his
+clothes, saying to himself, in an under-tone: “Stick a pin in it. What
+a queer phrase; and yet it’s expressive, too. It’s the way I preserve
+my insects.”
+
+The foregoing conversation had scarcely terminated, when Peter’s
+daughters commenced their preparations for the evening meal. And I
+confess I was never more surprised than at the appearance of the older
+one, Jessie. In form and beauty she far exceeded the pilot’s high
+encomiums. She was taller than American women generally are; but she
+was so admirably proportioned and well developed, you were not aware of
+her height, till you saw her standing near her sister. Her motions were
+all quiet, natural, and graceful, and there was an air about her, that
+nothing but the native ease of a child of the forest, or highbred
+elegance of fashionable life, can ever impart. She had the delicate
+hands and small feet peculiar to Indian women. Her hair was of the
+darkest and deepest jet, but not so coarse as that of the aborigines;
+whilst her large black eyes were oval in shape, liquid, shaded by long
+lashes, and over-arched by delicately-pencilled brows. Her neck was
+long, but full, and her shoulders would have been the envy of a London
+ball-room. She was a perfect model of a woman.
+
+It is true she had had the advantage, when young, of being the
+companion of the children of the Governor of the Fort, and had been
+petted, partially educated, and patronised by his wife. But neither he
+nor his lady could have imparted what it is probable neither possessed,
+much polish of manner or refinement of mind. We hear of nature’s
+noblemen, but that means rather manly, generous, brave fellows, than
+polished men. There are however splendid specimens of men, and
+beautiful looking women, among the aborigines. Extremes meet; and it is
+certain that the ease and grace of highly civilised life do not surpass
+those of untutored nature, that neither concedes nor claims a
+superiority to others. She was altogether of a different stamp from her
+sister, who was a common-looking person, and resembled the ordinary
+females to be found in savage life. Stout, strong, and rather stolid,
+accustomed to drudge and to obey, rather than to be petted and rule; to
+receive and not to give orders, and to submit from habit and choice.
+One seemed far above, and the other as much below, the station of their
+father. Jessie, though reserved, would converse if addressed; the other
+shunned conversation as much as possible.
+
+Both father and daughters seemed mutually attached to each other, and
+their conversation was carried on with equal facility in Indian,
+French, Gaelic, and English, although Peter spoke the last somewhat
+indifferently. In the evening a young man, of the name of Fraser, with
+his two sisters, children of a Highland neighbour, came in to visit the
+McDonalds, and Peter producing his violin, we danced jigs and reels, in
+a manner and with a spirit not often seen but in Ireland or Scotland.
+The doctor, unable to withstand the general excitement, joined in the
+dances with as much animation as any of us, and seemed to enjoy himself
+amazingly.
+
+“Ah, Mr Slick,” said he, patting me on the shoulder, “this is the true
+philosophy of life. But how is it with your disposition for fun, into
+which you enter with all your heart, that you have such a store of
+‘wise saws.’ How in the world did you ever acquire them? for your time
+seems to have been spent more in the active pursuits of life than in
+meditation. Excuse me, I neither undervalue your talent nor power of
+observation, but the union does not seem quite natural, it is so much
+out of the usual course of things.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “Doctor, you have been enough in the woods to know that
+a rock, accidentally falling from a bank into a brook, or a drift-log
+catching cross-ways of the stream, will often change its whole course,
+and give it a different direction; haven’t you? Don’t you know that the
+smallest and most trivial event often contains colouring matter enough
+in it to change the whole complexion of our life? For instance, one
+Saturday, not long before I left school, and when I was a considerable
+junk of a boy, father gave me leave to go and spend the day with Eb
+Snell, the son of our neighbour old Colonel Jephunny Snell. We amused
+ourselves catching trout in the mill-pond, and shooting king-fishers,
+about the hardest bird there is to kill in all creation, and between
+one and the other sport, you may depend we enjoyed ourselves
+first-rate. Towards evenin’ I heard a most an awful yell, and looked
+round, and there was Eb shoutin’ and screamin’ at the tip eend of his
+voice, and a jumpin’ up and down, as if he had been bit by a
+rattlesnake.
+
+“‘What in natur is the matter of you, Eb?’ sais I. ‘What are you a
+makin’ such an everlastin’ touss about?’ But the more I asked, the more
+he wouldn’t answer. At last, I thought I saw a splash in the water, as
+if somebody was making a desperate splurging there, and I pulled for
+it, and raced to where he was in no time, and sure enough there was his
+little brother, Zeb, just a sinkin’ out of sight. So I makes a spring
+in after him in no time, caught him by the hair of his head, just as he
+was vamosing, and swam ashore with him. The bull-rushes and long
+water-grass was considerable thick there, and once or twice I thought
+in my soul I should have to let go my hold of the child, and leave him
+to save my own life, my feet got so tangled in it; but I stuck to it
+like a good fellow, and worked my passage out with the youngster.
+
+“Just then, down came the women folk and all the family of the Snells,
+and the old woman made right at me, as cross as a bear that has cubs,
+she looked like a perfect fury.
+
+“‘You good-for-nothin’ young scallowag,’ said she, ‘is that the way you
+take care of that poor dear little boy, to let him fall into the pond,
+and get half drowned?’
+
+“And she up and boxed my ears right and left, till sparks came out of
+my eyes like a blacksmith’s chimney, and my hat, which was all soft
+with water, got the crown knocked in in the scuffle, and was as flat as
+a pancake.
+
+“‘What’s all this,’ sais Colonel Jephunny, who came runnin’ out of the
+mill. ‘Eb,’ sais he, ‘what’s all this?’
+
+“Well, the critter was so frightened he couldn’t do nothin’, but jump
+up and down, nor say a word, but ‘Sam, Sam!’
+
+“So the old man seizes a stick, and catchin’ one of my hands in his,
+turned to, and gave me a most an awful hidin’. He cut me into ribbons
+a’most.
+
+“‘I’ll teach you,’ he said, ‘you villain, to throw a child into the
+water arter that fashin.’ And he turned to, and at it agin, as hard as
+he could lay on. I believe in my soul he would have nearly killed me,
+if it hadn’t a been for a great big nigger wench he had, called Rose.
+My! what a slashin’ large woman, that was; half horse, half alligator,
+with a cross of the mammoth in her. She wore a man’s hat and jacket,
+and her petticoat had stuff enough in it to make the mainsail of a
+boat. Her foot was as long and as flat as a snow shoe, and her hands
+looked as shapeless and as hard as two large sponges froze solid. Her
+neck was as thick as a bull’s, and her scalp was large and woolly
+enough for a door-mat. She was as strong as a moose, and as ugly too;
+and her great-white pointed teeth was a caution to a shark.
+
+“‘Hullo,’ sais she, ‘here’s the devil to pay, and no pitch hot. Are you
+a goin’ to kill that boy, massa?’ and she seized hold of me and took me
+away from him, and caught me up in her arms as easy as if I was a doll.
+
+“‘Here’s a pretty hurrahs nest,’ sais she, ‘let me see one of you dare
+to lay hands on this brave pickininny. He is more of a man than the
+whole bilin’ of you put together. My poor child,’ said she, ‘they have
+used you scandalous, ridiculous,’ and she held down her nasty oily
+shiny face and kissed me, till she nearly smothered me. Oh, Doctor, I
+shall never forget that scene the longest day I ever live. She might a
+been Rose by name, but she warn’t one by nature, I tell _you._ When
+niggers get their dander raised, and their ebenezer fairly up, they
+ain’t otter of roses, that’s a fact; whatever Mrs Stowe may say. Oh, I
+kicked and yelled and coughed like anything.
+
+“‘Poor dear boy,’ she said, ‘Rosy ain’t a goin’ to hurt her own brave
+child,’ not she, and she kissed me again and again, till I thought I
+should have fainted. She actually took away my breath.
+
+“‘Come,’ said she, and she set me down on my feet. ‘Come to the house,
+till I put some dry clothes on you, and I’ll make some lasses candy for
+you with my own hands!’ But as soon as I touched land, I streaked off
+for home, as hard as I could lay legs to the ground; but the perfume of
+old Rose set me a sneezing so, I fairly blew up the dust in the road as
+I went, as if a bull had been pawin of it, and left a great wet streak
+behind me as if a watering-pot had passed that way. Who should I meet
+when I returned, but mother a standin at the door.
+
+“‘Why, Sam,’ said she, ‘what under the sun is the matter? What a spot
+of work? Where in the world have you been?’
+
+“‘In the mill pond,’ said I.
+
+“‘In the mill pond,’ said she, slowly; ‘and ruinated that beautiful new
+coat I made out of your father’s old one, and turned so nicely for you.
+You are more trouble to me than all the rest of the boys put together.
+Go right off to your room this blessed instant minite, and go to bed
+and say your prayers, and render thanks for savin’ your clothes, if you
+did lose your life.’
+
+“‘I wish I had lost my life,’ said I.
+
+“‘Wish you had lost your life?’ said she. ‘Why you miserable,
+onsarcumsised, onjustified, graceless boy. Why do you wish you had lost
+your life?’
+
+“‘Phew, phew,’ said I, ‘was you ever kissed by a nigger? because if you
+was, I guess you wouldn’t have asked that are question,’ and I sneezed
+so hard I actually blew down the wire cage, the door of it flew open,
+and the cat made a spring like wink and killed the canary bird.
+
+“‘Sam, Sam,’ said she (‘skat, skat, you nasty devil, you—you have got
+the knary, I do declare.) Sam! Sam! to think I should have lived to
+hear you ask your mother if she had ever been kissed by a nigger!’ and
+she began to boohoo right out. ‘I do believe in my soul you are drunk,
+Sam,’ said she.
+
+“‘I shouldn’t wonder if I was,’ said I, ‘for I have drunk enough to-day
+to serve a cow and a calf for a week.’
+
+“‘Go right off to bed; my poor dear bird,’ said she. ‘And when your
+father comes in I will send him to your cage. You shall be punished for
+this.’
+
+“‘I don’t care,’ sais I, for I was desperate and didn’t mind what
+happened, ‘who you send, providin’ you don’t send black Rose, the
+nigger wench, to me.’
+
+“Well, in about an hour or so I heard father come to the foot of the
+stairs and call out ‘Sam.’ I didn’t answer at first, but went and threw
+the winder open ready for a jump.
+
+“Thinks I, ‘Sam, you are in great luck to-day. 1st. You got nearly
+drowned, savin’ that little brat Zeb Snell. 2nd. You lost a bran new
+hat, and spoilt your go-to-meetin’ clothes. 3rd. Mrs Snell boxed your
+ears till your eyes shot stars, like rockets. 4th. You got an all-fired
+licking from old Colonel Jephunny, till he made a mulatto of you, and
+you was half black and half white. 5th. You got kissed and pysoned by
+that great big emancipated she-nigger wench. 6th. You have killed your
+mother’s canary bird, and she has jawed you till she went into
+hysterics. 7th. Here’s the old man a goin’ to give you another
+walloping and all for nothin. I’ll cut and run, and dot drot me if I
+don’t, for it’s tarnation all over.’
+
+“‘Sam,’ sais father again, a raisin’ of his voice.
+
+“‘Father,’ sais I, ‘I beg your pardon, I am very sorry for what I have
+done, and I think I have been punished enough. If you will promise to
+let me off this time, I will take my oath I will never save another
+person from drowning again, the longest day I ever live.’
+
+“‘Come down,’ said he, ‘when I tell you, I am goin’ to reward you.’
+
+“‘Thank you,’ sais I, ‘I have been rewarded already more than I
+deserve.’
+
+“Well, to make a long story short, we concluded a treaty of peace, and
+down I went, and there was Colonel Snell, who said he had drove over to
+beg my pardon for the wrong he had done to me, and said he, ‘Sam, come
+to me at ten o’clock on Monday, and I will put you in a way to make
+your fortune, as a recompense for saving my child’s life.’
+
+“Well, I kept the appointment, tho’ I was awful skared about old Rose
+kissin of me again; and sais he, ‘Sam, I want to show you my
+establishment for making wooden clocks. One o’ them can be manufactured
+for two dollars, scale of prices then. Come to me for three months, and
+I will teach you the trade, only you musn’t carry it on in Connecticut
+to undermine me.’ I did so, and thus accidentally I became a
+clockmaker.
+
+“To sell my wares I came to Nova Scotia. By a similar accident I met
+the Squire in this province, and made his acquaintance. I wrote a
+journal of our tour, and for want of a title he put my name to it, and
+called it ‘Sam Slick, the Clockmaker.’ That book introduced me to
+General Jackson, and he appointed me attaché to our embassy to England,
+and that again led to Mr Polk making me Commissioner of the Fisheries,
+which, in its turn, was the means of my having the honour of your
+acquaintance,” and I made him a scrape of my hind leg.
+
+“Now,” sais I, “all this came from the accident of my havin’ saved a
+child’s life one day. I owe my ‘wise saws’ to a similar accident. My
+old master and friend, that you have read of in my books, Mr Hopewell,
+was chock full of them. He used to call them wisdom boiled down to an
+essence, concretes, and I don’t know what all. He had a book full of
+English, French, Spanish, Italian, German, and above all, Bible ones.
+Well, he used to make me learn them by heart for lessons, till I was
+fairly sick and tired to death of ’em.
+
+“‘Minister,’ sais I, one day, ‘what under the sun is the use of them
+old, musty, fusty proverbs. A boy might as well wear his father’s
+boots, and ride in his long stirrups, as talk in maxims, it would only
+set other boys a laughin’ at him.’
+
+“‘Sam,’ sais he, ‘you don’t understand them now, and you don’t
+understand your Latin grammar, tho’ you can say them both off by heart.
+But you will see the value of one when you come to know the world, and
+the other, when you come to know the language. The latter will make you
+a good scholar, and the former a wise man.’
+
+“Minister was right, Doctor. As I came to read the book of life, I soon
+began to understand, appreciate, and apply my proverbs. _Maxims are
+deductions ready drawn,_ and better expressed than I could do them, to
+save my soul alive. Now I have larned to make them myself. I have
+acquired the habit, as my brother the lawyer sais, ‘of extracting the
+principle from cases.’ Do you take? I am not the accident of an
+accident; for I believe the bans of marriage were always duly published
+in our family; but I am the accident of an incident.”
+
+“There is a great moral in that too, Mr Slick,” he said. “How important
+is conduct, when the merest trifle may carry in its train the misery or
+happiness of your future life.”
+
+“Stick a pin in that also. Doctor,” said I.
+
+Here Cutler and the pilot cut short our conversation by going on board.
+But Peter wouldn’t hear of my leaving his house, and I accordingly
+spent the night there, not a little amused with my new acquaintances.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V.
+A NEW WAY TO LEARN GAELIC.
+
+
+After the captain and the pilot had retired, sais I, “Miss Jessie,
+sposin we young folks—(ah me, it is time to get a new word, I guess,
+for that one has been used so long, it’s e’en amost worn out
+now)—sposin we young folks leave the doctor and your father to finish
+their huntin’ stories, and let us go to the other room, and have a dish
+of chat about things in general, and sweethearts in particular.”
+
+“Oh, we live too much alone here,” said she, “to know anything of such
+matters, but we will go if you will promise to tell us one of your
+funny stories. They say you have written a whole book full of them; how
+I should like to see it.”
+
+“Would you, Miss?” said I, “well, then, you shall have one, for I have
+a copy on board I believe, and I shall be only too proud if you will
+read it to remember me by. But my best stories ain’t in my books.
+Somehow or another, when I want them they won’t come, and at other
+times when I get a goin talkin, I can string them together like onions,
+one after the other, till the twine is out. I have a heap of them, but
+they are all mixed and confused like in my mind, and it seems as if I
+never could find the one I need. Do you work in worsted, Miss?”
+
+“Well, a little,” sais she. “It is only town-bred girls, who have
+nothing to attend to but their dress and to go to balls, that have
+leisure to amuse themselves that way; but I can work a little, though I
+could never do anything fit to be seen or examined.”
+
+“I shouldn’t wonder,” said I, and I paused, and she looked as if she
+didn’t over half like my taking her at her word that way. “I shouldn’t
+wonder,” said I, “for I am sure your eyes would fade the colour out of
+the worsted.”
+
+“Why, Mr Slick,” said she, drawing herself up a bit, “what nonsense you
+_do_ talk, what a quiz you be.”
+
+“Fact,” sais I, “Miss, I assure you, never try it again, you will be
+sure to spoil it. But as I was a sayin, Miss, when you see a thread of
+a particular colour, you know whether you have any more like it or not,
+so when a man tells me a story, I know whether I have one of the same
+kind to match it or not, and if so, I know where to lay my hand on it;
+but I must have a clue to my yarns.”
+
+Squire, there is something very curious about memory, I don’t think
+there is such a thing as total forgetfulness. I used once to think
+there was, but I don’t now. It used to seem to me that things rusted
+out, but now it appears as if they were only misplaced, or overlaid, or
+stowed away like where you can’t find them; but depend on it, when once
+there, they remain for ever. How often you are asked, “Don’t you
+recollect this or that?” and you answer, “No, I never heard, or saw it,
+or read it,” as the case may be. And when the time, and place, and
+circumstances are told you, you say, “Stop a bit, I do now mind
+something about it, warn’t it so and so, or this way, or that way,” and
+finally up it comes, all fresh to your recollection. Well, until you
+get the clue given you, or the key note is struck, you are ready to
+take your oath you never heard of it afore. Memory has many cells: Some
+of them ain’t used much, and dust and cobwebs get about them, and you
+can’t tell where the hinge is, or can’t easily discarn the secret
+spring; but open it once, and whatever is stowed away there is as safe
+and sound as ever. I have a good many capital stories poked away in
+them cubby-holes, that I can’t just lay my hand on when I want to; but
+now and then, when looking for something else, I stumble upon them by
+accident. Tell you what, as for forgettin’ a thing tee-totally, I don’t
+believe there is sich a thing in natur. But to get back to my story.
+
+“Miss,” sais I, “I can’t just at this present moment call to mind a
+story to please you. Some of them are about hosses, or clocks, or rises
+taken out of folks, or dreams, or courtships, or ghosts, or what not;
+but few of them will answer, for they are either too short or too
+long.”
+
+“Oh,” says Catherine Fraser, “tell us a courtship; I dare say you will
+make great fun of it.”
+
+“No, no,” says Jessie, “tell us a ghost story. Oh! I delight in them.”
+
+“Oh,” said Janet, “tell us about a dream. I know one myself which came
+out as correct as provin’ a sum.”
+
+“That’s it, Miss Janet,” said I; “do you tell me that story, please,
+and it’s hard if I can’t find one that will please you in return for
+it.”
+
+“Yes, do, dear,” said Jessie; “tell Mr Slick that story, for it’s a
+true one, and I should like to hear what he thinks of it, or how he can
+account for it.”
+
+“Well,” said Janet, “you must excuse me, Mr Slick, for any mistakes I
+make, for I don’t speak very good English, and I can hardly tell a
+story all through in that language.
+
+“I have a brother that lives up one of the branches of the Buctouche
+River in New Brunswick. He bought a tract of land there four or five
+years ago, on which there was a house and barn, and about a hundred
+acres of cleared land. He made extensive improvements on it, and went
+to a great expense in clearing up the stumps, and buying stock and
+farming implements, and what not. One season, between plantin’ and
+harvest, he run short of money for his common daily use, and to pay
+some little debts he owed, and he was very dull about it. He said he
+knew he could come here and borrow it from father, but he didn’t like
+to be away from home so long, and hardly knew how the family was to get
+on or to pay the wages till his return, so it was agreed that I was to
+go the next Monday in a vessel bound for Halifax and bring him what he
+wanted.
+
+“At that time, he had a field back in the woods he was cultivating.
+Between that and the front on the river, was a poor sand flat covered
+with spruce, birch, and poplar, and not worth the expense of bringing
+to for the plough. The road to the back field ran through this wood
+land. He was very low-spirited about his situation, for he said if he
+was to borrow the money of a merchant, he would require a mortgage on
+his place, and perhaps sell it before he knew where he was. Well, that
+night he woke up his wife, and said to her—
+
+“‘Mary,’ said he, ‘I have had a very curious dream just now. I dreamed
+that as I was going out to the back lot with the oxcart, I found a
+large sum of money all in dollars in the road there.’
+
+“‘Well,’ says Mary, ‘I wish it was true, John, but it is too good news
+for us. The worriment we have had about money lately has set you a
+dreaming. Janet sails on Monday, she will soon be back, and then it
+will all be right; so go to sleep again, dear.’
+
+“Well, in the morning, when he and his wife got up, he never spoke or
+thought any more about the dream, but as soon as breakfast was over, he
+and his man yoked up the oxen, put them to the cart, and lifted the
+harrow into it, and started for the field. The servant drove the team,
+and John walked behind with his head down, a turning over in his mind
+whether he couldn’t sell something off the farm to keep matters a-goin’
+till I should return, when all at once, as they were passing through
+the wood, he observed that there was a line of silver dollars turned up
+by one of the wheels of the cart, and continued for the space of sixty
+feet and then ceased.
+
+“The moment he saw the money he thought of his dream, and he was so
+overjoyed that he was on the point of calling out to the man to stop,
+but he thought it was more prudent as they were alone in the woods to
+say nothing about it. So he walked on, and joined the driver, and kept
+him in talk for awhile. And then, as if he had suddenly thought of
+something, said, ‘Jube, do you proceed to the field and go to work till
+I come. I shall have to go to the house for a short time.’
+
+“Well, as soon as he got out of sight of the cart, off he ran home as
+hard as he could lay legs to it, only stopping to take up a handful of
+the coins to make sure they were real.
+
+“‘Mary, Mary,’ sais he, ‘the dream has come true; I have found the
+money—see here is some of it; there is no mistake;’ and he threw a few
+pieces down on the hearth and rung them. ‘They are genuine Spanish
+crowns. Do you and Janet bring the market-basket, while I go for a
+couple of hoes, and let us gather it all up.’
+
+“Well, sure enough, when we came to the place he mentioned, there was
+the wheel-track full of dollars. He and I hoed each side of the rut,
+which seemed to be in a sort of yellow powder, like the dust of rotten
+wood, and got out all we could find. We afterwards tried under the
+opposite wheel, and behind and before the rut, but could find no more,
+and when we got home we counted it, and found we had eighty-two pounds,
+five shillings.
+
+“‘Well, this is a God-send, Mary, ain’t it?’ said brother; and she
+threw her arms round his neck, and cried for joy as she kissed him.”
+
+“Which way,” said I, “show me, Miss, how she did it, only you may laugh
+instead of cry if you like.”
+
+“Not being a wife,” said she, with great quietness, “I cannot show you
+myself, but you may imagine it, it will do just as well, or dream it,
+and that will do better.
+
+“Well, John was a scrupulous man, and he was determined to restore the
+money, if he could find an owner for it; but he could hear of no one
+who had lost any, nor any tradition in that place that any one ever had
+done so since the first settlement of the country. All that he could
+discover was, that about forty years before, an old Frenchman had lived
+somewhere thereabouts alone, in the midst of the woods. Who he was, or
+what became of him, nobody knew; all he could hear was, that a party of
+lumbermen had, some years afterwards, found his house amidst a second
+growth of young wood that wholly concealed it, and that it contained
+his furniture, cooking utensils, and trunks, as he had left them. Some
+supposed he had been devoured by bears or wolves; others, that he had
+been lost in the woods; and some, that he had died by his own hands.
+
+“On hearing this, John went to examine his habitation, or the remains
+of it, and he found that about four acres around it were covered with
+the second growth, as it is called, which was plainly to be
+distinguished from the forest, as the trees were not only not so large
+or so old as the neighbouring ones, but, as is always the case, were of
+a different description of wood altogether. On a careful inspection of
+the spot where he found the money, it appeared that the wheel had
+passed lengthways along an enormous old decayed pine, in the hollow of
+which he supposed the money must have been hid; and when the tree fell,
+the dollars had rolled along its centre fifty feet or more, and
+remained there until the wood was rotten, and had crumbled into dust.
+
+“There, Sir, there is my story: it is a true one, I assure you, for I
+was present at the time. What do you think of it?”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “if he had never heard a rumour, nor had any reason to
+suppose that the money had been hid there, why it was a singular thing,
+and looks very much like a—”
+
+“Like a what?” said she.
+
+“Like a supply that one couldn’t count upon a second time, that’s all.”
+
+“It’s a dream that was fulfilled though,” she said; “and that don’t
+often happen, does it?”1
+
+1 The names of the persons and river are alone changed in this
+extraordinary story. The actors are still living, and are persons of
+undoubted veracity and respectability.
+
+
+“Unless,” sais I, “a young lady was to dream now that she was a going
+to be married to a certain person, and that does often come true. Do
+you—”
+
+“Oh, nonsense,” said she. “Come, do tell us your story now, you know
+you promised me you would if I related mine.”
+
+“Yes,” said Miss Jessie; “come now, Mr Slick, that’s a good man, do?”
+
+Sais I, “Miss, I will give you my book instead, and that will tell you
+a hundred of them.”
+
+“Yes, but when will you give it to me?” she replied.
+
+“To-morrow,” said I, “as soon as I go on board. But mind, there is one
+condition.” And I said in Gaelic: “_Feumieth thu pog thoir dhomh eur a
+shon_ (you must give me a kiss for it).”
+
+“Oh,” said she, lookin’ not over pleased, I consaited; but perhaps it
+was because the other girls laughed liked anything, as if it was a
+capital joke, “that’s not fair, you said you would give it, and now you
+want to sell it. If that’s the case I will pay the money for it.”
+
+“Oh, fie,” sais I, “Miss Jessie.”
+
+“Well, I want to know!”
+
+“No, indeed; what I meant was to give you that book to remember me by
+when I am far away from here, and I wanted you to give me a little
+token, _O do bhilean boidheach_ (from your pretty lips), that I should
+remember the longest day I live.”
+
+“You mean that you would go away, laugh, and forget right off. No, that
+won’t do, but if you must have a token I will look up some little
+keepsake to exchange for it. Oh, dear, what a horrid idea,” she said,
+quite scorney like, “to trade for a kiss; it’s the way father buys his
+fish, he gives salt for them, or flour, or some such barter, oh, Mr
+Slick, I don’t think much of you. But for goodness gracious sake how
+did you learn Gaelic?”
+
+“From lips, dear,” said I, “and that’s the reason I shall never forget
+it.”
+
+“No, no,” said she, “but how on earth did you ever pick it up.”
+
+“I didn’t pick it up, Miss,” said I, “I kissed it up, and as you want a
+story I might as well tell you that as any other.”
+
+“It depends upon what sort of a story it is,” said she, colouring.
+
+“Oh, yes,” said the Campbell girls, who didn’t appear quite so skittish
+as she was, “do tell us, no doubt you will make a funny one out of it.
+Come, begin.”
+
+Squire, you are older than I be, and I suppose you will think all this
+sort of thing is clear sheer nonsense, but depend upon it a kiss is a
+great mystery. There is many a thing we know that we can’t explain,
+still we are sure it is a fact for all that. Why should there be a sort
+of magic in shaking hands, which seems only a mere form, and sometimes
+a painful one too, for some folks wring your fingers off amost, and
+make you fairly dance with pain, they hurt you so. It don’t give much
+pleasure at any time. What the magic of it is we can’t tell, but so it
+is for all that. It seems only a custom like bowing and nothing else,
+still there is more in it than meets the eye. But a kiss fairly
+electrifies you, it warms your blood and sets your heart a beatin’ like
+a brass drum, and makes your eyes twinkle like stars in a frosty night.
+It tante a thing ever to be forgot. No language can express it, no
+letters will give the sound. Then what in natur is equal to the flavour
+of it? What an aroma it has! How spiritual it is! It ain’t gross, for
+you can’t feed on it; it don’t cloy, for the palate ain’t required to
+test its taste. It is neither visible, nor tangible, nor portable, nor
+transferable. It is not a substance, nor a liquid, nor a vapour. It has
+neither colour nor form. Imagination can’t conceive it. It can’t be
+imitated or forged. It is confined to no clime or country, but is
+ubiquitous. It is disembodied when completed, but is instantly
+reproduced, and so is immortal. It is as old as the creation, and yet
+is as young and fresh as ever. It preëxisted, still exists, and always
+will exist. It pervades all natur. The breeze as it passes kisses the
+rose, and the pendant vine stoops down and hides with its tendrils its
+blushes, as it kisses the limpid stream that waits in an eddy to meet
+it, and raises its tiny waves, like anxious lips to receive it. Depend
+upon it Eve learned it in Paradise, and was taught its beauties,
+virtues, and varieties by an angel, there is something so transcendent
+in it.
+
+How it is adapted to all circumstances! There is the kiss of welcome
+and of parting, the long-lingering, loving present one, the stolen or
+the mutual one, the kiss of love, of joy, and of sorrow, the seal of
+promise, and the receipt of fulfilment. Is it strange therefore that a
+woman is invincible whose armoury consists of kisses, smiles, sighs,
+and tears? Is it any wonder that poor old Adam was first tempted, and
+then ruined? It is very easy for preachers to get up with long faces
+and tell us he ought to have been more of a man. My opinion is, if he
+had been less of a man, it would have been better for him. But I am not
+agoin’ to preach; so I will get back to my story; but, Squire, I shall
+always maintain to my dying day, that kissing is a sublime mystery.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “ladies, I was broughten up to home, on my father’s
+farm, and my edecation, what little I had of it, I got from the
+Minister of Slickville, Mr Joshua Hopewell, who was a friend of my
+father’s, and was one of the best men I believe that ever lived. He was
+all kindness and all gentleness, and was at the same time one of the
+most learned men in the United States. He took a great fancy to me, and
+spared no pains with my schooling, and I owe everything I have in the
+world to his instruction. I didn’t mix much with other boys, and, from
+living mostly with people older than myself, acquired an old-fashioned
+way that I have never been able to shake off yet; all the boys called
+me ‘Old Slick.’ In course, I didn’t learn much of life that way. All I
+knew about the world beyond our house and hisin, was from books, and
+from hearing him talk, and he convarsed better than any book I ever set
+eyes on. Well, in course I grew up unsophisticated like, and I think I
+may say I was as innocent a young man as ever you see.”
+
+Oh, how they all laughed at that! “You ever innocent!” said they.
+“Come, that’s good; we like that; it’s capital! Sam Slick an innocent
+boy! Well, that must have been before you were weaned, or talked in
+joining hand, at any rate. How simple we are, ain’t we?” and they
+laughed themselves into a hooping-cough amost.
+
+“Fact, Miss Janet,” said I, “I assure you” (for she seemed the most
+tickled at the idea of any of them) “I was, indeed. I won’t go for to
+pretend to say some of it didn’t rub off when it became dry, when I was
+fishing in the world on my own hook; but, at the time I am speaking of,
+when I was twenty-one next grass, I was so guileless, I couldn’t see no
+harm in anything.”
+
+“So I should think,” said she; “it’s so like you.”
+
+“Well, at that time there was a fever, a most horrid typhus fever,
+broke out in Slickville, brought there by some shipwrecked emigrants.
+There was a Highland family settled in the town the year afore,
+consisting of old Mr Duncan Chisholm, his wife, and daughter Flora. The
+old people were carried off by the disease, and Flora was left without
+friends or means, and the worst of it was, she could hardly speak a
+word of intelligible English. Well, Minister took great pity on her,
+and spoke to father about taking her into his house, as sister Sally
+was just married, and the old lady left without any companion; and they
+agreed to take her as one of them, and she was in return to help mother
+all she could. So, next day, she came, and took up her quarters with
+us. Oh my, Miss Janet, what a beautiful girl she was! She was as tall
+as you are, Jessie, and had the same delicate little feet and hands.”
+
+I threw that in on purpose, for women, in a general way, don’t like to
+hear others spoken of too extravagant, particularly if you praise them
+for anything they hain’t got; but if you praise them for anything they
+pride themselves on, they are satisfied, because it shows you estimate
+them also at the right valy, too. It took, for she pushed her foot out
+a little, and rocked it up and down slowly, as if she was rather proud
+of it.
+
+“Her hair was a rich auburn, not red (I don’t like that at all, for it
+is like a lucifer-match, apt to go off into a flame spontinaciously
+sometimes), but a golden colour, and lots of it too, just about as much
+as she could cleverly manage; eyes like diamonds; complexion, red and
+white roses; and teeth, not quite so regular as yours, Miss, but as
+white as them; and lips—lick!—they reminded one of a curl of rich
+rose-leaves, when the bud first begins to swell and spread out with a
+sort of peachy bloom on them, ripe, rich, and chock full of kisses.”
+
+“Oh, the poor ignorant boy!” said Janet, “you didn’t know nothing, did
+you?”
+
+“Well, I didn’t,” sais I, “I was as innocent as a child; but nobody is
+so ignorant as not to know a splendiferous gall when he sees her,” and
+I made a motion of my head to her, as much, as to say, “Put that cap
+on, for it just fits you.”
+
+“My sakes, what a neck she had! not too long and thin, for that looks
+goosey; nor too short and thick, for that gives a clumsy appearance to
+the figure; but betwixt and between, and perfection always lies there,
+just midway between extremes. But her bust—oh! the like never was seen
+in Slickville, for the ladies there, in a gineral way, have no—”
+
+“Well, well,” said Jessie, a little snappish, for praisin’ one gall to
+another ain’t the shortest way to win their regard, “go on with your
+story of Gaelic.”
+
+“And her waist, Jessie, was the most beautiful thing, next to your’n, I
+ever see. It was as round as an apple, and anything that is round, you
+know, is larger than it looks, and I wondered how much it would
+measure. I never see such an innocent girl as she was. Brought up to
+home, and in the country, like me, she knew no more about the ways of
+the world than I did. She was a mere child, as I was; she was only
+nineteen years old, and neither of us knew anything of society rules.
+One day I asked her to let me measure her waist with my arm, and I did,
+and then she measured mine with her’n, and we had a great dispute which
+was the largest, and we tried several times before we ascertained there
+was only an inch difference between us. I never was so glad in my life
+as when she came to stay with us; she was so good-natured, and so
+cheerful, and so innocent, it was quite charming.
+
+“Father took a wonderful shindy to her, for even old men can’t help
+liking beauty. But, somehow, I don’t think mother did; and it appears
+to me now, in looking back upon it, that she was afraid I should like
+her too much. I consaited she watched us out of the corner of her
+glasses, and had her ears open to hear what we said; but p’raps it was
+only my vanity, for I don’t know nothin’ about the working of a woman’s
+heart even now. I am only a bachelor yet, and how in the world should I
+know anything more about any lady than what I knew about poor Flora? In
+the ways of women I am still as innocent as a child; I do believe that
+they could persuade me that the moon is nothin’ but an eight-day clock
+with an illuminated face. I ain’t vain, I assure you, and never brag of
+what I don’t know, and I must say, I don’t even pretend to understand
+them.”
+
+“Well, I never!” said Jessie.
+
+“Nor I,” said Janet.
+
+“Did you ever, now!” said Catherine. “Oh dear, how soft you are, ain’t
+you?”
+
+“Always was, ladies,” said I, “and am still as soft as dough. Father
+was very kind to her, but he was old and impatient, and a little hard
+of hearing, and he couldn’t half the time understand her. One day she
+came in with a message from neighbour Dearborne, and sais she,
+
+“‘Father—’
+
+“‘Colonel, if you please, dear,’ said mother, ‘he is not your father;’
+and the old lady seemed as if she didn’t half fancy any body calling
+him that but her own children. Whether that is natural or not, Miss
+Jessie,” said I, “I don’t know, for how can I tell what women thinks?”
+
+“Oh, of course not,” said Janet, “you are not waywise, and so artless;
+you don’t know, of course!”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I; “but I thought mother spoke kinder cross to her, and
+it confused the gall.
+
+“Says Flora, ‘Colonel Slick, Mr Dearborne says—says—’ Well, she
+couldn’t get the rest out; she couldn’t find the English. ‘Mr Dearborne
+says—’
+
+“‘Well, what the devil does he say?’ said father, stampin’ his foot,
+out of all patience with her.
+
+“It frightened Flora, and off she went out of the room crying like
+anything.
+
+“‘That girl talks worse and worse,’ said mother.
+
+“‘Well, I won’t say that,’ says father, a little mollified, ‘for she
+can’t talk at all, so there is no worse about it. I am sorry though I
+scared her. I wish somebody would teach her English.’
+
+“‘I will,’ sais I, ‘father, and she shall teach me Gaelic in return.’
+
+“‘Indeed you shan’t,’ sais mother; ‘you have got something better to do
+than larning her; and as for Gaelic I can’t bear it. It’s a horrid
+outlandish language, and of no earthly use whatever under the blessed
+sun. It’s worse than Indian.’
+
+“‘Do, Sam,’ said father; ‘it’s an act of kindness, and she is an
+orphan, and besides, Gaelic may be of great use to you in life. I like
+Gaelic myself; we had some brave Jacobite Highland soldiers in our army
+in the war that did great service, but unfortunately nobody could
+understand them. And as for orphans, when I think how many fatherless
+children we made for the British—’
+
+“‘You might have been better employed,’ said mother, but he didn’t hear
+her, and went right on.
+
+“‘I have a kindly feelin’ towards them. She is a beautiful girl that.’
+
+“‘If it warn’t for her carrotty hair and freckled face,’ said mother,
+looking at me, ‘she wouldn’t be so awful ugly after all, would she?’
+
+“‘Yes, Sam,’ sais father, ‘teach her English for heaven’s sake; but
+mind, she must give you lessons in Gaelic. Languages is a great thing.’
+
+“‘It’s great nonsense,’ said mother, raisin’ her voice.
+
+“‘It’s my orders,’ said father, holding up his head and standing erect.
+‘It’s my orders, marm, and they must be obeyed;’ and he walked out of
+the room as stiff as a ramrod, and as grand as a Turk.
+
+“‘Sam,’ sais mother, when we was alone, ‘let the gall be; the less she
+talks the more she’ll work. Do you understand, my dear?’
+
+“‘That’s just my idea, mother,’ sais I.
+
+“‘Then you won’t do no such nonsense, will you, Sammy?’
+
+“‘Oh no!’ sais I, ‘I’ll just go through the form now and then to please
+father, but that’s all. Who the plague wants Gaelic? If all the
+Highlands of Scotland were put into a heap, and then multiplied by
+three, they wouldn’t be half as big as the White Mountains, would they,
+marm? They are just nothin’ on the map, and high hills, like high
+folks, are plaguy apt to have barren heads.’
+
+“‘Sam,’ said she, a pattin’ of me on the cheek, ‘you have twice as much
+sense as your father has after all. You take after me.’
+
+“I was so simple, I didn’t know what to do. So I said yes to mother and
+yes to father; for I knew I must honour and obey my parents, so I
+thought I would please both. I made up my mind I wouldn’t get books to
+learn Gaelic or teach English, but do it by talking, and that I
+wouldn’t mind father seein’ me, but I’d keep a bright look out for the
+old lady.”
+
+“Oh dear! how innocent that was, warn’t it?” said they.
+
+“Well, it was,” said I; “I didn’t know no better then, and I don’t now;
+and what’s more, I think I would do the same agin, if it was to do over
+once more.”
+
+“I have no doubt you would,” said Janet.
+
+“Well, I took every opportunity when mother was not by to learn words.
+I would touch her hand and say, ‘What is that?’ And she would say,
+_‘Làuch,’_ and her arm, her head, and her cheek, and she would tell me
+the names; and her eyes, her nose, and her chin, and so on; and then I
+would touch her lips, and say, ‘What’s them?’ And she’d say.
+‘_Bhileau?’_ And then I’d kiss her, and say, ‘What’s that?’ And she’d
+say. _‘Pog.’_ But she was so artless, and so was I; we didn’t know
+that’s not usual unless people are courtin; for we hadn’t seen anything
+of the world then.
+
+“Well, I used to go over that lesson every time I got a chance, and
+soon got it all by heart but that word _Pog_ (kiss), which I never
+could remember. She said I was very stupid, and I must say it over and
+over again till I recollected it. Well, it was astonishing how quick
+she picked up English, and what progress I made in Gaelic; and if it
+hadn’t been for mother, who hated the language like pyson, I do believe
+I should soon have mastered it so as to speak it as well as you do. But
+she took every opportunity she could to keep us apart, and whenever I
+went into the room where Flora was spinning, or ironing, she would
+either follow and take a chair, and sit me out, or send me away of an
+errand, or tell me to go and talk to father, who was all alone in the
+parlour, and seemed kinder dull. I never saw a person take such a
+dislike to the language as she did; and she didn’t seem to like poor
+Flora either, for no other reason as I could see under the light of the
+livin’ sun, but because she spoke it; for it was impossible not to love
+her—she was so beautiful, so artless, and so interesting, and so
+innocent. But so it was.
+
+“Poor thing! I pitied her. The old people couldn’t make out half she
+said, and mother wouldn’t allow me, who was the only person she could
+talk to, to have any conversation with her if she could help it. It is
+a bad thing to distrust young people, it makes them artful at last; and
+I really believe it had that effect on me to a certain extent. The
+unfortunate girl often had to set up late ironing, or something or
+another. And if you will believe it now, mother never would let me sit
+up with her to keep her company and talk to her; but before she went to
+bed herself, always saw me off to my own room. Well, it’s easy to make
+people go to bed, but it ain’t just quite so easy to make them stay
+there. So when I used to hear the old lady get fairly into hers, for my
+room was next to father’s, though we went by different stairs to them,
+I used to go down in my stocking feet, and keep her company; for I
+pitied her from my heart. And then we would sit in the corner of the
+fire-place and talk Gaelic half the night. And you can’t think how
+pleasant it was. You laugh, Miss Janet, but it really was delightful;
+they were the happiest hours I almost ever spent.”
+
+“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” she said, “of course they were.”
+
+“If you think so, Miss,” said I, “p’raps you would finish the lessons
+with me this evening, if you have nothing particular to do.”
+
+“Thank you, Sir,” she said, laughing like anything. “I can speak
+English sufficient for my purpose, and I agree with your mother, Gaelic
+in this country is of no sort of use whatever; at least I am so artless
+and unsophisticated as to think so. But go on, Sir.”
+
+“Well, mother two or three times came as near as possible catching me,
+for she was awful afraid of lights and fires, she said, and couldn’t
+sleep sound if the coals weren’t covered up with ashes, the hearth
+swept, and the broom put into a tub of water, and she used to get up
+and pop into the room very sudden; and though she warn’t very light of
+foot, we used to be too busy repeating words to keep watch as we
+ought.”
+
+“What an artless couple,” said Janet; “well I never! how you can have
+the face to pretend so, I don’t know! Well, you do beat all!’
+
+“A suspicious parent,” sais I, “Miss, as I said before, makes an artful
+child. I never knew what guile was before that. Well, one night; oh
+dear, it makes my heart ache to think of it, it was the last we ever
+spent together. Flora was starching muslins, mother had seen me off to
+my room, and then went to hers, when down I crept in my stockin feet as
+usual, puts a chair into the chimney corner, and we sat down and
+repeated our lessons. When we came to the word _Pog_ (kiss), I always
+used to forget it; and it’s very odd, for it’s the most beautiful one
+in the language. We soon lost all caution, and it sounded so loud and
+sharp it started mother; and before we knew where we were, we heard her
+enter the parlour which was next to us. In an instant I was off and
+behind the entry door, and Flora was up and at work. Just then the old
+lady came in as softly as possible, and stood and surveyed the room all
+round. I could see her through the crack of the door, she actually
+seemed disappointed at not finding me there.
+
+“‘What noise was that I heard, Flora?’ she said, speakin’ as mild as if
+she was actilly afraid to wake the cat up.
+
+“Flora lifted the centre of the muslin she was starching with one hand,
+and makin’ a hollow under it in the palm of the other, she held it
+close up to the old woman’s face, and clapped it; and it made the very
+identical sound of the smack she had heard, and the dear child repeated
+it in quick succession several times. The old lady jumped back the
+matter of a foot or more, she posi_tively_ looked skared, as if the old
+gentleman would think somebody was a kissin’ of her.
+
+“Oh dear, I thought I should have teeheed right out. She seemed utterly
+confounded, and Flora looked, as she was, the dear critter, so artless
+and innocent! It dumbfoundered her completely. Still she warn’t quite
+satisfied.
+
+“‘What’s this chair doing so far in the chimbley corner?’ said she.
+
+“How glad I was there warn’t two there. The fact is, we never used but
+one, we was quite young, and it was always big enough for us both.
+
+“Flora talked Gaelic as fast as hail, slipt off her shoes, sat down on
+it, put her feet to the fire, folded her arms across her bosom, laid
+her head back and looked so sweet and so winnin’ into mother’s face,
+and said, ‘_cha n’eil Beurl’_ (I have no English), and then proceeded
+in Gaelic—
+
+“‘If you hadn’t sat in that place yourself, when you was young, I guess
+you wouldn’t be so awful scared at it, you old goose you.’
+
+“I thought I never saw her look so lovely. Mother was not quite
+persuaded she was wrong after all. She looked all round agin, as if she
+was sure I was there, and then came towards the door where I was, so I
+sloped up-stairs like a shadow on the wall, and into bed in no time;
+but she followed up and came close to me, and holdin the candle in my
+face, said:
+
+“‘Sam, are you asleep?’
+
+“Well, I didn’t answer.
+
+“‘Sam,’ said she, ‘why don’t you speak?’ and she shook me.
+
+“‘Hullo,’ sais I, pretendin’ to wake up, ‘what’s the matter! have I
+overslept myself? is it time to get up?’ and I put out my arm to rub my
+eyes, and lo and behold I exposed my coat sleeve.
+
+“‘No, Sam,’ said she, ‘you couldn’t oversleep yourself, for you haven’t
+slept at all, you ain’t even ondressed.’
+
+“‘Ain’t I,’ said I, ‘are you sure?’
+
+“‘Why look here,’ said she, throwin’ down the clothes and pullin’ my
+coat over my head till she nearly strangled me.
+
+“‘Well, I shouldn’t wonder if I hadn’t stripped,’ sais I. ‘When a
+feller is so peskilly sleepy as I be, I suppose he is glad to turn in
+any way.’
+
+“She never spoke another word, but I saw a storm was brewin, and I
+heard her mutter to herself, ‘Creation! what a spot of work! I’ll have
+no teaching of ‘mother tongue’ here.’ Next morning she sent me to
+Boston of an errand, and when I returned, two days after, Flora was
+gone to live with sister Sally. I have never forgiven myself for that
+folly; but really it all came of our being so artless and so innocent.
+There was no craft in either of us. She forgot to remove the chair from
+the chimbley corner, poor simple-minded thing, and I forgot to keep my
+coat sleeve covered. Yes, yes, it all came of our being too innocent;
+but that’s the way, ladies, I learned Gaelic.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI.
+THE WOUNDS OF THE HEART.
+
+
+When I took leave of the family I returned to the room where I had left
+Peter and the doctor, but they had both retired. And as my chamber
+adjoined it, I sat by the fire, lighted a cigar, and fell into one of
+my rambling meditations.
+
+Here, said I to myself, is another phase of life. Peter is at once a
+Highlander, a Canadian, a trapper, a backwoodsman, and a coaster. His
+daughters are half Scotch and half Indian, and have many of the
+peculiarities of both races. There is even between these sisters a wide
+difference in intellect, appearance, and innate refinement. The doctor
+has apparently abandoned his profession for the study of nature, and
+quit the busy haunts of men for the solitude of the forest. He seems to
+think and act differently from any one else in the country. Here too we
+have had Cutler, who is a scholar and a skilful navigator, filling the
+berth of a master of a fishing craft. He began life with nothing but
+good principles and good spirits, and is now about entering on a
+career, which in a few years will lead to a great fortune. He is as
+much out of place where he is, as a salmon would be in a horse pond.
+And here am I, Squire, your humble servant, Sam Slick the Clockmaker,
+not an eccentric man, I hope, for I detest them, they are either mad,
+or wish to be thought so, because madness they suppose to be an
+evidence of genius; but a specimen of a class not uncommon in the
+States, though no other country in the world but Yankeedoodledum
+produces it.
+
+This is a combination these colonies often exhibit, and what a fool a
+man must be when character is written in such large print, if he can’t
+read it even as he travels on horseback.
+
+Of all the party assembled here to-night, the Scotch lasses alone, who
+came in during the evening, are what you call everyday galls. They are
+strong, hearty, intelligent, and good-natured, full of fun and
+industry, can milk, churn, make butter and cheese, card, spin, and
+weave, and will make capital wives for farmers of their own station in
+life. As such, they are favourable representatives of their class, and
+to my mind, far, far above those that look down upon them, who ape, but
+can’t copy, and have the folly, because they sail in the wake of larger
+craft, to suppose they can be mistaken for anything else than tenders.
+Putting three masts into a coaster may make her an object of ridicule,
+but can never give her the appearance of a ship. They know this in
+England, they have got to learn it yet in the Provinces.
+
+Well, this miscellaneous collection of people affords a wide field for
+speculation. Jessie is a remarkable woman, I must ask the doctor about
+her history. I see there is a depth of feeling about her, a simplicity
+of character, a singular sensitiveness, and a shade of melancholy. Is
+it constitutional, or does it arise from her peculiar position? I
+wonder how she reasons, and what she thinks, and how she would talk, if
+she would say what she thinks. Has she ability to build up a theory of
+her own, or does she, like half the women in the world, only think of a
+thing as it occurs? Does she live in instances or in generalities, I’ll
+draw her out and see. Every order, where there are orders, and every
+class (and no place is without them where women are), have a way of
+judging in common with their order or class. What is her station I
+wonder in her own opinion? What are her expectations? What are her
+notions of wedlock? All girls regard marriage as an enviable lot, or a
+necessary evil. If they tell us they don’t, it’s because the right man
+hante come. And therefore I never mind what they say on this subject. I
+have no doubt they mean it; but they don’t know what they are a talking
+about.
+
+You, Squire, may go into a ball-room, where there are two hundred
+women. One hundred and ninety-nine of them you will pass with as much
+indifference as one hundred and ninety-nine pullets; but the two
+hundredth irresistibly draws you to her. There are one hundred
+handsomer, and ninety-nine cleverer ones present; but she alone has the
+magnet that attracts you. Now, what is that magnet? Is it her manner
+that charms? is it her voice that strikes on one of those thousand and
+one chords of your nervous system, and makes it vibrate, as sound does
+hollow glass? Or do her eyes affect your gizzard, so that you have no
+time to chew the cud of reflection, and no opportunity for your head to
+judge how you can digest the notions they have put into it? Or is it
+animal magnetism, or what the plague is it?
+
+You are strangely affected; nobody else in the room is, and everybody
+wonders at you. But so it is. It’s an even chance if you don’t
+perpetrate matrimony. Well, that’s a thing that sharpens the eyesight,
+and will remove a cateract quicker than an oculist can, to save his
+soul alive. It metamorphoses an angel into a woman, and it’s plaguey
+lucky if the process don’t go on and change her into something else.
+
+After I got so far in my meditations, I lit another cigar, and took out
+my watch to look at the time. “My eyes,” sais I, “if it tante past one
+o’clock at night. Howsomever, it ain’t often I get a chance to be
+alone, and I will finish this here weed, at any rate.” Arter which I
+turned in. The following morning I did not rise as early as usual, for
+it’s a great secret for a man never to be in the way, especially in a
+house like Peter’s, where his daughters had, in course, a good deal to
+see to themselves. So I thought I’d turn over and take another snoose;
+and do you know, Squire, that is always a dreamy one, and if your mind
+ain’t worried, or your digestion askew, it’s more nor probable you will
+have pleasant ones.
+
+When I went into the keeping-room, I found Jessie and her sister there,
+the table set, and everything prepared for me.
+
+“Mr Slick,” said the elder one, “your breakfast is ready.”
+
+“But where is your father?” said I, “and Doctor Ovey?”
+
+“Oh, they have gone to the next harbour, Sir, to see a man who is very
+ill there. The doctor left a message for you, he said he wanted to see
+you again very much, and hoped to find you here on his return, which
+will be about four o’clock in the afternoon. He desired me to say, if
+you sailed before he got back, he hoped you would leave word what port
+he would find you in, as he would follow you.”
+
+“Oh,” said I, “we shall not go before to-morrow, at the earliest, so he
+will be in very good time. But who in the world is Doctor Ovey? He is
+the most singular man I ever met. He is very eccentric; ain’t he?”
+
+“I don’t know who he is,” she replied. “Father agrees with you. He says
+he talks sometimes as if he was daft, but that, I believe, is only
+because he is so learned. He has a house a way back in the forest,
+where he lives occasionally; but the greater part of the year he
+wanders about the woods, and camps out like—”
+
+She hesitated a moment, and then brought out the reluctant word: “an
+Indian. He knows the name of every plant and flower in the country, and
+their uses; and the nature of every root, or bark, or leaf that ever
+was; and then he knows all the ores, and coal mines, and everything of
+that kind. He is a great hand for stuffing birds and animals, and has
+some of every kind there is in the province. As for butterflies,
+beetles, and those sort of things, he will chase them like a child all
+day. His house is a regular—. I don’t recollect the word in English; in
+Gaelic it is ‘_tigh neonachais._’”
+
+“Museum?” said I.
+
+“Ah, that’s it,” said she.
+
+“He can’t have much practice,” I said, “if he goes racing and chasing
+over the country that way, like a run-away engine.”
+
+“He don’t want it, Sir,” she replied, “he is very well off. He says he
+is one of the richest men in the country, for he don’t spend half his
+income, and that any man who does that is wealthy. He says he ain’t a
+doctor. Whether he is or not, I don’t know; but he makes wonderful
+cures. Nothing in the world makes him so angry as when anybody sends
+for him that can afford a doctor, for he don’t take pay. Now, this
+morning he stormed, and raved, and stamped, and foamed at the mouth, as
+if he was mad; he fairly swore, a thing I never heard him do before;
+and he seized the hammer that he chips off stones with, and threatened
+the man so who come for him, that he stood with the door in his hand,
+while he begged him to go.
+
+“‘Oh, Sir,’ said he, ‘the Squire will die if you don’t go.’
+
+“‘Let him die, then,’ he replied, ‘and be hanged. What is it to me? It
+serves him right. Why didn’t he send for Doctor Smith, and pay him?
+Does he think I am a going to rob that man of his living? Be off, Sir,
+off with you. Tell him I can’t come, and won’t come, and do you go for
+a magistrate to make his will.’
+
+“As soon as the man quitted the house, his fit left him.
+
+“‘Well,” said he, ‘Peter, I suppose we musn’t let the man perish after
+all; but I wish he hadn’t sent for me, especially just now, for I want
+to have a long talk with Mr Slick.’
+
+“And he and father set off immediately through the woods.”
+
+“Suppose we beat up his quarters,” said I, “Jessie. I should like to
+see his house and collection, amazingly.”
+
+“Oh,” said she, “so should I, above all things; but I wouldn’t ask him
+for the world. He’ll do it for you, I know he will; for he says you are
+a man after his own heart. You study nature so; and I don’t know what
+all, he said of you.”
+
+“Well, well,” sais I, “old trapper as he is, see if I don’t catch him.
+I know how to bait the trap; so he will walk right into it. And then,
+if he has anything to eat there, I’ll show him how to cook it woodsman
+fashion. I’ll teach him how to dress a salmon; roast, boil, or bake.
+How to make a bee-hunter’s mess; a new way to do his potatoes camp
+fashion; and how to dispense with kitchen-ranges, cabouses, or
+cooking-stoves. If I could only knock over some wild-ducks at the lake
+here, I’d show him a simple way of preparing them, that would make his
+mouth water, I know. Truth is, a man that lives in the country ought to
+know a little of everything a’most, and he can’t be comfortable if he
+don’t. But dear me, I must be a movin.”
+
+So I made her a bow, and she made me one of her best courtseys. And I
+held out my hand to her, but she didn’t take it, though I see a smile
+playin’ over her face. The fact is, it is just as well she didn’t, for
+I intended to draw her—. Well, it ain’t no matter what I intended to
+do; and therefore it ain’t no use to confess what I didn’t realise.
+
+“Truth is,” said I, lingering a bit, not to look disappointed, “a
+farmer ought to know what to raise, how to live, and where to save. If
+two things are equally good, and one costs money, and the other only a
+little trouble, the choice ain’t difficult, is it?”
+
+“Mr Slick,” sais she, “are you a farmer?”
+
+“I was bred and born on a farm, dear,” sais I, “and on one, too, where
+nothin’ was ever wasted, and no time ever lost; where there was a place
+for everything, and everything was in its place. Where peace and plenty
+reigned; and where there was a shot in the locker for the minister, and
+another for the poor, and—”
+
+“You don’t mean to say that you considered them _game,_ did you?” said
+she, looking archly.
+
+“Thank you,” sais I. “But now you are making _game_ of me, Miss; that’s
+not a bad hit of yours though; and a shot for the bank, at the eend of
+the year. I know all about farm things, from raisin’ Indian corn down
+to managing a pea-hen; the most difficult thing to regulate next to a
+wife, I ever see.”
+
+“Do you live on a farm now?”
+
+“Yes, when I am to home,” sais I, “I have returned again to the old
+occupation and the old place; for, after all, what’s bred in the bone,
+you know, is hard to get out of the flesh, and home is home, however
+homely. The stones, and the trees, and the brooks, and the hills look
+like old friends—don’t you think so?”
+
+“I should think so,” she said; “but I have never returned to my home or
+my people, and never shall.” And the tears rose in her eyes, and she
+got up and walked to the window, and said, with her back towards me, as
+if she was looking at the weather: “The doctor has a fine day for his
+journey; I hope he will return soon. I think you will like him.”
+
+And then she came back and took her seat, as composed as if I had never
+awakened those sad thoughts. Poor thing! I knew what was passing in her
+mind, as well as if those eloquent tears had not touched my heart.
+Somehow or another, it appears to me, like a stumblin’ horse, I am
+always a-striking my foot agin some stone, or stump, or root, that any
+fellow might see with half an eye. She forced a smile, and said:
+
+“Are you married, Sir?”
+
+“Married,” sais I, “to be sure I am; I married Flora.”
+
+“You must think me as innocent as she was, to believe that,” she said,
+and laughed at the idea. “How many children have you?”
+
+“Seven,” sais I:
+
+“Richard R., and Ira C.,
+Betsey Anne, and Jessie B.,
+Sary D., Eugeen—E,
+And Iren—ee.”
+
+
+“I have heard a great deal of you, Mr Slick,” she said, “but you are
+the queerest man I ever see. You talk so serious, and yet you are so
+full of fun.”
+
+“That’s because I don’t pretend to nothin’, dear;” sais I, “I am just a
+nateral man. There is a time for all things, and a way to do ’em too.
+If I have to freeze down solid to a thing, why then, ice is the word.
+If there is a thaw, then fun and snow-ballin’ is the ticket. I listen
+to a preacher, and try to be the better for his argufying, if he has
+any sense, and will let me; and I listen to the violin, and dance to
+it, if it’s in tune, and played right. I like my pastime, and one day
+in seven is all the Lord asks. Evangelical people say he wants the
+other six. Let them state day and date and book and page for that, for
+I won’t take their word for it. So I won’t dance of a Sunday; but show
+me a pretty gall, and give me good music, and see if I don’t dance any
+other day. I am not a droll man, dear, but I say what I think, and do
+what I please, as long as I know I ain’t saying or doing wrong. And if
+that ain’t poetry, it’s truth, that’s all.”
+
+“I wish you knew the doctor,” said she; “I don’t understand these
+things, but you are the only man I ever met that talked like him, only
+he hante the fun you have; but he enjoys fun beyond everything. I must
+say I rather like him, though he is odd, and I am sure you would, for
+you could comprehend many things he sais that I don’t.”
+
+“It strikes me,” sais I to myself, for I thought, puttin’ this and that
+together; “her rather likin’ him, and her desire to see his house, and
+her tryin’ to flatter me that I talked like him; that perhaps, like her
+young Gaelic friend’s brother who dreamed of the silver dollars, she
+might have had a dream of him.”
+
+So, sais I, “I have an idea, Jessie, that there is a subject, if he
+talked to you upon, you could understand.”
+
+“Oh, nonsense,” said she, rising and laughing, “now do you go on board
+and get me your book; and I will go and see about dinner for the
+Doc—for my father and you.”
+
+Well, I held out my hand, and said,
+
+“Good-morning, Miss Jessie. Recollect, when I bring you the book that
+you must pay the forfeit.”
+
+She dropt my hand in a minute, stood up as straight as a tragedy
+actress, and held her head as high as the Queen of Sheby. She gave me a
+look I shan’t very easily forget, it was so full of scorn and pride.
+
+“And _you_ too, Sir,” said she, “I didn’t expect _this_ of _you_,” and
+then left the room.
+
+“Hullo!” sais I, “who’s half-cracked now; you or the doctor? it appears
+to me it’s six of one and half-a-dozen of the other;” and I took my
+hat, and walked down to the beach and hailed a boat.
+
+About four I returned to the house, and brought with me, as I promised,
+the “Clockmaker.” When I entered the room, I found Jessie there, who
+received me with her usual ease and composure. She was trimming a
+work-bag, the sides of which were made of the inner bark of the
+birch-tree, and beautifully worked with porcupine quills and moose
+hair.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “that is the most delicate thing I ever saw in all my
+born days. Creation, how that would be prized in Boston! How on earth
+did you learn to do that?” sais I.
+
+“Why,” said she, with an effort that evidently cost her a struggle, “my
+people make and barter them at the Fort at the north-west for things of
+more use. Indians have no money.”
+
+It was the first time I had heard so distinct an avowal of her American
+origin, and as I saw it brought the colour to her face, I thought I had
+discovered a clue to her natural pride, or, more properly, her sense of
+the injustice of the world, which is too apt to look down upon this
+mixed race with open or ill-concealed contempt. The scurvey opens old
+sores, and makes them bleed afresh, and an unfeeling fellow does the
+same. Whatever else I may be, I am not that man, thank fortune. Indeed,
+I am rather a dab at dressin’ bodily ones, and I won’t turn my back in
+that line, with some simples I know of, on any doctor that ever trod in
+shoe-leather, with all his compounds, phials, and stipties.
+
+In a gineral way, they know just as much about their business as a
+donkey does of music, and yet both of them practise all day. They don’t
+make no improvements. They are like the birds of the air, and the
+beasts of the forest. Swallows build their nests year after year and
+generation after generation in the identical same fashion, and moose
+winter after winter, and century after century, always follow in each
+other’s tracks. They consider it safer, it ain’t so laborious, and the
+crust of the snow don’t hurt their shins. If a critter is such a fool
+as to strike out a new path for himself, the rest of the herd pass, and
+leave him to worry on, and he soon hears the dogs in pursuit, and is
+run down and done for. Medical men act in the same manner.
+
+Brother Eldad, the doctor, used to say to me when riggin’ him on the
+subject:
+
+“Sam, you are the most conceited critter I ever knew. You have picked
+up a few herbs and roots, that have some virtue in them, but not
+strength enough for us to give a place to in the pharmacopia of
+medicine.”
+
+“Pharmacopia?” sais I, “why, what in natur is that? What the plague
+does it mean? Is it bunkum?”
+
+“You had better not talk on the subject,” said he, “if you don’t know
+the tarms.”
+
+“You might as well tell me,” sais I, “that I had better not speak
+English if I can’t talk gibberish. But,” sais I, “without joking, now,
+when you take the husk off that, and crack the nut, what do you call
+the kernel?”
+
+“Why,” sais he, “it’s a dispensary; a book containin’ rules for
+compoundin’ medicines.”
+
+“Well then, it’s a receipt-book, and nothin’ else, arter all. Why the
+plague can’t you call it so at once, instead of usin’ a word that would
+break the jaw of a German?”
+
+“Sam,” he replied, “the poet says with great truth,
+
+“‘A little learning is a dangerous thing;
+Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.’”
+
+
+“Dear, dear,” said I, “there is another strange sail hove in sight, as
+I am alive. What flag does ‘Pierian’ sail under?”
+
+“The magpies,” said he, with the air of a man that’s a goin’ to hit you
+hard. “It is a spring called Pierus after a gentleman of that name,
+whose daughters, that were as conceited as you be, were changed into
+magpies by the Muses, for challenging them out to sing. All pratin’
+fellows like you, who go about runnin’ down doctors, ought to be sarved
+in the same way.”
+
+“A critter will never be run down,” said I, “who will just take the
+trouble to get out of the way, that’s a fact. Why on airth couldn’t the
+poet have said Magpian Spring, then all the world would understand him.
+No, the lines would have had more sense if they had run this way:
+
+“‘A little physic is a dangerous thing;
+Drink deep, or drink not of the doctor’s spring.’”
+
+
+Well, it made him awful mad. Sais he, “You talk of treating wounds as
+all unskilful men do, who apply balsams and trash of that kind, that
+half the time turns the wound into an ulcer; and then when it is too
+late the doctor is sent for, and sometimes to get rid of the sore, he
+has to amputate the limb. Now, what does your receipt book say?”
+
+“It sais,” sais I, “that natur alone makes the cure, and all you got to
+do, is to stand by and aid her in her efforts.”
+
+“That’s all very well,” sais he, “if nature would only tell you what to
+do, but nature leaves you, like a Yankee quack as you are, to guess.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I am a Yankee, and I ain’t above ownin’ to it, and so
+are you, but you seem ashamed of your broughtens up, and I must say I
+don’t think you are any great credit to them. Natur, though you don’t
+know it, because you are all for art, does tell you what to do, in a
+voice so clear you can’t help hearing it, and in language so plain you
+can’t help understandin’ it. For it don’t use chain-shot words like
+‘pharmacopia’ and ‘Pierian,’ and so on, that is neither Greek nor
+Latin, nor good English, nor vulgar tongue. And more than that, it
+shows you what to do. And the woods, and the springs, and the soil is
+full of its medicines and potions. Book doctrin’ is like book farmin’,
+a beautiful thing in theory, but ruination in practice.”
+
+“Well,” said he, with a toss of his head, “this is very good stump
+oratory, and if you ever run agin a doctor at an election, I shouldn’t
+wonder if you won it, for most people will join you in pullin’ down
+your superiors.”
+
+That word superiors grigged me; thinks I, “My boy, I’ll just take that
+expression, roll it up into a ball, and shy it back at you, in a way
+that will make you sing out ‘Pen and ink,’ I know. Well,” sais I, quite
+mild (I am always mild when I am mad, a keen razor is always smooth),
+“have you any other thing to say about natur?”
+
+“Yes,” sais he, “do you know what healin’ by the _first intention is,_
+for that is a nateral operation? Answer me that, will you?”
+
+“You mean the second intention, don’t you?” sais I.
+
+“No,” he replied, “I mean what I say.”
+
+“Well, Eldad,” sais I, “my brother, I will answer both. First about the
+election, and then about the process of healin’, and after that we
+won’t argue no more, for you get so hot always, I am afraid you will
+hurt my feelins. First,” sais I, “I have no idea of runnin’ agin a
+doctor either at an election or elsewhere, so make yourself quite easy
+on that score, for if I did, as he is my superior, I should be sure to
+get the worst of it.”
+
+“How,” said he, “Sam?” lookin’ quite pleased, seein’ me kinder knock
+under that way.
+
+“Why dod drot it,” sais I, “Eldad, if I was such a born fool as to run
+agin a doctor, his clothes would fill mine so chock full of asafoetida
+and brimstone, I’d smell strong enough to pysen a poll-cat. Phew! the
+very idea makes me sick; don’t come any nearer, or I shall faint. Oh,
+no, I shall give my superiors a wide berth, depend upon it. Then,” sais
+I, “secondly, as to healin’ by the first intention, I have heard of it,
+but never saw it practised yet. A doctor’s first intention is to make
+money, and the second is to heal the wound. You have been kind enough
+to treat me to a bit of poetry, now I won’t be in your debt, so I will
+just give you two lines in return. Arter you went to Philadelphia to
+study, Minister used to make me learn poetry twice a week. All his
+books had pencil marks in the margin agin all the tid bits, and I had
+to learn more or less of these at a time according to their length;
+among others I remember two verses that just suit you and me.
+
+“‘To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence,
+Learning thy talent is, but mine is SENSE.’”
+
+
+“Sam,” said he, and he coloured up, and looked choked with rage, “Sam.”
+
+“Dad,” sais I, and it stopped him in a minute. It was the last syllable
+of his name, and when we was boys, I always called him Dad, and as he
+was older than me, I sometimes called him Daddy on that account. It
+touched him, I see it did. Sais I, “Dad, give me your daddle, fun is
+fun, and we may carry our fun too far,” and we shook hands. “Daddy,”
+sais I, “since I became an author, and honorary corresponding member of
+the Slangwhanger Society, your occupation and mine ain’t much unlike,
+is it?”
+
+“How?” said he.
+
+“Why, Dad,” sais I, “you cut up the dead, and I cut up the livin.”
+
+“Well,” sais he, “I give less pain, at any rate, and besides, I do more
+good, for I make the patient leave a legacy to posterity, by furnishing
+instruction in his own body.”
+
+“You don’t need to wait for dissection for the bequest,” said I, “for
+many a fellow after amputation has said to you, ‘_a-leg-I-see_.’ But
+why is sawing off a leg an _unprofitable_ thing? Do you give it up?
+Because it’s always _bootless_.”
+
+“Well,” said he, “why is an author the laziest man in the world? Do you
+give that up? Because he is most of his time in sheets.”
+
+“Well, that is better than being two sheets in the wind,” I replied.
+“But why is he the greatest coward in creation in hot weather? Because
+he is afraid somebody will quilt him.”
+
+“Oh, oh,” said he, “that is an awful bad one. Oh, oh, that is like
+lead, it sinks to the bottom, boots, spurs, and all. Oh, come, that
+will do, you may take my hat. What a droll fellow you be. You are the
+old sixpence, and nothin’ will ever change you. I never see a feller
+have such spirits in my life; do you know what pain is?”
+
+“Oh,” sais I, “Dad,” and I put on a very sad look, “Daddy,” sais I, “my
+heart is most broke, though I don’t say anythin’ about it. There is no
+one I can confide in, and I can’t sleep at all. I was thinkin’ of
+consultin’ you, for I know I can trust you, and I am sure your kind and
+affectionate heart will feel for me, and that your sound, excellent
+judgment will advise me what is best to be done under the peculiar
+circumstances.”
+
+“Sam,” said he, “my good fellow, you do me no more than justice,” and
+he took my hand very kindly, and sat down beside me. “Sam, I am very
+sorry for you. Confide in me; I will be as secret as the grave. Have
+you consulted dear old Minister?”
+
+“Oh, no,” said I, “Minister is a mere child.”
+
+“True, true, my brother,” said he, “he is a good worthy man, but a mere
+child, as you say. Is it an affair of the heart, Sam?”
+
+“Oh, no,” sais I, “I wish it was, for I don’t think I shall ever die of
+a broken heart for any one, it don’t pay.”
+
+“Is it a pecuniary affair?”
+
+“No, no, if it was it might be borne, an artful dodge, a good
+spekelation, or a regular burst would soon cure that.”
+
+“I hope it ain’t an affair of law,” said he, lookin’ frightened to
+death, as if I had done something dreadful bad.
+
+“No, I wish it was, for a misnomer, an alibi, a nonjoinder, a demurrer,
+a nonsuit, a freemason or a know-nothin’ sign to a juror, a temperance
+wink, or an orange nod to a partisan judge, or some cussed quirk or
+quibble or another, would carry me through it. No, it ain’t that.”
+
+“What is it then?”
+
+“Why,” sais I, a bustin’ out a larfin, “I am most dead sometimes with
+the jumpin’ toothache.”
+
+“Well, well,” said he, “I never was sold so before, I vow; I cave in, I
+holler, and will stand treat.”
+
+That’s the way we ended our controversy about wounds.
+
+But he may say what he likes. I consider myself rather a dab at healing
+bodily ones. As to those of the heart, I haven’t had the experience,
+for I am not a father confessor to galls, and of course ain’t
+consulted. But it appears to me clergymen don’t know much about the
+right way to treat them. The heart is a great word. In itself it’s
+nothin’ but a thing that swells and contracts, and keeps the blood a
+movin; a sort of central post-office that communicates with all the
+great lines and has way stations to all remote parts. Like that, there
+is no sleep in it day or night. Love, hope, fear, despair,
+disappointment, ambition, pride, supplication, craft, cant, fraud,
+piety, speculation, secrets, tenderness, bitterness, duty,
+disobedience, truth, falsehood, gratitude, humbug, and all sorts of
+such things, pass through it or wait till called for; they “are
+_thar_.” All these are dispersed by railways, expresses, fast and slow
+coaches, and carriers. By a figure of speech all these things are
+sumtotalized, and if put on paper, the depository is called the
+post-office, and the place where they are conceived and hatched and
+matured, the heart.
+
+Well, neither the one nor the other has any feeling. They are merely
+the edifices respectively designed for these operations. The thing and
+its contents are in one case called the heart; but the contents only of
+the other are called the mail. Literally therefore the heart is a
+muscle, or some such an affair, and nothing more; but figuratively it
+is a general term that includes, expresses, and stands for all these
+things together. We talk of it therefore as a living, animated,
+responsible being that thinks for itself, and acts through its agents.
+It is either our spiritual part, or something spiritual within us.
+Subordinate or independent of us—guiding or obeying us—influencing or
+influenced by us. We speak of it, and others treat it, as separate, for
+they and we say our heart. We give it, a colour and a character; it may
+be a black heart or a base heart; it may be a brave or a cowardly one;
+it may be a sound or a weak heart also, and a true or a false one;
+generous or ungrateful; kind or malignant, and so on.
+
+It strikes me natur would have been a more suitable word; but poets got
+hold of it, and they bedevil everything they touch. Instead of speaking
+of a critter’s heart therefore, it would to my mind have been far
+better to have spoke of the natur of the animal, for I go the whole hog
+for human natur. But I suppose nobody would understand me if I did, and
+would say I had no heart to say so. I’ll take it therefore, as I find
+it—a thing having a body or substance that can be hurt, and a spirit
+that can be grieved.
+
+Well, as such, I don’t somehow think ministers in a general way know
+how to treat it. The heart, in its common acceptation, is very
+sensitive and must be handled gently; if grief is there, it must be
+soothed and consoled, and hope called in to open views of better
+things. If disappointment has left a sting, the right way is to show a
+sufferer it might have been wuss, or that if his wishes had been
+fulfilled, they might have led to something more disastrous. If pride
+has been wounded, the patient must be humoured by agreeing with him, in
+the first instance, that he has been shamefully used (for that admits
+his right to feel hurt, which is a great thing); and then he may be
+convinced he ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, for he is superior
+to his enemy, and in reality so far above him it would only gratify him
+to think he was of consequence enough to be hated. If he has met with a
+severe pecuniary loss in business, he ought to be told it’s the fortune
+of trade; how lucky he is he ain’t ruined, he can afford and must
+expect losses occasionally. If he frets over it, it will hurt his
+mercantile credit, and after all, he will never miss it, except in a
+figure in the bottom of his balance-sheet, and besides, riches ain’t
+happiness, and how little a man can get out of them at best; and a
+minister ought to be able to have a good story to tell him, with some
+point in it, for there is a great deal of sound philosophy in a good
+anecdote.
+
+He might say, for instance: “Did you ever hear of John Jacob Astor?”
+
+“No, never.”
+
+“What not of John Jacob Astor, the richest man in all the unevarsal
+United States of America? The man that owns all the brown and white
+bears, silver-gray and jet-black foxes, sables, otters, stone martins,
+ground squirrels, and every created critter that has a fur jacket, away
+up about the North Pole, and lets them wear them, for furs don’t keep
+well, moths are death on ’em, and too many at a time glut the market;
+so he lets them run till he wants them, and then sends and skins them
+alive in spring when it ain’t too cold, and waits till it grows again?”
+
+“No, never,” sais the man with the loss.
+
+“Well, if you had been stript stark naked and turned loose that way,
+you might have complained. Oh! you are a lucky man, I can tell you.”
+
+“Well,” sais old Minus, “how in the world does he own all them
+animals?”
+
+“If he don’t,” sais preacher, “perhaps you can tell me who does; and if
+nobody else does, I think his claim won’t be disputed in no court under
+heaven. Don’t you know him? Go and see him. He will make your fortune
+as he has done for many others. He is the richest man you ever heard
+of. He owns the Astor House Hotel to New York, which is bigger than
+some whole towns on the Nova Scotia coast.” And he could say that with
+great truth, for I know a town that’s on the chart, that has only a
+court-house, a groggery, a jail, a blacksmith’s shop, and the wreck of
+a Quebec vessel on the beach.
+
+“Well, a man went to him lately, and sais he: ‘Are you the great John
+Jacob?’
+
+“‘I am John Jacob,’ said he, ‘but I ain’t great. The sun is so almighty
+hot here in New York, no man is large; he is roasted down like a
+race-horse.’
+
+“‘I don’t mean that,’ said the poor man, bowin’ and beggin’ pardon.
+
+“‘Oh,’ sais he, ‘you mean great-grandfather,’ laughing. ‘No, I hante
+come that yet; but Astoria Ann Oregon, my grand-daughter, says I am to
+be about the fore part of next June.’
+
+“Well, the man see he was getting rigged, so he came to the pint at
+once. Sais he, ‘Do you want a clerk?’
+
+“‘I guess I do,’ said he. ‘Are you a good accountant?’
+
+“‘Have been accountant-book-keeper and agent for twenty-five years,’
+sais stranger.
+
+“Well, John Jacob see the critter wouldn’t suit him, but he thought he
+would carry out the joke. Sais he, ‘How would you like to take charge
+of my almighty everlastin’ property?’
+
+“‘Delighted!’ says the goney.
+
+“‘Well,’ said Mr Astor, ‘I am tired to death looking after it; if you
+will relieve me and do my work, I’ll give you what I get out of it
+myself.’
+
+“‘Done!’ said the man, takin’ off his hat, and bowin’ down to the
+ground. ‘I am under a great obligation to you; depend upon it you will
+get a good account of it.’
+
+“‘I have no doubt of it,’ said John Jacob. ‘Do your part faithfully’
+(‘Never fear me,’ said the clerk) ‘and honestly, and I will fulfil
+mine. All I get out of it myself is my board and clothing, and you
+shall have the same.”
+
+“Ah! my friend,” the preacher might say, “how much wisdom there is in
+John Jacob Astor’s remark. What more has the Queen of England, or the
+richest peer in the land, out of all their riches than their board and
+clothing. ‘So don’t repine, my friend. Cheer up! I will come and fast
+on canvas-back duck with you to-morrow, for it’s Friday; and whatever
+lives on aquatic food is fishy—a duck is twice-laid fish. A few glasses
+of champaine at dinner, and a cool bottle or two of claret after, will
+set you all right again in a jiffy.”
+
+If a man’s wife races off and leaves him, which ain’t the highest
+compliment he can receive, he should visit him; but it’s most prudent
+not to introduce the subject himself. If broken-heart talks of it,
+minister shouldn’t make light of it, for wounded pride is mighty
+tender, but say it’s a dreadful thing to leave so good, so kind, so
+indulgent, so liberal, so confidin’ a man as you, if the case will bear
+it (in a general way it’s a man’s own fault); and if it won’t bear it,
+why then there really is a guilty man, on whom he can indulge himself,
+to expend a few flowers of speech. And arter restin’ here awhile, he
+should hint at the consolation that is always offered, “of the sea
+having better fish than ever was pulled out of it,” and so on.
+
+Well, the whole catalogue offers similar topics, and if a man will,
+while kindly, conscientiously, and strictly sticking to the truth,
+offer such consolation as a good man may, taking care to remember that
+manner is everything, and all these arguments are not only no good, but
+do harm if the misfortunate critter is rubbed agin the grain; he will
+then prepare the sufferer to receive the only true consolation he _has_
+to offer—the consolation of religion. At least, that’s my idea.
+
+Now, instead of that, if he gets hold of a sinner, he first offends his
+delicacy, and then scares him to death. He tells him to confess all the
+nasty particulars of the how, the where, the when, and the who with. He
+can’t do nothing till his curiosity is satisfied, general terms won’t
+do. He must have all the dirty details. And then he talks to him of the
+devil, an unpronouncible place, fire and brimstone, and endless
+punishment. And assures him, if ever he hopes to be happy hereafter, he
+must be wretched for the rest of his life; for the evangelical rule is,
+that a man is never forgiven up to the last minute when it can’t be
+helped. Well, every man to his own trade. Perhaps they are right and I
+am wrong. But my idea is you can coax, but can’t bully folks. _You can
+win sinners, but you can’t force them. The door of the heart must be
+opened softly, and to do that you must be the hinge and the lock._
+
+Well, to get back to my story, and I hardly know where I left off, I
+think the poor gall was speakin’ of Indians in a way that indicated she
+felt mortified at her descent, or that somehow or somehow else, there
+was a sore spot there. Well, having my own thoughts about the wounds of
+the heart and so on, as I have stated, I made up my mind I must get at
+the secret by degrees, and see whether my theory of treatment was right
+or not.
+
+Sais I, “Miss, you say these sort of things are bartered at the
+north-west for others of more use. There is one thing though I must
+remark, _they_ never were exchanged for anything half so beautiful.”
+
+“I am glad you like it,” she said, “but look here;” and she took out of
+her basket a pair of mocassins, the soles of which were of moose
+leather, tanned and dressed like felt, and the upper part black velvet,
+on which various patterns were worked with beads. I think I never saw
+anything of the kind so exquisite, for those nick-nacks the Nova Scotia
+Indians make are rough in material, coarse in workmanship, and
+ineligant in design.
+
+“Which do you prefer?” said she.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I ain’t hardly able to decide. The bark work is more
+delicate and more tasteful; but it’s more European in appearance. The
+other is more like our own country, and I ain’t sure that it isn’t
+quite as handsome as the other. But I think I prize the mocassins most.
+The name, the shape, and the ornaments all tell of the prairie.”
+
+“Well, then,” she said, “it shall be the mocassins, you must have them,
+as the exchange for the book.”
+
+“Oh,” said I, taking out of my pocket the first and second
+“Clockmakers,” I had no other of my books on board, and giving them to
+her, “I am afraid, Miss, that I either said or did something to offend
+you this morning. I assure you I did not mean to do so, and I am very
+sorry for it.”
+
+“No, no,” she said, “it was me; but my temper has been greatly tried
+since I came to this country. I was very wrong, for _you_ (and she laid
+a stress on that word as if I was an exception) have been very kind to
+me.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “Miss, sometimes there are things that try us and our
+feelings, that we don’t choose to talk about to strangers, and
+sometimes people annoy us on these subjects. It wouldn’t be right of me
+to pry into any one’s secrets, but this I _will_ say, any person that
+would vex you, let him be who he will, can be no man, he’d better not
+do it while I am here, at any rate, or he’ll have to look for his
+jacket very quick, I know.”
+
+“Mr Slick,” she said, “I know I am half Indian, and some folks want to
+make me feel it.”
+
+“And you took me for one o’ them cattle,” said I, “but if you knew what
+was passin’ in my mind, you wouldn’t a felt angry, _I_ know.”
+
+“What was it?” said she, “for I know _you_ won’t say anything to me you
+oughtn’t to. What was it?”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “there is, between you and me, a young lady here to the
+southern part of this province I have set my heart on, though whether
+she is agoin’ to give me hern, or give me the mitten, I ain’t quite
+sartified, but I rather kinder sorter guess the first, than kinder
+sorter not so.” I just throwed that in that she mightn’t misunderstand
+me. “Well, she is the most splendiferous gall I ever sot eyes on since
+I was created; and,” sais I to myself, “now, here is one of a different
+style of beauty, which on ’em is, take her all in all, the handsomest?”
+
+Half Indian or half Gaelic, or whatever she was, she was a woman, and
+she didn’t flare up this time, I tell you, but taking up the work-bag
+she said:
+
+“Give this to her, as a present from me.”
+
+Thinks I, “My pretty brunette, if I don’t get the heart opened to me,
+and give you a better opinion of yourself, and set you all straight
+with mankind in general, and the doctor in particular, afore I leave
+Ship Harbour, I’ll give over for ever undervalyin’ the skill of
+ministers, that’s a fact. That will do for trial number one; by and by
+I’ll make trial number two.”
+
+Taking up the “Clockmaker,” and looking at it, she said: “Is this book
+all true, Mr Slick? Did you say and do all that’s set down here?”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I wouldn’t just like to swear to every word of it, but
+most of it is true, though some things are embellished a little, and
+some are fancy sketches. But they are all true to nature.”
+
+“Oh, dear,” said she, “what a pity! how shall I ever be able to tell
+what’s true and what ain’t? Do you think I shall be able to understand
+it, who know so little, and have seen so little?”
+
+“You’ll comprehend every word of it,” sais I, “I wrote it on purpose,
+so every person should do so. I have tried to stick to life as close as
+I could, and there is nothin’ like natur, it goes home to the heart of
+us all.”
+
+“Do tell me, Mr Slick,” said she, “what natur is, for I don’t know.”
+
+Well, now that’s a very simple question, ain’t it? and anyone that
+reads this book when you publish it, will say, “Why, everybody knows
+what natur is,” and any schoolboy can answer that question. But I’ll
+take a bet of twenty dollars, not one in a hundred will define that
+tarm right off the reel, without stopping. It fairly stumpt me, and I
+ain’t easily brought to a hack about common things. I could a told her
+what natur was circumbendibusly, and no mistake, though that takes
+time. But to define it briefly and quickly, as Minister used to say, if
+it can be done at all, which I don’t think it can, all I can say is, as
+galls say to conundrums, “I can’t, so I give it up. What is it?”
+
+Perhaps it’s my own fault, for dear old Mr Hopewell used to say, “Sam,
+your head ain’t like any one else’s. Most men’s minds resembles what
+appears on the water when you throw a stone in it. There is a centre,
+and circles form round it, each one a little larger than the other,
+until the impelling power ceases to act. Now you set off on the outer
+circle, and go round and round ever so often, until you arrive to the
+centre where you ought to have started from at first; I never see the
+beat of you.”
+
+“It’s natur,” sais I, “Minister.”
+
+“Natur,” sais he, “what the plague has natur to do with it?”
+
+“Why,” sais I, “can one man surround a flock of sheep?”
+
+“Why, what nonsense,” sais he; “of course he can’t.”
+
+“Well, that’s what this child can do,” sais I. “I make a good sizeable
+ring-fence, open the bars, and put them in, for if it’s too small, they
+turn and out agin like wink, and they will never so much as look at it
+a second time. Well, when I get them there, I narrow and narrow the
+circle, till it’s all solid wool and mutton, and I have every mother’s
+son of them. It takes time, for I am all alone, and have no one to help
+me; but they are thar’ at last. Now, suppose I went to the centre of
+the field, and started off arter them, what would it end in? Why, I’de
+run one down, and have him, and that’s the only one I could catch. But
+while I was a chasin’ of him, all the rest would disperse like a
+congregation arter church, and cut off like wink, each on his own way,
+as if he was afraid the minister was a-goin’ to run after ’em, head
+’em, and fetch ’em back and pen ’em up again.”
+
+He squirmed his face a little at that part about the congregation, I
+consaited, but didn’t say nothin’, for he knew it was true.
+
+“Now, my reason,” sais I, “for goin’ round and round is, I like to
+gather up all that’s in the circle, carry it with me, and stack it in
+the centre.”
+
+Lord! what fun I have had pokin’ that are question of Jessie’s sudden
+to fellows since then! Sais I to Brother Eldad once—
+
+“Dad, we often talk about natur; what is it?”
+
+“Tut,” sais he, “don’t ask me; every fool knows what natur is.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I; “that’s the reason I came to you.”
+
+He just up with a book, and came plaguy near lettin’ me have it right
+agin my head smash.
+
+“Don’t do that,” sais I, “Daddy; I was only joking; but what is it?”
+
+Well, he paused a moment and looked puzzled, as a fellow does who is
+looking for his spectacles, and can’t find them because he has shoved
+them up on his forehead.
+
+“Why,” sais he, spreadin’ out his arm, “it’s all that you see, and the
+law that governs it.”
+
+Well, it warn’t a bad shot that, for a first trial, that’s a fact. It
+hit the target, though it didn’t strike the ring.
+
+“Oh,” said I, “then there is none of it at night, and things can’t be
+nateral in the dark.”
+
+Well, he seed he had run off the track, so he braved it out. “I didn’t
+say it was necessary to see them all the time,” he said.
+
+“Just so,” said I, “natur is what you see and what you don’t see; but
+then feelin’ ain’t nateral at all. It strikes me that if—”
+
+“Didn’t I say,” said he, “the laws that govern them?”
+
+“Well, where are them laws writ?”
+
+“In that are receipt-book o’ yourn you’re so proud of,” said he. “What
+do you call it, Mr Wiseacre?”
+
+“Then, you admit,” sais I, “any fool _can’t_ answer that question?”
+
+“Perhaps _you_ can,” sais he.
+
+“Oh Dad!” sais I, “you picked up that shot and throwed it back. When a
+feller does that it shows he is short of ammunition. But I’ll tell you
+what my opinion is. There is no such a thing as natur.”
+
+“What!” said he.
+
+“Why there is no such a thing as natur in reality; it is only a figure
+of speech. The confounded poets got hold of the idea and parsonified it
+as they have the word heart, and talk about the voice of natur and its
+sensations, and its laws and its simplicities, and all that sort of
+thing. The noise water makes in tumblin’ over stones in a brook, a
+splutterin’ like a toothless old woman scoldin’ with a mouthful of hot
+tea in her lantern cheek, is called the voice of natur speaking in the
+stream. And when the wind blows and scatters about all the blossoms
+from your fruit trees, and you are a ponderin’ over the mischief, a
+gall comes along-side of you with a book of poetry in her hand and
+sais:
+
+“‘Hark! do you hear the voice of natur amid the trees? Isn’t it sweet?’
+
+“Well, it’s so absurd you can’t help laughin’ and saying, ‘No;’ but
+then I hear the voice of natur closer still, and it says, ‘Ain’t she a
+sweet critter?’
+
+“Well, a cultivated field, which is a work of art, dressed with
+artificial manures, and tilled with artificial tools, perhaps by steam,
+is called the smiling face of nature. Here nature is strong and there
+exhausted, now animated and then asleep. At the poles, the features of
+nature are all frozen, and as stiff as a poker, and in the West Indies
+burnt up to a cinder. What a pack of stuff it is! It is just a pretty
+word like pharmacopia and Pierian spring, and so forth. I hate poets,
+stock, lock, and barrel; the whole seed, breed, and generation of them.
+If you see a she one, look at her stockings; they are all wrinkled
+about her ancles, and her shoes are down to heel, and her hair is as
+tangled as the mane of a two-year old colt. And if you see a he one,
+you see a mooney sort of man, either very sad, or so wild-looking you
+think he is half-mad; he eats and sleeps on earth, and that’s all. The
+rest of the time he is sky-high, trying to find inspiration and
+sublimity, like Byron, in gin and water. I like folks that have
+common-sense.”
+
+Well, to get back to my story. Said Jessie to me: “Mr Slick, what is
+natur?”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “Miss, it’s not very easy to explain it so as to make
+it intelligible; but I will try. This world, and all that is in it, is
+the work of God. When he made it, he gave it laws or properties that
+govern it, and so to every living or inanimate thing; and these
+properties or laws are called their nature. Nature therefore is
+sometimes used for God himself, and sometimes for the world and its
+contents, and the secret laws of action imposed upon them when created.
+There is one nature to men (for though they don’t all look alike, the
+laws of their being are the same), and another to horses, dogs, fish,
+and so on. Each class has its own nature. For instance, it is natural
+for fish to inhabit water, birds the air, and so on. In general, it
+therefore means the universal law that governs everything. Do you
+understand it?” says I.
+
+“Not just now,” she said, “but I will when I have time to think of it.
+Do you say there is one nature to all men?”
+
+“Yes, the same nature to Indian as to white men—all the same.”
+
+“Which is the best nature?”
+
+“It is the same.”
+
+“Indian and white, are they both equal?”
+
+“Quite—”
+
+“Do you think so?”
+
+“Every mite and morsel, every bit and grain. Everybody don’t think so?
+That’s natural; every race thinks it is better than another, and every
+man thinks he is superior to others; and so does every woman. They
+think their children the best and handsomest. A bear thinks her nasty,
+dirty, shapeless, tailless cubs the most beautiful things in all
+creation.”
+
+She laughed at that, but as suddenly relapsed into a fixed gloom. “If
+red and white men are both equal, and have the same nature,” she said,
+“what becomes of those who are neither red nor white, who have no
+country, no nation, no tribe, scorned by each, and the tents and the
+houses of both closed against them. Are they equal? what does nature
+say?”
+
+“There is no difference,” I said; “in the eye of God they are all
+alike.”
+
+“God may think and treat them so,” she replied, rising with much
+emotion, “but man does not.”
+
+I thought it was as well to change the conversation, and leave her to
+ponder over the idea of the races which seemed so new to her. “So,”
+sais I, “I wonder the doctor hasn’t arrived; it’s past four. There he
+is, Jessie; see, he is on the beach; he has returned by water. Come,
+put on your bonnet and let you and I go and meet him.”
+
+“Who, me!” she said, her face expressing both surprise and pleasure.
+
+“To be sure,” said I. “You are not afraid of me, Miss, I hope.”
+
+“I warn’t sure I heard you right,” she said, and away she went for her
+bonnet.
+
+Poor thing! it was evident her position was a very painful one to her,
+and that her natural pride was deeply injured. Poor dear old Minister!
+if you was now alive and could read this Journal, I know what you would
+say as well as possible. “Sam,” you would say, “this is a fulfilment of
+Scripture. _The sins of the fathers are visited on the children, the
+effects of which are visible in the second and third generation_.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII.
+FIDDLING AND DANCING, AND SERVING THE DEVIL.
+
+
+By the time we had reached the house, Cutler joined us, and we dined
+off of the doctor’s salmon, which was prepared in a way that I had
+never seen before; and as it was a touch above common, and smacked of
+the wigwam, I must get the receipt. The only way for a man who travels
+and wants to get something better than amusement out of it, is to notch
+down anything new, for every place has something to teach you in that
+line. “_The silent pig is the best feeder_,” but it remains a pig
+still, and hastens its death by growing too fat. Now the talking
+traveller feeds his mind as well as his body, and soon finds the less
+he pampers his appetite the clearer his head is and the better his
+spirits. The great thing is to live and learn, and learn to live.
+
+Now I hate an epicure above all created things—worse than lawyers,
+doctors, politicians, and selfish fellows of all kinds. In a giniral
+way he is a miserable critter, for nothin’ is good enough for him or
+done right, and his appetite gives itself as many airs, and requires as
+much waitin’ on, as a crotchetty, fanciful, peevish old lady of
+fashion. If a man’s sensibility is all in his palate he can’t in course
+have much in his heart. Makin’ oneself miserable, fastin’ in sackcloth
+and ashes, ain’t a bit more foolish than makin’ oneself wretched in the
+midst of plenty, because the sea, the air, and the earth won’t give him
+the dainties he wants, and Providence won’t send the cook to dress
+them. To spend one’s life in eating, drinking, and sleeping, or like a
+bullock, in ruminating on food, reduces a man to the level of an ox or
+an ass. The stomach is the kitchen, and a very small one too, in a
+general way, and broiling, simmering, stewing, baking, and steaming, is
+a goin’ on there night and day. The atmosphere is none of the
+pleasantest neither, and if a man chooses to withdraw into himself and
+live there, why I don’t see what earthly good he is to society, unless
+he wants to wind up life by writin’ a cookery-book. I hate them—that’s
+just the tarm, and I like tarms that express what I mean.
+
+I shall never forget when I was up to Michelimackinic. A thunderin’
+long word, ain’t it? We call it Mackinic now for shortness. But perhaps
+you wouldn’t understand it spelt that way, no more than I did when I
+was to England that Brighton means Brighthelmeston, or Sissiter,
+Cirencester, for the English take such liberties with words, they can’t
+afford to let others do the same; so I give it to you both ways. Well,
+when I was there last, I dined with a village doctor, the greatest
+epicure I think I ever see in all my born days. He thought and talked
+of nothing else from morning till night but eatin’.
+
+“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, rubbin’ his hands, “this is the tallest
+country in the world to live in. What a variety of food there is
+here,—fish, flesh, and fowl,—wild, tame, and mongeral,—fruits,
+vegetables, and spongy plants!”
+
+“What’s that?” sais I. I always do that when a fellow uses strange
+words. “We call a man who drops in accidently on purpose to dinner a
+sponging fellow, which means if you give him the liquid he will soak it
+up dry.”
+
+“Spongy plants,” sais he, “means mushrooms and the like.”
+
+“Ah!” said I, “mushrooms are nateral to a new soil like this. Upstarts
+we call them; they arise at night, and by next mornin’ their house is
+up and its white roof on.”
+
+“Very good,” said he, but not lookin’ pleased at havin’ his oratory cut
+short that way. “Oh, Mr Slick!” said he, “there is a poor man here who
+richly deserves a pension both from your government and mine. He has
+done more to advance the culinary art than either Ude or Soyer.”
+
+“Who on earth now were they?” said I. I knew well enough who they were,
+for when I was to England they used to brag greatly of Soyer at the
+Reform Club. For fear folks would call their association house after
+their politics, “_the cheap and dirty_” they built a very splash
+affair, and to set an example to the state in their own establishment
+of economy and reform in the public departments, hired Soyer, the best
+cook of the age, at a salary that would have pensioned half-a-dozen of
+the poor worn-out clerks in Downing Street. _Vulgarity is always
+showy._ It is a pretty word, “Reformers.” The common herd of them I
+don’t mind much, for rogues and fools always find employment for each
+other. But when I hear of a great reformer like some of the big bugs to
+England, that have been grinning through horse-collars of late years,
+like harlequins at fairs, for the amusement and instruction of the
+public, I must say I do expect to see a super-superior hypocrite.
+
+Yes, I know who those great artists Soyer and Ude were, but I thought
+I’d draw him out. So I just asked who on earth they were, and he
+explained at great length, and mentioned the wonderful discoveries they
+had made in their divine art.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “why on earth don’t your friend the Mackinic cook go to
+London or Paris, where he won’t want a pension, or anything else, if he
+excels them great men?”
+
+“Bless you, Sir,” he replied, “he is merely a voyageur.”
+
+“Oh dear,” sais I, “I dare say then he can fry ham and eggs and serve
+’em up in ile, boil salt beef and pork, and twice lay cod-fish, and
+perhaps boil potatoes nice and watery like cattle turnips. What
+discoveries could such a rough-and-tumble fellow as that make?”
+
+“Well,” said the doctor, “I didn’t want to put myself forward, for it
+ain’t pleasant to speak of oneself.”
+
+“Well, I don’t know that,” sais I, “I ain’t above it, I assure you. If
+you have a horse to sell, put a thunderin’ long price on him, and folks
+will think he must be the devil and all, and if you want people to
+vally you right, appraise yourself at a high figure. _Braggin’ saves
+advertising’._ I always do it; for as the Nova Scotia magistrate said,
+who sued his debtor before himself, ‘What’s the use of being a justice,
+if you can’t do yourself justice.’ But what was you sayin’ about the
+voyageur?”
+
+“Why, Sir,” said he, “I made the discovery through his instrumentality.
+He enabled me to do it by suffering the experiments to be made on him.
+His name was Alexis St Martin; he was a Canadian, and about eighteen
+years of age, of good constitution, robust, and healthy. He had been
+engaged in the service of the American Fur Company as a voyageur, and
+was accidentally wounded by the discharge of a musket, on the 9th of
+June, 1822. The charge, consisting of powder and duck-shot, was
+received in his left side; he being at a distance of not more than one
+yard from the muzzle of the gun. The contents entered posteriorly, and
+in an oblique direction, forward and inward, literally blowing off
+integuments and muscles, of the size of a man’s hand, fracturing and
+carrying away the anterior half of the sixth rib, fracturing the fifth,
+lacerating the lower portion of the left lobe of the lungs, the
+diaphragm, and perforating the stomach.”
+
+“Good gracious!” sais I, “how plain that is expressed! It is as clear
+as mud, that! I do like doctors, for their talking and writing is
+intelligible to the meanest capacity.”
+
+He looked pleased, and went ahead agin.
+
+“After trying all the means in my power for eight or ten months to
+close the orifice, by exciting adhesive inflammation in the lips of the
+wound, without the least appearance of success, I gave it up as
+impracticable, in any other way than that of incising and bringing them
+together by sutures; an operation to which the patient would not
+submit. By using the aperture which providence had supplied us with to
+communicate with the stomach, I ascertained, by attaching a small
+portion of food of different kinds to a string, and inserting it
+through his side, the exact time each takes for digestion, such as beef
+or pork, or mutton or fowl, or fish or vegetables, cooked in different
+ways.1 We all know how long it takes to dress them, but we did not know
+how long a time they required for digestion. I will show you a
+comparative table.”
+
+1 The village doctor appears to have appropriated to himself the credit
+due to another. The particulars of this remarkable case are to be found
+in a work published in New York in 1833, entitled “Experiments and
+observations on the gastric juices, and the physiology of digestion,”
+by William Beaumont, M. D., Surgeon in the United States’ Army, and
+also in the “Albion” newspaper of the same place for January 4, 1834.
+
+
+“Thank you,” sais I, “but I am afraid I must be a moving. “Fact is, my
+stomach was movin’ then, for it fairly made me sick. Yes, I’d a plaguy
+sight sooner see a man embroidering, which is about as contemptible an
+accomplishment as an idler can have, than to hear him everlastingly
+smack his lips, and see him open his eyes and gloat like an anaconda
+before he takes down a bullock, horns, hair, and hoof, tank, shank, and
+flank, at one bolt, as if it was an opium pill to make him sleep.
+
+Well, all this long lockrum arose out of my saying I should like to
+have the receipt by which Jessie’s sister had cooked the salmon for
+dinner; and I intend to get it too, that’s a fact. As we concluded our
+meal, “Doctor,” sais I, “we have been meditating mischief in your
+absence. What do you say to our makin’ a party to visit the ‘_Bachelor
+beaver’s dam_,’ and see your museum, fixins, betterments, and what
+not?”
+
+“Why,” said he, “I should like it above all things; but—”
+
+“But what?” said I.
+
+“But I am afraid, as you must stay all night, if you go, my poor wigwam
+won’t accommodate so many with beds.”
+
+“Oh! some of us will camp out,” sais I, “I am used to it, and like it a
+plaguy sight better than hot rooms.”
+
+“Just the thing,” said he. “Oh! Mr Slick, you are a man after my own
+heart. The nature of all foresters is alike, _red_ or white, English or
+French, Yankee or Blue-nose.”
+
+Jessie looked up at the coïncidence of that expression with what I had
+said yesterday.
+
+“Blue-nose,” said I, “Doctor,” to familiarize the girl’s mind to the
+idea I had started of the mixed race being on a footing of equality
+with the other two, “Blue-nose ought to be the best, for he is half
+Yankee and half English; two of the greatest people on the face of the
+airth!”
+
+“True,” said he, “by right he ought to be, and it’s his own fault he
+ain’t.”
+
+I thought it would be as well to drop the allusion there, so I said,
+“That’s exactly what mother used to say when I did anything wrong:
+‘Sam, ain’t you ashamed.’ ‘No, I ain’t,’ said I. ‘Then you ought to
+be,’ she’d reply.
+
+“It’s a fixed fact, then,” said I, “that we go to-morrow to the Beaver
+dam?”
+
+“Yes,” said he, “I shall be delighted. Jessie, you and your sister will
+accompany us, won’t you?”
+
+“I should be charmed,” she replied.
+
+“I think you will be pleased with it,” he continued, “it will just suit
+you; it’s so quiet and retired. But you must let Etienne take the
+horse, and carry a letter to my sergeant and his commanding officer,
+Betty, to give them notice of our visit, or he will go through the
+whole campaign in Spain before he is done, and tell you how ill the
+commissariat-people were used, in not having notice given to them to
+lay in stores. I never was honoured with the presence of ladies there
+before, and he will tell you he is broken-hearted at the accommodation.
+I don’t know what there is in the house; but the rod and the gun will
+supply us, I think, and the French boy, when he returns, will bring me
+word if anything is wanted from the shore.”
+
+“Jessie,” said I, “can’t you invite the two Highland lassies and their
+brother that were here last night, and let us have a reel this
+evening?”
+
+“Oh! yes,” she said, and going into the kitchen, the message was
+despatched immediately. As soon as the guests arrived, Peter produced
+his violin, and the doctor waking out of one of his brown studies,
+jumped up like a boy, and taking one of the new-comers by the hand,
+commenced a most joyous and rapid jig, the triumph of which seemed to
+consist in who should tire the other out. The girl had youth and
+agility on her side; but the doctor was not devoid of activity, and the
+great training which his constant exercise kept him in, threw the
+balance in his favour; so when he ceased, and declared the other
+victorious, it was evident that it was an act of grace, and not of
+necessity. After that we all joined in an eight-handed reel, and eight
+merrier and happier people I don’t think were ever before assembled at
+Ship Harbour.
+
+In the midst of it the door opened, and a tall, thin,
+cadaverous-looking man entered, and stood contemplating us in silence.
+He had a bilious-looking countenance, which the strong light of the
+fire and candles, when thrown upon it, rendered still more repulsive.
+He had a broad-brimmed hat on his head, which he did not condescend to
+remove, and carried in one hand a leather travelling-bag, as lean and
+as dark-complexioned as himself, and in the other a bundle of
+temperance newspapers. Peter seeing that he did not speak or advance,
+called out to him, with a face beaming with good humour, as he kept
+bobbing his head, and keeping time with his foot (for his whole body
+was affected by his own music).
+
+“Come in, friend, come in, she is welcome. Come in, she is playin’
+herself just now, but she will talk to you presently.” And then he
+stamped his foot to give emphasis to the turn of the tune, as if he
+wanted to astonish the stranger with his performance.
+
+The latter however not only seemed perfectly insensible to its charms,
+but immoveable. Peter at last got up from his chair, and continued
+playing as he advanced towards him; but he was so excited by what was
+going on among the young people, that he couldn’t resist dancing
+himself, as he proceeded down the room, and when he got to him, capered
+and fiddled at the same time.
+
+“Come,” said he, as he jumped about in front of him, “come and join
+in;” and liftin’ the end of his bow suddenly, tipt off his hat for him,
+and said, “Come, she will dance with you herself.”
+
+The stranger deliberately laid down his travelling-bag and paper
+parcel, and lifting up both hands said, “Satan, avaunt.” But Peter
+misunderstood him, and thought he said, “Sartain, I can’t.”
+
+“She canna do tat,” he replied, “can’t she, then she’ll teach you the
+step herself. This is the way,” and his feet approached so near the
+solemncolly man that he retreated a step or two as if to protect his
+shins. Everybody in the room was convulsed with laughter, for all saw
+what the intruder was, and the singular mistake Peter was making. It
+broke up the reel. The doctor put his hands to his sides, bent forward,
+and made the most comical contortions of face. In this position he
+shuffled across the room, and actually roared out with laughter.
+
+I shall never forget the scene; I have made a sketch of it, to
+illustrate this for you. There was this demure sinner, standing bolt
+upright in front of the door, his hat hanging on the handle, which had
+arrested it in its fall, and his long black hair, as if partaking of
+his consternation, flowing wildly over his cheeks; while Peter, utterly
+unconscious that no one was dancing, continued playing and capering in
+front of him, as if he was ravin distracted, and the doctor bent
+forward, pressing his sides with his hands, as if to prevent their
+bursting, laughed as if he was in hysterics. It was the most comical
+thing I ever saw. I couldn’t resist it no longer, so I joined the trio.
+
+“Come, Doctor,” sais I, “a three-handed reel,” and entering into the
+joke, he seized the stranger by one hand, and I by the other, and
+before our silent friend knew where he was, he was in the middle of the
+floor, and though he was not made to dance, he was pushed or flung into
+his place, and turned and faced about as if he was taking his first
+lesson. At last, as if by common consent, we all ceased laughing, from
+sheer exhaustion. The stranger still kept his position in the centre of
+the floor, and when silence was restored, raised his hands again in
+pious horror, and said, in a deep, sepulchral voice:
+
+“_Fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil._ Do you ever think of
+your latter end?”
+
+“Thee had better think of thine, friend,” I whispered, assuming the
+manner of a quaker for fun, “for Peter is a rough customer, and won’t
+stand upon ceremony.”
+
+“_Amhic an aibhisteir_ (son of the devil),” said Peter, shaking his
+fist at him, “if she don’t like it, she had better go. It’s her own
+house, and she will do what she likes in it. Faat does she want?”
+
+“I want the man called Samuel Slick,” said he.
+
+“Verily,” sais I, “friend, I am that man, and wilt thee tell me who
+thee is that wantest me, and where thee livest?”
+
+“Men call me,” he said, “Jehu Judd, and when to home, I live in Quaco
+in New Brunswick.”
+
+I was glad of that, because it warn’t possible the critter could know
+anything of me, and I wanted to draw him out.
+
+“And what does thee want, friend?” I said.
+
+“I come to trade with you, to sell you fifty barrels of mackerel, and
+to procure some nets for the fishery, and some manufactures, commonly
+called _domestics.”_
+
+“Verily,” sais I, “thee hast an odd way of opening a trade, methinks,
+friend Judd. Shaking quakers dance piously, as thee mayest have heard,
+and dost thee think thy conduct seemly? What mayest thee be, friend?”
+
+“A trader,” he replied.
+
+“Art thee not a fisher of men, friend, as well as a fisher of fish?”
+
+“I am a Christian man,” he said, “of the sect called ‘_come-outers_,’1
+and have had experience, and when I meet the brethren, sometimes I
+speak a word in season.”
+
+1 Come-outers. This name has been applied to a considerable number of
+persons in various parts of the Northern States, principally in New
+England, who have recently _come out_ of the various religious
+denominations with which they have been connected; hence the name. They
+have not themselves assumed any distinctive organization. They have no
+creed, believing that every one should be left free to hold such
+opinions on religious subjects as he pleases, without being held
+accountable for the same to any human authority—_Bartlett’s
+Americanisms._
+
+
+“Well, friend, thee has spoken thy words out of season tonight,” I
+said.
+
+“Peradventure I was wrong,” he replied, “and if so, I repent me of it.”
+
+“Of a certainty thee was, friend. Thee sayest thy name is Jehu; now he
+was a hard rider, and it may be thee drivest a hard bargain, if so, go
+thy ways, for thee cannot ‘make seed-corn off of me;’ if not, tarry
+here till this company goeth, and then I will talk to thee touching the
+thing called mackarel. Wilt thee sit by the fire till the quaker
+ceaseth his dancing, and perhaps thee may learn what those words mean,
+‘and the heart danceth for joy,’ or it may be thee will return to thy
+vessel, and trade in the morning.”
+
+“No man knoweth,” he said, “what an hour may bring forth; I will bide
+my time.”
+
+“The night is cold at this season,” said Peter, who considered that the
+laws of hospitality required him to offer the best he had in his house
+to a stranger, so he produced some spirits, as the most acceptable
+thing he possessed, and requested him to help himself.
+
+“I care not if I do,” he said, “for my pledge extendeth not so far as
+this,” and he poured himself out a tumbler of brandy and water, that
+warn’t half-and-half, but almost the whole hog. Oh, gummy, what a horn!
+it was strong enough almost to throw an ox over a five-bar gate. It
+made his eyes twinkle, I tell you, and he sat down and began to look as
+if he thought the galls pretty.
+
+“Come, Peter,” said I, “strike up, the stranger will wait awhile.”
+
+“Will she dance,” said he, “tam her.”
+
+“No,” said I, but I whispered to the doctor, “he will _reel_ soon,” at
+which he folded his arms across his breast and performed his gyrations
+as before. Meanwhile Cutler and Frazer, and two of the girls, commenced
+dancing jigs, and harmony was once more restored. While they were thus
+occupied, I talked over the arrangements for our excursion on the
+morrow with Jessie, and the doctor entered into a close examination of
+Jehu Judd, as to the new asphalt mines in his province. He informed him
+of the enormous petrified trunks of palm-trees that have been found
+while exploring the coal-fields, and warmed into eloquence as he
+enumerated the mineral wealth and great resources of that most
+beautiful colony. The doctor expressed himself delighted with the
+information he had received, whereupon Jehu rose and asked him in token
+of amity to pledge him in a glass of Peter’s excellent cognac, and
+without waiting for a reply, filled a tumbler and swallowed it at one
+gulp.
+
+My, what a pull that was. Thinks I to myself, “Friend, if that don’t
+take the wrinkles out of the parchment case of your conscience, then I
+don’t know nothin’, that’s all.” Oh dear, how all America is overrun
+with such cattle as this; how few teach religion, or practise it right.
+How hard it is to find the genuine article. Some folks keep the people
+in ignorance, and make them believe the moon is made of green cheese;
+others, with as much sense, fancy the world is. One has old saints, the
+other invents new ones. One places miracles at a distance, t’other
+makes them before their eyes, while both are up to mesmerism. One says
+there is no marryin’ in Paradise, the other says, if that’s true, it’s
+hard, and it is best to be a mormon and to have polygamy here. Then
+there is a third party who says, neither of you speak sense, it is
+better to believe nothin’ than to give yourself up to be crammed.
+Religion, Squire, ain’t natur, because it is intended to improve
+corrupt natur, it’s no use talkin’ therefore, it can’t be left to
+itself, otherwise it degenerates into something little better than
+animal instinct. It must be taught, and teaching must have authority as
+well as learning. There can be no authority where there is no power to
+enforce, and there can be no learning where there is no training. If
+there must be normal schools to qualify schoolmasters, there must be
+Oxfords and Cambridges to qualify clergymen. At least that’s my idea.
+Well, if there is a qualified man, he must be supported while he is
+working. But if he has to please his earthly employer, instead of
+obeying his heavenly Master, the better he is qualified the more
+dangerous he is. If he relies on his congregation, the order of things
+is turned upside down. He serves mammon, and not God. If he does his
+duty he must tell unpleasant truths, and then he gets a walkin’ ticket.
+Who will hire a servant, pay him for his time, find a house for him to
+live in, and provide him in board, if he has a will of his own, and
+won’t please his employer by doin’ what he is ordered to do? I don’t
+think you would, Squire, and I know I wouldn’t.
+
+No, a fixed, settled church, like ourn, or yours, Squire, is the best.
+There is safe anchorage ground in them, and you don’t go draggin’ your
+flukes with every spurt of wind, or get wrecked if there is a gale that
+rages round you. There is something strong to hold on to. There are
+good buoys, known landmarks, and fixed light-houses, so that you know
+how to steer, and not helter-skelter lights movin’ on the shore like
+will-o’-the whisps, or wreckers’ false fires, that just lead you to
+destruction. The medium between the two churches, for the clergy, would
+be the right thing. In yours they are too independent of the people,
+with us a little too dependent. But we are coming up to the notch by
+making moderate endowments, which will enable the minister to do what
+is right, and not too large to make him lazy or careless. Well then, in
+neither of them is a minister handed over to a faction to try. Them
+that make the charges ain’t the judges, which is a Magna Charta for
+him.
+
+Yes, I like our episcopal churches, they teach, persuade, guide, and
+paternally govern, but they have no dungeons, no tortures, no fire and
+sword. They ain’t afraid of the light, for, as minister used to say,
+“their light shines afore men.” Just see what sort of a system it must
+be that produces such a man as Jehu Judd. And yet Jehu finds it answer
+his purpose in his class to be what he is. His religion is a cloak, and
+that is a grand thing for a pick-pocket. It hides his hands, while they
+are fumblin’ about your waistcoat and trousers, and then conceals the
+booty. You can’t make tricks if your adversary sees your hands, you may
+as well give up the game.
+
+But to return to the evangelical trader. Before we recommenced dancing
+again, I begged the two Gaelic girls, who were bouncing, buxom lasses,
+and as strong as Shetland ponies, to coax or drag him up for a reel.
+Each took a hand of his and tried to persuade him. Oh, weren’t they
+full of smiles, and didn’t they look rosy and temptin’? They were sure,
+they said, so good-lookin’ a man as he was, must have learned to dance,
+or how could he have given it up?
+
+“For a single man like you,” said Catherine.
+
+“I am not a single man,” said Old Piety, “I am a widower, a lonely man
+in the house of Israel.”
+
+“Oh, Catherine,” sais I, a givin’ her a wink, “take care of theeself,
+or thy Musquodobit farm, with its hundred acres of intervale meadow,
+and seventy head of horned cattle, is gone.”
+
+He took a very amatory look at her after that hint.
+
+“Verily she would be a _duck_ in _Quaco,_ friend Jehu,” said I.
+
+“Indeed would she, anywhere,” he said, looking sanctified Cupids at
+her, as pious galls do who show you the place in your prayer-book at
+church.
+
+“Ah, there is another way methinks she would be a duck,” said I, “the
+maiden would soon turn up the whites of her eyes at dancin’ like a
+_duck_ in thunder, as the profane men say.”
+
+“Oh, oh,” said the doctor, who stood behind me, “I shall die, he’ll
+kill me. I can’t stand this, oh, how my sides ache.”
+
+“Indeed I am afraid I shall always be a _wild duck_,” said Catherine.
+
+“They are safer from the fowler,” said Jehu, “for they are wary and
+watchful.”
+
+“If you are a widower,” she said, “you ought to dance.”
+
+“Why do you think so?” said he; but his tongue was becoming thick,
+though his eyes were getting brighter.
+
+“Because,” she said, “a widower is an odd critter.”
+
+“Odd?” he replied, “in what way odd, dear?”
+
+“Why,” said the girl, “an ox of ourn lately lost his mate, and my
+brother called him the odd ox, and not the single ox, and he is the
+most frolicksome fellow you ever see. Now, as you have lost your mate,
+you are an odd one, and if you are lookin’ for another to put its head
+into the yoke, you ought to go frolickin’ everywhere too!”
+
+“Do single critters ever look for mates?” said he, slily.
+
+“Well done,” said I, “friend Jehu. The drake had the best of the duck
+that time. Thee weren’t bred in Quaco for nothin’. Come, rouse up, wake
+snakes, and walk chalks, as the thoughtless children of evil say. I see
+thee is warmin’ to the subject.”
+
+“Men do allow,” said he, lookin’ at me with great self-complacency,
+“that in speech I am _peeower_ful.”
+
+“Come, Mary,” said I, addressin’ the other sister, “do thee try thy
+persuasive powers, but take care of thy grandmother’s legacy, the two
+thousand pounds thee hast in the Pictou Bank. It is easier for that to
+go to Quaco than the farm.”
+
+“Oh, never fear,” said she.
+
+“Providence,” he continued, “has been kind to these virgins. They are
+surprising comely, and well endowed with understanding and money,” and
+he smirked first at one and then at the other, as if he thought either
+would do—the farm or the legacy.
+
+“Come,” they both said, and as they gave a slight pull, up he sprung to
+his feet. The temptation was too great for him: two pairs of bright
+eyes, two pretty faces, and two hands in his filled with Highland
+blood—and that ain’t cold—and two glasses of grog within, and two
+fortunes without, were irresistible.
+
+So said he,” If I have offended, verily I will make amends; but dancing
+is a dangerous thing, and a snare to the unwary. The hand and waist of
+a maiden in the dance lead not to serious thoughts.”
+
+“It’s because thee so seldom feels them,” I said. “Edged tools never
+wound thee when thee is used to them, and the razor that cutteth the
+child, passeth smoothly over the chin of a man. He who locketh up his
+daughters, forgetteth there is a window and a ladder, and if gaiety is
+shut out of the house, it is pitied and admitted when the master is
+absent or asleep. When it is harboured by stealth and kept concealed,
+it loses its beauty and innocence, and waxeth wicked. The crowd that
+leaveth a night-meeting is less restrained than the throng that goeth
+to a lighted ball-room. Both are to be avoided; one weareth a cloak
+that conceals too much, the other a thin vestment that reveals more
+than is seemly. Of the two, it is better to court observation than shun
+it. Dark thoughts lead to dark deeds.”
+
+“There is much reason in what you say,” he said; “I never had it put to
+me in that light before. I have heard of the shakers, but never saw one
+before you, nor was aware that they danced.”
+
+“Did thee never hear,” said I, “when thee was a boy,
+
+“‘Merrily dance the quaker’s wife,
+And merrily dance the quaker?’
+
+
+and so on?”
+
+“No, never,” said he.
+
+“Then verily, friend, I will show thee how a quaker can dance. They
+call us shakers, from shaking our feet so spry. Which will thee
+choose—the farm or the legacy?”
+
+Mary took his hand, and led him to his place, the music struck up, and
+Peter gave us one of his quickest measures. Jehu now felt the combined
+influence of music, women, brandy, and dancing, and snapped his fingers
+over his head, and stamped his feet to mark the time, and hummed the
+tune in a voice that from its power and clearness astonished us all.
+
+“Well done, old boy,” said I, for I thought I might drop the quaker
+now, “well done, old boy,” and I slapped him on the back, “go it while
+you are young, make up for lost time: now for the double shuffle. Dod
+drot it, you are clear grit and no mistake. You are like a critter that
+boggles in the collar at the first go off, and don’t like the start,
+but when you do lay legs to it you certainly ain’t no slouch, I know.”
+
+The way he cut carlicues ain’t no matter. From humming he soon got to a
+full cry, and from that to shouting. His antics overcame us all. The
+doctor gave the first key-note. “Oh, oh, that man will be the death of
+me,” and again rubbed himself round the wall, in convulsions of
+laughter. Peter saw nothing absurd in all this, on the contrary, he was
+delighted with the stranger.
+
+“Oigh,” he said, “ta preacher is a goot feller after all, she will
+tance with her hern ainsel;” and fiddling his way up to him again, he
+danced a jig with Jehu, to the infinite amusement of us all. The
+familiarity which Mr Judd exhibited with the steps and the dance,
+convinced me that he must have often indulged in it before he became a
+Christian. At last he sat down, not a little exhausted with the violent
+exertion, but the liquor made him peeowerful thick-legged, and his
+track warn’t a bee line, I tell you. After a while a song was proposed,
+and Mary entreated him to favour us with one.
+
+“Dear Miss,” said he, “pretty Miss,” and his mouth resembled that of a
+cat contemplating a pan of milk that it cannot reach, “lovely maiden,
+willingly would I comply, if Sall Mody (Psalmody) will do, but I have
+forgotten my songs.”
+
+“Try this,” said I, and his strong, clear voice rose above us all, as
+he joined us in—
+
+“Yes, Lucy is a pretty girl,
+Such lubly hands and feet,
+When her toe is in the Market-house,
+Her heel is in Main Street.
+
+“Oh take your time, Miss Lucy,
+Miss Lucy, Lucy Long,
+Rock de cradle, Lucy,
+And listen to de song.”
+
+
+He complained of thirst and fatigue after this, and rising, said, “I am
+_peeower_ful dry, by jinks,” and helped himself so liberally, that he
+had scarcely resumed his seat before he was fast asleep, and so
+incapable of sustaining himself in a sitting posture, that we removed
+him to the sofa, and loosening his cravat, placed him in a situation
+where he could repose comfortably. We then all stood round the
+evangelical “_Come-outer_,” and sang in chorus:
+
+“My old master, Twiddledum Don,
+Went to bed with his trousers on,
+One shoe off, and the other shoe on—
+That’s the description of Twiddledum Don.”
+
+
+“Oh, my old ‘Come-outer,’” said I, as I took my last look at him for
+the night, “you have ‘come-out’ in your true colours at last, but this
+comes of _‘fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil_.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII.
+STITCHING A BUTTON-HOLE.
+
+
+After the family had retired to rest, the doctor and I lighted our
+cigars, and discoursed of the events of the evening.
+
+“Such men as Jehu Judd,” he said, “do a monstrous deal of mischief in
+the country. By making the profession of piety a cloak for their
+knavery, they injure the cause of morality, and predispose men to
+ridicule the very appearance of that which is so justly entitled to
+their respect, a sober, righteous, and godly life. Men lose their
+abhorrence of fraud in their distrust of the efficacy of religion. It
+is a duty we owe to society to expose and punish such fellows.”
+
+“Well then, I will do _my_ duty,” said I, laughing, “he has fired into
+the wrong flock this time, I’ll teach him not to do it again, or my
+name is not Sam Slick. I will make that goney a caution to sinners, _I_
+know. He has often deceived others so that they didn’t know him, I will
+now alter him so he shan’t know himself when he wakes up.”
+
+Proceeding to my bed-room, which, as I said before, adjoined the
+parlour, I brought out the box containin’ my sketchin’ fixins, and
+opening of a secret drawer, showed him a small paper of bronze-coloured
+powder.
+
+“That,” said I,” is what the Indians at the Nor-west use to disguise a
+white man, when he is in their train, not to deceive their enemies, for
+you couldn’t take in a savage for any length of time, no how you could
+fix it, but that his pale face might not alarm the scouts of their
+foes. I was stained that way for a month when I was among them, for
+there was war going on at the time.”
+
+Mixing a little of it with brandy I went to the sofa, where Mr Jehu
+Judd was laid out, and with a camel’s hair brush ornamented his upper
+lip with two enormous and ferocious moustachios, curling well upwards,
+across his cheeks to his ears, and laid on the paint in a manner to
+resist the utmost efforts of soap and water. Each eye was adorned with
+an enormous circle to represent the effect of blows, and on his
+forehead was written in this indelible ink in large print letters, like
+those on the starn-board of a vessel, the words “Jehu of Quaco.”
+
+In the morning we made preparations for visiting the Bachelor Beaver.
+The evangelical trader awoke amid the general bustle of the house, and
+sought me out to talk over the sale of his mackarel.
+
+“Fa is tat,” said Peter, who first stared wildly at him, and then put
+himself in a posture of defence. “Is she a deserter from the garishon
+of Halifax?”
+
+“I am a man of peace,” said Jehu (who appeared to have forgotten the
+aberrations of the last evening, and had resumed his usual
+sanctimoniouslyfied manner). “Swear not, friend, it is an abomination,
+and becometh not a Christian man.”
+
+Peter was amazed, he could not trust his eyes, his ears, or his memory.
+
+“Toctor,” said he, “come here for heaven’s sake, is she hern ainsel or
+ta tevil.”
+
+The moment the doctor saw him, his hands as usual involuntarily
+protected his sides, and he burst out a laughing in his face, and then
+describing a circle on the grass, fell down, and rolled over, saying,
+“Oh, oh, that man will be the death of me.” The girls nearly went into
+hysterics, and Cutler, though evidently not approving of the practical
+joke, as only fit for military life, unable to contain himself, walked
+away. The French boy, Etienne, frightened at his horrible expression of
+face, retreated backwards, crossed himself most devoutly, and muttered
+an Ave Maria.
+
+“Friend Judd,” said I, for I was the only one who retained my gravity,
+“thee ought not to wear a mask, it is a bad sign.”
+
+“I wear no mask, Mr Slick,” he said, “I use no disguises, and it does
+not become a professing man like you to jeer and scoff because I
+reprove the man Peter for his profaneness.”
+
+Peter stamped and raved like a madman, and had to resort to Gaelic to
+disburden his mind of his effervescence. He threatened to shoot him; he
+knew him very well, he said, for he had seen him before on the
+prairies. He was a Kentucky villain, a forger, a tief, a Yankee spy
+sent to excite the Indians against the English. He knew his false
+moustachios, he would swear to them in any court of justice in the
+world. “Deil a bit is ta loon Jehu Judd,” he said, “her name is prayin’
+Joe, the horse-stealer.”
+
+For the truth of this charge he appealed to his daughters, who stood
+aghast at the fearful resemblance his moustachios had given him to that
+noted borderer.
+
+“That man of Satan,” said Jehu, looking very uncomfortable, as he saw
+Peter flourishing a short dirk, and the doctor holding him back and
+remonstrating with him. “That man of Satan I never saw before
+yesterday, when I entered his house, where there was _fiddling and
+dancing, and serving the devil._ Truly my head became dizzy at the
+sight, my heart sunk within me at beholding such wickedness, and I fell
+into a swoon, and was troubled with dreams of the evil one all night.”
+
+“Then he visited thee, friend,” I said, “in thy sleep, and placed his
+mark upon thee—the mark of the beast, come and look at it in the
+glass.”
+
+When he saw himself, he started back in great terror, and gave vent to
+a long, low, guttural groan, like a man who is suffering intense agony.
+“What in the world is all this?” he said. He again approached the glass
+and again retreated with a look of unspeakable despair, groaning like a
+thousand sinners, and swelled out about the head and throat like a
+startled blauzer-snake. After which he put his hand to his lip and
+discovered there was no hair. He then took courage and advanced once
+more, and examined it carefully, and rubbed it, but it did not remove
+it.
+
+“He has burned it into the skin,” I said, “he hath made thee the image
+of the horse-stealer, and who knoweth whom else thou resemblest. Thee
+art a marked man verily. Thee said thee never used disguises.”
+
+“Never,” he said, “never, Mr Slick.”
+
+“Hush,” I said, “thee hast worn three disguises. First, thee wore the
+disguise of religion; secondly, thee were disguised in liquor; and
+thirdly, thee art now disguised with what fighting men call the
+moustachio.”
+
+“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, leaving off his cant, and really looking like
+a different man, “dod drot it, it is a just punishment. I knock under,
+I holler, I give in, have mercy on me. Can you rid me of this horrid
+mark, for I can’t flunk out in the street in this rig.”
+
+“I can,” sais I, “but I will do it on one condition only, and that is,
+that you give over canting that way, and coverin’ tricks with long
+faces and things too serious to mention now, for that is doubly wicked.
+Cheatin’ ain’t pretty at no time, though I wouldn’t be too hard on a
+man for only gettin’ hold of the right eend of the rope in a bargain. I
+have done it myself. Or puttin’ the leak into a consaited critter
+sometimes for fun. But to cheat, and cant to help you a doin’ of it, is
+horrid, that’s a fact. It’s the very devil. Will you promise, if I take
+down that ornamental sign-board, that you will give up that kind o’
+business and set up a new shop?”
+
+“I will,” said he, “upon my soul—I’ll be d—d if I don’t. That ain’t
+cant now, is it?”
+
+“Well, now you never said a truer word,” said I, “you will be d—d if
+you don’t, that’s a fact. But there is no use to run to the other
+extreme, neither.”
+
+“Are you a preacher?” said he, and I thought he gave me a sly look out
+of the corner of his eye, as much as to say, “how good we are, ain’t
+we,” as sin said when the devil was rebukin’ of him. The fact is, the
+fellow was a thunderin’ knave, but he was no fool, further than being
+silly enough to be a knave.
+
+“No,” sais I, “I ain’t, I scorn a man dubbin’ himself preacher, without
+the broughtens up to it, and a lawful warrant for being one. And I
+scorn cant, it ain’t necessary to trade. If you want that proved to
+you, wait till I return to-morrow, and if you get to winderd of me in a
+bargain, I’ll give you leave to put the moustachios on me, that’s a
+fact. My maxim is to buy as low and sell as high as I can, provided the
+article will bear a large profit. If not, I take a moderate advance,
+turn the penny quick, and at it again. I will compound something that
+will take out your false hair, for I don’t think it will be easy to
+shave it off. It all came of pretence. What in the world was the reason
+you couldn’t walk quietly into the cantecoi, where people were enjoying
+themselves, and either join them, or if you had scruples, keep them to
+yourself and sit by. Nobody would have molested you. Nothing but cant
+led you to join temperance societies. A man ought to be able to use,
+not abuse liquor, but the moment you obligate yourself not to touch it,
+it kinder sets you a hankering after it, and if you taste it after
+that, it upsets you, as it did last night. _It ain’t easy to wean a
+calf that takes to suckin’ the second time, that’s a fact._ Your
+pretence set folks agin you. They didn’t half like the interruption for
+one thing, and then the way you acted made them disrespect you. So you
+got a most an all-fired trick played on you. And I must say it sarves
+you right. Now, sais I, go on board and—”
+
+“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, “oh now, that’s a good fellow, don’t send me
+on board such a figure as this, I’d rather die fust, I’d never hear the
+last of it. The men would make me the laughing-stock of Quaco. Oh, I
+can’t go on board.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “go to bed then, and put a poultice on your face, to
+soften the skin.” That warn’t necessary at all, but I said it to punish
+him. “And when I come back, I will give you a wash, that will make your
+face as white and as smooth as a baby’s.”
+
+“Oh, Mr Slick,” said he, “couldn’t you—” but I turned away, and didn’t
+hear him out.
+
+By the time I had done with him, we were all ready to start for the
+Bachelor Beaver. Peter borrowed an extra horse and waggon, and drove
+his youngest daughter. Cutler drove Jessie in another, and the doctor
+and I walked.
+
+“We can travel as fast as they can,” he said, “for part of the road is
+full of stumps, and very rough, and I like the arrangement, and want to
+have a talk with you about all sorts of things.”
+
+After travelling about two miles, we struck off the main highway into a
+wood-road, in which stones, hillocks, and roots of trees so impeded the
+waggons, that we passed them, and took the lead.
+
+“Are you charged?” said the Doctor, “if not, I think we may as well do
+so now.”
+
+“Perhaps it would be advisable,” said I. “But where is your gun?”
+
+“I generally am so well loaded,” he replied, “when I go to the woods, I
+find it an encumbrance. In addition to my other traps, I find forty
+weight of pemican as much as I can carry.”
+
+“_Pemican_,”1 sais I, “what in natur is that?” I knew as well as he did
+what it was, for a man that don’t understand how to make that, don’t
+know the very abeselfa of wood-craft. But I tell you what, Squire,
+unless you want to be hated, don’t let on you know all that a feller
+can tell you. The more you _do_ know, the more folks are afeared to be
+able to tell you something new. It flatters their vanity, and it’s a
+harmless piece of politeness, as well as good policy to listen; for who
+the plague will attend to you if you won’t condescend to hear them?
+_Conversation is a barter, in which one thing is swapped for another,
+and you must abide by the laws of trade._ What you give costs you
+nothing; and what you get may be worth nothing; so, if you don’t gain
+much, you don’t lose, at all events. “So,” sais I, “what in natur is
+pemican?”
+
+1 See Dunn’s “Oregon.”
+
+
+“Why,” sais he, “it is formed by pounding the choice parts of venison
+or other meat very small, dried over a slack fire, or by the frost, and
+put into bags, made of the skin of the slain animal, into which a
+portion of melted fat is poured. The whole being then strongly pressed,
+and sewed up in bags, constitutes the best and most portable food
+known; and one which will keep a great length of time. If a dainty man,
+like you, wishes to improve its flavour, you may spice it.”
+
+“What a grand thing that would be for soldiers during forced marches,
+wouldn’t it. Well, Doctor,” sais I, “that’s a wrinkle, ain’t it? But
+who ever heard of a colonial minister knowing anything of colony
+habits?”
+
+“If we have a chance to kill a deer,” he said, “I will show you how to
+make it,” and he looked as pleased to give me that information as if he
+had invented it himself. “So I use this instead of a gun,” he
+continued, producing a long, thick-barreled pistol, of capital
+workmanship, and well mounted. “I prefer this, it answers every
+purpose: and is easy to carry. There are no wolves here, and bears
+never attack you, unless molested, so that the gun-barrel is not needed
+as a club; and if Bruin once gets a taste of this, he is in no hurry to
+face it again. The great thing is to know how to shoot, and where to
+hit. Now, it’s no use to fire at the head of a bear, the proper place
+to aim for is the side, just back of the fore leg. Are you a good
+shot?”
+
+“Well,” said I, “I can’t brag, for I have seen them that could beat me
+at that game; but, in a general way, I don’t calculate to throw away my
+lead. It’s scarce in the woods. Suppose though we have a trial. Do you
+see that blaze in the hemlock tree, there? try it.”
+
+Well, he up, and as quick as wink fired, and hit it directly in the
+centre.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “you scare me. To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect
+to be taken up that way. And so sure as I boast of a thing, I slip out
+of the little eend of the horn.” Well, I drew a bead fine on it, and
+fired.
+
+“That mark is too small,” said he (thinking I had missed it), “and
+hardly plain enough.”
+
+“I shouldn’t wonder if I had gone a one side or the other,” said I, as
+we walked up to it, “I intended to send your ball further in; but I
+guess I have only turned it round. See, I have cut a little grain of
+the bark off the right side of the circle.”
+
+“Good,” said he, “these balls are near enough to give a critter the
+heart-ache, at any rate. You are a better shot than I am; and that’s
+what I have never seen in this province. Strange, too, for you don’t
+live in the woods as I do.”
+
+“That’s the reason,” said I, “I shoot for practice, you, when you
+require it. Use keeps your hand in, but it wouldn’t do it for me; so I
+make up by practising whenever I can. When I go to the woods, which
+ain’t as often now as I could wish, for they ain’t to be found
+everywhere in our great country, I enjoy it with all my heart. I enter
+into it as keen as a hound, and I don’t care to have the Clockmaker run
+rigs on. A man’s life often depends on his shot, and he ought to be
+afraid of nothin’. Some men, too, are as dangerous as wild beasts; but
+if they know you can snuff a candle with a ball, hand runnin’, why,
+they are apt to try their luck with some one else, that ain’t up to
+snuff, that’s all. It’s a common feeling, that.
+
+“The best shot I ever knew, was a tailor at Albany. He used to be very
+fond of brousin’ in the forest sometimes, and the young fellows was apt
+to have a shy at Thimble. They talked of the _skirts_ of the forest,
+the _capes_ of the Hudson, laughing in their _sleeve,_ giving a fellow
+a _bastin,_ having a _stitch_ in the side, _cuffing_ a fellow’s ears,
+taking a _tuck-in_ at lunch, or calling mint-julip an _inside lining,_
+and so on; and every time any o’ these words came out, they all laughed
+like anything.
+
+“Well, the critter, who was really a capital fellow, used to join in
+the laugh himself, but still grinnin’ is no proof a man enjoys it; for
+a hyena will laugh, if you give him a poke. So what does he do, but
+practise in secret every morning and evening at pistol-shooting for an
+hour or two, until he was a shade more than perfection itself. Well,
+one day he was out with a party of them same coons, and they began to
+run the old rig on him as usual. And he jumps up on eend, and in a
+joking kind o’ way, said: ‘Gentle_men_, can any of you _stitch a
+button-hole,_ with the button in it?’ Well, they all roared out at that
+like mad.
+
+“‘No, Sir_ree_,’ sais they, ‘but come, show us _Thimble,_ will you?
+that’s a good fellow. Tom, fetch the _goose_ to press it when it’s
+done. Dick, _cabbage_ a bit of cloth for him to try it upon. Why, Tom,
+you are as _sharp as a needle_.’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘I’ll show you.’
+
+“So he went to a tree, and took out of his pocket a fip-penny bit, that
+had a hole in the centre, and putting in it a small nail, which he had
+provided, he fastened it to the tree.
+
+“‘Now,’ said he, taking out a pair of pistols, and lots of ammunition,
+from the bottom of his prog-basket, where he had hid them. ‘Now,’ said
+he, ‘gentle_men_, the way to stitch a buttonhole, is to put balls all
+round that button, in a close ring, and never disturb them; that’s what
+we tailors call workmanlike:’ and he fired away, shot after shot, till
+he had done it.
+
+“‘Now,’ said he,’ gentle_men_, that button has to be fastened;’ and he
+fired, and drove the nail that it hung on into the tree. ‘And now,
+gentle_men_,’ said he, ‘I have stood your shots for many a long day,
+turn about is fair play. The first man that cracks a joke at me, on
+account of my calling, must stand my shot, and ‘if I don’t stitch his
+button-hole for him, I am no tailor; that’s all.’
+
+“Well, they all cheered him when he sat down, and they drank his
+health; and the boss of the day said: ‘Well, Street (afore that he used
+to call him Thimble), well, Street,’ said he, ‘you _are_ a _man_.’
+
+“‘There you are again,’ said Street, ‘that is a covered joke at a
+tailor being only the ninth part of one. I pass it over this time, but
+let’s have no more of it.’
+
+“‘No, Sir_ree_, no,’ said boss, ‘on honour now, I didn’t mean it. And I
+say, too, let there be no more of it.’”
+
+“Not a bad story!” said the doctor. “A man ought to be able to take his
+own part in the world; but my idea is we think too much of guns. Do you
+know anything of archery?”
+
+“A little,” sais I, “at least folks say so; but then they really give
+me credit for what I don’t deserve; they say I draw a thunderin’ long
+bow sometimes.”
+
+“Oh! oh!” he said laughing, “posi_tive_ly, as the fellow said to the
+tailor, you’ll give me a stitch in _my_ side. Well, that’s better than
+being ‘_sewed_ up,’ as Jehu was last night. But, seriously, do you ever
+use the bow?”
+
+“Well, I have tried the South American bow, and it’s a powerful weapon
+that; but it takes a man to draw it, I tell you.”
+
+“Yes,” said he, “it requires a strong arm; but the exercise is good for
+the chest. It’s the one I generally use. The bow is a great weapon, and
+the oldest in the world. I believe I have a tolerable collection of
+them. The Indian bow was more or less excellent, according to the wood
+they had; but they never could have been worth much here, for the
+country produces no suitable material. The old English long-bow perhaps
+is a good one; but it is not so powerful as the Turkish. That has
+immense power. They say it will carry an arrow from four hundred and
+fifty to five hundred yards. Mine perhaps is not a first-rate one, nor
+am I what I call a skilful archer; but I can reach beyond three hundred
+yards—though that is an immense distance. The gun has superseded them;
+but though superior in many respects, the other has some qualities that
+are invaluable. In skirmishing, or in surprising outposts, what an
+advantage it is to avoid the alarm and noise occasioned by firearms.
+All troops engaged in this service in addition to the rifle ought to
+have the bow and the quiver. What an advantage it would have been in
+the Caffre war, and how serviceable now in the Crimea. They are light
+to carry and quickly discharged. When we get to my house I will prove
+it to you. We will set up two targets, at one hundred yards, say. You
+shall fire from one to the other, and then stand aside, and before you
+can reload I will put three arrows into yours. I should say four to a
+common soldier’s practice; but I give even you three to one. If a man
+misses his first shot at me with a gun, he is victimized, for I have
+three chances in return before he gets his second, and if I don’t pink
+him with one or the other—why, I deserve to be hit. For the same
+reason, what a glorious cavalry weapon it is, as the Parthians knew.
+What a splendid thing for an ambush, where you are neither seen nor
+heard. I don’t mean to say they are better than fire-arms; but,
+occasionally used with them they would be irresistible. If I were a
+British officer in command I would astonish the enemy.”
+
+“You would astonish the Horse-Guards, too, _I_ know,” said I. “It would
+ruin you for ever. They’d call you old ‘bows and arrows,’ as they did
+the general that had no flints to his guns, when he attacked Buonus
+Ayres; they’d have you up in ‘Punch;’ they’d draw you as Cupid going to
+war; they’d nickname you a _Bow_-street officer. Oh! they’d soon teach
+you what a _quiver_ was. They’d play the devil with you. They’d beat
+you at your own game; you’d be stuck full of poisoned arrows. You could
+as easily introduce the queue again, as the bow.”
+
+“Well, Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt were won with the bow,” he
+said, “and, as an auxiliary weapon, it is still as effective as ever.
+However that is not a mere speculation. When I go out after cariboo, I
+always carry mine, and seldom use my gun. It don’t alarm the herd; they
+don’t know where the shaft comes from, and are as likely to look for it
+in the lake or in the wild grass as anywhere else. Let us try them
+together. But let us load with shot now. We shall come to the brook
+directly, and where it spreads out into still water, and the flags
+grow, the wild fowl frequent; for they are amazin’ fond of
+poke-lokeins, as the Indians call those spots. We may get a brace or
+two perhaps to take home with us. Come, let us push ahead, and go
+warily.”
+
+After awhile a sudden turn of the road disclosed to us a flock of
+blue-winged ducks, and he whispered, “Do you fire to the right, and I
+will take the left.” When the smoke from our simultaneous discharges
+cleared away, we saw the flock rise, leaving five of their number as
+victims of their careless watch.
+
+“That is just what I said,” he remarked, “the gun is superior in many
+respects; but if we had our bows here, we would have had each two more
+shots at them, while on the wing. As it is, we can’t reload till they
+are out of reach. I only spoke of the how as subordinate and auxiliary;
+but never as a substitute. Although I am not certain that, with our
+present manufacturing skill, metallic bows could not now be made, equal
+in power, superior in lightness, and more effective than any gun when
+the object to be aimed at is not too minute, for in that particular the
+rifle will never be equalled—certainly not surpassed.”
+
+The retriever soon brought us our birds, and we proceeded leisurely on
+our way, and in a short time were overtaken by the waggons, when we
+advanced together towards the house, which we reached in about an hour
+more. As soon as we came in sight of it, the dogs gave notice of our
+approach, and a tall, straight, priggish-looking man marched, for he
+did not hurry himself, bareheaded towards the bars in the pole fence.
+He was soon afterwards followed by a little old woman at a foot amble,
+or sort of broken trot, such as distinguishes a Naraganset pacer. She
+had a hat in her hand, which she hastily put on the man’s head. But, as
+she had to jump up to do it, she effected it with a force that made it
+cover his eyes, and nearly extinguish his nose. It caused the man to
+stop and adjust it, when he turned round to his flapper, and, by the
+motion of his hand, and her retrogade movement, it appeared he did not
+receive this delicate attention very graciously. Duty however was
+pressing him, and he resumed his stately step towards the bars.
+
+She attacked him again in the rear, as a goose does an intruder, and
+now and then picked something from his coat, which I supposed to be a
+vagrant thread, or a piece of lint or straw, and then retreated a step
+or two to avoid closer contact. He was compelled at last to turn again
+on his pursuer, and expostulate with her in no gentle terms. I heard
+the words “mind your own business,” or something of the kind, and the
+female voice more distinctly (women always have the best of it), “You
+look as if you had slept in it. You ain’t fit to appear before
+gentlemen.” Ladies she had been unaccustomed of late to see, and
+therefore omitted altogether. “What would Colonel Jones say if he saw
+you that way?”
+
+To which the impatient man replied: “Colonel Jones be hanged. He is not
+my commanding officer, or you either—take that will you, old ooman.” If
+the colonel was not there his master was, therefore pressing forward he
+took down the bars, and removed them a one side, when he drew himself
+bolt upright, near one of the posts, and placing his hand across his
+forehead, remained in that position, without uttering a word, till the
+waggons passed, and the doctor said, “Well, Jackson, how are you?”
+“Hearty, Sir! I hope your Honour is well? Why, Buscar, is that you,
+dog; how are you, my man?” and then he proceeded very expeditiously to
+replace the poles.
+
+“What are you stopping for?” said the doctor to me, for the whole party
+was waiting for us.
+
+“I was admirin’ of them bars,” said I.
+
+“Why, they are the commonest things in the country,” he replied. “Did
+you never see them before?” Of course I had, a thousand times, but I
+didn’t choose to answer.
+
+“What a most beautiful contrivance,” said I, “they are. First, you
+can’t find them, if you don’t know beforehand where they are, they look
+so like the rest of the fence. It tante one stranger in a thousand
+could take them down, for if he begins at the top they get awfully
+tangled, and if he pulls the wrong way, the harder he hauls the tighter
+they get. Then he has to drag them all out of the way, so as to lead
+the horse through, and leave him standin’ there till he puts them up
+agin, and as like as not, the critter gets tired of waitin’, races off
+to the stable, and breaks the waggon all to flinders. After all these
+advantages, they don’t cost but a shilling or so more than a gate. Oh,
+it’s grand.”
+
+“Well, well,” said the doctor, “I never thought of that afore, but you
+are right after all,” and he laughed as good humouredly as possible.
+“Jackson,” said he.
+
+“Yes, your Honour.”
+
+“We must have a gate there.”
+
+“Certainly,” said the servant, touching his hat. But he honoured me
+with a look, as much as to say, “Thank you for nothing, Sir. It’s a
+pity you hadn’t served under Colonel Jones, for he would have taught
+you to mind your own business double quick.”
+
+We then proceeded to the door, and the doctor welcomed the party to the
+“Bachelor Beaver’s-dam,” as he called it. In the mean time, the
+bustling little old woman returned, and expressed great delight at
+seeing us. The place was so lonesome, she said, and it was so pleasant
+to see ladies there, for they were the first who had ever visited the
+doctor, and it was so kind of them to come so far, and she hoped they
+would often honour the place with their presence, if they could put up
+with their accommodation, for she had only heard from the doctor the
+night before; and she was so sorry she couldn’t receive them as she
+could wish, and a whole volume more, and an appendix longer than that,
+and an index to it, where the paging was so jumbled you couldn’t find
+nothin’.
+
+Jackson joined in, and said he regretted his commissariat was so badly
+supplied. That it was a poor country to forage in, and that there was
+nothing but the common rations and stores for the detachment stationed
+there. But that nothing should be wanting on his part, and so on. The
+housekeeper led the way to the apartments destined for the girls. Peter
+assisted the boy to unharness the horses, and the doctor showed Cutler
+and myself into the hall, where the breakfast table was set for us.
+Seeing Jackson marching to the well, as if he was on parade, I left the
+two together in conversation, and went out to talk to him. “Sergeant,”
+sais I.
+
+“Yes, your Honour,” said he, and he put down the pail, and raised his
+hand to his forehead.
+
+“I understand you have seen a great deal of service in your time.”
+
+“Yes, Sir,” said he, looking well pleased, and as if his talking tacks
+were all ready. I had hit the right subject. “I ave gone through a deal
+of soldiering in my day, and been in many a ard fight, Sir.”
+
+“I see you have the marks on you,” I said. “That is a bad scar on your
+face.”
+
+“Well, Sir,” said he, “saving your presence, I wish the devil had the
+Frenchman that gave me that wound. I have some I am proud of having
+received in the service of my king and country. I have three balls in
+me now, which the doctors couldn’t extract, and nothin’ but death will
+bring to the light of day again, if they can be said to be seen in the
+grave. But that scar is the only disgraceful mark I ever received since
+I first joined in 1808.
+
+“When we were laying siege to Badajoz, Sir, I was in the cavalry, and I
+was sent with a message to a brigade that was posted some distance from
+us. Well, Sir, as I was trotting along, I saw a French dragoon, well
+mounted, leading a splendid spare orse, belonging to some French
+hofficer of rank, as far as I could judge from his happearance and
+mountings. Instead of pursuing my course, as I ought to have done, Sir,
+I thought I’de make a dash at the rascal, and make prize of that are
+hanimal. So I drew my sword, raised myself in my saddle (for I was
+considered a first-rate swordsman, as most Hinglishmen hare who have
+been used to the single-stick), and made sure I ad him. Instead of
+turning, he kept steadily on, and never as much as drew his sabre, so
+in place of making a cut hat him, for I’de scorn to strike han hunarmed
+man, my play was to cut is reins, and then if he wanted a scrimmage, to
+give him one, and if not, to carry off that hare orse.
+
+“Well, Sir, he came on gallantly, I must say that, and kept his eye
+fixed steadily on me, when just as I was going to make a cut at his
+reins, he suddenly seized his eavy-mounted elmet, and threw it slap at
+my face, and I’ll be anged if it didn’t stun me, and knock me right off
+the orse flat on the ground, and then he galloped off as ard as he
+could go. When I got up, I took his elmet under my harm, and proceeded
+on my route. I was ashamed to tell the story straight, and I made the
+best tale I could of the scrimmage, and showed the elmet in token that
+it was a pretty rough fight. But the doctor, when he dressed the wound,
+swore it never was made with a sword, nor a bullet, nor any instrument
+he knew hon, and that he didn’t think it was occasioned by a fall, for
+it was neither insised, outsised, nor contused—but a confusion of all
+three. He questioned me as close as a witness.
+
+“‘But,’ sais I, ‘doctor, there is no telling what himplements Frenchmen
+ave. They don’t fight like us, they don’t. It was a runnin’ scrimmage,
+or _handicap_ fight.’ Yes, Sir, if it was hanywhere helse, where it
+wouldn’t show, it wouldn’t be so bad, but there it is on the face, and
+there is no denyin’ of it.”
+
+Here the little woman made her appearance again, with the hat in her
+hand, and said imploringly:
+
+“Tom, doee put your hat on, that’s a good soul. He don’t take no care
+of himself, Sir,” she said, addressing herself to me. “He has seen a
+deal of service in his day, and has three bullets in him now, and he is
+as careless of hisself as if he didn’t mind whether I was left alone in
+the oulin’ wilderness or not. Oh, Sir, if you heard the wild beastesis
+here at night, it’s dreadful. It’s worse than the wolves in the Pyreen,
+in Spain. And then, Sir, all I can do, I can’t get him to wear is at,
+when he knows in is eart he had a stroke of the sun near Badajoz, which
+knocked him off his orse, and see how it cut his face. He was so
+andsome before, Sir.”
+
+“Betty,” said the sergeant, “the doctor is calling you. Do go into the
+ouse, and don’t bother the gentleman. Oh, Sir,” said he, “I have had to
+tell a cap of lies about that are scar on my face, and that’s ard, Sir,
+for a man who has a medal with five clasps; ain’t it?”
+
+Here the doctor came to tell me breakfast was ready.
+
+“I was admiring, Doctor,” said I, “this simple contrivance of yours for
+raising water from the well. It is very ingenious.”
+
+“Very,” he said, “but I assure you it is no invention of mine. I have
+no turn that way. It is very common in the country.”
+
+I must describe this extraordinary looking affair, for though not
+unusual in America, I have never seen it in England, although the happy
+thought doubtless owes its origin to the inventive genius of its
+farmers.
+
+The well had a curb, as it is called, a square wooden box open at the
+top, to prevent accident to the person drawing the water. A few paces
+from this was an upright post about twelve feet high, having a crotch
+at the top. A long beam lies across this, one end of which rests on the
+ground at a distance from the post, and the other projects into the air
+with its point over the well. This beam is secured in the middle of the
+crotch of the upright post by an iron bolt, on which it moves, as on an
+axle. To the aerial end is attached a few links of a chain, that hold a
+long pole to which the bucket is fastened, and hangs over the well. The
+beam and its pendent apparatus resembles a fishing-rod and its line
+protruding over a stream. When a person wishes to draw water, he takes
+hold of the pole, and as he pulls it down, the bucket descends into the
+well, and the heavy end of the beam rises into the air, and when the
+pail is filled the weight of the butt end of the beam in its descent
+raises the bucket.
+
+“Now,” said I, “Doctor, just observe how beautiful this thing is in
+operation. A woman (for they draw more nor half the water used in this
+country) has to put out all her strength, dragging down the pole, with
+her hands over her head (an attitude and exercise greatly recommended
+by doctors to women), in order to get the bucket down into the well. If
+she is in too big a hurry, the lever brings it up with a jerk that
+upsets it, and wets her all over, which is very refreshing in hot
+weather, and if a child or a dog happens to be under the heavy end of
+the beam, it smashes it to death, which after all ain’t no great
+matter, for there are plenty left to them who have too many and don’t
+care for ’em. And then if it ain’t well looked after and the post gets
+rotten at the bottom, on a stormy day it’s apt to fall and smash the
+roof of the house in, which is rather lucky, for most likely it wanted
+shingling, and it is time it was done. Well, when the bucket swings
+about in the wind, if a gall misses catching it, it is apt to hit her
+in the mouth, which is a great matter, if she has the tooth-ache, for
+it will extract corn-crackers a plaguey sight quicker than a dentist
+could to save his soul.”
+
+“Well,” said he, “I never thought of that before. I have no turn for
+these things, I’ll have it removed, it is a most dangerous thing, and I
+wouldn’t have an accident happen to the sergeant and dear old Betty for
+the world.”
+
+“God bless your Honour for that,” said Jackson.
+
+“But, Doctor,” said I, “joking apart, they are very picturesque, ain’t
+they, how well they look in a sketch, eh! nice feature in the
+foreground.”
+
+“Oh,” said he, patting me on the back, “there you have me again, Slick.
+Oh, indeed they are, I can’t part with my old well-pole, oh, no, not
+for the world: Jackson, have an eye to it, see that it is all safe and
+strong and that no accident happens, but I don’t think we need take it
+away. Come, Slick, come to breakfast.”
+
+Thinks I to myself, as I proceeded to the hall, “there are two classes
+only in this world. Those who have genius, and those who have common
+sense. They are like tailors, one can cut a coat and do nothin’ else,
+for he is an artist. The other can put the parts together, for he is a
+workman only. Now the doctor is a man of talent and learning, an
+_uncommon_ man, but he don’t know _common_ things at all. He can _cut
+out_ a garment, but he can’t _stitch a button-hole_.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX.
+THE PLURAL OF MOOSE.
+
+
+The room in which we breakfasted was about eighteen feet square, having
+a large old-fashioned fire-place opposite to the front door, which
+opened directly on the lawn. The walls were fancifully ornamented with
+moose and deer horns, fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, landing nets and
+baskets, bows and arrows of every description, and Indian relics, such
+as stone hatchets, bowls, rude mortars, images, war clubs, wampum, and
+implements not unlike broad swords made of black birch, the edges of
+which were inlaid with the teeth of animals, or the shells of fish,
+ground sharp. Besides these, were skulls of great size and in good
+preservation, stone pipes, pouches, and so on; also some enormous teeth
+and bones of an antediluvian animal, found in the Bras Dor lake in Cape
+Breton. It was, take it altogether, the most complete collection of
+relics of this interesting race, the Micmacs, and of natur’s products
+to be found in this province. Some of the larger moose horns are
+ingeniously managed, so as to form supports for polished slabs of
+hardwood for tables. The doctor informed me that this department of his
+museum was under the sole direction of the sergeant, who called it his
+armoury, and to whose experience in the arrangement of arms he was
+indebted for the good effect they produced. The only objection he said
+he had to it was, that classification had been sacrificed to
+appearance, and things were very much intermixed; but his collection
+was too small to make this a matter of any importance.
+
+Jackson, as soon as the doctor was similarly engaged in showing them to
+the captain and the Miss McDonalds, for whom they seemed to have a
+peculiar interest, mounted guard over me.
+
+“You see, Sir,” said he, “the moose horns are the only thing of any
+size here, and that’s because the moose is half English, you know.
+Everything is small in this country, and degenerates, Sir. The fox
+ain’t near as big as an English one. Lord, Sir, the ounds would run
+down one o’ these fellows in ten minutes. They haven’t got no strength.
+The rabbit too is a mere nothink; he is more of a cat, and looks like
+one too, when he is hanged in a snare. It’s so cold, nothin’ comes to a
+right size here. The trees is mere shrubbery compared to our hoaxes.
+The pine is tall, but then it has no sap. It’s all tar and turpentine,
+and that keeps the frost out of its heart. The fish that live under the
+ice in the winter are all iley, in a general way, like the whales,
+porpoises, dog-fish, and cod. The liver of the cod is all ile, and
+women take to drinkin’ it now in cold weather to keep their blood warm.
+Depend upon it, Sir, in two or three generations they will shine in the
+sun like niggers. Porter would be better for ’em to drink than ile, and
+far more pleasanter too, Sir, wouldn’t it? It would fill ’em out.
+Saving your presence, Sir, you never see a girl here with—”
+
+“Hush! the ladies will hear you,” I said.
+
+“I ax your Honour’s pardon; perhaps I am making too bold, but it’s
+nateral for a man that has seed so much of the world as I have to talk
+a bit, especially as my tongue is absent on furlough more nor half the
+year, and then the old ‘ooman’s goes on duty, and never fear, Sir,
+her’n don’t sleep at its post. She has seen too much sarvice for that.
+It don’t indeed. It hails every one that passes the sentry-box, and
+makes ’em advance and give the countersign. A man that has seed so
+much, Sir, in course has a good deal to talk about. Now, Sir, I don’t
+want to undervaly the orns at no rate, but Lord bless you, Sir, I have
+seen the orns of a wild sheep, when I was in the Medeteranion, so
+large, I could hardly lift them with one hand. They say young foxes
+sleep in them sometimes. Oh, Sir, if they would only get a few of them
+sheep, and let them loose here, there would be some fun in unting of
+them. They are covered over with air in summer, and they are so wild
+you can’t take them no other way than by shooting of them. Then, Sir,
+there is the orns of—”
+
+“But how is the moose half English?” sais I.
+
+“Why, Sir, I heard our colour-sergeant M’Clure say so when we was in
+Halifax. He was a great reader and a great arguer, Sir, as most
+Scotchmen are. I used to say to him, ‘M’Clure, it’s a wonder you can
+fight as well as you do, for in England fellows who dispute all the
+time commonly take it all out in words.’
+
+“One day, Sir, a man passed the north barrack gate, tumping (as he
+said, which means in English, Sir, hauling) an immense bull moose on a
+sled, though why he didn’t say so, I don’t know, unless he wanted to
+show he knew what M’Clure calls the botanical word for it. It was the
+largest hanimal I ever saw here.”
+
+“Says Mac to him, ‘What do you call that creature?’
+
+“‘Moose,’ said he.
+
+“‘Do you pretend to tell me,’ said Mac, ‘that that henormous hanimal,
+with orns like a deer, is a moose?’
+
+“‘I don’t pretend at all,’ said he; ‘I think I hought to know one when
+I see it, for I have killed the matter of a undred of them in my day.’
+
+“‘It’s a daumed lee,’ said the sergeant. ‘It’s no such thing; I
+wouldn’t believe it if you was to swear to it.’
+
+“‘Tell you what,’ said the man, ‘don’t go for to tell me that again, or
+I’ll lay you as flat as he is in no time,’ and he cracked his whip and
+moved on.
+
+“‘What’s the use,’ said I, ‘M’Clure, to call that man a liar? How do
+you know whether it is a moose or not, and he is more like to get its
+name right than you, who never saw one afore.’
+
+“‘Moose,’ said he, ‘do you take me for a fool? do you suppose he is a
+goin’ to cram me with such stuff as that? The idea of his pretending to
+tell me that a creature six feet high with great spreading antlers like
+a deer is a moose, when in fact they are no bigger than a cock-roach,
+and can run into holes the size of a sixpence! Look at me—do you see
+anything very green about me?’
+
+“‘Why, Mac,’ sais I, ‘as sure as the world you mean a mouse.’
+
+“‘Well, I said a moose,’ he replied.
+
+“‘Yes, I know you said a moose, but that’s not the way to pronounce a
+mouse. It may be Scotch, but it ain’t English. Do you go into that
+hardware shop, and ask for a moose-trap, and see how the boys will wink
+to each other, and laugh at you.’
+
+“‘A man,’ sais he, drawing himself up, ‘who has learned humanity at
+Glaskee, don’t require to be taught how to pronounce moose.’
+
+“‘As for your humanity,’ said I, ‘I never see much of that. If you ever
+had that weakness, you got bravely over it, and the glass key must have
+been broke years agone in Spain.’
+
+“‘You are getting impertinent,’ said he, and he walked off and left me.
+
+“It’s very strange, your Honour, but I never saw an Irishman or
+Scotchman yet that hadn’t the vanity to think he spoke English better
+than we do.”
+
+“But the Yankees?” said I.
+
+“Well, Sir, they are foreigners, you know, and only speak broken
+English; but they mix up a deal of words of their own with it, and then
+wonder you don’t understand them. They keep their mouths so busy
+chawing, they have to talk through their noses.
+
+“A few days after that, Sir, we walked down to the marketplace, and
+there was another of these hanimals for sale. But perhaps I am making
+too bold, Sir?”
+
+“No, no, not at all; go on. I like to hear you.”
+
+“‘Well,’ said M’Clure to the countryman, ‘What do you call that?’
+
+“‘A moose,’ said he.
+
+“Well, I gives him a nudge of my helbow, to remind him not to tell him
+it was a ‘daumed lee,’ as he did the other man.
+
+“‘What does moose mean, my man?’
+
+“Would you believe it, Sir, he didn’t like that word ‘my man,’
+partikelarly coming from a soldier, for they are so hignorant here they
+affect to look down upon soldiers, and call ’em ‘thirteen pences.’
+
+“‘Mean,’ said he, ‘it means _that_,’ a-pointin’ to the carcass. ‘Do you
+want to buy it?’
+
+“‘Hem!’ said Mac. ‘Well now, my good fellow—’
+
+“Oh, Sir, if you had a seen the countryman when he heard them words, it
+would a been as good as a play. He eyed him all over, very scornful, as
+if he was taking his measure and weight for throwing him over the sled
+by his cape and his trousers, and then he put his hand in his waistcoat
+pocket, and took out a large black fig of coarse tobacco, and bit a
+piece out of it, as if it was an apple, and fell too a chewing of it,
+as if to vent his wrath on it, but said nothing.
+
+“‘Well, my good fellow,’ said Mac, ‘when there are more than one, or
+they are in the plural number, what do you call them?’
+
+“‘Mice,’ said the fellow.
+
+“‘Mice!’ said M’Clure, ‘I must look into that; it’s very odd. Still, it
+can’t be mooses either.’
+
+“He didn’t know what to make of it; he had been puzzled with mouse
+before, and found he was wrong, so he thought it was possible ‘mice’
+might be the right word after all.
+
+“‘Well,’ said he, ‘what do you call the female moose?’
+
+“‘Why,’ sais the man, ‘I guess,’ a-talkin’ through his nose instead of
+his mouth—how I hate that Yankee way, don’t you, Sir? ‘Why,’ sais he,
+‘I guess we call the he-moose M, and the other N, as the case may be.’
+
+“‘Who gave them that name?’ said M’Clure.
+
+“‘Why, I reckon,’ said the other, ‘their godfathers and godmothers at
+their baptism, but I can’t say, for I warn’t there.’
+
+“‘I say, my man,’ said M’Clure, ‘you had better keep a civil tongue in
+your head.’
+
+“‘Ask me no questions, then,’ said the countryman, ‘and I’ll tell you
+no lies; but if you think to run a rig on me, you have made a mistake
+in the child, and barked up the wrong tree, that’s all. P’raps I ain’t
+so old as you be, but I warn’t born yesterday. So slope, if you please,
+for I want to sneeze, and if I do, it will blow your cap over the
+market-house, and you’ll be lucky if your head don’t go along with it.”
+
+“‘Come away,’ said I, ‘Mac, that fellow has no more manners than a
+heathen.’
+
+“‘He’s an hignorant beast,’ said he, ‘he is beneath notice.’
+
+“The man eard that, and called after him, ‘Hofficer, hofficer,’ said
+he.
+
+“That made M’Clure stop, for he was expectin’ to be one every day, and
+the word sounded good, and Scotchmen, Sir, ain’t like other people,
+pride is as natural as oatmeal to them. The man came up to us limpin’.
+
+“‘Hofficer,’ said he, ‘I ax your pardon if I offended you, I thought
+you was a pokin’ fun at me, for I am nothing but a poor hignorant
+farmer, from the country, and these townspeople are always making game
+of us. I’ll tell you all about that are moose and how I killed him. He
+urt my feelins, Sir, or I never would have mislested him, for Zack
+Wilcox is as good-natured a chap, it’s generally allowed, as ever
+lived. Yes, he trod on my toes, I don’t feel right yet, and when any
+fellow does that to me, why there ain’t no mistake about it, his time
+is out and the sentence is come to pass. He begged for his life, oh, it
+was piteous to see him. I don’t mean to say the dumb beast spoke, but
+his looks were so beseeching just the way if you was tied up to the
+halbert to be whipped, you’d look at the general.’
+
+“‘Me?’ said M’Clure.
+
+“‘Yes, you or anybody else,’ said the man. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I told him
+I wouldn’t shoot him, I’de give him one chance for his life, but if he
+escaped he’d be deaf for ever afterwards. Poor feller, I didn’t intend
+to come it quite so strong, but he couldn’t stand the shock I gave him,
+and it killed him—frightened him to death.’
+
+“‘How?’ said M’Clure.
+
+“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘I’ll tell you,’ and he looked cautiously all round,
+as if he didn’t want any one to know the secret. ‘I gave him a most an
+almighty hambler that fairly keeled him over.’
+
+“‘What?’ said M’Clure.
+
+“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘I gave him,’ and he bent forward towards his hear as
+if to whisper the word, ‘I gave him a most thunderin’ everlastin’
+loud—’ and he gave a yell into his hear that was eard clean across the
+harbour, and at the ospital beyond the dockyard, and t’other way as far
+as Fresh-water Bridge. Nothin’ was hever eard like it before.
+
+“M’Clure sprang backwards the matter of four or five feet, and placed
+his hand on his side arms, while the countryman brayed out a horse
+laugh that nearly took away one’s earing. The truck-men gate him a
+cheer, for they are all Irishmen, and they don’t like soldiers commonly
+on account of their making them keep the peace at ome at their meetin’
+of monsters, and there was a general commotion in the market. We beat a
+retreat, and when we got out of the crowd, sais I, ‘M’Clure, that comes
+of arguing with every one you meet. It’s a bad habit.’
+
+“‘I wasn’t arguing,’ sais he, quite short, ‘I was only asking
+questions, and how can you ever learn if you don’t inquire?’
+
+“Well, when he got to the barrack, he got a book wrote by a Frenchman,
+called Buffoon.”
+
+“A capital name,” sais I, “for a Frenchman,” but he didn’t take, for
+there is no more fun in an Englishman than a dough pudding, and went on
+without stopping.
+
+“Sais he, ‘this author is all wrong. He calls it han ‘horiginal,’ but
+he ain’t a native animal, it’s half English and half Yankee. Some
+British cattle at a remote period have been wrecked here, strayed into
+the woods, and erded with the Carriboo. It has the ugly carcass and ide
+of the ox, and has taken the orns, short tail, and its speed from the
+deer. That accounts for its being larger than the native stags.’ I
+think he was right, Sir, what is your opinion?”
+
+The doctor and the rest of the party coming up just put an end to
+Jackson’s dissertation on the origin of the moose. The former said,
+
+“Come, Mr Slick, suppose we try the experiment of the bow,” and Jessie,
+seeing us preparing for shooting, asked the doctor for smaller ones for
+her sister and herself. The targets were accordingly prepared, and
+placing myself near one of them, I discharged the gun and removed a few
+paces on one side, and commenced as rapidly as I could to reload, but
+the doctor had sent three arrows through mine before I had finished. It
+required almost as little time as a revolver. He repeated the trial
+again with the same result.
+
+“What do you think of the bow now?” said he in triumph. “Come, Captain,
+do you and Mr Slick try your luck, and see what sort of shots you can
+make.” The captain, who was an experienced hand with the gun, after a
+few attempts to ascertain the power and practice necessary, made
+capital play with the bow, and his muscular arm rendered easy to him
+that which required of me the utmost exertion of my strength. Jessie
+and her sister now stept forward, and measuring off a shorter distance,
+took their stations. Their shooting, in which they were quite at home,
+was truly wonderful. Instead of using the bow as we did, so as to bring
+the arrow in a line with the eye, they held it lower down, in a way to
+return the elbow to the right side, much in the same manner that a
+skilful sportsman shoots from the hip. It seemed to be no sort of
+exertion whatever to them, and every arrow was lodged in the inner
+circle. It seemed to awaken them to a new existence, and in their
+excitement I observed they used their mother tongue.
+
+“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said Jackson to the doctor, putting his hand to
+his forehead, “if our sharp-shooters in Spain ad ad bows like yours, in
+their scrimmages with the French light troops, they would ave done more
+service and made less noise about it than they did.” And saluting me in
+the same manner, he said in an under-tone,
+
+“If I ad ad one of them at Badajoz, Sir, I think I’d a put a pen in
+that trooper’s mouth to write the account of the way he lost his elmet.
+A shower of them, Sir, among a troop of cavalry would have sent riders
+flying, and horses kicking, as bad as a shower of grape. There is no
+danger of shooting your fingers off with them, Sir, or firing away your
+ramrod. No, there ain’t, is there, Sir?”
+
+“Tom, do’ee put on your hat now, that’s a good soul,” said his
+attentive wife, who had followed him out a third time to remind him of
+his danger. “Oh, Sir,” said she, again addressing me, “what signifies a
+armless thing like an harrow; that’s nothin but a little wooden rod to
+the stroke of the sun, as they calls it. See what a dreadful cut it’s
+given him.”
+
+Tom looked very impatient at this, but curbed in his vexation, and said
+“Thankee, Betty,” though his face expressed anything but thanks.
+“Thankee, Betty. There, the doctor is calling you. She is as good a
+creature, Sir, as ever lived,” he continued; “and has seen a deal of
+service in her day. But she bothers me to death about that stroke of
+the sun. Sometimes I think I’ll tell her all about it; but I don’t like
+to demean myself to her. She wouldn’t think nothin’ of me, Sir, if she
+thought I could have been floored that way; and women, when they begin
+to cry, throw up sometime what’s disagreeable. They ain’t safe. She
+would perhaps have heaved up in my face that that dragoon had slapped
+my chops for me, with his elmet. I am blowed, Sir, if I can take a
+glass of grog out of my canteen, but she says, ‘Tom, mind that stroke
+of the sun.’ And when I ave a big D marked agin my name in the pension
+book, she’ll swear, to her dying day, I was killed by that are stroke.”
+
+“Why don’t you put it on then,” I said, “just to please her.”
+
+“Well, Sir, if I was at head-quarters, or even at han hout-post, where
+there was a detachment, I would put it hon; because it wouldn’t seem
+decent to go bare-headed. But Lord bless you, Sir, _what’s the use of a
+hat in the woods, where there is no one to see you?”_
+
+Poor fellow, he didn’t know what a touch of human nature there was in
+that expression, “_what’s the use of a hat in the woods, where there is
+no one to see you?”_
+
+The same idea, though differently expressed, occurs to so many. “Yes,”
+said I to myself, “put on your hat for your wife’s sake, and your own
+too; for though you may fail to get a stroke of the sun, you may get
+not an inflammation of the brain, for there ain’t enough of it for that
+complaint to feed on, but rheumatism in the head; and that will cause a
+plaguey sight more pain than the dragoon’s helmet ever did, by a long
+chalk.”
+
+But, to get back to my story, for the way I travel through a tale is
+like the way a child goes to school. He leaves the path to chase a
+butterfly, or to pick wild strawberries, or to run after his hat that
+has blown off, or to take a shy at a bird, or throw off his shoes, roll
+up his trousers, and wade about the edge of a pond to catch polly-wogs;
+but he gets to school in the eend, though somewhat of the latest, so I
+have got back at last, you see.
+
+Mother used to say, “Sam, your head is always a woolgathering.”
+
+“I am glad of it,” says I, “marm.”
+
+“Why, Sam,” she’d say, “why, what on earth do you mean?”
+
+“Because, marm,” I’d reply, “a head that’s alway a gathering will get
+well stored at last.”
+
+“Do get out,” the dear old soul would say, “I do believe, in my heart,
+you are the most nimpent (impudent), idlest, good-for-nothingest boy in
+the world. Do get along.”
+
+But she was pleased, though, after all; for women do like to repeat
+little things like them, that their children say, and ask other people,
+who don’t hear a word, or if they do, only go right off and laugh at
+’em: “Ain’t that proper ‘cute now? Make a considerable smart man when
+he is out of his time, and finished his broughtens up, won’t he?”
+
+Well, arter the archery meeting was over, and the congregation
+disparsed, who should I find myself a walkin’ down to the lake with but
+Jessie? How it was, I don’t know, for I warn’t a lookin’ for her, nor
+she for me; but so it was. I suppose it is human natur, and that is the
+only way I can account for it. Where there is a flower, there is the
+bee; where the grass is sweet, there is the sheep; where the cherry is
+ripe, there is the bird; and where there is a gall, especially if she
+is pretty, there it is likely I am to be found also. Yes, it must be
+natur. Well, we walked, or rather, strolled off easy. There are
+different kinds of gaits, and they are curious to observe; for I
+consait sometimes I can read a man’s character in his walk. The child
+trots; the boy scarcely touches the ground with his feet, and how the
+plague he wears his shoes out so fast I don’t know. Perhaps Doctor
+Lardner can tell, but I’ll be hanged if I can, for the little critter
+is so light, he don’t even squash the grass. The sailor waddles like a
+duck, and gives his trousers a jerk to keep them from going down the
+masts (his legs) by the run; a sort of pull at the main-brace. The
+soldier steps solemn and formal, as if the dead march in Saul was a
+playin’. A man and his wife walk on different sides of the street; _he_
+sneaks along head down, and _she_ struts head up, as if she never heard
+the old proverb, “Woe to the house where the hen crows.” They leave the
+carriage-way between them, as if they were afraid their thoughts could
+be heard. When meetin’ is out, a lover lags behind, as if he had
+nothin’ above particular to do but to go home; and he is in no hurry to
+do that, for dinner won’t be ready this hour. But, as soon as folks are
+dodged by a blue bonnet with pink ribbons ahead, he pulls foot like a
+lamplighter, and is up with the gall that wears it in no time, and she
+whips her arms in hisn, and they saunter off, to make the way as long
+as possible. She don’t say, “_Peeower_ful sermon that, warn’t it?” and
+he don’t reply, “I heerd nothin’ but the text, ‘Love one another.’” Nor
+does he squeeze her arm with his elbow, nor she pinch his with her
+little blue-gloved fingers. Watch them after that, for they go so slow,
+they almost crawl, they have so much to say, and they want to make the
+best of their time; and besides, walking fast would put them out of
+breath.
+
+The articled-clerk walks the streets with an air as much like a
+military man as he can; and it resembles it almost as much as
+electrotype ware does silver. He tries to look at ease, though it is a
+great deal of trouble; but he imitates him to a hair in some things,
+for he stares impudent at the galls, has a cigar in his mouth, dresses
+snobbishly, and talks of making a book at Ascot. The young lawyer
+struts along in his seven-league boots, has a white-bound book in one
+hand, and a parcel of papers, tied with red tape, in the other. He is
+in a desperate hurry, and as sure as the world, somebody is a dying,
+and has sent for him to make his will. The Irish priest walks like a
+warder who has the keys. There is an air of authority about him. He
+puts his cane down on the pavement hard, as much as to say, Do you hear
+that, you spalpeen? He has the secrets of all the parish in his
+keeping; but they are other folk’s secrets, and not his own, and of
+course, so much lighter to carry, it don’t prevent him looking like a
+jolly fellow, as he is, arter all. The high-churchman has an M. B.
+waistcoat on, is particular about his dress, and walks easy, like a
+gentleman, looks a little pale about the gills, like a student; but has
+the air of a man that wanted you to understand—I am about my work, and
+I would have you to know I am the boy to do it, and do it too without a
+fuss. If he meets a bishop, he takes his hat off, for he admits his
+authority. If a beggar accosts him, he slips some charity in his hands,
+and looks scared lest he should be seen.
+
+The low-churchman hates the M. B. vestment, it was him who christened
+it. He is a dab at nick-names. He meant it to signify the Mark of the
+Beast. He likes the broad-brimmed beaver, it’s more like a quaker, and
+less like a pope. It is primitive. He looks better fed than the other,
+and in better care. Preachin’ he finds in a general way easier than
+practice. Watch his face as he goes along, slowly and solemncoly
+through the street. He looks _so_ good, all the women that see him say,
+“Ain’t he a dear man?” He is meekness itself. Butter wouldn’t melt in
+his mouth. He has no pride in him. If there is any, it ain’t in his
+heart at any rate. Perhaps there is a little grain in his legs, but it
+never got any higher. Sometimes, I suspect they have been touched with
+the frost, for the air of a dining-room is colder under the table than
+above it, and his legs do march stiff and formal like a soldier’s, but
+then, as he says, he is of the church militant. See what a curious
+expression of countenance he has when he meets his bishop. Read it, it
+says: “Now, my old Don, let us understand each other; you may ordain
+and confirm, but don’t you go one inch beyond that. No synods, no
+regeneration in baptism, no control for me; I won’t stand it. My idea
+is every clergyman is a bishop in his own parish, and his synod is
+composed of pious galls that _work,_ and rich spinsters that _give._ If
+you do interfere, I will do my duty and rebuke those in high places.
+Don’t rile me, for I have an ugly pen, an ugly tongue, and an ugly
+temper, and nothing but my sanctity enables me to keep them under.” If
+he is accosted by a beggar, he don’t, like the other, give him money to
+squander, but he gives him instruction. He presents him with a tract.
+As he passes on, the poor wretch pauses and looks after him, and
+mutters—“Is it a prayer? most likely, for that tract must be worth
+something, for it cost something to print.”
+
+Then there is the sectarian lay-brother. He has a pious walk, looks
+well to his ways lest he should stumble, and casting his eyes down,
+kills two birds with one stone. He is in deep meditation about a
+contract for a load of deals, and at the same time regards his steps,
+for the ways of the world are slippery. His digestion is not good, and
+he eats pickles, for the vinegar shows in his face. Like Jehu Judd, he
+hates “fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil,” and it is lucky he
+has a downcast look, for here come two girls that would shock him into
+an ague.
+
+Both of them have the colonial step and air, both of them too are
+beautiful, as Nova Scotia girls generally are. The first is young and
+delicate, and as blooming as a little blush-rose. She holds out with
+each hand a portion of her silk dress, as if she was walking a minuet,
+and it discloses a snow-white petticoat, and such a dear little foot
+and ankle—lick! Her step is short and mincing. She has a new bonnet on,
+just imported by the last English steamer. It has a horrid name, it is
+called a kiss-me-quick. It is so far back on her head, she is afraid
+people will think she is _bare-faced,_ so she casts her eyes down, as
+much as to say, “Don’t look at me, please, I am so pretty I am afraid
+you will stare, and if you do I shall faint, as sure as the world, and
+if you want to look at my bonnet, do pray go behind me, for what there
+is of it is all there. It’s a great trial to me to walk alone, when I
+am so pretty.” So she compresses her sweet lips with such resolution,
+that her dear little mouth looks so small you’d think it couldn’t take
+in a sugar-plum. Oh, dear, here are some officers approaching, for
+though she looks on the pavement she can see ahead for all that. What
+is to be done. She half turns aside, half is enough, to turn her back
+would be rude, and she looks up at a print or a necklace, or something
+or another in a shop window, and it’s a beautiful attitude, and very
+becoming, and if they will stare, she is so intent on the show glass,
+she can’t see them, and won’t faint, and her little heart flutters as
+one of them says as he passes, “Devilish pretty gall, that, Grant, who
+is she?” and then she resumes her walk, and minces on.
+
+If any man was to take his Bible oath that that little delicate girl,
+when she gets home, and the hall-door is shut, will scream out at the
+tip eend of her voice, like a screetching paraquet, “Eliza Euphemia,
+where in creation have you stowed yourself too?” and that Eliza
+Euphemia would hear her away up in the third story, and in the same key
+answer: “I can’t come down, I ain’t fit to be seen, nary way, for I’m
+all open before, and onfastened behind, and my hair is all in paper,” I
+wouldn’t believe him; would you?
+
+The other young lady, that follows, is a little too much of Juno, and
+somewhat too little of Venus. She is a tall, splendid-looking heifer,
+as fine a gall as you will see in any country, and she takes it for
+granted you don’t need to inquire who _she_ is. She ain’t bold, and she
+ain’t diffident; but she can stare as well as you can, and has as good
+a right too. Her look is scorny, as the snobocracy pass and do homage,
+by bestowing on her an admiring look. Her step is firm, but elastic; it
+is a decided step, but the pious lay-brother regards her not, and moves
+not out of his way for her. So she stops that he may see his error, and
+when he does look, he perceives that it would lead him into further
+error if he gazed long, so he moves to the other side of the path, but
+does it so slowly, she confronts him again. After a moment’s
+reflection, he tries to turn her flank—a movement that is unfortunately
+anticipated by her, and there is a collision on the track. The
+concussion dislocates his hat, and the red silk Bandannah handkerchief,
+which acted as travelling-bag, and pocket-book, discharges its
+miscellaneous contents on the pavement. That’s onlucky; for he was a
+going to shunt off on another line and get away; but he has to stop and
+pick up the fragmentary freight of his beaver.
+
+Before he can do this, he is asked by Juno how he dares to stop a lady
+in that indecent manner in the street; and while he is pleading not
+guilty to the indictment, the gentlemen that stared at the simpering
+beauty, come to the aid of the fair prosecutrix. She knows them, and
+they say, “Capital, by Jove—what a rum one he is!” Rum one; why he is a
+member of a temperance society, walks in procession when to home, with
+a white apron in front, and the ends of a scarf-like sash behind, and a
+rosette as large as a soup-plate on his breast—a rum one; what an
+infamous accusation!
+
+The poor man stands aghast at this; he humbly begs pardon, and Juno is
+satisfied. She takes one of the beaux by the arm, and says: “Do pray
+see me home—I am quite nervous;” and to prove it she laughs as loud as
+any of them. The joke is now being carried too far, and the young
+sword-knots pick up, amid roars of laughter, his handkerchief, the
+papers, the horn-comb, the fig of tobacco, the fractured pipe, the
+jack-knife, and the clean shirt-collar, that was only worn once, and
+toss them into his hat, which is carefully secured on his head, so low
+as to cover his eyes, and so tight as nearly to shave off both his
+ears. The lay-brother thinks, with great truth, that he would sooner
+take five yoke of oxen, and tail a mast for a frigate through the solid
+forest to the river, than snake his way through the streets of a
+garrison-town. After re-adjusting his hat, he resumes his pious gait,
+and Juno also goes her way, and exhibits her _decided_ step.
+
+Now, the step of Jessie and myself was unlike any of these—it was a
+natural and easy one; the step of people who had no reason to hurry,
+and, at the same time, were not in the habit of crawling. In this
+manner we proceeded to the lake, and sought a point of land which
+commanded a full view of it on both sides, and embraced nearly its
+whole length. Here was a clump of trees from which the underwood had
+been wholly cut away, so as to form a shade for the cattle depasturing
+in the meadow. As we entered the grove, Jessie exclaimed:
+
+“Oh! Mr Slick, do look! Here is a canoe—can you use a paddle?”
+
+“As well as an oar,” said I, “and perhaps a little grain better; for I
+haven’t been down all the New Brunswick and Nova Scotia rivers in ’em
+for nothing, let alone Lake Michigan, George, Madawaska, and Rossignol,
+and I don’t know how many others. Step in, and let us have at them on
+the water.”
+
+In a minute the canoe was launched, and away we flew like lightning.
+Oh, there is nothing like one of those light, elegant, graceful barks;
+what is a wherry or a whale-boat, or a skull or a gig, to them? They
+draw no more water than an egg-shell; they require no strength to
+paddle; they go right up on the beach, and you can carry them about
+like a basket. With a light hand, a cool head, and a quick eye, you can
+make them go where a duck can. What has science, and taste, and
+handicraft ever made to improve on this simple contrivance of the
+savage? When I was for two years in John Jacob Astor Fur Company’s
+employment, I knew the play of Jessie’s tribe.
+
+“Can you catch,” said I, “Miss?”
+
+“Can you?”
+
+“Never fear.”
+
+And we exchanged paddles, as she sat in one end of the canoe and I in
+the other, by throwing them diagonally at each other as if we were
+passing a shuttle-cock. She almost screamed with delight, and in her
+enthusiasm addressed me in her native Indian language.
+
+“Gaelic,” said I, “give me Gaelic, dear, for I am very simple and very
+innocent.”
+
+“Oh, very,” she said, and as she dropped her paddle into the water,
+managed to give me the benefit of a spoonful in the eyes.
+
+After we had tried several evolutions with the canoe, and had proceeded
+homeward a short distance, we opened a miniature bay into which we
+leisurely paddled, until we arrived at its head, where a small
+waterfall of about forty feet in height poured its tributary stream
+into the lake. On the right-hand side, which was nearest to the house,
+was a narrow strip of verdant intervale, dotted here and there with
+vast shady beeches and elms. I never saw a more lovely spot. Hills rose
+above each other beyond the waterfall, like buttresses to support the
+conical one that, though not in itself a mountain (for there is not,
+strictly speaking, one in this province), yet loomed as large in the
+light mist that enveloped its lofty peak. As this high cliff rose
+abruptly from the lake, the light of smaller cascades was discernible
+through the thin shrubbery that clothed its rocky side, although their
+voice was drowned in the roar of that at its base.
+
+Nothing was said by either of us for some time, for both were occupied
+by different thoughts. I was charmed with its extraordinary beauty, and
+wondered how it was possible that it should be so little known as not
+even to have a name. My companion, on the other hand, was engaged in
+sad reflections, which the similarity of the scene with her early
+recollections of her home in the far west suggested to her mind.
+
+“Ain’t this beautiful, Jessie?” I said, “don’t this remind you of
+Canada, or rather your own country?”
+
+“Oh, yes,” she said, “me—me,” for during the whole day there had been a
+sad confusion of languages and idioms, “me very happy and very sad; I
+want to laugh, I want to cry; I am here and there,” pointing to the
+north-west. “Laughing, talking, sporting with my father, and Jane, and
+you, and am also by the side of my dear mother, far—far beyond those
+hills. I see your people and my people; I paddle in our canoe, shoot
+with our bows, speak our language; yes, I am here, and there also. The
+sun too is in both places. He sees us all. When I die, perhaps I shall
+go back, but I am not of them or of you—I am nothing,” and she burst
+into tears and wept bitterly.
+
+“Jessie,” said I, “let us talk about something else; you have been too
+much excited this morning, let us enjoy what God gives us, and not be
+ungrateful; let your sister come also, and try the canoe once more.
+This is better than a hot room, ain’t it?”
+
+“Oh yes,” she replied, “this is life. This is freedom.”
+
+“Suppose we dine here,” I said.
+
+“Oh yes,” she replied, “I should like it above all things. Let us dine
+on the grass, the table the great Spirit spreads for his children;” and
+the transient cloud passed away, and we sped back to the lawn as if the
+bark that carried us was a bird that bore us on its wings.
+
+Poor Jessie, how well I understood her emotions. Home is a word, if
+there is one in the language, that appeals directly to the heart. Man
+and wife, father and mother, brothers and sisters, master and servant,
+with all their ties, associations, and duties, all, all are contained
+in that one word. Is it any wonder, when her imagination raised them up
+before her, that the woman became again a child, and that she longed
+for the wings of the dove to fly away to the tents of her tribe in the
+far west? I am myself as dry, as seasoned, and as hard as the wood of
+which my clocks are made. I am a citizen of the world rather than of
+Slickville. But I too felt my heart sink within me when I reflected
+that mine, also, was desolate, and that I was alone in my own house,
+the sole surviving tenant of all that large domestic circle, whose
+merry voices once made its silent halls vocal with responsive echoes of
+happiness. We know that our fixed domicile is not here, but we feel
+that it is and must continue to be our home, ever dear and ever sacred,
+until we depart hence for another and a better world. They know but
+little of the agency of human feelings, who in their preaching attempt
+to lessen our attachment for the paternal roof, because, in common with
+all other earthly possessions, it is perishable in its nature, and
+uncertain in it’s tenure. The home of life is not the less estimable
+because it is not the home of eternity; but the more valuable perhaps
+as it prepares and fits us by its joys and its sorrows, its rights and
+its duties, and also by what it withholds, as well as imparts, for that
+inheritance which awaits us hereafter. Yes, home is a great word, but
+its full meaning ain’t understood by every one.
+
+It ain’t those who have one, or those who have none, that comprehend
+what it is; nor those who in the course of nature leave the old and
+found a new one for themselves; nor those who, when they quit, shut
+their eyes and squinch their faces when they think of it, as if it
+fetched something to their mind that warn’t pleasant to recollect; nor
+those who suddenly rise so high in life, that their parents look too
+vulgar, or the old cottage too mean for them, or their former
+acquaintances too low. But I’ll tell you who knows the meaning and
+feels it too; a fellow like me, who had a cheerful home, a merry and a
+happy home, and who when he returns from foreign lands finds it
+deserted and as still as the grave, and all that he loved scattered and
+gone, some to the tomb, and others to distant parts of the earth. The
+solitude chills him, the silence appals him. At night shadows follow
+him like ghosts of the departed, and the walls echo back the sound of
+his footsteps, as if demons were laughing him to scorn. The least noise
+is heard over the whole house. The clock ticks so loud he has to remove
+it, for it affects his nerves. The stealthy mouse tries to annoy him
+with his mimic personification of the burglar, and the wind moans among
+the trees as if it lamented the general desolation. If he strolls out
+in his grounds, the squirrel ascends the highest tree and chatters and
+scolds at the unusual intrusion, while the birds fly away screaming
+with affright, as if pursued by a vulture. They used to be tame once,
+when the family inhabited the house, and listen with wonder at notes
+sweeter and more musical than their own. They would even feed from the
+hand that protected them. His dog alone seeks his society, and strives
+to assure him by mute but expressive gestures that he at least will
+never desert him. As he paces his lonely quarter-deck (as he calls the
+gravel-walk in front of his house), the silver light of the moon,
+gleaming here and there between the stems of the aged trees, startles
+him with the delusion of unreal white-robed forms, that flit about the
+shady groves as if enjoying or pitying his condition, or perhaps
+warning him that in a few short years he too must join this host of
+disembodied spirits.
+
+Time hangs heavily on his hands, he is tired of reading, it is too
+early for repose, so he throws himself on the sofa and muses, but even
+meditation calls for a truce. His heart laments its solitude, and his
+tongue its silence. Nature is weary and exhausted, and sleep at last
+comes to his aid. But, alas! he awakes in the morning only to resume
+his dull monotonous course, and at last he fully comprehends what it is
+to be alone. Women won’t come to see him, for fear they might be talked
+about, and those that would come would soon make him a subject of
+scandal. He and the world, like two people travelling in opposite
+directions, soon increase at a rapid rate the distance between them. He
+loses his interest in what is going on around him, and people lose
+their interest in him. If his name happens to be mentioned, it may
+occasion a listless remark, “I wonder how he spends his time?” or, “The
+poor devil must be lonely there.”
+
+Yes, yes, there are many folks in the world that talk of things they
+don’t understand, and there are precious few who appreciate the meaning
+of that endearing term “home.” He only knows it as I have said who has
+lived in one, amid a large family, of which he is the solitary
+surviving member. The change is like going from the house to the
+sepulchre, with this difference only, one holds a living and the other
+a dead body. Yes, if you have had a home you know what it is, but if
+you have lost it, then and not till then do you feel its value.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X.
+A DAY ON THE LAKE.—PART I.
+
+
+When we reached the grove, I left Jessie in the canoe, and went up to
+the house in search of her sister. Jackson and Peter were sitting on
+the wood-pile; the latter was smoking his pipe, and the other held his
+in his hand, as he was relating some story of his exploits in Spain.
+When I approached, he rose up and saluted me in his usual formal
+manner.
+
+“Where is the doctor,” said I, “and the rest of the party?”
+
+“Gone to see a tame moose of his, Sir,” he said, “in the pasture; but
+they will be back directly.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, lighting a cigar by Peter’s pipe, and taking a seat
+alongside of him, “go on Jackson; don’t let me interrupt you.”
+
+“I was just telling Mr McDonald, Sir,” said he, “of a night I once
+spent on the field of battle in Spain.”
+
+“Well, go on.”
+
+“As I was a saying to him, Sir,” he continued, “you could ear the
+wolves among the dead and the dying a owling like so many devils. I was
+afraid to go to sleep, as I didn’t know when my turn might come; so I
+put my carbine across my knees, and sat up as well as I could,
+determined to sell my life as dearly as possible, but I was so weak
+from the loss of blood, that I kept dozing and starting all the time
+amost. Oh, what a tedious night that was, Sir, and how I longed for the
+dawn of day, when search should be made among us for the wounded! Just
+as the fog began to rise, I saw a henormous wolf, about a hundred yards
+or so from me, busy tearing a body to pieces; and taking a good steady
+haim at him, I fired, when he called out:
+
+“‘Blood and ounds! you cowardly furrin rascal, haven’t you had your
+belly-full of fighting yet, that you must be after murthering a wounded
+man that way? By the powers of Moll Kelly, but you won’t serve Pat
+Kallahan that dirty trick again anyhow.’
+
+“As he levelled at me, I fell back, and the ball passed right over me
+and struck a wounded orse that was broke down behind, and a sittin’ up
+on his fore-legs like a dog. Oh, the scream of that are hanimal, Sir,
+was just like a Christian’s. It was hawful. I have the sound of it in
+my ears now halmost. It pierced through me, and you might have eard it
+that still morning over the whole field. He sprung up and then fell
+over, and kicked and struggled furious for a minute or two before he
+died, and every time he lashed out, you could a eard a elpless wounded
+wretch a groanin’ bitterly, as he battered away at him. The truth is,
+Sir, what I took for a wolf that hazy morning, was poor Pat, who was
+sitting up, and trying to bandage his hankle, that was shattered by a
+bullet, and the way he bobbed his head up and down, as he stooped
+forward, looked exactly as a wolf does when he is tearing the flesh off
+a dead body.
+
+“Well, the scream of that are orse, and the two shots the dragoon and I
+exchanged, saved my life, for I saw a man and a woman making right
+straight for us. It was Betty, Sir, God bless her, and Sergeant
+M’Clure. The owling she sot up, when she saw me, was dreadful to ear,
+Sir.
+
+“‘Betty,’ said I, ‘dear, for eaven’s sake see if you can find a drop of
+brandy in any of these poor fellows’ canteens, for I am perishing of
+thirst, and amost chilled to death.’
+
+“‘Oh, Tom, dear,’ said she, ‘I have thought of that,’ and unslinging
+one from her shoulders put it to my lips, and I believe I would have
+drained it at a draft, but she snatched it away directly, and said:
+
+“‘Oh, do ‘ee think of that dreadful stroke of the sun, Tom. It will set
+you crazy if you drink any more.’
+
+“‘The stroke of the sun be anged!’ said I; ‘it’s not in my ead this
+time—it’s in the other end of me.’
+
+“‘Oh dear, dear!’ said Betty; ‘two such marks as them, and you so
+handsome too! Oh dear, dear!’
+
+“Poor old soul! it’s a way she had of trying to come round me.
+
+“‘Where is it?’ said M’Clure.
+
+“‘In the calf of my leg,’ said I.
+
+“Well, he was a handy man, for he had been a hospital-sargeant, on
+account of being able to read doctors’ pot-hooks and inscriptions. So
+he cut my boot, and stript down my stocking and looked at it. Says he,
+‘I must make a turn-and-quit.’
+
+“‘Oh, Rory,’ said I, ‘don’t turn and quit your old comrade that way.’
+
+“‘Oh, Rory, dear,’ said Betty, ‘don’t ‘ee leave Tom now—don’t ’ee,
+that’s a good soul.’
+
+“‘Pooh!’ said he, ‘nonsense! How your early training has been
+neglected, Jackson!’
+
+“‘Rory,’ said I, ‘if I was well you wouldn’t dare to pass that slur
+upon me. I am as well-trained a soldier and as brave a man as ever you
+was.’
+
+“‘Tut, tut, man,’ said he, ‘I meant your learning.’
+
+“‘Well,’ says I, ‘I can’t brag much of that, and I am not sorry for it.
+Many a better scholar nor you, and better-looking man too, has been
+anged afore now, for all his schoolin’.’
+
+“Says he, ‘I’ll soon set you up, Tom. Let me see if I can find anything
+here that will do for a turn-and-quit.’
+
+“Close to where I lay there, was a furrin officer who had his head
+nearly amputated with a sabre cut. Well, he took a beautiful gold
+repeater out of his fob, and a great roll of dubloons out of one
+pocket, and a little case of diamond rings out of the other.
+
+“‘The thieving Italian rascal?’ said he, ‘he has robbed a jeweller’s
+shop before he left the town,’ and he gave the body a kick and passed
+on. Well, close to him was an English officer.
+
+“‘Ah,’ said he, ‘here is something useful,’ and he undid his sash, and
+then feeling in his breast pocket, he hauled out a tin tobacco-case,
+and opening of it, says he:
+
+“‘Tom, here’s a real god-send for you. This and the sash I will give
+you as a keepsake. They are mine by the fortune of war, but I will
+bestow them on you.’”
+
+“Oigh! oigh!” said Peter, “she was no shentleman.”
+
+“He warn’t then, Sir,” said Tom, not understanding him, “for he was
+only a sargeant like me at that time, but he is now, for he is an
+officer.”
+
+“No, no,” said Peter, “the king can make an offisher, but she can’t
+make a shentleman. She took the oyster hern ainsel, and gave you the
+shell.”
+
+“Well,” continued Jackson, “he took the sash, and tied it round my leg,
+and then took a bayonet off a corpse, and with that twisted it round
+and round so tight it urt more nor the wound, and then he secured the
+bayonet so that it wouldn’t slip. There was a furrin trooper’s orse not
+far off that had lost his rider, and had got his rein hunder his
+foreleg, so Betty caught him and brought him to where I was a sitting.
+By the haid of another pull at the canteen, which put new life into me,
+and by their hassistance, I was got on the saddle, and he and Betty
+steadied me on the hanimal, and led me off. I no sooner got on the orse
+than Betty fell to a crying and a scolding again like anything.
+
+“‘What hails you now,’ says I, ‘Betty? You are like your own town of
+Plymouth—it’s showery weather with you all the year round amost. What’s
+the matter now?’
+
+“‘Oh, Tom, Tom,’ said she, ‘you will break my eart yet—I know you
+will.’
+
+“‘Why what have I done?’ says I. ‘I couldn’t help getting that little
+scratch on the leg.’
+
+“‘Oh, it tante that,’ she said; ‘it’s that orrid stroke of the sun.
+There’s your poor ead huncovered again. Where is your elmet?’
+
+“‘Oh, bother,’ sais I, ‘ow do I know? Somewhere on the ground, I
+suppose.’
+
+“Well, back she ran as ard as she could, but M’Clure wouldn’t wait a
+moment for her and went on, and as she couldn’t find mine, she undid
+the furriner’s and brought that, and to pacify her I had to put it on
+and wear it. It was a good day for M’Clure, and I was glad of it, for
+he was a great scholar and the best friend I ever had. He sold the orse
+for twenty pounds afterwards.”
+
+“She don’t want to say nothin’ disrespectable,” said Peter, “against
+her friend, but she was no shentleman for all tat.”
+
+“He is now,” said Tom again, with an air of triumph. “He is an
+hofficer, and dines at the mess. I don’t suppose he’d be seen with me
+now, for it’s agen the rules of the service, but he is the best friend
+I have in the world.”
+
+“She don’t know nothin’ about ta mess herself,” said Peter, “but she
+supposes she eats meat and drinks wine every tay, which was more tan
+she did as a poy. But she’d rather live on oatmeal and drink whiskey,
+and be a poor shentlemen, than be an officher like M’Clure, and tine
+with the Queen, Cot bless her.”
+
+“And the old pipe, then, was all you got for your share, was it?” says
+I.
+
+“No, Sir,” said Tom, “it warn’t. One day, when I was nearly well, Betty
+came to me—
+
+“‘Oh, Tom,’ said she, ‘I have such good news for you.’
+
+“‘What is it?’ sais I, ‘are we going to have another general
+engagement?’
+
+“‘Oh, dear, I hope not,’ she said. ‘You have had enough of fighting for
+one while, and you are always so misfortunate.’
+
+“‘Well, what is it?’ sais I.
+
+“‘Will you promise me not to tell?’
+
+“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I will.’
+
+“‘That’s just what you said the first time I kissed you. Do get out,’
+she replied, ‘and you promise not to lisp a word of it to Rory M’Clure?
+or he’ll claim it, as he did that orse, and, Tom, I caught that orse,
+and he was mine. It was a orrid, nasty, dirty, mean trick that.’
+
+“‘Betty,’ said I, ‘I won’t ear a word hagin him: he is the best friend
+I ever had, but I won’t tell him, if you wish it.’
+
+“‘Well,’ said Betty, and she bust out crying for joy, for she can cry
+at nothing, amost. ‘Look, Tom, here’s twenty Napoleons, I found them
+quilted in that officer’s elmet.’ So after all, I got out of that
+scrape pretty well, didn’t I, Sir?”
+
+“Indeed she did,” said Peter, “but if she had seen as much of wolves as
+Peter McDonald has she wouldn’t have been much frightened by them. This
+is the way to scare a whole pack of them;” and stooping down and
+opening a sack, he took out the bagpipes, and struck up a favourite
+Highland air. If it was calculated to alarm the animals of the forest,
+it at all events served now to recall the party, who soon made their
+appearance from the moose-yard. “Tat,” said Peter, “will make ’em
+scamper like the tevil. It has saved her life several times.”
+
+“So I should think,” said I. (For of all the awful instruments that
+ever was heard that is the worst. Pigs in a bag ain’t the smallest part
+of a circumstance to it, for the way it squeals is a caution to cats.)
+When the devil was a carpenter, he cut his foot so bad with an adze, he
+threw it down, and gave up the trade in disgust. And now that
+Highlanders have given up the trade of barbarism, and become the
+noblest fellows in Europe, they should follow the devil’s example, and
+throw away the bagpipes for ever.
+
+“I have never seen M’Clure,” said Jackson, addressing me, “but once
+since he disputed with the countryman about the plural of moose in the
+country-market. I met him in the street one day, and says I,
+
+“‘How are you, Rory? Suppose we take a bit of a walk.’
+
+“Well, he held up his ead stiff and straight, and didn’t speak for a
+minute or two; at last he said:
+
+“‘How do you do, Sargeant Jackson?’
+
+“‘Why, Rory,’ sais I, ‘what hails you to hact that way? What’s the
+matter with you now, to treat an old comrade in that manner?’
+
+“He stared ard at me in the face hagain, without giving any
+explanation. At last he said, ‘Sargeant Jackson,’ and then he stopped
+again. ‘If anybody speers at you where Ensign Roderich M’Clure is to be
+found, say on the second flat of the officers’ quarters at the North
+Barracks,’ and he walked on and left me. He had got his commission.”
+
+“She had a Highland name,” said Peter, “and tat is all, but she was
+only a lowland Glaskow peast. Ta teivil tack a’ such friends a tat.”
+
+“Doctor,” said I, “Jessie and I have discovered the canoe, and had a
+glorious row of it. I see you have a new skiff there; suppose we all
+finish the morning on the lake. We have been up to the waterfall, and
+if it is agreeable to you, Jessie proposes to dine at the intervale
+instead of the house.”
+
+“Just the thing,” said the doctor, “but you understand these matters
+better than I do, so just give what instructions you think proper.”
+
+Jackson and Betty were accordingly directed to pack up what was
+needful, and hold themselves in readiness to be embarked on our return
+from the excursion on the water. Jessie, her sister, and myself took
+the canoe; the doctor and Cutler the boat, and Peter was placed at the
+stern to awaken the sleeping echoes of the lake with his pipes. The
+doctor seeing me provided with a short gun, ran hastily back to the
+house for his bow and arrows, and thus equipped and grouped, we
+proceeded up the lake, the canoe taking the lead. Peter struck up a
+tune on his pipes. The great expanse of water, and the large open area
+where they were played, as well as the novelty of the scene, almost
+made me think that it was not such bad music after all as I had
+considered it.
+
+After we had proceeded a short distance, Jessie proposed a race between
+the canoe and the boat. I tried to dissuade her from it, on account of
+the fatigue she had already undergone, and the excitement she had
+manifested at the waterfall, but she declared herself perfectly well,
+and able for the contest. The odds were against the girls; for the
+captain and the doctor were both experienced hands, and powerful,
+athletic man, and their boat was a flat-bottomed skiff, and drew but
+little water. Added to which, the young women had been long out of
+practice, and their hands and muscles were unprepared by exercise. I
+yielded at last, on condition that the race should terminate at a large
+rock that rose out of the lake at about a mile from us. I named this
+distance, not merely because I wished to limit the extent of their
+exertion, but because I knew that if they had the lead that far, they
+would be unable to sustain it beyond that, and that they would be
+beaten by the main strength of the rowers. We accordingly slackened our
+speed till the boat came up alongside of us. The challenge was given
+and accepted, and the terminus pointed out, and when the signal was
+made, away we went with great speed.
+
+For more than two-thirds of the distance we were bow and bow, sometimes
+one and sometimes the other being ahead, but on no occasion did the
+distance exceed a yard or so. When we had but the remaining third to
+accomplish, I cautioned the girls that the rowers would now probably
+put out all their strength, and take them by surprise, and therefore
+advised them to be on their guard. They said a few words to each other
+in their native language, laughed, and at once prepared for the crisis,
+by readjusting their seats and foothold, and then the eldest said, with
+a look of animation, that made her surpassingly beautiful, “Now,” and
+away we went like iled lightning, leaving the boat behind at a rate
+that was perfectly incredible.
+
+They had evidently been playing with them at first, and doing no more
+than to ascertain their speed and power of propulsion, and had all
+along intended to reserve themselves for this triumph at the last. As
+soon as we reached the winning point, I rose up to give the cheer of
+victory, but just at that moment, they suddenly backed water with their
+paddles, and in turning towards the boat, the toe of my boot caught in
+one of the light ribs of the canoe, which had been loosened by the heat
+of the sun, and I instantly saw that a fall was unavoidable. To put a
+hand on the side of the little bark would inevitably overset it, and
+precipitate the girls into the lake. I had but one resource left
+therefore, and that was to arch over the gunwale, and lift my feet
+clear of it, while I dove into the water. It was the work of an
+instant, and in another I had again reached the canoe. Begging Jessie
+to move forward, so as to counterbalance my weight, I rose over the
+stern (if a craft can be said to have one, where both ends are alike,
+and it can be propelled either way), and then took the seat that had
+been occupied by her.
+
+“Now, Jane,” said I, “I must return to the house, and get a dry suit of
+the doctor’s clothes; let us see what we can do.”
+
+The doctor told me Betty knew more about his wardrobe than he did
+himself, and would furnish me with what I required; and in the mean
+time, that they would lay upon their oars till we returned.
+
+“Are you ready, Miss,” said I, “I want you to do your prettiest now,
+and put your best foot out, because I wish them to see that I am not
+the awkward critter in a canoe they think I am.”
+
+The fact is, Squire, that neither the doctor nor Cutler knew, that to
+avoid falling under the circumstances I was placed in, and to escape
+without capsizing the canoe, was a feat that no man, but one familiar
+with the management of those fragile barks, and a good swimmer, too,
+can perform. Peter was aware of it, and appreciated it; but the other
+two seemed disposed to cut their jokes upon me; and them that do that,
+generally find, in the long run, I am upsides with them, that’s a fact.
+A cat and a Yankee always come on their feet, pitch them up in the air
+as high and as often as you please.
+
+“Now for it,” said I, and away we went at a 2.30 pace, as we say of our
+trotting horses. Cutler and the doctor cheered us as we went; and
+Peter, as the latter told me afterwards, said: “A man who can dwell
+like an otter, on both land and sea, has two lives.” I indorse that
+saw, he made it himself; it’s genuine, and it was like a trapper’s
+maxim. Warn’t it?
+
+As soon as I landed I cut off for the house, and in no time rigged up
+in a dry suit of our host’s, and joined the party, afore they knew
+where they were. I put on a face as like the doctor’s as two clocks of
+mine are to each other. I didn’t do it to make fun _of_ him, but _out_
+of him. Oh, they roared again, and the doctor joined in it as heartily
+as any of them, though he didn’t understand the joke. But Peter didn’t
+seem to like it. He had lived so much among the Indians, and was so
+accustomed to their way of biling things down to an essence, that he
+spoke in proverbs, or wise saws. Says he to me, with a shake of his
+head, “_a mocking bird has no voice of its own_.” It warn’t a bad
+sayin’, was it? I wish I had noted more of them, for though I like ’em,
+I am so yarney, I can’t make them as pithey as he did. I can’t talk
+short-hand, and I must say I like condensation. Now, brevity is the
+only use to individuals there is in telegraphs. There is very little
+good news in the world for any of us; and bad news comes fast enough. I
+hate them myself. The only good there is in ’em, is to make people
+write short; for if you have to pay for every word you use, you won’t
+be extravagant in ’em, there is no mistake.
+
+Telegraphs ruin intellect; they reduce a wise man to the level of a
+fool; and fifty years hence there won’t be a sensible trader left. For
+national purposes they are very well, and government ought to have kept
+them to themselves, for those objects; but they play the devil with
+merchants. There is no room for the exercise of judgment. It’s a dead
+certainty now. Flour is eight dollars in England; well, every one knows
+that, and the price varies, and every one knows that also, by
+telegraph. Before that, a judgmatical trader took his cigar in his
+mouth, sat down, and calculated. Crops short, Russian war, blockade,
+and so on. Capital will run up prices, till news of new harvest are
+known; and then they will come down by the run. He deliberates,
+reasons, and decides. Now, the last Liverpool paper gives the price
+current. It advises all, and governs all. Any blockhead can be a
+merchant now. Formerly, they poked sapey-headed goneys into Parliament,
+to play dummey; or into the army and navy, the church, and the colonial
+office. But they kept clever fellows for law, special commissioners,
+the stage, the “Times,” the “Chronicle,” and such like able papers, and
+commerce; and men of middlin’ talents were resarved for doctors,
+solicitors, Gretna Green, and so on.
+
+But the misfortinate prince-merchants now will have to go to the bottom
+of the list with tradesmen and retailers. They can’t have an opinion of
+their own, the telegraph will give it. The latest quotations, as they
+call them, come to them, they know that iron is _firm,_ and timber
+_giving way,_ that lead is _dull_ and _heavy,_ and coal gone to
+_blases,_ while the stocks are _rising_ and vessels _sinking,_ all the
+rest they won’t trouble their heads about. The man who trades with
+Cuba, won’t care about Sinope, and it’s too much trouble to look for it
+on the map. While the Black Sea man won’t care about Toronto, or
+whether it is in Nova Scotia or Vermont, in Canada or California. There
+won’t soon be a merchant that understands geography.
+
+But what is wuss, half the time the news is false, and if it hadn’t
+been for that, old Hemp and Iron would have made a fortune. And if it
+is true, it’s worse still, for he would have acted on his own judgment
+if he hadn’t heard it, and circumstances would have altered as they
+always are doing every day, and he would have made a rael hit. Oh, I
+hate them. And besides this, they have spoiled them by swearing the
+operators. An oath gives them fellows such an itch to blart, that
+though they don’t inform, they let the cat out of the bag, and that is
+as bad. Tell you what, I wouldn’t like to confess by telegraph. If I am
+courting a gall and she sais all right, why then my fun is spoiled, for
+when a thing is settled, all excitement is gone, and if I am refused,
+the longer I am in ignorance the better. It is wiser to wait, as the
+Frenchman did at Clare, who sat up three nights to see how the letters
+passed over the wires. Well, if I am married, I have to report
+progress, and logbooks are always made up before or afterwards. It’s
+apt to injure my veracity. In short, you know what I mean, and I
+needn’t follow it out, for a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse.
+
+But the Lord have mercy on merchants, any fool will get along as well
+as the best of them now. Dear me, I recollect a man they poked fun at
+once at Salem. They induced him by way of a rise, to ship a cargo of
+blankets and warming-pans to the West Indies. Well, he did so, and made
+a good speck, for the pans were bought for dippers, and the blankets
+for strainers. Yes, telegraphs will reduce merchants to the level of
+that fellow Isaac Oxter.
+
+But I must look for the trail again, or I shall forget my story.
+
+I think I left off where I got back in the canoe, and joined the party
+in the boat. Well, we then proceeded like the off and near ox, pulling
+from rather than to each other, but still keeping neck and neck as it
+were. In this manner we proceeded to the head of the lake, and then as
+we returned steered for a small wooded island in the centre, where I
+proposed to land and rest awhile, for this beautiful sheet of water was
+of considerable extent. As we approached it, Peter again struck up his
+pipes, and shortly afterwards a noble male moose, as much terrified by
+the noise as McDonald said Canada wolves were, broke cover, and swam
+for the main land. The moose frequently select such places to secure
+their young from the bears, who are their greatest enemies, and find an
+easy prey in their helpless calves. It is not improbable that the
+female still remained, and that this act of gallantry in the buck was
+intended to withdraw attention from her, and thus save her from
+pursuit. I had no bullets with me, and my gun was only loaded with
+duck-shot. To discharge that at him, would have been a wanton act of
+cruelty, as at most it could only inflict upon him painful wounds. In
+this emergency, Jessie pointed to a stout half-inch rope that was
+coiled up in the bottom of the canoe, and I immediately exchanged
+places with her, and commenced making a lasso, while she plied the
+paddle.
+
+We gained rapidly upon him, and I was preparing to throw the fatal
+noose over his horns, when to my astonishment he raised his neck and a
+portion of his fore-legs out of the water, as if he was landing. We
+were then a considerable distance from the shore, but it appeared, as I
+afterwards learned from the doctor, that a long low neck of land made
+out there into the lake, that was only submerged in the spring and
+autumn, but in summer was covered with wild grass, upon which deer fed
+with avidity, as an agreeable change from browsing. The instinct of the
+animal induced him to make for this shallow, from which he could bound
+away at full speed (trot) into the cover.
+
+All hope of the chase was now over, and I was about abandoning it in
+despair, when an arrow whizzed by us, and in an instant he sprang to
+his feet, and exposed his huge form to view. He was a remarkable fine
+specimen of his kind, for they are the largest as well as the ugliest
+of the deer tribe. For an instant he paused, shook himself violently,
+and holding down his head, put up his fore-leg to break off that, which
+evidently maddened him with pain. He then stood up erect, with his head
+high in the air, and laid his horns back on his neck, and, giving a
+snort of terror, prepared to save his life by flight.
+
+It is astonishing how much animation and attitude has to do with
+beauty. I had never seen one look well before, but as his form was
+relieved against the sky, he looked as he is, the giant king of the
+forest. He was just in the act of shifting his feet in the yielding
+surface of the boggy meadow, preparatory to a start, when he was again
+transfixed by an arrow, in a more vulnerable and vital part. He sprung,
+or rather reared forward, and came down on his knees, and then several
+times repeated the attempt to commence his flight by the same desperate
+effort. At last he fell to rise no more, and soon rolled over, and
+after some splashing with his head to avoid the impending death by
+drowning, quietly submitted to his fate. Nothing now was visible of him
+but the tips of his horns, and a small strip of the hide that covered
+his ribs. A shout from the boat proclaimed the victory.
+
+“Ah, Mr Slick,” said the doctor, “what could you have done with only a
+charge of duck-shot in your gun, eh? The arrow, you see, served for
+shot and bullet. I could have killed him with the first shaft, but his
+head was turned, and covered the vital spot. So I had to aim a little
+too far forward, but still it carried a death-warrant with it, for he
+couldn’t have run over a mile without falling from exhaustion, arising
+from the loss of blood. It is a charming day for the bow, for there is
+no wind, and I could hit a dollar at a hundred and twenty yards. There
+is another on that island, but she probably has a calf, perhaps two,
+and it would be a wicked waste of the food that God provides for us, to
+destroy her. But we must get this gentleman into the boat, and it will
+bring us down so deep in the water, we must keep near the shore, as it
+may be necessary occasionally to wade.”
+
+Peter, without ceremony, began to make preparations for such an
+emergency. He had been accustomed all his life, until he left the
+Nor-west Company’s employment, to the kilt, and he neither felt nor
+looked at home in the trousers. Like most of his countrymen, he thought
+there was more beauty in a hairy leg, and in a manly shammy-leather
+looking skin, than in any covering. While his bald knee, the ugliest,
+weakest, most complicated and important joint in the frame, he no doubt
+regarded with as much veneration as the pious do the shaven crown of a
+monk. He therefore very complacently and coolly began to disencumber
+himself of this detestable article of the tailor’s skill. I thought it
+best therefore to push off in time, to spare his daughters this
+spectacle, merely telling the doctor we would wait for him where we had
+embarked.
+
+We proceeded very leisurely, only once in a while dipping the paddle
+gently into the water, so as to keep up the motion of the canoe. The
+girls amused themselves by imitating the call and answer of the loon,
+the blue-jay, the kingfisher, and the owl. With a piece of bark, rolled
+up in the form of a short-ear trumpet, they mimicked the hideous voice
+of the moose, and the not less disagreeable lowing of the cariboo. The
+martin started in surprise at his affrighted neighbour on the water,
+and the fox no doubt crept from his hole to listen to the voice that
+called him to plunder, at this dangerous hour. All these sounds are
+signals among the Indians, and are carried to a perfection that
+deceives the ear of nature itself. I had read of their great power in
+this species of ventriloquism, but never had heard it practised before,
+with the exception of the imitation of the deer tribe, which is
+well-known to white “still-hunters.”
+
+They are, in their own country, not very communicative to strangers;
+and above all, never disclose practices so peculiarly reserved for
+their own service or defence. I was amazed at their skill in this
+branch of Indian accomplishment.
+
+But the notes of the dear little chick-a-dee-dee charmed me the most.
+The stillness of this wild, sequestered place was most agreeably
+diversified by all these fictitious birds and beasts, that seemed
+inviting, each his own kind, to come and look at this lovely scene.
+From the wonderful control they appeared to have over their voices, I
+knew that one or both of them must sing. I therefore asked them if they
+knew the Canadian-boat song; and they answered, with great delight,
+that they did. And suiting the action to the word, which, by the by,
+adds marvellously to its effect, they sung it charmingly. I couldn’t
+resist their entreaties to join in it, although I would infinitely have
+preferred listening to taking a part. When we concluded it, Jessie said
+it was much prettier in her native tongue, and sung a verse in her own
+language. She said the governor of the fort, who spoke Indian as well
+as English, had arranged the words for it, and when she was a child in
+his family, she learned it. “Listen,” said she, “what is that?”
+
+It was Jackson playing on the key-bugle. Oh, how gloriously it sounded,
+as its notes fell on the ear, mellowed and softened by the distance.
+When Englishmen talk of the hunters’ horn in the morning, they don’t
+know what they are a saying of. It’s well enough I do suppose in the
+field, as it wakes the drowsy sportsman, and reminds him that there is
+a hard day’s ride before him. But the lake and the forest is nature’s
+amphitheatre, and it is at home there. It won’t speak as it can do at
+all times and in all places; but it gives its whole soul out in the
+woods; and the echoes love it, and the mountains wave their plumes of
+pines to it, as if they wanted to be wooed by its clear, sweet,
+powerful notes.1 All nature listens to it, and keeps silence, while it
+lifts its voice on high. The breeze wafts its music on its wings, as if
+proud of its trust; and the lake lies still, and pants like a thing of
+life, as if its heart beat to its tones. The birds are all hushed, as
+if afraid to disturb it; and the deer pause, and listen, and gaze on
+the skies, as if the music came from heaven. Money only can move some
+men, and a white heat alone dissolve stones. But he who has ever heard
+the bugle, and is not inspired by it, has no divinity within him. The
+body is there, but the soul is wanting.
+
+1 This inflated passage, and some other similar ones, are extremely
+characteristic of Americans in the same station of life as Slick. From
+the use of superlative expressions in their conversation, they
+naturally adopt an exaggerative style in writing, and the minor poets
+and provincial orators of the Republic are distinguished for this
+hyperbolical tone. In Great Britain they would be admired by the Irish;
+on the Continent, by the Gascons. If Mr Slick were not affected by this
+weakness himself, he would be among the first to detect and ridicule it
+in others.
+
+
+“Go on, Jackson, I will forgive your twaddle about sargeant M’Clure,
+the stroke of the sun, the trooper’s helmet, and the night among the
+wolves. I will listen to your old soldier’s stories all night, only go
+on and play for me. Give me that simple air again. Let me drink it in
+with my ears, till my heart is full. No grace notes, no tricks of the
+band-master’s, no flourishes; let it be simple and natural. Let it suit
+us, and the place we are in, for it is the voice of our common parent,
+nature.” Ah, he didn’t hear me, and he ceased.
+
+“Jessie, dear, ain’t that beautiful?” said I.
+
+“Oh,” she said (and she clasped her hands hard), “it is like the sound
+of a spirit speaking from above.”
+
+“Imitate it,” said I.
+
+She knew the air, it was a Scotch one; and their music is the most
+touching, because the most simple, I know.
+
+Squire, you will think I am getting spooney, but I ain’t. You know how
+fond I am of nature, and always was; but I suppose you will think if I
+ain’t talking Turkey, that I am getting crankey, when I tell you an
+idea that came into my mind just then. She imitated it in the most
+perfect manner possible. Her clear, sweet, mellow, but powerful notes,
+never charmed me so before. I thought it sounded like a maiden,
+answering her lover. One was a masculine, the other a female voice. The
+only difference was in the force, but softness was common to both. Can
+I ever forget the enchantment of that day?
+
+“Dear Jessie,” said I, “you and your friend are just formed for each
+other. How happy you could make him.”
+
+“Who?” said she, and there was no affectation in the question. She knew
+not the import of that word. “What do you mean?”
+
+“Hush,” said I, “I will tell you by and by. Old Tom is playing again.”
+
+It was “Auld lang syne.” How touching it was! It brought tears to
+Jessie’s eyes. She had learned it, when a child, far, far away; and it
+recalled her tribe, her childhood, her country, and her mother. I could
+see these thoughts throw their shadows over her face, as light clouds
+chase each other before the sun, and throw their veil, as they course
+along the sky, over the glowing landscape. It made me feel sad, too;
+for how many of them with whom my early years were spent have passed
+away. Of all the fruit borne by the tree of life, how small a portion
+drops from it when fully ripe, and in the due course of nature. The
+worm, and premature decay, are continually thinning them; and the
+tempest and the blight destroy the greater part of those that are left.
+Poor dear worthy old Minister, you too are gone, but not forgotten. How
+could I have had these thoughts? How could I have enjoyed these scenes?
+and how described them? but for you! Innocent, pure, and simple-minded
+man, how fond you were of nature, the handy-work of God, as you used to
+call it. How full you were of poetry, beauty, and sublimity! And what
+do I not owe to you? I am not ashamed of having been a Clockmaker, I am
+proud of it.1 But I should indeed have been ashamed, with your
+instruction, always to have remained one. Yes, yes!
+
+“Why should auld acquaintance be forgot,
+And never brought to mind?”
+
+
+Why? indeed.
+
+1 This is the passage to which Mr Slick referred in the conversation I
+had with him, related in Chapter I., entitled, “A Surprise.”
+
+
+“Tam it,” said Peter, for we were so absorbed in listening to the
+music, we did not hear the approach of the boat, “ta ting is very coot,
+but it don’t stir up te blood, and make you feel like a man, as ta
+pipes do! Did she ever hear _barris an tailler?_ Fan she has done with
+her brass cow-horn, she will give it to you. It can wake the tead, that
+air. When she was a piper poy to the fort, Captain Fraisher was killed
+by the fall of a tree, knocked as stiff as a gunparrel, and as silent
+too. We laid her out on the counter in one of the stores, and pefore we
+put her into the coffin the governor said: ‘Peter,’ said he, ‘she was
+always fond of _barris an tailler,_ play it before we nail her up,
+come, _seid suas_ (strike up).’
+
+“Well, she gets the pipes and plays it hern ainsel, and the governor
+forgot his tears; and seized McPhee by the hand, and they danced; they
+couldn’t help it when that air was played, and what do you think? It
+prought Captain Fraisher to life. First she opened her eyes, and ten
+her mouth again wunst more. She did, upon my shoul.
+
+“Says she, ‘Peter, play it faster, will you? More faster yet, you
+blackguard.’ And she tropt the pipes and ran away, and it was the first
+and last time Peter McDonald ever turned his pack on a friend. The
+doctor said it was a trance, but he was a sassanach and knew nothing
+about music; but it was the pipes prought the tead to. This is the
+air,” and he played it with such vigour he nearly grew black in the
+face.
+
+“I believe it,” sais I; “it has brought me to also, it has made me a
+new man, and brought me back to life again. Let us land the moose.”
+
+“Ted,” said Peter, “she is worth two ted men yet. There is only two
+teaths. Ted as te tevil, and ted drunk, and she ain’t neither; and if
+she were poth she would wake her up with tat tune, _barris an tailler,_
+as she tid Captain Fraisher, tat she will.”
+
+“Now,” said I, “let us land the moose.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI.
+A DAY ON THE LAKE.—PART II.
+
+
+Peter’s horrid pipes knocked all the romance out of me. It took all the
+talk of dear old Minister (whose conversation was often like poetry
+without rhyme), till I was of age, to instil it into me. If it hadn’t
+been for him I should have been a mere practical man, exactly like our
+Connecticut folks, who have as much sentiment in them in a general way
+as an onion has of otter of roses. It’s lucky when it don’t predominate
+though, for when it does, it spoils the relish for the real business of
+life.
+
+Mother, when I was a boy, used to coax me up so everlastingly with
+loaf-cake, I declare I got such a sweet tooth, I could hardly eat plain
+bread made of flour and corn meal, although it was the wholesomest of
+the two. When I used to tell Minister this sometimes, as he was flying
+off the handle, like when we travelled through New York State to
+Niagara, at the scenery of the Hudson; or Lake George, or that
+everlastin’ water-fall, he’d say—
+
+“Sam, you are as correct as a problem in Euclid, but as cold and dry.
+Business and romance are like oil and water that I use for a
+night-lamp, with a little cork dipsey. They oughtn’t to be mixed, but
+each to be separate, or they spoil each other. The tumbler should be
+nearly full of water, then pour a little oil on the top, and put in
+your tiny wick and floater, and ignite it. The water goes to the
+bottom—that’s business you see, solid and heavy. The oil and its burner
+lies on the top—and that’s romance. It’s a living flame, not enough to
+illuminate the room, but to cheer you through the night, and if you
+want more, it will light stronger ones for you. People have a wrong
+idea of romance, Sam. Properly understood, it’s a right keen, lively
+appreciation of the works of nature, and its beauty, wonders, and
+sublimity. From thence we learn to fear, to serve, and to adore Him
+that made them and us. Now, Sam, you understand all the wheels, and
+pullies, and balances of your wooden clocks; but you don’t think
+anything more of them, than it’s a grand speculation for you, because
+they cost you a mere nothing, seeing they are made out of that which is
+as cheap as dirt here, and because you make a great profit out of them
+among the benighted colonists, who know little themselves, and are
+governed by English officials who know still less. Well, that’s
+nateral, for it is a business view of things.1 Now sposen you lived in
+the Far West woods, away from great cities, and never saw a watch or a
+wooden clock before, and fust sot your eyes on one of them that was as
+true as the sun, wouldn’t you break out into enthusiasm about it, and
+then extol to the skies the skill and knowledge of the Yankee man that
+invented and made it? To be sure you would. Wouldn’t it carry you off
+into contemplatin’ of the planet whose daily course and speed it
+measures so exact? Wouldn’t you go on from that point, and ask yourself
+what must be the wisdom and power of Him who made innumerable worlds,
+and caused them to form part of a great, grand, magnificent, and
+harmonious system, and fly off the handle, as you call it, in
+admiration and awe? To be sure you would. And if anybody said you was
+full of romance who heard you, wouldn’t you have pitied his ignorance,
+and said there are other enjoyments we are capable of besides corporeal
+ones? Wouldn’t you be a wiser and a better man? Don’t you go now for to
+run down romance, Sam; if you do, I shall think you don’t know there is
+a divinity within you,” and so he would preach on for an hour, till I
+thought it was time for him to say Amen and give the dismissal
+benediction.
+
+1 It is manifest Mr Hopewell must have had Paley’s illustration in his
+mind.
+
+
+Well, that’s the way I came by it, I was inoculated for it, but I was
+always a hard subject to inoculate. Vaccination was tried on me over
+and over again by the doctor before I took it, but at last it came and
+got into the system. So it was with him and his romance, it was only
+the continual dropping that wore the stone at last, for I didn’t listen
+as I had ought to have done. If he had a showed me where I could have
+made a dollar, he would have found me wide awake, I know, for I set out
+in life with a determination to go ahead, and I have; and now I am well
+to do, but still I wish I had a minded more what he did say, for, poor
+old soul, he is dead now. _An opportunity lost, is like missing a
+passage, another chance may never offer to make the voyage worth while.
+The first wind may carry you to the end. A good start often wins the
+race. To miss your chance of a shot, is to lose the bird._
+
+How true these “saws” of his are; but I don’t recollect half of them, I
+am ashamed to say. Yes, it took me a long time to get romance in my
+sails, and Peter shook it out of them by one shiver in the wind. So we
+went to work. The moose was left on the shore, for the doctor said he
+had another destination for him than the water-fall. Betty, Jackson,
+and Peter, were embarked with their baskets and utensils in the boats,
+and directed to prepare our dinner.
+
+As soon as they were fairly off, we strolled leisurely back to the
+house, which I had hardly time to examine before. It was an irregular
+building made of hewn logs, and appeared to have been enlarged, from
+time to time, as more accommodation had been required. There was
+neither uniformity nor design in it, and it might rather be called a
+small cluster of little tenements than a house. Two of these structures
+alone seemed to correspond in appearance and size. They protruded in
+front, from each end of the main building, forming with it three sides
+of a square. One of these was appropriated to the purposes of a museum,
+and the other used as a workshop. The former contained an exceedingly
+interesting collection.
+
+“This room,” he said, “I cannot intrust to Jackson, who would soon
+throw everything into confusion by grouping instead of classifying
+things. This country is full of most valuable minerals, and the people
+know as much about them as a pudding does of the plums contained in it.
+Observe this shelf, Sir, there are specimens of seven different kinds
+of copper on it; and on this one, fragments of four kinds of lead. In
+the argentiferous galena is a very considerable proportion of silver.
+Here is a piece of a mineral called molybdena of singular beauty, I
+found it at Gaberous Bay, in Cape Breton. The iron ores you see are of
+great variety. The coal-fields of this colony are immense in extent,
+and incalculable in value. All this case is filled with their several
+varieties. These precious stones are from the Bay of Fundy. Among them
+are amethyst, and other varieties of crystal, of quartz, henlandite,
+stibite, analcine, chabasie, albite, nesotype, silicious sinter, and so
+on. Pray do me the favour to accept this amethyst. I have several
+others of equal size and beauty, and it is of no use to me.”
+
+He also presented Cutler with a splendid piece of nesotype or needle
+stone, which he begged him to keep as a memento of the “Bachelor
+Beaver’s-dam.”
+
+“Three things, Mr Slick,” he continued, “are necessary to the
+development of the mineral wealth of this province—skill, capital, and
+population; and depend upon it the day is not far distant, when this
+magnificent colony will support the largest population, for its area,
+in America.”
+
+I am not a mineralogist myself, Squire, and much of what he said was
+heathen Greek to me, but some general things I could understand, and
+remember such as that there are (to say nothing of smaller ones) four
+immense independent coal-fields in the eastern section of Nova Scotia;
+namely, at Picton, Pomquet, Cumberland, and Londonderry; the first of
+which covers an area of one hundred square miles: and that there are
+also at Cape Breton two other enormous fields of the same mineral, one
+covering one hundred and twenty square miles, and presenting at Lingan
+a vein eleven feet thick. Such facts I could comprehend, and I was
+sorry when I heard the bugle announcing that the boat had returned for
+us.
+
+“Jessie,” said the doctor, “here is a little case containing a
+curiously fashioned and exquisitely worked ring, and a large gold cross
+and chain, that I found while searching among the ruins of the nunnery
+at Louisburg. I have no doubt they belonged to the superior of the
+convent. These baubles answered her purpose by withdrawing the eyes of
+the profane from her care-worn and cold features; they will serve mine
+also, by showing how little you require the aid of art to adorn a
+person nature has made so lovely.”
+
+“Hallo!” sais I to myself, “well done, Doctor, if that don’t beat
+cock-fighting, then there ain’t no snakes in Varginny, I vow. Oh! you
+ain’t so soft as you look to be after all; you may be a child of
+nature, but that has its own secrets, and if you hain’t found out its
+mysteries, it’s a pity.”
+
+“They have neither suffered,” he continued, “from the corrosion of time
+nor the asceticism of a devotee, who vainly thought she was serving God
+by voluntarily withdrawing from a world into which he himself had sent
+her, and by foregoing duties which he had expressly ordained she should
+fulfil. Don’t start at the sight of the cross; it is the emblem of
+Christianity, and not of a sect, who claim it exclusively, as if He who
+suffered on it died for them only. This one has hitherto been used in
+the negation of all human affections, may it shed a blessing on the
+exercise of yours.”
+
+I could hardly believe my ears; I didn’t expect this of him. I knew he
+was romantic, and all that; but I did not think there was such a depth
+and strength of feeling in him.
+
+“I wish,” I said, “Jehu Judd could a heard you, Doctor, he would have
+seen the difference between the clear grit of the genuine thing and a
+counterfeit, that might have made him open his eyes and wink.”
+
+“Oh! Slick,” said he, “come now, that’s a good fellow, don’t make me
+laugh, or I shall upset these glass cases;” and before Jessie could
+either accept or decline this act of gallantry, he managed to lead the
+way to the lake. The girls and I embarked in the canoe, and the rest of
+the party in the boat, but before I stepped into the bark, I hid the
+pipes of Peter behind the body of the moose, very much to the amusement
+of Jessie and the doctor, who both seemed to agree with me in giving a
+preference to the bugle.
+
+I never saw so lovely a spot in this country as the one we had chosen
+for our repast, but it was not my intention to land until the
+preparations for our meal were all fully completed; so as soon as Jane
+leaped ashore, I took her place and asked Jessie to take another look
+at the lake with me. Desiring Jackson to recall us with his bugle when
+required, we coasted up the west side of the lake for about half a
+mile, to a place where I had observed two enormous birches bend over
+the water, into which they were ultimately doomed to fall, as the
+current had washed away the land where they stood, so as to leave them
+only a temporary resting-place. Into this arched and quiet retreat we
+impelled our canoe, and paused for awhile to enjoy its cool and
+refreshing shade.
+
+“Jessie,” said I, “this time to-morrow I shall be on the sea again.”
+
+“So soon?” she replied.
+
+“Yes, dear; business calls us away, and life is not all like a day on
+the lake.”
+
+“No, no,” she said, “not to me; it is the only really happy one I have
+spent since I left my country. You have all been so kind to me; you,
+the captain, and the doctor, all of you, you have made no difference,
+you have treated me as if I was one of you, as if I was born a lady.”
+
+“Hasn’t the doctor always been kind to you?” I said.
+
+“Oh, yes,” she replied, “always very kind, but there is nobody here
+like him.”
+
+“He loves you very much.”
+
+“Yes,” she said, in the most unembarrassed and natural manner possible,
+“he told me so himself.”
+
+“And can’t you return his love?”
+
+“I do love him as I do my father, brother, or sister.”
+
+“Couldn’t you add the word husband?”
+
+“Never, never,” she said, “Mr Slick. He thinks he loves me now, but he
+may not think so always. He don’t see the red blood now, he don’t think
+of my Indian mother; when he comes nearer perhaps he will see plainer.
+No, no, half-cast and outcast, I belong to no race. Shall I go back to
+my tribe and give up my father and his people? they will not receive
+me, and I must fall asleep with my mother. Shall I stay here and cling
+to him and his race, that race that scorns the half-savage? never!
+never! when he dies I shall die too. I shall have no home then but the
+home of the spirits of the dead.”
+
+“Don’t talk that way, Jessie,” I said, “you make yourself wretched,
+because you don’t see things as they are. It’s your own fault if you
+are not happy. You say you have enjoyed this day.”
+
+“Oh, yes,” she said, “no day like this; it never came before, it don’t
+return again. It dies to-night, but will never be forgotten.”
+
+“Why not live where you are? Why not have your home here by this lake,
+and this mountain? His tastes are like yours, and yours like his; you
+can live two lives here,—the forest of the red man around you—the roof
+of the white one above you. To unite both is true enjoyment; there is
+no eye to stare here, no pride to exclude, no tongue to offend. You
+need not seek the society of others, let them solicit yours, and the
+doctor will make them respect it.”
+
+It was a subject on which her mind appeared to have been made up. She
+seemed like a woman that has lost a child, who hears your advice, and
+feels there is some truth in it, but the consolation reaches not her
+heart.
+
+“It can’t be,” she said, with a melancholy smile, as if she was
+resigning something that was dear to her, “God or nature forbids it. If
+there is one God for both Indian and white man, he forbids it. If there
+are two great spirits, one for each, as my mother told me, then both
+forbid it. The great spirit of the pale faces,” she continued, “is a
+wicked one, and the white man is wicked. Wherever he goes, he brings
+death and destruction. The woods recede before him—the wild fowl leave
+the shores—the fish desert their streams—the red man disappears. He
+calls his deer and his beaver, and his game (for they are all his, and
+were given to him for food and for clothing), and travels far, far
+away, and leaves the graves and the bones of his people behind him. But
+the white man pursues him, day and night, with his gun, and his axe,
+and fire-water; and what he spares with the rifle, rum, despair, and
+starvation destroy. See,” she said, and she plucked a withered red cone
+from a shumack that wept over the water, “see _that_ is dyed with the
+blood of the red man.”
+
+“That is prejudice,” I said.
+
+“No, it is the truth,” she replied. “I know it. My people have removed
+twice, if not three times, and the next move will be to the sea or the
+grave.”
+
+“It is the effect of civilization, and arts, and the power of sciences
+and learning, over untutored nature,” I said.
+
+“If learning makes men wicked, it is a bad thing,” she observed; “for
+the devil instructs men how to destroy. But rum ain’t learning, it is
+poison; nor is sin civilization, nor are diseases blessings, nor
+madness reason.”
+
+“That don’t alter things,” I said, “if it is all true that you say, and
+there is too much reality in it, I fear; but the pale faces are not all
+bad, nor the red all good. It don’t apply to your case.”
+
+“No,” she said, “nature forbids the two races to mingle. That that is
+wild, continues wild; and the tame remains tame. The dog watches his
+sleeping master; and the wolf devours him. The wild-duck scorns
+confinement; and the partridge dies if compelled to dwell with domestic
+fowls. Look at those birds,” she said, as she threw a chip among a
+flock of geese that were floating down the lake, “if the beautiful
+Indian wild bird consorts with one of them, the progeny die out. They
+are mongrels, they have not the grace, the shape, or the courage of
+either. Their doom is fixed. They soon disappear from the face of the
+earth and the waters. They are despised by both breeds;” and she shook
+her head, as if she scorned and loathed herself, and burst into a
+passionate flood of tears.
+
+“Jessie,” said I, and I paused a moment, for I wanted to give her a
+homoeopathic dose of common sense—and those little wee doses work like
+charms, that’s a fact. “Jessie,” says I, and I smiled, for I wanted her
+to shake off those voluntary trammels. “Jessie, the doctor ain’t quite
+quite tame, and you ain’t quite wild. You are both six of one, and
+half-a-dozen of the other, and just about as like as two peas.”
+
+Well it’s astonishing what that little sentence did. _An ounce of
+essence is worth a gallon of fluid. A wise saw is more valuable than a
+whole book, and a plain truth is better than an argument._ She had no
+answer for that. She had been reasoning, without knowing it, as if in
+fact she had been in reality an Indian. She had imbibed in childhood
+the feelings of her mother, who had taken the first step and repented
+it—of one who had deserted, but had not been adopted—who became an
+exile and remained an alien—who had bartered her birthright for
+degradation and death. It is natural that regret for the past and
+despair for the future should have been the burden of the mournful
+ditties of such a woman; that she who had mated without love, and lived
+without affection, the slave, the drudge, but not the wife or companion
+of her master, should die with imprecations on her lips for a race who
+were the natural foes of her people, and who had reduced her to be an
+object of scorn and contempt to both. It is no wonder therefore poor
+Jessie had a repugnance to the union, when she remembered her mother,
+and the sad lesson her unhappy life and fearful death contained. It was
+a feeling difficult to overcome.
+
+“Jessie,” sais I, “nature, instead of forbiddin’ it, approves of it;
+for like takes to like. I don’t say it to please you, but you are as
+good as he is, or any white man in the world. Your forefathers on your
+mother’s side are a brave, manly, intelligent race; they are free men,
+and have never been subdued or enslaved by any one: and if they have
+degenerated at all, it is because they have contracted, as you say,
+vices from the white man. You have reason to be proud of being
+descended from a race of warriors. On the other hand, your father is a
+Highlander, and they too have always been free, because they were
+brave; they are the noblest fellows in Europe. As for the English,
+there are none now, except in Wales, and they are called Taffies—which
+means _lunatics,_ for they are awful proud, and their mountains are so
+high, every fellow says his ancestors were descended from the man in
+the _moon._ But the present race are a mixture of Taffies, French,
+Danes, Saxons, Scotch, and the Lord knows who all, and to my mind are
+all the better of it.”
+
+“But the colour,” said she.
+
+“As to colour!” said I, “nations differ in every shade, from black up
+to chalk white. The Portuguese, Italians, and Turks are darker than the
+Indian if anything; Spaniards and Greeks about the same.”
+
+“And do they intermarry?”
+
+“I guess they do,” said I; “the difference of language only stops
+them,—for it’s hard to make love when you can’t understand each
+other,—but colour never.”
+
+“Is that now really true?” she said; “for I am ignorant of the world.”
+
+“True as preachin’,” said I, “and as plain as poverty.”
+
+She paused awhile, and said slowly:
+
+“Well, I suppose if all the world says and does differently, I must be
+wrong, for I am unacquainted with everything but my own feelings; and
+my mother taught me this, and bade me never to trust a white man. I am
+glad I was wrong, for if I feel I am right, I am sure I shall be
+happy.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I am sure you will be so, and this is just the place,
+above all others in the world, that will suit you, and make you so.
+Now,” sais I, “Jessie, I will tell you a story;” and I told her the
+whole tale of Pocahontas; how she saved Captain Smith’s life in the
+early settlement of Virginia, and afterwards married Mr Rolfe, and
+visited the court of England, where all the nobles sought her society.
+And then I gave her all the particulars of her life, illness, and
+death, and informed her that her son, who stood in the same
+relationship to the whites as she did, became a wealthy planter in
+Virginia, and that one of his descendants, lately deceased, was one of
+the most eloquent as well as one of the most distinguished men in the
+United States. It interested her uncommonly, and I have no doubt
+greatly contributed to confirm her in the decision she had come to. I
+will not trouble you, Squire, with the story, for it is so romantic, I
+believe everybody has heard of it. I promised to give her a book
+containing all the details.
+
+The bugle now sounded our recall, and in a few minutes we were seated
+on the grass, and enjoying our meal with an appetite that exercise,
+excitement, and forest air never fail to give. Songs, trout-fishing,
+and stories agreeably occupied the afternoon; and when the sun began to
+cast long shadows from the mountain, we reëmbarked with our traps, and
+landed at the cove near the clump of trees where we started in the
+morning. While preparations were making for tea in the house, I lit my
+cigar to take a stroll with Cutler, and talk over our arrangements for
+an early start in the morrow, and proceeding immediately to sea. In the
+mean time, I briefly stated to the doctor that he would now find no
+further obstacle to his wishes, and counselled him to lose no time,
+while the impression was favourable, to bring his long-pending
+negotiation to a conclusion.
+
+“Slick,” said he, laughing, “your government ought to have prevailed
+upon you to remain in the diplomatic service. You are such a capital
+negotiator.”
+
+“Well,” said I, “I believe I would have succeeded in that line; but do
+you know how?”
+
+“By a plentiful use of soft sawder,” said he.
+
+“No, Doctor, I knew you would say that; and it ain’t to be despised
+neither, I can tell you. No, it’s because you go coolly to work, for
+you are negotiatin’ for another. If you don’t succeed, it’s the fault
+of the mission, of course, and defeat won’t break your heart; if you do
+carry your point, why, in the natur of things, it is all your own
+skill. I have done famously for you; but I made a bungling piece of
+business for myself, I assure you. What my brother, the lawyer, used to
+say is very true: ‘A man who pleads his own cause has a fool for his
+client.’ You can’t praise yourself unless it’s a bit of brag, and that
+I can do as well as any one, I do suppose; but you can’t lay the
+whitewash on handily no more than you can brush the back of your own
+coat when it is on. Cutler and I will take a stroll, and do you invite
+Jessie out, to see the moon on the lake.”
+
+In about an hour, Peter, who had found his pipes to his infinite
+delight, intimated supper was ready; and the dispersed groups returned,
+and sat down to a meal which, in addition to the tea and coffee and its
+usual accompaniments at country-houses, had some substantial viands for
+those, like myself, who had done more talking than eating at dinner. In
+a short time, the girls retired for the night, and we arranged for a
+peep of day return.
+
+“Mr Slick,” said the doctor, “I have ordered the boy to take the moose
+down to the village as my share of the sea-stores. Will you give me
+leave to go a part of the cruise with you?”
+
+“With great pleasure,” said I; “it’s just what I was going to ask the
+favour of you to do. It’s the very identical thing.”
+
+“Come, Peter,” said he, “I will show you where to turn in;” and
+returning, in a few minutes, with Jackson, desired him to attend the
+captain.
+
+When we were alone, he said:
+
+“Come this way, Mr Slick. Put your hat on—I want you to take a turn
+with me.”
+
+And leading me down to the verge of the woods, where I saw a light, we
+entered a large bark wigwam, where he said he often slept during the
+hot weather.
+
+It was not made in the usual conical form, but resembled a square tent,
+which among Indians generally indicates there is a large family, and
+that they propose to occupy the same spot for some time. In fact, it
+was half wigwam, half summer-house, resembling the former in
+appearance, construction, and material; but was floored on account of
+the damp ground, and contained a small table, two chairs, and a couple
+of rustic seats large enough to sleep upon, which, on the present
+occasion, had hunters’ beds on them. The tent, or more properly camp,
+as it is generally called here, was so contrived as to admit of the
+door being shifted according to the wind. On the present occasion, the
+opening was towards the lake, on which the moon was casting its silver
+light.
+
+Here we sat till a late hour, discoursing, over our cigars, on a
+variety of subjects, the first and last of which topic was Jessie, who
+had, it appeared, at last accepted the Bachelor Beaver. Altogether, it
+was a charming visit; and left a most agreeable recollection of the
+enjoyment that is to be found in “_a day and a night in the woods_.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII.
+THE BETROTHAL.
+
+
+Early the following morning, just as the first dawn of day was
+streaking the eastern sky, Jackson’s bugle sounded the _reveillé,_ and
+we were all soon on foot and in motion. The moose was lifted into the
+cart, and the boy despatched with it to the harbour, so as to have it
+in readiness for putting on board as soon as we should arrive, and a
+cup of coffee was prepared for us by Betty, as she said, to keep the
+cold out of our stomach while travelling. The doctor had some few
+arrangements to make for his voyage, and Cutler and I set out in
+advance, on foot. It was agreed that Ovey, Peter, and his daughters,
+should follow, as soon as possible, in the waggons, and breakfast with
+us on board of the Black Hawk.
+
+“Mr Jackson,” said I, as I saw him standing at the door.
+
+“Yes, Sir,” and he was at my side in a minute, and honoured me with one
+of his most gracious smiles, and respectful military salutes.
+
+There is great magic in that word “Mr,” when used to men of low degree,
+and in “Squire” for those just a notch higher. Servitude, at best, is
+but a hard lot. To surrender your will to another, to come and go at
+his bidding, and to answer a bell as a dog does a whistle, ain’t just
+the lot one would choose, if a better one offered. A master may forget
+this, a servant never does. The great art, as well as one of the great
+Christian duties, therefore, is not to make him feel it. Bidding is one
+thing, and commanding is another. If you put him on good terms with
+himself, he is on good terms with you, and affection is a stronger tie
+than duty. The vanity of mankind is such, that you always have the
+ingratitude of helps dinned into your ears, from one year’s end to
+another, and yet these folk never heard of the ingratitude of
+employers, and wouldn’t believe there was such a thing in the world, if
+you were to tell them. Ungrateful, eh! Why, didn’t I pay him his wages?
+wasn’t he well boarded? and didn’t I now and then let him go to a
+frolic? Yes, he wouldn’t have worked without pay. He couldn’t have
+lived if he hadn’t been fed, and he wouldn’t have stayed if you hadn’t
+given him recreation now and then. It’s a poor heart that don’t rejoice
+sometimes. So much thanks he owes you. Do you pray that it may always
+rain at night or on Sundays? Do you think the Lord is the Lord of
+masters only? But he has been faithful as well as diligent, and careful
+as well as laborious, he has saved you more than his wages came to—are
+there no thanks for this? Pooh! you remind me of my poor old mother.
+Father used to say she was the most unreasonable woman in the world—for
+when she hired a gall she expected perfection, for two dollars and a
+half a month.
+
+Mr Jackson! didn’t that make him feel good all over? Why shouldn’t he
+be called Mr, as well as that selfish conceited M’Clure, Captain? Yes,
+there is a great charm in that are word, “Mr.” It was a wrinkle I
+picked up by accident, very early in life. We had to our farm to
+Slickville, an Irish servant, called Paddy Monaghan—as hard-working a
+critter as ever I see, but none of the boys could get him to do a
+blessed thing for them. He’d do his plowin’ or reapin’, or whatever it
+was, but the deuce a bit would he leave it to oblige Sally or the boys,
+or any one else, but father; he had to mind him, in course, or put his
+three great coats on, the way he came, one atop of the other, to cover
+the holes of the inner ones, and walk. But, as for me, he’d do anythin’
+I wanted. He’d drop his spade, and help me catch a horse, or he’d do my
+chores for me, and let me go and attend my mink and musquash traps, or
+he’d throw down his hoe and go and fetch the cows from pasture, that I
+might slick up for a party—in short, he’d do anything in the world for
+me.
+
+“Well, they all wondered how under the sun Paddy had taken such a
+shindy to me, when nobody else could get him to budge an inch for them.
+At last, one day, mother asked me how on airth it was—for nothin’
+strange goes on long, but a woman likes to get at the bottom of it.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “mother, if you won’t whisper a syllable to anybody
+about it, I’ll tell you.”
+
+“Who, me,” sais she, “Sammy?” She always called me Sammy when she
+wanted to come over me. “Me tell? A person who can keep her own secrets
+can keep yours, Sammy. There are some things I never told your father.”
+
+“Such as what?” sais I.
+
+“A-hem,” said she. “A-hem—such as he oughtn’t to know, dear. Why, Sam,
+I am as secret as the grave! How is it, dear?”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I will tell you. This is the way: I drop Pat and Paddy
+altogether, and I call him Mr Monaghan, and never say a word about the
+priest.”
+
+“Why, Sammy,” said she, “where in the world did you pick up all your
+cuteness? I do declare you are as sharp as a needle. Well, I never. How
+you do take after me! _boys are mothers’ sons. It’s only galls who take
+after their father.”_
+
+It’s cheap coin, is civility, and kindness is a nice bank to fund it
+in, Squire: for it comes back with compound interest. He used to call
+Josiah, Jo, and brother Eldad, Dad, and then yoke ’em both together, as
+“spalpeens,” or “rapscallions,” and he’d vex them by calling mother,
+when he spoke to them of her, the “ould woman,” and Sally, “that young
+cratur, Sal.” But he’d show the difference when he mentioned me; it was
+always “the young master,” and when I was with him, it was “your
+Honour.” Lord, I shall never forget wunst, when I was a practisin’ of
+ball-shooting at a target, Pat brought out one of my muskits, and sais
+he: “Would your Honour just let me take a crack at it. You only make a
+little round hole in it, about the size of a fly’s eye; but, by the
+piper that played before Moses, I’ll knock it all to smithereens.”
+
+“Yes,” sais I, “Mr Monaghan; fire and welcome.”
+
+Well, up he comes to the toe-line, and puts himself into attitude,
+scientific like. First he throws his left leg out, and then braces back
+the right one well behind him, and then he shuts his left eye to, and
+makes an awful wry face, as if he was determined to keep every bit of
+light out of it, and then he brought his gun up to the shoulder with a
+duce of a flourish, and took a long, steady aim. All at once he lowered
+the piece.
+
+“I think I’ll do it better knalin’, your Honour,” said he, “the way I
+did when I fired at Lord Blarney’s land-agent, from behind the hedge,
+for lettin’ a farm to a Belfast heretic. Oh! didn’t I riddle him, your
+Honour.” He paused a moment, his tongue had run away with him. “His
+coat, I main,” said he. “I cut the skirts off as nait as a tailor
+could. It scared him entirely, so, when he see the feathers flyin’ that
+way, he took to flight, and I never sot eyes on him no more. I
+shouldn’t wonder if he is runnin’ yet.”
+
+So he put down one knee on the ground, and adjusting himself said, “I
+won’t leave so much as a hair of that target, to tell where it stood.”
+He took a fresh aim, and fired, and away he went, heels over head, the
+matter of three or four times, and the gun flew away behind him, ever
+so far.
+
+“Oh!” sais he, “I am kilt entirely. I am a dead man, Master Sam. By the
+holy poker, but my arm is broke.”
+
+“I am afraid my gun is broke,” said I, and off I set in search of it.
+
+“Stop, yer Honour,” said he, “for the love of Heaven, stop, or she’ll
+be the death of you.”
+
+“What?” sais I.
+
+“There are five more shots in her yet, Sir. I put in six cartridges, so
+as to make sure of that paper kite, and only one of them is gone off
+yet. Oh! my shoulder is out, Master Sam. Don’t say a word of it, Sir,
+to the ould cratur, and—”
+
+“To who?” said I.
+
+“To her ladyship, the mistress,” said he, “and I’ll sarve you by day
+and by night.”
+
+Poor Pat! you were a good-hearted creature naturally, as most of your
+countrymen are, if repealers, patriots, and demagogues of all sorts and
+sizes, would only let you alone. Yes, there is a great charm in that
+word “Mr.”
+
+So, sais I, “Mr Jackson!”
+
+“Yes, Sir,” said he.
+
+“Let me look at your bugle.”
+
+“Here it is, your Honour.”
+
+“What a curious lookin’ thing it is,” sais I, “and what’s all them
+little button-like things on it with long shanks?”
+
+“Keys, Sir,” said he.
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “they unlock the music, I suppose, don’t they, and
+let it out? Let me see if I could blow it.”
+
+“Try the pipes, Mr Slick,” said Peter. “Tat is nothin’ but a prass
+cow-horn as compared to the pagpipes.”
+
+“No, thank you,” sais I, “it’s only a Highlander can make music out of
+that.”
+
+“She never said a wiser word tan tat,” he replied, much gratified.
+
+“Now,” sais I, “let me blow this, does it take much wind?”
+
+“No,” said Jackson, “not much, try it, Sir.”
+
+“Well, I put it to my lips, and played a well-known air on it. “It’s
+not hard to play, after all, is it, Jackson?”
+
+“No, Sir,” said he, looking delighted, “nothing is ard to a man as
+knows how, as you do.”
+
+“Tom,” sais Betty, “don’t that do’ee good? Oh, Sir, I ain’t eard that
+since I left the hold country, it’s what the guards has used to be
+played in the mail-coaches has was. Oh, Sir, when they comed to the
+town, it used to sound pretty; many’s the time I have run to the window
+to listen to it. Oh, the coaches was a pretty sight, Sir. But them
+times is all gone,” and she wiped a tear from her eye with the corner
+of her apron, a tear that the recollection of early days had called up
+from the fountain of her heart.
+
+Oh, what a volume does one stray thought of the past contain within
+itself. It is like a rocket thrown up in the night. It suddenly expands
+into a brilliant light, and sheds a thousand sparkling meteors, that
+scatter in all directions, as if inviting attention each to its own
+train. Yes, that one thought is the centre of many, and awakens them
+all to painful sensibility. Perhaps it is more like a vivid flash of
+lightning, it discloses with intense brightness the whole landscape,
+and exhibits, in their minutest form and outline, the very leaves and
+flowers that lie hid in the darkness of night.
+
+“Jessie,” said I, “will you imitate it?”
+
+I stopt to gaze on her for a moment—she stood in the doorway—a perfect
+model for a sculptor. But oh, what chisel could do justice to that
+face—it was a study for a painter. Her whole soul was filled with those
+clear beautiful notes, that vibrated through the frame, and attuned
+every nerve, till it was in harmony with it. She was so wrapt in
+admiration, she didn’t notice what I observed, for I try in a general
+way that nothing shall escape me; but as they were behind us all, I
+just caught a glimpse of the doctor (as I turned my head suddenly)
+withdrawing his arm from her waist. She didn’t know it, of course, she
+was so absorbed in the music. It ain’t likely she felt him, and if she
+had, it ain’t probable she would have objected to it. It was natural he
+should like to press the heart she had given him; wasn’t it now his?
+and wasn’t it reasonable he should like to know how it beat? He was a
+doctor, and doctors like to feel pulses, it comes sorter habitual to
+them, they can’t help it. They touch your wrist without knowing it, and
+if it is a woman’s, why their hand, like brother Josiah’s cases that
+went on all fours, crawls up on its fingers, till it gets to where the
+best pulse of all is. Ah, Doctor, there is Highland blood in that
+heart, and it will beat warmly towards you, I know. I wonder what Peter
+would have said, if he had seen what I did. But then he didn’t know
+nothin’ about pulses.
+
+“Jessie,” said I, “imitate that for me, dear. It is the last exercise
+of that extraordinary power I shall ever hear.”
+
+“Play it again,” she said, “that I may catch the air.”
+
+“Is it possible,” said I to myself, “you didn’t hear it after all? It
+is the first time your little heart was ever pressed before, perhaps it
+beat so loud you couldn’t distinguish the bugle notes. Was it the new
+emotion or the new music that absorbed you so? Oh, Jessie, don’t ask me
+again what natur is.”
+
+Well, I played it again for her, and instantly she gave the repetition
+with a clearness, sweetness, and accuracy, that was perfectly amazing.
+Cutler and I then took leave for the present, and proceeded on our way
+to the shore.
+
+“Ah, Sir!” said Jackson, who accompanied us to the bars, “it’s a long
+while ago since I eard that hair. Warn’t them mail-coaches pretty
+things, Sir? Hon the hold King’s birthday, Sir, when they all turned
+out with new arness and coaches fresh painted, and coachman and guard
+in new toggery, and four as beautiful bits of blood to each on ’em as
+was to be found in England, warn’t it a sight to behold, Sir? The world
+could show nothin’ like it, Sir. And to think they are past and gone,
+it makes one’s eart hache. They tells me the coachman now, Sir, has a
+dirty black face, and rides on a fender before a large grate, and
+flourishes a red ot poker instead of a whip. The guard, Sir, they tells
+me, is no—”
+
+“Good bye, Mr Jackson;” and I shook hands with him.
+
+“Isn’t that too bad, Sir, now?” he said. “Why, here is Betty again,
+Sir, with that d—d hat, and a lecture about the stroke. Good bye, your
+Honour,” said he.
+
+When we came to the bridge where the road curved into the woods, I
+turned and took a last look at the place where I had spent such an
+agreeable day.
+
+I don’t envy you it, Doctor, but I wish I had such a lovely place at
+Slickville as that. What do you think, Sophy, eh? I have an idea you
+and I could be very happy there, don’t you?
+
+“Oh! Mr Slick,” said Jehu Judd, who was the first person I saw at the
+door of Peter’s house, “what an everlastin’ long day was yesterday! I
+did nothing but renew the poultice, look in the glass, and turn into
+bed again. It’s off now, ain’t it?”
+
+“Yes,” sais I, “and we are off, too, in no time.”
+
+“But the trade,” said he; “let’s talk that over.”
+
+“Haven’t time,” sais I; “it must be short meter, as you say when you
+are to home to Quaco, practising Sall Mody (as you call it). Mackarel
+is five dollars a barrel, sains thirty—say yes or no, that’s the word.”
+
+“How can you have the conscience?” said he.
+
+“I never talk of conscience in trade,” sais I; “only of prices. Bargain
+or no bargain, that’s the ticket.”
+
+“I can’t,” he said.
+
+“Well, then, there is an end of it,” says I. “Good bye, friend Judd.”
+
+Sais he: “You have a mighty short way with you, my friend.”
+
+“A short way is better than a long face,” said I.
+
+“Well,” said he, “I can’t do without the sains (nets) no how I can fix
+it, so I suppose I must give the price. But I hope I may be skinned
+alive if you ain’t too keen.”
+
+“Whoever takes a fancy to skin you, whether dead or alive, will have a
+tough job of it, I reckon,” sais I, “it’s as tight as the bark of a
+tree.”
+
+“For two pins,” said he, “I’d tan your hide for you now.”
+
+“Ah,” said I, “you are usin’ your _sain_ before you pay for it. That’s
+not fair.”
+
+“Why?” said he.
+
+“Because,” sais I, “you are _insaine_ to talk that way.”
+
+“Well, well,” said he, “you do beat the devil.”
+
+“You can’t say that,” sais I, “for I hain’t laid a hand on _you._
+Come,” sais I, “wake snakes, and push off with the Captain, and get the
+fish on board. Cutler, tell the mate, mackarel is five dollars the
+barrel, and nets thirty each. We shall join you presently, and so,
+friend Judd, you had better put the licks in and make haste, or there
+will be ‘more fiddling and dancing and serving the devil this
+morning.’”
+
+He turned round, and gave me a look of intense hatred, and shook his
+fist at me. I took off my hat and made him a low bow, and said “That’s
+right, save your breath to cool your broth, or to groan with when you
+get home, and have a refreshing time with the Come-outers.
+
+“My father was a preacher,
+    A mighty holy man;
+My mother was a Methodist,
+    But I’m a Tunyan.”
+
+
+He became as pale as a mad nigger at this. He was quite speechless with
+rage, and turning from me, said nothing, and proceeded with the captain
+to the boat. It was some time before the party returned from the lake,
+but the two waggons were far apart, and Jessie and the doctor came
+last—was it that the road was bad, and he was a poor driver? perhaps
+so. A man who loves the woods don’t know or care much about roads. It
+don’t follow because a feller is a good shot, he is a good whip; or was
+it they had so much to say, the short distance didn’t afford time?
+Well, I ain’t experienced in these matters, though perhaps you are,
+Squire. Still, though Cupid is represented with bows and arrows (and
+how many I have painted on my clocks, for they always sold the best), I
+don’t think he was ever sketched in an old one-hoss waggon. A canoe
+would have suited you both better, you would have been more at home
+there. If I was a gall I would always be courted in one, for you can’t
+romp there, or you would be capsized. It’s the safest place I know of.
+It’s very well to be over head and ears in love, but my eyes, to be
+over head and ears in the water, is no place for lovemaking, unless it
+is for young whales, and even they spout and blow like all wrath when
+they come up, as if you might have too much of a good thing, don’t
+they?
+
+They both looked happy—Jessie was unsophisticated, and her countenance,
+when it turned on me, seemed to say, “Mr Slick, I have taken your
+advice, and I am delighted I did.” And the doctor looked happy, but his
+face seemed to say, “Come now, Slick, no nonsense, please, let me
+alone, that’s a good fellow.”
+
+Peter perceived something he didn’t understand. He had seen a great
+deal he didn’t comprehend since he left the Highlands, and heard a
+great many things he didn’t know the meaning of. It was enough for him
+if he could guess it.
+
+“Toctor,” said he, “how many kind o’ partridges are there in this
+country?”
+
+“Two,” said the simple-minded naturalist, “spruce and birch.”
+
+“Which is the prettiest?”
+
+“The birch.”
+
+“And the smartest?”
+
+“The birch.”
+
+“Poth love to live in the woods, don’t they?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Well there is a difference in colour. Ta spruce is red flesh, and ta
+birch white, did you ever know them mix?”
+
+“Often,” said the doctor, who began to understand this allegorical talk
+of the North-West trader, and feel uncomfortable, and therefore didn’t
+like to say no. “Well, then, the spruce must stay with the pirch, or
+the pirch live with the spruce,” continued Peter. “The peech wood
+between the two are dangerous to both, for it’s only fit for cuckoos.”
+
+Peter looked chuffy and sulky. There was no minister at the remote post
+he had belonged to in the nor-west. The governor there read a sermon of
+a Sunday sometimes, but he oftener wrote letters. The marriages, when
+contracted, were generally limited to the period of service of the
+_employés,_ and sometimes a wife was bought, or at others, entrapped
+like a beaver. It was a civil or uncivil contract, as the case might
+be. Wooing was a thing he didn’t understand; for what right had a woman
+to an opinion of her own? Jessie felt for her father, the doctor, and
+herself, and retired crying. The doctor said:
+
+“Peter, you know me, I am an honest man; give me your confidence, and
+then I will ask the Chief for the hand of his daughter.”
+
+“Tat is like herself,” said Peter. “And she never doubted her; and
+there is her hand, which is her word. Tam the coffee! let us have a
+glass of whiskey.”
+
+And he poured out three, and we severally drank to each other’s health,
+and peace was once more restored.
+
+Thinks I to myself, now is the time to settle this affair; for the
+doctor, Peter, and Jessie are all like children; it’s right to show ’em
+how to act.
+
+“Doctor,” sais I, “just see if the cart with the moose has arrived; we
+must be a moving soon, for the wind is fair.”
+
+As soon as he went on this errand, “Peter,” sais I, “the doctor wants
+to marry your daughter, and she, I think, is not unwilling, though,
+between you and me, you know better than she does what is good for her.
+Now the doctor don’t know as much of the world as you do. He has never
+seen Scotland, nor the north-west, nor travelled as you have, and
+observed so much.”
+
+“She never said a truer word in her life,” said Peter. “She has seen
+the Shetlands and the Rocky Mountains—the two finest places in the
+world, and crossed the sea and the Red River; pesides Canada and Nova
+Scotia, and seen French, and pairs, and Indians, and wolves, and plue
+noses, and puffaloes, and Yankees, and prairie dogs, and Highland
+chiefs, and Indian chiefs, and other great shentlemen, pesides peavers
+with their tails on. She has seen the pest part of the world, Mr
+Slick.” And he lighted his pipe in his enthusiasm, when enumerating
+what he had seen, and looked as if he felt good all over.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “the doctor, like an honourable man, has asked Squire
+Peter McDonald for his daughter; now, when he comes in, call Jessie and
+place her hand in his, and say you consent, and let the spruce and
+birch partridge go and live near the lake together.”
+
+“Tat she will,” said he, “for ta toctor is a shentleman pred and porn,
+though she hasn’t the honour to be a Highlander.”
+
+As soon as the Bachelor Beaver returned, Peter went on this paternal
+mission, for which I prepared my friend; and the betrothal was duly
+performed, when he said in Gaelic:
+
+“_Dhia Beammich sibh le choile mo chlam!_ God bless you both, my
+children!”
+
+As soon as the ceremony was over, “Now,” sais I, “we must be a movin’.
+Come, Peter, let us go on board. Where are the pipes? Strike up your
+merriest tune.”
+
+And he preceded us, playing, “_Nach dambsadh am minster_,” in his best
+manner—if anything can be said to be good, where bad is the best. When
+we arrived at the beach, Cutler and my old friend, the black steward,
+were ready to receive us. It would have been a bad omen to have had
+Sorrow meet the betrothed pair so soon, but that was only a jocular
+name given to a very merry negro.
+
+“Well, Sorrow,” sais I, as we pushed off in the boat, “how are you?”
+
+“Very bad, Massa,” he said, “I ab been used most rediculous shamful
+since you left. Time was berry dull on board since you been withdrawn
+from de light ob your countenance, and de crew sent on shore, and got a
+consignment ob rum, for benefit ob underwriters, and all consarned as
+dey said, and dey sung hymns, as dey call nigga songs, like Lucy Neal
+and Lucy Long, and den dey said we must hab ablution sarmon; so dey
+fust corned me, Massa.”
+
+“In the beef or pork-barrel, Sorrow?” said I.
+
+“Oh, Lord bless you, Massa, in needer; you knows de meaning ob dat are
+word—I is sure you does—dey made me most tosicated, Massa, and dey
+said, ‘Sorrow, come preach ablution sarmon.’ Oh, Massa, I was berry
+sorry, it made me feel all ober like ague; but how could I insist so
+many; what was I to do, dey fust made me der slave, and den said, ‘Now
+tell us bout mancipation.’ Well, dey gub me glass ob rum, and I
+swallowed it—berry bad rum—well, dat wouldn’t do. Well, den dey gub me
+anoder glass, and dat wouldn’t do; dis here child hab trong head,
+Massa, werry trong, but he hoped de rum was all out, it was so bad; den
+dey rejectioned anoder in my face, and I paused and crastimated; sais
+I, ‘Masters, is you done?’ for dis child was afeard, Massa, if he drank
+all de bottle empty, dey would tro dat in his face too, so sais I:
+
+“‘Masters, I preaches under protest, against owners and ship for
+bandonment; but if I must put to sea, and dis niggar don’t know how to
+steer by lunar compass, here goes.’ Sais I, ‘My dear bredren,’ and dey
+all called out:
+
+“‘You farnal niggar you! do you call us bredren, when you is as black
+as de debbil’s hind leg?’
+
+“‘I beg your most massiful pardon,’ sais I, ‘but as you is
+ablutionists, and when you preach, calls us regraded niggars your
+coloured bredren, I tought I might venture to foller in de same suit,
+if I had a card ob same colour.’
+
+“‘Well done, Uncle Tom,’ sais they. ‘Well done, Zip Coon,’ and dey made
+me swallow anoder glass ob naked truth. Dis here child has a trong
+head, Massa, dat are a fac. He stand so much sun, he ain’t easy
+combustioned in his entails.
+
+“‘Go on,’ sais they.
+
+“Well, my bredren,” sais I, “I will dilate to you the valy of a niggar,
+as put in one scale and white man in de oder. Now, bredren, you know a
+sparrer can’t fall to de ground no how he can fix it, but de Lord knows
+it—in course ob argument you do. Well, you knows twelve sparrers sell
+in de market for one penny. In course ob respondence you do. How much
+more den does de Lord care for a niggar like me, who is worth six
+hundred dollars and fifty cents, at de least? So, gentlemen, I is done,
+and now please, my bredren, I will pass round de hat wid your
+recurrence.’
+
+“Well, dey was pretty high, and dey behaved like gentlemen, I must
+submit dat; dey gub me four dollars, dey did—dey is great friends to
+niggar, and great mancipationists, all ob dem; and I would hab got two
+dollars more, I do raily conclude, if I hadn’t a called ’em my bredren.
+Dat was a slip ob de lockjaw.”
+
+“I must inquire into this,” said Cutler, “it’s the most indecent thing
+I ever beard of. It is downright profanity; it is shocking.”
+
+“Very,” said I, “but the sermon warn’t a bad one; I never heerd a
+niggar reason before; I knew they could talk, and so can Lord
+Tandemberry; but as for reasoning, I never heerd either one or the
+other attempt it before. There is an approach to logic in that.”
+
+“There is a very good hit at the hypocrisy of abolitionists in it,”
+said the doctor; “that appeal about my bredren is capital, and the
+passing round of the hat is quite evangelical.”
+
+“Oigh,” said Peter, “she have crossed the great sea and the great
+prairies, and she haven’t heerd many sarmons, for Sunday don’t come but
+once a month there, but dat is the pest she ever heerd, it is so
+short.”
+
+“Slick,” said Cutler, “I am astonished at you. Give way there, my men;
+ease the bow oar.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “Cutler—give way there, my man; ease the bow
+oar—that’s my maxim too—how the devil can you learn if you don’t hear?”
+sais I.
+
+“How can you learn good,” said he, “if you listen to evil?”
+
+“Let’s split the difference,” said I, laughing, “as I say in swapping;
+let’s split the difference. If you don’t study mankind how can you know
+the world at all? But if you want to preach—”
+
+“Come, behave yourself,” said he, laughing; “lower down the _man ropes_
+there.”
+
+“To help up the _women_,” said I.
+
+“Slick,” said he, “it’s no use talking; you are incorrigible.”
+
+The breakfast was like other breakfasts of the same kind; and, as the
+wind was fair, we could not venture to offer any amusements to our
+guests. So in due time we parted, the doctor alone, of the whole party,
+remaining on board. Cutler made the first move by ascending the
+companion-ladder, and I shook hands with Peter as a hint for him to
+follow. Jessie, her sister, Ovey, and I, remained a few minutes longer
+in the cabin. The former was much agitated.
+
+“Good bye,” said she, “Mr Slick! Next to him,” pointing to the Bachelor
+Beaver, “you have been the kindest and best friend I ever had. You have
+made me feel what it is to be happy;” and woman-like, to prove her
+happiness, burst out a crying, and threw her arms round my neck and
+kissed me. “Oh! Mr Slick! do we part for ever?”
+
+“For ever!” sais I, trying to cheer her up; “for ever is a most
+thundering long word. No, not for ever, nor for long either. I expect
+you and the doctor will come and visit _us_ to Slickville this fall;”
+and I laid an emphasis on that word “_us_,” because it referred to what
+I had told her of Sophy.
+
+“Oh!” said she, “how kind that is!”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “now I will do a kinder thing. Jane and I will go on
+deck, and leave you and the doctor to bid each other good-bye.” As I
+reached the door, I turned and said: “Jessie, teach him Gaelic the way
+Flora taught me—_do bhileau boidheach_ (with your pretty lips).”
+
+As the boat drew alongside, Peter bid me again a most affectionate, if
+not a most complimentary farewell.
+
+“She has never seen many Yankees herself,” said Peter, “but prayin’
+Joe, the horse-stealer—tarn him—and a few New England pedlars, who
+asked three hundred per shent for their coots, but Mr Slick is a
+shentleman, every inch of him, and the pest of them she ever saw, and
+she will pe glad to see her again whenever she comes this way.”
+
+When they were all seated in the boat, Peter played a doleful ditty,
+which I have no doubt expressed the grief of his heart. But I am sorry
+to say it was not much appreciated on board of the “Black Hawk.” By the
+time they reached the shore, the anchor was up, the sails trimmed, and
+we were fairly out of Ship Harbour.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII.
+A FOGGY NIGHT.
+
+
+The wind, what there was of it, was off shore; it was a light
+north-wester, but after we made an offing of about ten miles, it failed
+us, being evidently nothing but a land breeze, and we were soon
+becalmed. After tossing about for an hour or two, a light cat’s-paw
+gave notice that a fresh one was springing up, but it was from the
+east, and directly ahead.
+
+“We shall make poor work of this,” said the pilot, “and I am afraid it
+will bring up a fog with it, which is a dangerous thing on this coast,
+I would advise therefore returning to Ship Harbour,” but the captain
+said, “Business must be attended to, and as there was nothing more of
+the kind to be done there, we must only have patience and beat up for
+Port Liscomb, which is a great resort for fishermen.” I proposed we
+should take the wind as we found it, and run for Chesencook, a French
+settlement, a short distance to the westward of us, and effect our
+object there, which I thought very probable, as no American vessels put
+in there if they can avoid it. This proposition met the approval of all
+parties, so we put the “Black Hawk” before the wind, and by sunset were
+safely and securely anchored. The sails were scarcely furled before the
+fog set in, or rather rose up, for it seemed not so much to come from
+the sea as to ascend from it, as steam rises from heated water.
+
+It seemed the work of magic, its appearance was so sudden. A moment
+before there was a glorious sunset, now we had impenetrable darkness.
+We were enveloped as it were in a cloud, the more dense perhaps because
+its progress was arrested by the spruce hills, back of the village, and
+it had receded upon itself. The little French settlement (for the
+inhabitants were all descended from the ancient Acadians) was no longer
+discernible, and heavy drops of water fell from the rigging on the
+deck. The men put on their “sow-wester” hats and yellow oiled cotton
+jackets. Their hair looked grey, as if there had been sleet falling.
+There was a great change in the temperature—the weather appeared to
+have suddenly retrograded to April, not that it was so cold, but that
+it was raw and uncomfortable. We shut the companion-door to keep it
+from descending there, and paced the deck and discoursed upon this
+disagreeable vapour bath, its cause, its effects on the constitution,
+and so on.
+
+“It does not penetrate far into the country,” said the doctor, “and is
+by no means unhealthy—as it is of a different character altogether from
+the land fog. As an illustration however of its density, and of the
+short distance it rises from the water, I will tell you a circumstance
+to which I was an eyewitness. I was on the citadel hill at Halifax
+once, and saw the points of the masts of a mail-steamer above the fog,
+as she was proceeding up the harbour, and I waited there to ascertain
+if she could possibly escape George’s Island, which lay directly in her
+track, but which it was manifest her pilot could not discern from the
+deck. In a few moments she was stationary. All this I could plainly
+perceive, although the hull of the vessel was invisible. Some idea may
+be formed of the obscurity occasioned by the fog, from the absurd
+stories that were waggishly put abroad at the time of the accident. It
+was gravely asserted that the first notice the sentinel had of her
+approach, was a poke in the side from her jibboom, which knocked him
+over into the moat and broke two of his ribs, and it was also
+maintained with equal truth that when she came to the wharf it was
+found she had brought away a small brass gun on her bowsprit, into
+which she had thrust it like the long trunk of an elephant.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “let Halifax alone for hoaxes. There are some droll
+coves in that place, that’s a fact. Many a laugh have I had there, I
+tell _you._ But, Doctor,” sais I, “just listen to the noises on shore
+here at Chesencook. It’s a curious thing to hear the shout of the
+anxious mother to her vagrant boy to return, before night makes it too
+dark to find his way home, ain’t it? and to listen to the noisy gambols
+of invisible children, the man in the cloud bawling to his ox, as if
+the fog had affected their hearing instead of their sight, the sharp
+ring of the axe at the wood pile, and the barking of the dogs as they
+defy or salute each other. One I fancy is a grumbling bark, as much as
+to say, ‘No sleep for us, old boy, to-night, some of these coasters
+will be making love to our sheep as they did last week, if we don’t
+keep a bright look out. If you hear a fellow speak English, pitch right
+into the heretic, and bite like a snapping turtle. I always do so in
+the dark, for they can’t swear to you when they don’t see you. If they
+don’t give me my soup soon (how like a French dog that, ain’t it?) I’ll
+have a cod-fish for my supper to-night, off of old Jodry’s flakes at
+the other end of the harbour, for our masters bark so loud they never
+bite, so let them accuse little Paul Longille of theft.’ I wonder if
+dogs do talk, Doctor?” said I.
+
+“There is no doubt of it,” he replied. “I believe both animals and
+birds have some means of communicating to each other all that is
+necessary for them—I don’t go further.”
+
+“Well, that’s reasonable,” sais I; “I go that figure, too, but not a
+cent higher. Now there is a nigger,” sais I; and I would have given him
+a wink if I could, and made a jupe of my head towards Cutler, to show
+him I was a goin’ to get the captain’s dander up for fun; but what’s
+the use of a wink in a fog? In the first place, it ain’t easy to make
+one; your lids are so everlastin’ heavy; and who the plague can see you
+if you do? and if he did notice it, he would only think you were tryin’
+to protect your peepers, that’s all. Well, a wink is no better nor a
+nod to a blind horse; so I gave him a nudge instead. “Now, there is the
+nigger, Doctor,” sais I, “do you think he has a soul?1 It’s a question
+I always wanted to ask Brother Eldad, for I never see him a dissectin’
+of a darky. If I had, I should have known; for nature has a place for
+everything, and everything in it’s place.”
+
+1 This very singular and inconsequential rhodomontade of Mr Slick is
+one of those startling pieces of levity that a stranger often hears
+from a person of his class in his travels on this side of the water.
+The odd mixture of strong religious feeling and repulsive looseness of
+conversation on serious subjects, which may here and there be found in
+his Diary, naturally results from a free association with persons of
+all or no creeds. It is the most objectionable trait in his
+character—to reject it altogether would be to vary the portrait he has
+given us of himself—to admit it, lowers the estimate we might otherwise
+be disposed to form of him; but, as he has often observed, what is the
+use of a sketch if it be not faithful?
+
+
+“_Mr_ Slick,” said Cutler.—he never called me Mr before, and it showed
+he was mad.—“do you doubt it?”
+
+“No,” sais I, “I don’t; my only doubt is whether they have three?”
+
+“What in the world do you mean?” said he.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “two souls we know they have—their great fat splaw feet
+show that, and as hard as jackasses’ they are too; out the third is my
+difficulty; if they have a spiritual soul, where is it? We ain’t jest
+satisfied about its locality in ourselves. Is it in the heart, or the
+brain, or where does it hang out? We know geese have souls, and we know
+where to find them.”
+
+“Oh, oh!” said Cutler.
+
+“Cut off the legs and wings and breast of the goose,” sais I, “and
+split him down lengthways, and right agin the back-bone is small cells,
+and there is the goose’s soul, it’s black meat, pretty much nigger
+colour. Oh, it’s grand! It’s the most delicate part of the bird. It’s
+what I always ask for myself, when folks say, ‘Mr Slick, what part
+shall I help you to—a slice of the breast, a wing, a side-bone, or the
+deacon’s nose, or what?’ Everybody laughs at that last word, especially
+if there is a deacon at table, for it sounds unctious, as he calls it,
+and he can excuse a joke on it. So he laughs himself, in token of
+approbation of the tid-bits being reserved for him. ‘Give me the soul,’
+sais I; and this I will say, a most delicious thing it is, too. Now,
+don’t groan, Cutler—keep that for the tooth-ache, or a campmeetin’;
+it’s a waste of breath; for as we don’t exactly know where our own
+souls reside, what harm is there to pursue such an interesting
+investigation as to our black brethren. My private opinion is, if a
+nigger has one, it is located in his heel.”
+
+“Oh, _Mr_ Slick!” said he, “oh!” and he held up both hands.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “Cutler, just listen to reason now, just hear me; you
+have been all round the world, but never in it; now, I have been a
+great deal in it, but don’t care for goin’ round it. It don’t pay. Did
+you ever see a nigger who had the gout? for they feed on the best, and
+drink of the best, when they are household servants down south, and
+often have the gout. If you have, did you ever hear one say, ‘Get off
+my toes?’ No, never, nor any other created critter. They always say,
+‘Get off my heel.’ They are all like Lucy Long, ‘when her foot was in
+the market-house, her heel was in Main-street.’ It is the pride and
+boast of a darky. His head is as thick as a ram’s, but his heel is very
+sensi_tive._ Now, does the soul reside there? Did you ever study a dead
+nigger’s heel, as we do a horse’s frog. All the feeling of a horse is
+there. Wound that, and he never recovers; he is foundered—his heart is
+broke. Now, if a nigger has a soul, and it ain’t in his gizzard, and
+can’t in natur be in his skull, why, it stands to reason it must be in
+his heel.”
+
+“Oh, Mr Slick,” said Cutler, “I never thought I should have heard this
+from you. It’s downright profanity.”
+
+“It’s no such thing,” sais I, “it’s merely a philosophical
+investigation. Mr Cutler,” sais I, “let us understand each other. I
+have been brought up by a minister as well as you, and I believe your
+father, the clergyman at Barnstaple, was as good a man as ever lived;
+but Barnstaple is a small place. My dear old master, Mr Hopewell, was
+an old man who had seen a great deal in his time, and knew a great
+deal, for he had ‘gone through the mill.’”
+
+“What is that?” said he.
+
+“Why,” sais I, “when he was a boy, he was intended, like Washington,
+for a land-surveyor, and studied that branch of business, and was to go
+to the woods to lay out lots. Well, a day or two arter he was
+diplomatised as a surveyor, he went to bathe in a mill-pond, and the
+mill was a goin’ like all statiee, and sucked him into the flume, and
+he went through into the race below, and came out t’other side with
+both his legs broke. It was a dreadful accident, and gave him serious
+reflections, for as he lay in bed, he thought he might just as easily
+have broke his neck. Well, in our country about Slickville, any man
+arter that who was wise and had experience of life, was said to have
+‘gone through the mill.’ Do you take?”
+
+But he didn’t answer.
+
+“Well, your father and my good old friend brought us both up
+religiously, and I hope taught us what was right. But, _Mr_ Cutler—”
+
+“Don’t call me _Mr_,” said he.
+
+“Well, Cutler, then, I have been ‘through the mill,’ in that sense. I
+have acquired a knowledge of the world; if I havn’t, the kicks I have
+taken must have fallen on barren ground. I know the chalk line in life
+won’t do always to travel by. If you go straight a-head, a bottomless
+quag or a precipice will bring you up all standing as sure as fate.
+Well, they don’t stop me, for I give them the go-by, and make a level
+line without a tunnel, or tubular bridge, or any other scientific
+folly; I get to the end my own way—and it ain’t a slow one neither. Let
+me be, and put this in your pipe. I have set many a man straight before
+now, but I never put one on the wrong road since I was raised. I dare
+say you have heard I cheated in clocks—I never did. I have sold a
+fellow one for five pounds that cost me one; skill did that. Let him
+send to London, and get one of Barraud’s, as father did, for
+twenty-five pounds sterling. Will it keep better time? I guess not. Is
+that a case of sell? Well, my knowledge of horse-flesh ain’t to be
+sneezed at. I buy one for fifty dollars and sell him for two hundred;
+that’s skill again—it ain’t a cheat. A merchant, thinking a Russian war
+inevitable, buys flour at four dollars a barrel, and sells it in a
+month at sixteen. Is that a fraud? _There is roguery in all trades but
+our own._ Let me alone therefore. There is wisdom sometimes in a fool’s
+answer; the learned are simple, the ignorant wise; hear them both;
+above all, hear them out; and if they don’t talk with a looseness, draw
+them out. If Newman had talked as well as studied, he never would have
+quitted his church. He didn’t convince himself he was wrong; he
+bothered himself, so he didn’t at last know right from wrong. If other
+folks had talked freely, they would have met him on the road, and told
+him, ‘You have lost your way, old boy; there is a river a-head of you,
+and a very civil ferryman there; he will take you over free gratis for
+nothing; but the deuce a bit will he bring you back, there is an
+embargo that side of the water.’ Now let me alone; I don’t talk
+nonsense for nothing, and when you tack this way and that way, and beat
+the ‘Black Hawk’ up agen the wind, I won’t tell you you don’t steer
+right on end on a bee line, and go as straight as a loon’s leg. Do you
+take?”
+
+“I understand you,” he said, “but still I don’t see the use of saying
+what you don’t mean. Perhaps it’s my ignorance or prejudice, or
+whatever you choose to call it; but I dare say you know what you are
+about.”
+
+“Cutler,” sais I, “I warn’t born yesterday. The truth is, so much
+nonsense is talked about niggers, I feel riled when I think of it. It
+actilly makes me feel spotty on the back.1 When I was to London last, I
+was asked to attend a meetin’ for foundin’ a college for our coloured
+brethren. Uncle Tom had set some folks half crazy, and others half mad,
+and what he couldn’t do Aunt Harriet did. ‘Well,’ sais I to myself, ‘is
+this bunkum, or what in natur is it? If I go, I shall be set down as a
+spooney abolitionist; if I don’t go, I shall be set down as an overseer
+or nigger driver, and not a clockmaker. I can’t please nobody any way,
+and, what is wus, I don’t believe I shall please Mr Slick, no how I can
+fix it. Howsoever, I will go and see which way the mule kicks.’
+
+1 This extraordinary effect of anger and fear on animals was observed
+centuries before America was discovered. Statius, a writer who fully
+equals Mr Slick both in his affectation and bombast, thus alludes to
+it:—
+
+
+“Qualis ubi audito venantum murmure tigris,
+Horruit in maculas.”
+
+
+“As when the tigress hears the hunter’s din,
+Dark angry spots distain her glossy skin.”
+
+
+“Well, Lord Blotherumskite jumps up, and makes a speech; and what do
+you think he set about proving? Why, that darkies had immortal souls—as
+if any created critter ever doubted it! and he pitched into us Yankees
+and the poor colonists like a thousand of bricks. The fact is, the way
+he painted us both out, one would think he doubted whether _we_ had any
+souls. The pious galls turned up the whites of their eyes like ducks in
+thunder, as if they expected drakes to fall from the skies, and the low
+church folks called out, ‘Hear, hear,’ as if he had discovered the
+passage at the North Pole, which I do think might be made of some use
+if it warn’t blocked up with ice for everlastingly. And he talked of
+that great big he-nigger, Uncle Tom Lavender, who was as large as a
+bull buffalo. He said he only wished he was in the House of Peers, for
+he would have astonished their lordships. Well, so far he was correct,
+for if he had been in their hot room, I think Master Lavender would
+have astonished their weak nerves so, not many would have waited to be
+counted. There would soon have been a _dispersion_, but there never
+would have been a _division_.”
+
+“Well, what did you do?” said Cutler.
+
+“Kept my word,” sais I, “as I always do. I seconded the motion, but I
+gave them a dose of common sense, as a foundation to build upon. I told
+them niggers must be prepared for liberty, and when they were
+sufficiently instructed to receive and appreciate the blessing, they
+must have elementary knowledge, furst in religion, and then in the
+useful arts, before a college should be attempted, and so on, and then
+took up my hat and walked out. Well, they almost hissed me, and the
+sour virgins who bottled up all their humanity to pour out on the
+niggers, actilly pointed at me, and called me a Yankee Pussyite. I had
+some capital stories to excite ’em with, but I didn’t think they were
+worth the powder and shot. It takes a great many strange people,
+Cutler,” sais I, “to make a world. I used to like to put the leak into
+folks wunst, but I have given it up in disgust now.”
+
+“Why?” sais he.
+
+“Because,” sais I, “if you put a leak into a cask that hain’t got much
+in it, the grounds and settlin’s won’t pay for the trouble. Our people
+talk a great deal of nonsense about emancipation, but they know it’s
+all bunkum, and it serves to palmeteer on, and makes a pretty party
+catch-word. But in England, it appears to me, they always like what
+they don’t understand, as niggers do Latin and Greek quotations in
+sermons. But here is Sorrow. I suppose tea is ready, as the old ladies
+say. Come, old boy,” sais I to Cutler, “shake hands; we have the same
+object in view, but sometimes we travel by different trains, that’s
+all. Come, let us go below. Ah, Sorrow,” sais I, “something smells good
+here; is it a moose steak? Take off that dish-cover.”
+
+“Ah, Massa,” said he, as he removed it, “dat are is lubbly, dat are a
+fac.”
+
+When I looked at it, I said very gravely—
+
+“Take it away, Sorrow, I can’t eat it; you have put the salt and pepper
+on it before you broiled it, and drawn out all the juice. It’s as dry
+as leather. Take it away.”
+
+“Does you tink it would be a little more better if it was a little more
+doner, Sar? People of ‘finement, like you and me, sometime differ in
+tastes. But, Massa, as to de salt, now how you talks! does you railly
+tink dis here niggar hab no more sense den one ob dees stupid white
+fishermen has? No, Massa; dis child knows his work, and is de boy to do
+it, too. When de steak is een amost done, he score him lengthway—dis
+way,” passing a finger of his right hand over the palm of the left,
+“and fill up de crack wid salt an pepper, den gub him one turn more,
+and dat resolve it all beautiful. Oh no, Massa, moose meat is naterally
+werry dry, like Yankee preacher when he got no baccy. So I makes graby
+for him. Oh, here is some lubbly graby! Try dis, Massa. My old missus
+in Varginy was werry ticular about her graby. She usen to say, ‘Sorrow,
+it tante fine clothes makes de gentleman, but a delicate taste for
+soups, and grabys, and currys. Barbacues, roast pigs, salt meat, and
+such coarse tings, is only fit for Congress men.’ I kirsait my graby,
+Massa, is done to de turn ob a hair, for dis child is a rambitious
+niggar. Fust, Massa, I puts in a lump ob butter bout size ob peace ob
+chalk, and a glass ob water, and den prinkle in flour to make it look
+like milk, den put him on fire, and when he hiss, stir him wid spoon to
+make him hush; den I adds inion, dat is fust biled to take off de trong
+taste, eetle made mustard, and a pinch ob most elegant super-superor
+yellow snuff.”
+
+“Snuff, you rascal!” said I, “how dare you? Take it away—throw it
+overboard! Oh, Lord! to think of eating snuff! Was there ever anything
+half so horrid since the world began? Sorrow, I thought you had better
+broughtens up.”
+
+“Well, now, Massa,” said he, “does you tink dis niggar hab no soul?”
+and he went to the locker, and brought out a small square pint bottle,
+and said, “Smell dat, Massa; dat are oliriferous, dat are a fac.”
+
+“Why, that’s curry-powder,” I said; “why don’t you call things by their
+right name?”
+
+“Massa,” said he, with a knowing wink, “_dere it more snuff den is made
+of baccy, dat are an undoubtable fac_. De scent ob dat is so good, I
+can smell it ashore amost. Den, Massa, when graby is all ready, and
+distrained beautiful, dis child warms him up by de fire and stirs him;
+but,” and he put his finger on his nose, and looked me full in the
+face, and paused, “but, Massa, it must be stir all de one way, or it
+iles up, and de debbil hisself won’t put him right no more.”
+
+“Sorrow,” sais I, “you don’t know nothin’ about your business. Suppose
+it did get iled up, any fool could set it right in a minute.”
+
+“Yes, yes, Massa,” he said, “I know. I ab done it myself often—drink it
+all up, and make it ober again, until all right wunst more; sometimes I
+drink him up de matter ob two or tree times before he get quite right.”
+
+“No,” sais I, “take it off the fire, add two spoonsful of cold water,
+heat it again, and stir it the right way, and it is as straight as a
+boot-jack.”
+
+“Well, Massa,” said he, and showed an unusual quantity of white in his
+eyes, “well, Massa, you is actilly right. My ole missus taught me dat
+secret herself, and I did actilly tink no libbin’ soul but me and she
+in de whole univarsal United States did know dat are, for I take my oat
+on my last will and testament, I nebber tole nobody. But, Massa,” said
+he, “I ab twenty different ways—ay, fifty different ways, to make
+graby; but, at sea, one must do de best he can with nottin’ to do with,
+and when nottin’ is simmered a week in nottin’ by de fire, it ain’t
+nottin’ of a job to sarve him up. Massa, if you will scuze me, I will
+tell you what dis here niggar tinks on de subject ob his perfession.
+Some grand folks, like missus, and de Queen ob England and de Emperor
+ob Roosia, may be fust chop cooks, and I won’t deny de fac; and no
+tanks to ’em, for dere saucepans is all silber and gold; but I have
+‘skivered dey don’t know nuffin’ about de right way to eat tings after
+dey has gone done ’em. Me and Miss Phillesy Anne, de two confdential
+sarvants, allers had de dinner sent into our room when missus done gone
+feedin’. Missus was werry kind to us, and we nebber stinted her in
+nuffin’. I allers gib her one bottle wine and ‘no-he-no’ (noyeau) more
+den was possible for her and her company to want, and in course good
+conduct is allers rewarded, cause we had what was left. Well, me and
+Miss Phillis used to dress up hansum for dinner to set good sample to
+niggars, and two ob de coloured waiters tended on us.
+
+“So one day, said Miss Phillis to me: ‘What shall I ab de honor to help
+yaw to, Mr Sorrow?’
+
+“‘Aunt Phillis,’ sais I, ‘skuse me one minit, I ab made a grand
+‘skivery.’
+
+“‘What is dat, uncle,’ sais she, ‘you is so clebber! I clare you is
+wort your weight in gold. What in natur would our dear missus do widout
+you and me? for it was me ‘skivered how to cure de pip in chickens, and
+make de eggs all hatch out, roosters or hens; and how to souse young
+turkeys like young children in cold water to prevent staggers, but what
+is your wention, Mr Sorrow?’
+
+“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘aunty, skuse me one half second. What does you see out
+ob dat winder, Sambo? you imperent rascal.’
+
+“‘Nuffin’, Sar.’
+
+“‘Well, you black niggar, if you stare bout dat way, you will see
+yourself flogged next time. If you ab no manners, I must teach you for
+de credit ob de plantation; hold a plate to Miss Phillis right away.
+Why, aunty,’ sais I, ‘dis is de ‘skivery; _a house must have solid
+foundation, but a dinner a soft one_—on count ob disgestion; so I
+begins wid custard and jelly (dey tastes werry well together, and are
+light on de stomac), den I takes a glass ob whisky to keep ’em from
+turnin’ sour; dat is de first step. Sambo, pour me out some. Second one
+is presarves, ices, fruits—strawberry and cream, or mustache churnings
+(pistachio cream) and if dey is skilful stowed, den de cargo don’t
+shift under de hatches—arter dat comes punkin pie, pineapple tarts, and
+raspberry Charlotte.’
+
+“‘Mr Sorrow,’ sais aunty, ‘I is actilly ashamed ob you to name a dish
+arter a yaller gall dat way, and call it Charlotte; it’s ondecent,
+specially afore dese niggars.’
+
+“‘Law sakes,’ sais I, ‘Miss Phillis, does you tink I ab no sense; I
+hate a yaller gall as I do pyson.’
+
+“‘So does I,’ said she, ‘dey is neither chalk nor cheese; dey is a
+disgrace to de plantation dey is on; but raspberry Charlotte is a name
+I nebber heard tell ob for a dish.”
+
+“‘Why, how you talks,’ sais I. ‘Well, den is de time for fish, such as
+stewed rocks.’
+
+“‘Now you is a funnin’,’ sais aunty, ‘isn’t you? how on airth do you
+stew rocks? yah! yah! yah!’
+
+“‘Easy as kiss my hand to you,’ sais I, ‘and if dere be no fish (and
+dat white Yankee oberseer is so cussed lazy bout catchin’ of dem, I
+must struct missus to discharge him). Den dere is two nice little
+genteel dishes, ‘birds in de grobe,’ and ‘plover on de shore,’ and den
+top off wid soup; and I ain’t particular about dat, so long as I ab de
+best; and dat, Miss Phillis, makes a grand soft bed, you see, for
+stantials like beef or mutton, or ham, or venson, to lay down easy on.’
+
+“‘Well, you is a wonderful man, Mr Sorrow,’ sais Miss Phillis, ‘I do
+really tink dat stands to reason and experience. When I married my fiff
+husband—no, it warn’t my fiff, it was my sixth—I had lubly baby tree
+month old, and my old man killed it maken speriments. He would give it
+soup and minced veal to make it trong. Sais I, ‘Mr Caesar, dat ain’t
+natur; fust you know it must ab milk, den pap, and so on in order.’
+Sais he, ‘I allus feeds master’s young bull-dogs on raw meat.’ Well,
+Caesar died dat same identical night child did (and she gub me a wink);
+‘sunthen disagreed wid him also that _he_ eat.’ (‘Oh Massa,’ he
+continued, ‘_bears dat ab cubs and women dat ab childern is
+dangerous_.) ‘Mr Sorrow,’ said she, ‘dat is a great ‘skivery of yourn;
+you’d best tell missus.’
+
+“‘I is most afeard she is too much a slave to fashion,’ sais I.
+
+“‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘you mustn’t say dat ob dear Miss Lunn, or I must
+decline de onor to dine wid you. It ain’t spectful. Mr Sorrow, my
+missus ain’t de slave ob fashion—she sets it, by golly!’ and she stood
+up quite dignant.
+
+“‘Sambo, clar out ob dis dinin’ room quick stick,’ sais I to de waiter;
+‘you is so fond ob lookin’ out on de field, you shall go work dere, you
+lazy hound; walk out ob de room dis minit; when I has finished my
+dinner, I will make you jine de labor gang. Miss Phillis, do resume
+your seat agin, you is right as you allus is; shall I ab de honour to
+take glass ob wine wid you?’
+
+“Now, Massa, try dat ‘skivery; you will be able to eat tree times as
+much as you do now. Arter dat invention, I used to enjoy my sleep
+grand. I went into de hottest place in de sun, laid up my face to him,
+and sleep like a cedar stump, but den I allus put my veil on.”
+
+“To keep the flies off?” said I.
+
+“Lordy gracious! no, master, dey nebber trouble me; dey is afraid in de
+dark, and when dey see me, dey tink it is night, and cut off.”
+
+“What is the use of it, then?”
+
+“To save my complexion, Massa; I is afraid it will fade white. Yah,
+yah, yah!”
+
+While we were engaged in eating our steak, he put some glasses on the
+table and handed me a black bottle, about two-thirds full, and said,
+“Massa, dis here fog ab got down my troat, and up into my head, and
+most kill me, I can’t tell wedder dat is wine or rum, I is almost clean
+gwine distracted. Will Massa please to tell me?”
+
+I knew what he was at, so sais I, “If you can’t smell it, taste it.”
+Well, he poured a glass so full, nobody but a nigger could have reached
+his mouth with it without spilling. When he had swallowed it he looked
+still more puzzled.
+
+“Peers to me,” he said, “dat is wine, he is so mild, and den it peers
+to me it’s rum, for when it gets down to de stomach he feel so good.
+But dis child ab lost his taste, his smell, and his finement,
+altogedder.”
+
+He then poured out another bumper, and as soon as he had tossed it off,
+said, “Dat is de clear grit; dat is oleriferous—wake de dead amost, it
+is de genuine piticular old Jamaicky, and no mistake. I must put dat
+bottle back and give you todder one, dat must be wine for sartain, for
+it is chock full, but rum vaporates bery fast when de cork is drawn.
+Missus used to say, ‘Sorrow, meat, when kept, comes bery _high_, but
+rum gets bery _low_.’”
+
+“Happy fellow and lucky fellow too, for what white man in your
+situation would be treated so kindly and familiarly as you are? The
+fact is, Doctor, the negroes of America, as a class, whether slaves or
+free men, experience more real consideration, and are more comfortable,
+than the peasants of almost any country in Europe. Their notions of the
+origin of white men are very droll, when the things are removed I will
+make him give you his idea on the subject.
+
+“Sorrow,” said I, “what colour was Adam and Eve?”
+
+“Oh, Massa,” said he, “don’t go for to ask dis child what you knows
+yourself better nor what he does. I will tell you some oder time, I is
+bery poorly just now, dis uncountable fog ab got into my bones. Dis is
+shocking bad country for niggars; oh, dere is nuffin’ like de lubbly
+sout; it’s a nateral home for blackies.
+
+‘In Souf Carolina de niggars grow
+If de white man will only plant his toe,
+Den dey water de ground wid baccy smoke,
+And out ob de soil dere heads will poke.
+    Ring de hoop, blow de horn,
+    I nebber see de like since I was born,
+    Way down in de counte-ree,
+    Four or five mile from de ole Peedee.’
+
+
+“Oh, Massa, dis coast is only fit for seals, porpoises, and dog-fish,
+but not for gentleman, nor niggars, nor ladies. Oh, I berry bad,” and
+he pressed both hands on his stomach as if he was in great pain.
+
+“Perhaps another glass of old Jamaica would set you right,” I said.
+
+“Massa, what a most a grand doctor you would ab made,” he said. “Yah,
+yah, yah—you know de wery identical medicine for de wery identical
+disease, don’t you? dat is just what natur was callin’ for eber so
+bad.”
+
+“Natur,” sais I, “what’s that, spell it.”
+
+“R-u-m,” said he, “dat is human natur, and whiskey is soft sawder, it
+tickle de troat so nice and go down so slick. Dem is de names my old
+missus used to gib ’em. Oh, how she would a lubb’d you, if you had
+spunked up to her and tied up to our plantation; she didn’t fection
+Yankees much, for dem and dead niggars is too cold to sleep with, and
+cunnuchs (Canadians) she hated like pison, cause they ‘ticed off
+niggars; but she’d a took to you naterally, you is such a good cook. I
+always tink, Massa, when folks take to eatin’ same breakfast, same
+lunch, same dinner, same tea, same supper, drinkin’ same soup, lubbin’
+same graby, and fectioning same preserves and pickles, and cakes and
+pies, and wine, and cordials, and ice-creams, den dey plaguy soon begin
+to rambition one anodder, and when dey do dat, dey is sure to say,
+‘Sorrow, does you know how to make weddin’ cake, and frost him, and set
+him off partikelar jam, wid wices of all kinds, little koopids, and
+cocks and hens, and bales of cotton, figs of baccy, and ears of corn,
+and all sorts of pretty things done in clarfied sugar. It do seem
+nateral to me, for when our young niggars go sparkin’ and spendin’
+evenings, dey most commonly marries. It stand to reason. But, Massa, I
+is bery bad indeed wid dis dreadful pain in my infernal parts—I is
+indeed. Oh,” said he, smackin’ his lips, and drainin’ his glass, “dat
+is def to a white man, but life to a niggar; dat is sublime. What a
+pity it is though dey make de glasses so almighty tunderin’ small; de
+man dat inwented dem couldn’t a had no remaginable nose at all, dat are
+a fac.”
+
+“But the colour of Adam?” said I.
+
+“Oh, Massa,” he said, “you knows bery well he was a black gentleman,
+and Missus Eve a most splendid Swanga black lady. Oh yes, Massa, dey
+were made black to enjoy de grand warm sun. Well, Cain was a wicked
+man, cause he killed his brudder. So de Lord say to him one day, ‘Cain,
+where is your brudder?’ ‘I don’t know, Massa,’ said he, ‘I didn’t see
+him nowhere.’ Well, de next time he asked him de sef-same question, and
+he answered quite sarcy, ‘How in de world does I know,’ sais he, ‘I
+ain’t my brudder’s keeper.’ Well, afore he know’d where he was, de Lord
+said to him, in a voice of tunder, ‘You murdered him, you villain!’ And
+Cain, he was so scared, he turned white dat very instant. He nebber
+could stand heat, nor enjoy summer no more again, nor none ob his
+childer arter him, but Abel’s children remain black to dis day. Fac,
+Massa, fac, I does assure you. When you like supper, Massa?”
+
+“At ten o’clock,” sais I.
+
+“Well, den, I will go and get sunthen nice for you. Oh! my ole missus
+was a lubbly cook; I don’t believe in my heart de Queen ob England
+could hold a candle to her! she knowed twenty-two and a half ways to
+cook Indian corn, and ten or twelve ob ’em she inwented herself dat was
+de stonishment ob ebbery one.”
+
+“Half a way,” I said, “what do you mean by that?”
+
+“Why, Massa, de common slommachy way people ab ob boiling it on de cob;
+dat she said was only half a way. Oh, Lordy gracious, one way she
+wented, de corn was as white as snow, as light as puff, and so delicate
+it disgested itself in de mout.”
+
+“You can go,” said Cutler.
+
+“Tankee, Massa,” said Sorrow, with a mingled air of submission and fun,
+as much as to say, “I guess I don’t want leave for that, anyhow, but I
+thank you all the same as if I did,” and making a scrape of his
+hind-leg, he retired.
+
+“Slick,” said Cutler, “it isn’t right to allow that nigger to swallow
+so much rum! How can one wonder at their degradation, when a man like
+you permits them to drink in that manner?”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “you think and talk like all abolitionists, as my
+old friend Colonel Crockett used to say, the Yankees always do. He
+said, ‘When they sent them to pick their cherries, they made them
+whistle all the time, so that they couldn’t eat any.’ I understand
+blacks better than you do. Lock up your liquor and they will steal it,
+for their moral perceptions are weak. Trust them, and teach them to
+use, and not abuse it. Do that, and they will be grateful, and prove
+themselves trustworthy. That fellow’s drinking is more for the fun of
+the thing than the love of liquor. Negroes are not drunkards. They are
+droll boys; but, Cutler, long before thrashing machines were invented,
+there was a command, ‘not to muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.’
+Put that in your pipe, my boy, the next time you prepare your
+Kinnikennic for smoking, will you?”
+
+“‘Kinnikennic,’” said the doctor, “what under the sun is that?”
+
+“A composition,” sais I, “of dry leaves of certain aromatic plants and
+barks of various kinds of trees, an excellent substitute for tobacco,
+but when mixed with it, something super-superior. If we can get into
+the woods, I will show you how to prepare it; but, Doctor,” sais I, “I
+build no theories on the subject of the Africans; I leave their
+construction to other and wiser men than myself. Here is a sample of
+the raw material, can it be manufactured into civilization of a high
+order? Q stands for query, don’t it? Well, all I shall do is to put a Q
+to it, and let politicians answer it; but I can’t help thinking there
+is some truth in the old saw, ‘_Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to
+be wise_.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV.
+FEMALE COLLEGES.
+
+
+After Sorrow had retired, we lighted our cigars, and turned to for a
+chat, if chat it can be called one, where I did most of the talking
+myself.
+
+“Doctor,” said I, “I wish I had had more time to have examined your
+collection of minerals. I had no idea Nova Scotia could boast of such
+an infinite variety of them. You could have taught me more in
+conversation in five minutes than I could have learned by books in a
+month. You are a mineralogist, and I am sorry to say I ain’t, though
+every boarding-school miss now-a-days in our country consaits she is.
+They are up to _trap_ at any rate, if nothing else, you may depend,”
+and I gave him a wink.
+
+“Now don’t, Slick,” said he, “now don’t set me off, that’s a good
+fellow.”
+
+“‘Mr Slick,’ said a young lady of about twelve years of age to me
+wunst, ‘do you know what gray wackey is? for I do.’
+
+“‘Don’t I,’ sais I; ‘I know it to my cost. Lord! how my old master used
+to lay it on!’
+
+“‘Lay it on!’ she said, ‘I thought it reposed on a primitive bed.’
+
+“‘No it don’t,’ said I. ‘And if anybody knows what gray wackey is, I
+ought; but I don’t find it so easy to repose after it as you may.
+_Gray_ means the gray birch rod, dear, and _wackey_ means layin’ it on.
+We always called it gray whackey in school, when a feller was catching
+particular Moses.’
+
+“‘Why, how ignorant you are!’ said she. ‘Do you know what them mining
+tarms, _clinch, parting,_ and _black bat_ means?’
+
+“‘Why, in course I do!’ sais I; ‘clinch is _marrying,_ parting is
+getting _divorced,_ and black bat is where a fellow _beats_ his wife
+black and blue.”
+
+“‘Pooh!’ said she, ‘you don’t know nothing.’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘what do you know?’
+
+“‘Why,’ said she, ‘I know Spanish and mathematics, ichthiology and
+conchology, astronomy and dancing, mineralogy and animal magnetism, and
+German and chemistry, and French and botany. Yes, and the use of the
+globes too. Can you tell me what attraction and repulsion is?’
+
+“‘To be sure I can,’ said I, and I drew her on my knee and kissed her.
+‘That’s attraction, dear.’ And when she kicked and screamed as cross as
+two cats, ‘that, my pretty one,’ I said, ‘is repulsion. Now I know a
+great many things you don’t. Can you hem a pocket-handkerchief?’
+
+“‘No.’
+
+“‘Nor make a pudding?’
+
+“‘No.’
+
+“‘Nor make Kentucky batter?’
+
+“‘No.’
+
+“‘Well, do you know any useful thing in life?’
+
+“‘Yes, I do; I can sing, and play on the piano, and write valentines,’
+sais she, ‘so get out.’ And she walked away, quite dignified, muttering
+to herself, ‘Make a pudding, eh! well, I _want to know!’_
+
+“Thinks I to myself, my pretty little may-flower, in this everlastin’
+progressive nation of ourn, where the wheel of fortune never stops
+turning day or night, and them that’s at the top one minute are down in
+the dirt the next, you may say, “‘I _want_ to know’ before you die, and
+be very glad to change your tune, and say, ‘Thank heaven I _do_ know!’”
+
+“Is that a joke of yours,” said the doctor, “about the young girl’s
+geology, or is it really a fact?”
+
+“Fact, I assure you,” said I. “And to prove it I’ll tell you a story
+about a Female College that will show you what pains we take to spoil
+our young ladies to home. Miss Liddy Adams, who was proprietor and
+‘dentess (presidentess) of a Female College to Onionville, was a
+relation of mother’s, and I knew her when she was quite a young shoat
+of a thing to Slickville. I shall never forget a flight into Egypt I
+caused once in her establishment. When I returned from the embassy, I
+stopped a day in Onionville, near her university—for that was the name
+she gave hern; and thinks I, I will just call and look in on Lid for
+old acquaintance’ sake, and see how she is figuring it out in life.
+Well, I raps away with the knocker as loud as possible, as much as to
+say, Make haste, for there is somebody here, when a tall spare gall
+with a vinegar face opened the door just wide enough to show her
+profile, and hide her back gear, and stood to hear what I had to say. I
+never see so spare a gall since I was raised. Pharaoh’s lean kine
+warn’t the smallest part of a circumstance to her. She was so thin, she
+actilly seemed as if she would have to lean agin the wall to support
+herself when she scolded, and I had to look twice at her before I could
+see her at all, for I warn’t sure _she warn’t her own shadow_.”
+
+“Good gracious!” said the doctor, “what a description! but go on.”
+
+“‘Is the mistress to home?’ said I.
+
+“‘I have no mistress,’ said she.
+
+“‘I didn’t say you had,’ sais I, ‘for I knew you hadn’t afore you
+spoke.’
+
+“‘How did you know that?’ said she.
+
+“‘Because,’ sais I, ‘seein’ so handsome a lady as you, I thought you
+was one of the professors; and then I thought you must be the mistress
+herself, and was a thinking how likely she had grow’d since I seed her
+last. Are you one of the class-teachers?’
+
+“It bothered her; she didn’t know whether it was impudence or
+admiration; _but when a woman arbitrates on a case she is interested
+in, she always gives an award in her own favour._
+
+“‘Walk in, Sir,’ said she, ‘and I will see,’ and she backed and backed
+before me, not out of deference to me, but to the onfastened hooks of
+her gown, and threw a door open. On the opposite side was a large room
+filled with galls, peeping and looking over each other’s shoulders at
+me, for it was intermission.
+
+“‘Are these your pupils?’ sais I; and before she could speak, I went
+right past into the midst of ’em. Oh, what a scuddin’ and screamin’
+there was among them! A rocket explodin’ there couldn’t a done more
+mischief. They tumbled over chairs, upsot tables, and went head and
+heels over each other like anything, shouting out, ‘A man! a man!’
+
+“‘Where—where?’ sais I, a chasin’ of them, ‘show him to me, and I’ll
+soon clear him out. What is he a doing of?’
+
+“It was the greatest fun you ever see. Out they flew through the door
+at the other eend of the room, some up and some down-stairs, singing
+out, ‘A man! a man!’ till I thought they would have hallooed their
+daylights out. Away I flew after them, calling out, ‘Where is he? show
+him to me, and I’ll soon pitch into him!’ when who should I see but
+Miss Liddy in the entry, as stiff and as starch as a stand-up shirt
+collar of a frosty day. She looked like a large pale icicle, standing
+up on its broad end, and cold enough to give you the ague to look at
+her.
+
+“‘Mr Slick,’ said she, ‘may I ask what is the meaning of all this
+unseemly behaviour in the presence of young ladies of the first
+families in the State?’
+
+“Says I, ‘_Miss_ Adam,’ for as she used the word _Mr_ as a handle to
+me, I thought I’de take a pull at the _Miss_,’ some robber or
+housebreaker has got in, I rather think, and scared the young
+femi_nine_ gender students, for they seemed to be running after
+somebody, and I thought I would assist them.’
+
+“‘May I ask, Sir,’ a drawin’ of herself up to her full height, as
+straight and as prim as a Lombardy poplar, or rather, a bull-rush, for
+that’s all one size. ‘May I ask, Sir, what is the object of your visit
+here—at a place where no gentlemen are received but the parents or
+guardians of some of the children.’
+
+“I was as mad as a hatter; I felt a little bit vain of the embassy to
+London, and my Paris dress, particularly my boots and gloves, and all
+that, and I will admit, there is no use talkin’, I rather kinder sorter
+thought she would be proud of the connection. I am a good-natured man
+in a general way when I am pleased, but it ain’t safe to ryle me, I
+tell you. When I am spotty on the back, I am dangerous. I bit in my
+breath, and tried to look cool, for I was determined to take revenge
+out of her.
+
+“‘Allow me to say, Sir,’ said she, a perkin’ up her mouth like the end
+of a silk purse, ‘that I think your intrusion is as unwelcome as it is
+unpardonable. May I ask the favour of you to withdraw? if not, I must
+introduce you to the watchman.’
+
+“‘I came,’ sais I, ‘Miss Adam, having heard of your distinguished
+college in the saloons of Paris and London, to make a proposal to you;
+but, like a bull—’
+
+“‘Oh dear!’ said she, ‘to think I should have lived to hear such a
+horrid word, in this abode of learning!’
+
+“‘But,’ I went on without stopping, ‘like a bull in a chiny-shop, I see
+I have got into the wrong pew; so nothin’ remains for me but to beg
+pardon, keep my proposal for where it will be civilly received, at
+least, and back out.’
+
+“She was as puzzled as the maid. But women ain’t throwed off their
+guard easily. If they are in a dark place, they can feel their way out,
+if they can’t see it. So says she, dubious like:
+
+“‘About a child, I suppose?’
+
+“‘It is customary in Europe,’ sais I, ‘I believe, to talk about the
+marriage first, isn’t it? but I have been so much abroad, I am not
+certified as to usages here.’
+
+“Oh, warn’t she brought to a hack! She had a great mind to order me
+out, but then that word ‘proposal’ was one she had only seen in a
+dictionary—she had never heard it; and it is such a pretty one, and
+sounded so nice to the ear; and then that word ‘marriage’ was used
+also, so it carried the day.
+
+“‘This is not a place, Mr Slick, for foundlings, I’de have you to
+know,’ she said, with an air of disgust, ‘but children whose parents
+are of the first class of society. If,’ and she paused and looked at me
+scrutinisin’, ‘if your proposals are of _that_ nature, walk in here,
+Sir, if you please, where our conversation will not be over-heard. Pray
+be seated. May I ask, what is the nature of the proposition with which
+you design to honour me?’ and she gave me a smile that would pass for
+one of graciousness and sweet temper, or of encouragement. It hadn’t a
+decided character, and was a non-committal one. She was doin’ quite the
+lady, but I consaited her ear was itching to hear what I had to say,
+for she put a finger up, with a beautiful diamond ring on it, and
+brushed a fly off with it; but, after all, perhaps it was only to show
+her lily-white hand, which merely wanted a run at grass on the
+after-feed to fatten it up, and make it look quite beautiful.
+
+“‘Certainly,’ sais I, ‘you may ask any question of the kind you like.’
+
+“It took her aback, for she requested leave to ask, and I granted it;
+but she meant it different.
+
+“Thinks I, ‘My pretty grammarian, there is a little grain of difference
+between, ‘May I ask,’ and, ‘I must ask.’ Try it again.’
+
+“She didn’t speak for a minute; so to relieve her, sais I:
+
+“‘When I look round here, and see how charmingly you are located, and
+what your occupation is, I hardly think you would feel disposed to
+leave it; so perhaps I may as well forbear the proposal, as it isn’t
+pleasant to be refused.’
+
+“‘It depends,’ she said, ‘upon what the nature of those proposals are,
+Mr Slick, and who makes them,’ and this time she did give a look of
+great complacency and kindness. ‘Do put down your hat, Sir. I have read
+your Clockmaker,’ she continued; ‘I really feel quite proud of the
+relationship; but I hope you will excuse me for asking, Why did you put
+your own name to it, and call it ‘Sam Slick the Clockmaker,’ now that
+you are a distinguished diplomatist, and a member of our embassy at the
+court of Victoria the First? It’s not an elegant appellation that, of
+Clockmaker,’ sais she, ‘is it?’ (She had found her tongue now.) ‘Sam
+Slick the Clockmaker, a factorist of wooden clocks especially, sounds
+trady, and will impede the rise of a colossal reputation, which has
+already one foot in the St Lawrence, and the other in the Mississippi.’
+
+“‘And sneezes in the Chesapeake,’ sais I.
+
+“‘Oh,’ said she, in the blandest manner, ‘how like you, Mr Slick! you
+don’t spare a joke even on yourself. You see fun in everything.’
+
+“‘Better,’ sais I, ‘than seeing harm in everything, as them galls—’
+
+“‘Young ladies,’ said she.
+
+“‘Well, young ladies, who saw harm in me because I was a man. What harm
+is there in their seeing a man? You ain’t frightened at one, are you,
+Liddy?’
+
+“She evaded that with a smile, as much as to say, ‘Well, I ain’t much
+skeered, that’s a fact.’
+
+“‘Mr Slick, it is a subject not worth while pursuing,’ she replied.
+‘You know the sensi_tive_ness, nervous delicacy, and scrupulous
+innocence of the fair sex in this country, and I may speak plainly to
+you as a man of the world. You must perceive how destructive of all
+modesty in their juvenile minds, when impressions are so easily made,
+it would be to familiarise their youthful eyes to the larger limbs of
+gentlemen enveloped in pantaloons. To speak plainly, I am sure I
+needn’t tell you it ain’t decent.’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘it wouldn’t be decent if they wern’t enveloped in
+them.’
+
+“She looked down to blush, but it didn’t come natural, so she looked up
+and smiled (as much as to say, do get out you impudent critter. I know
+its bunkum as well as you do, but don’t bother me. I have a part to
+play.) Then she rose and looked at her watch, and said the lecture hour
+for botany has come.
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, a taking up my hat, ‘that’s a charming study, the
+loves of the plants, for young ladies, ain’t it? they begin with natur,
+you see, and—(well, she couldn’t help laughing). ‘But I see you are
+engaged.’
+
+“‘Me,’ said she, ‘I assure you, Sir, I know people used to say so,
+afore General Peleg Smith went to Texas.’
+
+“‘What that scallawag,’ said I. ‘Why, that fellow ought to be kicked
+out of all refined society. How could you associate with a man who had
+no more decency than to expect folks to call him by name!’
+
+“‘How?’ said she.
+
+“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘what delicate-minded woman could ever bring herself to
+say Pe-_leg._ If he had called himself Hujacious Smith, or Larger-limb
+Smith, or something of that kind, it would have done, but Pe_leg_ is
+downright ondecent. I had to leave Boston wunst a whole winter, for
+making a mistake of that kind. I met Miss Sperm one day from Nantucket,
+and says I, ‘Did you see me yesterday, with those two elegant galls
+from Albany?’
+
+“‘No,’ said she, ‘I didn’t.’
+
+“‘Strange, too,’ said I, ‘for I was most sure I caught a glimpse of
+you, on the other side of the street, and I wanted to introduce you to
+them, but warn’t quite sartain it was you. My,’ sais I, ‘didn’t you see
+a very _unfashionable_ dressed man’ (and I looked down at my Paris
+boots, as if I was doing modest), ‘with two angeliferous females? Why,
+I had a _leg_ on each arm.’
+
+“She fairly screamed out at that expression, rushed into a milliner’s
+shop, and cried like a gardner’s watering-pot. The names she called me
+ain’t no matter. They were the two Miss Legges of Albany, and cut a
+tall swarth, I tell you, for they say they are descended from a govenor
+of Nova Scotia, when good men, according to their tell, could be found
+for govenors, and that their relations in England are some pumpkins,
+too. I was as innocent as a child, Letty.’
+
+“‘Well,’ said she, ‘you are the most difficult man to understand I ever
+see—there is no telling whether you are in fun or in earnest. But as I
+was a saying, there was some such talk afore General Smith went to
+Texas; but that story was raised by the Pawtaxet College folks, to
+injure this institution. They did all they could to tear my reputation
+to chitlins. Me engaged, I should like to see the man that—’
+
+“‘Well, you seemed plaguey scared at one just now,’ sais I. ‘I am sure
+it was a strange way to show you would like to see a man.’
+
+“‘I didn’t say that,’ she replied, ‘but you take one up so quick.’
+
+“‘It’s a way I have,’ said I, ‘and always had, since you and I was to
+singing-school together, and larnt sharps, flats, and naturals. It was
+a crotchet of mine,’ and I just whipped my arm round her waist, took
+her up and kissed her afore she knowed where she was. Oh Lordy! Out
+came her comb, and down fell her hair to her waist, like a mill-dam
+broke loose; and two false curls and a braid fell on the floor, and her
+frill took to dancin’ round, and got wrong side afore, and one of her
+shoes slipt off, and she really looked as if she had been in an
+indgian-scrimmage and was ready for scalpin’.
+
+“‘Then you ain’t engaged, Liddy,’ sais I; ‘how glad I am to hear that,
+it makes my heart jump, and cherries is ripe now, and I will help you
+up into the tree, as I used to did when you and I was boy and gall
+together. It does seem so nateral, Liddy, to have a game of romps with
+you again; it makes me feel as young as a two-year-old. How beautiful
+you do look, too! My, what a pity you is shut up here, with these young
+galls all day, talking by the yard about the corrallas, calyxes, and
+staminas of flowers, while you
+
+“‘Are doom’d to blush unseen,
+And waste your sweetness on the desert air.’
+
+
+“‘Oh,’ said she, ‘Sam, I must cut and run, and ‘blush unseen,’ that’s a
+fact, or I’m ruinated,’ and she up curls, comb, braid, and shoe, and
+off like a shot into a bed-room that adjoined the parlour, and bolted
+the door, and double-locked it, as if she was afraid an attachment was
+to be levied on her and her chattels, by the sheriff, and I was a
+bum-bailiff.
+
+“Thinks I, old gall, I’ll pay you off for treating me the way you did
+just now, as sure as the world. ‘May I ask, Mr Slick, what is the
+object of this visit?’ A pretty way to receive a cousin that you
+haven’t seen so long, ain’t it? and though I say it that shouldn’t say
+it, that cousin, too, Sam Slick, the attaché to our embassy to the
+Court of Victoria, Buckingham Palace. You couldn’t a treated me wuss if
+I had been one of the liveried, powdered, bedizened, be-bloated footmen
+from ‘t’other big house there of Aunt Harriette’s.’ I’ll make you come
+down from your stilts, and walk naterel, I know, see if I don’t.
+
+“Presently she returned, all set to rights, and a little righter, too,
+for she had put a touch of rouge on to make the blush stick better, and
+her hair was slicked up snugger than before, and looked as if it had
+growed like anything. She had also slipped a handsome habit-shirt on,
+and she looked, take her altogether, as if, though she warn’t engaged,
+she ought to have been afore the last five hot summers came, and the
+general thaw had commenced in the spring, and she had got thin, and out
+of condition. She put her hand on her heart, and said, ‘I am so skared,
+Sam, I feel all over of a twitteration. The way you act is horrid.’
+
+“‘So do I,’ sais I, ‘Liddy, it’s so long since you and I used to—’
+
+“‘You ain’t altered a bit, Sam,’ said she, for the starch was coming
+out, ‘from what you was, only you are more forrider. Our young men,
+when they go abroad, come back and talk so free and easy, and take such
+liberties, and say it’s the fashion in Paris, it’s quite scandalous.
+Now, if you dare to do the like again, I’ll never speak to you the
+longest day I ever live, I’ll go right off and leave, see if I don’t.’
+
+“‘Oh, I see, I have offended you,’ sais I, ‘you are not in a humour to
+consent now, so I will call again some other time.’
+
+“‘This lecture on botany must now be postponed,’ she said, ‘for the
+hour is out some time ago. If you will be seated, I will set the young
+students at embroidery instead, and return for a short time, for it
+does seem so nateral to see you, Sam, you saucy boy,’ and she pinched
+my ear, ‘it reminds one, don’t it, of bygones?’ and she hung her head a
+one side, and looked sentimental.
+
+“‘Of by-gone larks,’ said I.
+
+“‘Hush, Sam,’ she said, ‘don’t talk so loud, that’s a dear soul. Oh, if
+anybody had come in just then, and caught us.’
+
+(“_Us_,” thinks I to myself, “I thought you had no objection to it, and
+only struggled enough for modesty-like; and I did think you would have
+said, caught _you_.”)
+
+“‘I would have been ruinated for ever and ever, and amen, and the
+college broke up, and my position in the literary, scientific, and
+intellectual world scorched, withered, and blasted for ever. Ain’t my
+cheek all burning, Sam? it feels as if it was all a-fire;’ and she put
+it near enough for me to see, and feel tempted beyond my strength.
+‘Don’t it look horrid inflamed, dear?’ And she danced out of the room,
+as if she was skipping a rope.
+
+“Well, well,” sais I, when she took herself off. “What a world this is!
+This is evangelical learning; girls are taught in one room to faint or
+scream if they see a man, as if he was an incarnation of sin; and yet
+they are all educated and trained to think the sole object of life is
+to win, not convert, but win one of these sinners. In the next room
+propriety, dignity, and decorum, romp with a man in a way to make even
+his sallow face blush. Teach a child there is harm in everything,
+however innocent, and so soon as it discovers the cheat, it won’t see
+no sin in anything. That’s the reason deacons’ sons seldom turn out
+well, and preachers’ daughters are married through a window. Innocence
+is the sweetest thing in the world, and there is more of it than folks
+generally imagine. If you want some to transplant, don’t seek it in the
+enclosures of cant, for it has only counterfeit ones, but go to the
+gardens of truth and of sense. Coërced innocence is like an imprisoned
+lark, open the door and it’s off for ever. The bird that roams through
+the sky and the groves unrestrained knows how to dodge the hawk and
+protect itself, but the caged one, the moment it leaves its bars and
+bolts behind, is pounced upon by the fowler or the vulture.
+
+“Puritans, whether in or out of the church (for there is a whole squad
+of ’em in it, like rats in a house who eat up its bread and undermine
+its walls), make more sinners than they save by a long chalk. They
+ain’t content with real sin, the pattern ain’t sufficient for a cloak,
+so they sew on several breadths of artificial offences, and that makes
+one big enough to wrap round them, and cover their own deformity. It
+enlarges the margin, and the book, and gives more texts.
+
+“Their eyes are like the great magnifier at the Polytechnic, that shows
+you many-headed, many-armed, many-footed, and many-tailed awful
+monsters in a drop of water, which were never intended for us to see,
+or Providence would have made our eyes like Lord Rosse’s telescope
+(which discloses the secrets of the moon), and given us springs that
+had none of these canables in ’em. Water is our drink, and it was made
+for us to take when we were dry, and be thankful. After I first saw one
+of these drops, like an old cheese chock full of livin’ things, I
+couldn’t drink nothing but pure gin or brandy for a week. I was scared
+to death. I consaited when I went to bed I could audibly feel these
+critters fightin’ like Turks and minin’ my inerds, and I got narvous
+lest my stomach like a citadel might be blowed up and the works
+destroyed. It was frightful.
+
+“At last I sot up and said, Sam, where is all your common sense gone?
+You used to have a considerable sized phial of it, I hope you ain’t
+lost the cork and let it all run out. So I put myself in the
+witness-stand, and asked myself a few questions.
+
+“‘Water was made to drink, warn’t it?’
+
+“‘That’s a fact.’
+
+“‘You can’t see them critters in it with your naked eye?’
+
+“‘I can’t see them at all, neither naked or dressed.’
+
+“‘Then it warn’t intended you should?’
+
+“‘Seems as if it wasn’t,’ sais I.
+
+“‘Then drink, and don’t be skeered.’
+
+“‘I’ll be darned if I don’t, for who knows them wee-monstrosities don’t
+help digestion, or feed on human pyson. They warn’t put into Adam’s ale
+for nothin’, that’s a fact.’
+
+“It seems as if they warn’t,’ sais I. ‘So now I’ll go to sleep.’
+
+“Well, puritans’ eyes are like them magnifiers; they see the devil in
+everything but themselves, where he is plaguy apt to be found by them
+that want him; for he feels at home in their company. One time they vow
+he is a dancin’ master, and moves his feet so quick folks can’t see
+they are cloven, another time a music master, and teaches children to
+open their mouths and not their nostrils in singing. Now he is a tailor
+or milliner, and makes fashionable garments; and then a manager of a
+theatre, which is the most awful place in the world; it is a reflex of
+life, and the reflection is always worse than the original, as a man’s
+shadow is more dangerous than he is. But worst of all, they solemnly
+affirm, for they don’t swear, he comes sometimes in lawn sleeves, and
+looks like a bishop, which is popery, or in the garb of high churchmen,
+who are all Jesuits. Is it any wonder these cantin’ fellows pervert the
+understanding, sap the principles, corrupt the heart, and destroy the
+happiness of so many? Poor dear old Minister used to say, ‘Sam, you
+must instruct your conscience; for an ignorant or superstitious
+conscience is a snare to the unwary. If you think a thing is wrong that
+is not, and do it, then you sin, because you are doing what you believe
+in your heart to be wicked. It is the intention that constitutes the
+crime.’ Those sour crouts therefore, by creating artificial and
+imitation sin in such abundance, make real sin of no sort of
+consequence, and the world is so chock full of it, a fellow gets
+careless at last and won’t get out of its way, it’s so much trouble to
+pick his steps.
+
+“Well, I was off in a brown study so deep about artificial sins, I
+didn’t hear Liddy come in, she shut the door so softly and trod on
+tiptoes so light on the carpet. The first thing I knew was I felt her
+hands on my head, as she stood behind me, a dividin’ of my hair with
+her fingers.
+
+“‘Why, Sam,’ said she, ‘as I’m a livin’ sinner if you ain’t got some
+white hairs in your head, and there is a little bald patch here right
+on the crown. How strange it is! It only seems like yesterday you was a
+curly-headed boy.’
+
+“‘Yes,’ sais I, and I hove a sigh so loud it made the window jar; ‘but
+I have seen a great deal of trouble since then. I lost two wives in
+Europe.’
+
+“‘Now do tell,’ said she. ‘Why you don’t!—oh, jimminy criminy! two
+wives! How was it, poor Sam?’ and she kissed the bald spot on my pate,
+and took a rockin’-chair and sat opposite to me, and began rockin’
+backwards and forwards like a fellow sawin’ wood. ‘How was it, Sam,
+dear?’
+
+“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘first and foremost, Liddy, I married a fashionable
+lady to London. Well, bein’ out night arter night at balls and operas,
+and what not, she got kinder used up and beat out, and unbeknownst to
+me used to take opium. Well, one night she took too much, and in the
+morning she was as dead as a herring.’
+
+“‘Did she make a pretty corpse?’ said Lid, lookin’ very sanctimonious.
+‘Did she lay out handsum? They say prussic acid makes lovely corpses;
+it keeps the eyes from fallin’ in. Next to dyin’ happy, the greatest
+thing is to die pretty. Ugly corpses frighten sinners, but elegant ones
+win them.’
+
+“‘The most lovely subject you ever beheld,’ said I. ‘She looked as if
+she was only asleep; she didn’t stiffen at all, but was as limber as
+ever you see. Her hair fell over her neck and shoulders in beautiful
+curls just like yourn; and she had on her fingers the splendid diamond
+rings I gave her; she was too fatigued to take ’em off when she retired
+the night afore. I felt proud of her even in death, I do assure you.
+She was handsome enough to eat. I went to ambassador’s to consult him
+about the funeral, whether it should be a state affair, with all the
+whole diplomatic corps of the court to attend it, or a private one. But
+he advised a private one; he said it best comported with our dignified
+simplicity as republicans, and, although cost was no object, still it
+was satisfactory to know it was far less expense. When I came back she
+was gone.’
+
+“‘Gone!’ said Liddy, ‘gone where?’
+
+“‘Gone to the devil, dear, I suppose.’
+
+“‘Oh my!’ said she. ‘Well, I never in all my born days! Oh, Sam, is
+that the way to talk of the dead!’
+
+“‘In the dusk of the evening,’ sais I, ‘a carriage, they said, drove to
+the door, and a coffin was carried up-stairs; but the undertaker said
+it wouldn’t fit, and it was taken back again for a larger one. Just
+afore I went to bed, I went to the room to have another look at her,
+and she was gone, and there was a letter on the table for me; it
+contained a few words only.—‘Dear Sam, my first husband is come to
+life, and so have I. Goodbye, love.”
+
+“‘Well, what did you do?’
+
+“‘Gave it out,’ said I, ‘she died of the cholera, and had to be buried
+quick and private, and no one never knew to the contrary.’
+
+“‘Didn’t it almost break your heart, Sammy?’
+
+“‘No,’ sais I. ‘In her hurry, she took my dressing-case instead of her
+own, in which was all her own jewels, besides those I gave her, and all
+our ready money. So I tried to resign myself to my loss, for it might
+have been worse, you know,’ and I looked as good as pie.
+
+“‘Well, if that don’t beat all, I declare!’ said she.
+
+“‘Liddy,’ sais I, with a mock solemcoly air, ‘every bane has its
+antidote, and every misfortin its peculiar consolation.’
+
+“‘Oh, Sam, that showed the want of a high moral intellectual education,
+didn’t it?’ said she. ‘And yet you had the courage to marry again?’
+
+“‘Well, I married,’ sais I, ‘next year in France a lady who had refused
+one of Louis Philip’s sons. Oh, what a splendid gall she was, Liddy!
+she was the star of Paris. Poor thing! I lost her in six weeks.’
+
+“‘Six weeks! Oh, Solomon!’ said she, ‘in six weeks.’
+
+“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘in six short weeks.’
+
+“‘How was it, Sam? do tell me all about it; it’s quite romantic. I vow,
+it’s like the Arabian Nights’ Entertainment. You are so unlucky, I swow
+I should be skeered—’
+
+“‘At what?’ sais I.
+
+“‘Why, at—’
+
+“She was caught there; she was a goin’ to say, ‘at marryin’ you,’ but
+as she was a leadin’ of me on, that wouldn’t do. Doctor, you may catch
+a gall sometimes, but if she has a mind to, she can escape if she
+chooses, for they are as slippery as eels. So she pretended to hesitate
+on, till I asked her again.
+
+“‘Why,’ sais she, a looking down, ‘at sleeping alone tonight, after
+hearing of these dreadful catastrophes.’
+
+“‘Oh,’ sais I, ‘is that all?’
+
+“‘But how did you lose her?’ said she.
+
+“‘Why, she raced off,’ said I, ‘with the Turkish ambassador, and if I
+had a got hold of him, I’de a lammed him wuss than the devil beatin’
+tan-bark, I know. I’de a had his melt, if there was a bowie-knife out
+of Kentucky.’
+
+“‘Did you go after her?’
+
+“‘Yes; but she cotched it afore I cotched her.’
+
+“‘How was that, Sam?’
+
+“‘Why, she wanted to sarve him the same way, with an officer of the
+Russian Guards, and Mahomet caught her, sewed her up in a sack, and
+throwed her neck and crop into the Bosphorus, to fatten eels for the
+Greek ladies to keep Lent with.’
+
+“‘Why, how could you be so unfortunate?’ said she.
+
+“‘That’s a question I have often axed myself, Liddy,’ sais I; ‘but I
+have come to this conclusion: London and Paris ain’t no place for galls
+to be trained in.’
+
+“‘So I have always said, and always will maintain to my dying day,’ she
+said, rising with great animation and pride. ‘What do they teach there
+but music, dancing, and drawing? The deuce a thing else; but here is
+Spanish, French, German, Italian, botany, geology, mineralogy,
+icthiology, conchology, theology—’
+
+“‘Do you teach angeolology and doxyology?’ sais I.
+
+“‘Yes, angeolology and doxyology,’ she said, not knowing what she was a
+talking about.
+
+“‘And occult sciences?’ sais I.
+
+“‘Yes, all the sciences. London and Paris, eh! Ask a lady from either
+place if she knows the electric battery from the magnetic—’
+
+“‘Or a _needle_ from a _pole_,’ sais I.
+
+“‘Yes,’ sais she, without listening, ‘or any such question, and see if
+she can answer it.”
+
+“She resumed her seat.
+
+“‘Forgive my enthusiasm,’ she said, ‘Sam, you know I always had a great
+deal of that.’
+
+“‘I know,’ said I, ‘you had the smallest foot and ankle of anybody in
+our country. My! what fine-spun glass heels you had! Where in the world
+have you stowed them to?’ pretendin’ to look down for them.
+
+“‘Kept them to kick you with,’ she said, ‘if you are sassy.’
+
+“Thinks I to myself, what next? as the woman said to the man who kissed
+her in the tunnel, you are coming out, Liddy.
+
+“‘Kick,’ said I, ‘oh, you wouldn’t try that, I am sure, let me do what
+I would.’
+
+“‘Why not?’ said she.
+
+“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘if you did you would have to kick so high, you would
+expose one of the larger limbs.’
+
+“‘Mr Slick,’ said she, ‘I trust you will not so far forget what is due
+to a lady, as to talk of showing her larger limbs, it’s not decent.’
+
+“‘Well, I know it ain’t decent,’ said I, ‘but you said you would do it,
+and I just remonstrated a little, that’s all.’
+
+“‘You was saying about London and Paris,’ said she, ‘being no place for
+educating young ladies in.’
+
+“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘that painful story of my two poor dear wives (which is
+‘all in my eye,’ as plain as it was then), illustrates my theory of
+education in those two capitals. In London, females, who are a great
+deal in society in the season, like a man who drinks, can’t stop, they
+are at it all the time, and like him, sometimes forget the way home
+again. In Paris, galls are kept so much at home before marriage, when
+they once get out, they don’t want to enter the cage again. They are
+the two extremes. If ever I marry, I’ll tell you how I will lay down
+the law. Pleasure shall be the recreation and not the business of life
+with her. Home the rule—parties the exception. Duty first, amusement
+second. Her head-quarters shall always be in her own house, but the
+outposts will never be neglected.’
+
+“‘Nothin’ like an American woman for an American man, is there?’ said
+she, and she drew nearer, lookin’ up in my face to read the answer, and
+didn’t rock so hard.
+
+“‘It depends upon how they are brought up,’ said I, looking wise. ‘But,
+Liddy,’ sais I, ‘without joking, what an amazin’ small foot that is of
+yours. It always was, and wunst when it slipt through a branch of the
+cherry-tree, do you recollect my saying, Well I vow that calf was
+suckled by two cows? now don’t you, Liddy?’
+
+“‘No, Sir,’ said she, ‘I don’t, though children may say many things
+that when they grow up they are ashamed to repeat; but I recollect now,
+wunst when you and I went through the long grass to the cherry-tree,
+your mother said, ‘Liddy, beware you are not bit by a garter-snake, and
+I never knew her meanin’ till now;’ and she rose up and said, ‘Mr
+Slick, I must bid you good morning.’
+
+“‘Liddy,’ sais I, ‘don’t be so pesky starch, I’ll be dod fetched if I
+meant any harm, but you beat me all holler. I only spoke of the calf,
+and you went a streak higher and talked of the garter.’
+
+“‘Sam,’ said she, ‘you was always the most impedent, forredest, and
+pertest boy that ever was, and travellin’ hain’t improved you one mite
+or morsel.’
+
+“‘I am sorry I have offended you, Liddy,’ sais I, ‘but really now, how
+do you manage to teach all them things with hard names, for we never
+even heard of them at Slickville? Have you any masters?’
+
+“‘Masters,’ said she, ‘the first one that entered this college would
+ruin it for ever. What, a man in this college! where the juvenile
+pupils belong to the first families—I guess not. I hire a young lady to
+teach rudiments.’
+
+“‘So I should think,’ sais I, ‘from the specimen I saw at your door,
+she was rude enough in all conscience.’
+
+“‘Pooh,’ said she, ‘well, I have a Swiss lady that teaches French,
+German, Spanish, and Italian, and an English one that instructs in
+music and drawing, and I teach history, geography, botany, and the
+sciences, and so on.’
+
+“‘How on earth did you learn them all?’ said I, ‘for it puzzles me.’
+
+“‘Between you and me, Sam,’ said she, ‘for you know my broughtens up,
+and it’s no use to pretend—primary books does it all, there is question
+and answer. I read the question, and they learn the answer. It’s the
+easiest thing in the world to teach now-a-days.’
+
+“‘But suppose you get beyond the rudiments?’
+
+“‘Oh, they never remain long enough to do that. They are brought out
+before then. They go to Saratoga first in summer, and then to
+Washington in winter, and are married right off after that. The
+domestic, seclusive, and exclusive system, is found most conducive to a
+high state of refinement and delicacy. I am doing well, Sam,’ said she,
+drawing nearer, and looking confidential in my face. ‘I own all this
+college, and all the lands about, and have laid up forty thousand
+dollars besides;’ and she nodded her head at me, and looked earnest, as
+much as to say, ‘That is a fact, ain’t it grand?’
+
+“‘The devil you have,’ said I, as if I had taken the bait. ‘I had a
+proposal to make.’
+
+“‘Oh,’ said she, and she coloured up all over, and got up and said,
+‘Sam, won’t you have a glass of wine, dear?’ She intended it to give me
+courage to speak out, and she went to a closet, and brought out a tray
+with a decanter, and two or three glasses on it, and some frosted
+plum-cake. ‘Try that cake, dear,’ she said, ‘I made it myself, and your
+dear old mother taught me how to do it;’ and then she laid back her
+head, and larfed like anything. ‘Sam,’ said she, ‘what a memory you
+have; I had forgot all about the cherry-tree, I don’t recollect a word
+of it.’
+
+“‘And the calf?’ said I.
+
+“‘Get along,’ said she, ‘do get out;’ and she took up some crumbs of
+the cake, and made ’em into a ball as big as a cherry, and fired it at
+me, and struck me in the eye with it, and nearly put it out. She jumped
+up in a minit: ‘Did she hurt her own poor cossy’s eye?’ she said, ‘and
+put it een amost out,’ and she kissed it. ‘It didn’t hurt his little
+peeper much, did it?’
+
+“Hullo, sais I to myself, she’s coming it too _pee_owerful strong
+altogether. The sooner I dig out the better for my wholesomes. However,
+let her went, she is wrathy. ‘I came to propose to you—’
+
+“‘Dear me,’ said she, ‘I feel dreadful, I warn’t prepared for this;
+it’s very onexpected. What is it, Sam? I am all over of a twiteration.’
+
+“‘I know you will refuse me,’ sais I, ‘when I look round and see how
+comfortable and how happy you are, even if you ain’t engaged.’
+
+“‘Sam, I told you I weren’t engaged,’ she said: ‘that story of General
+Smith is all a fabrication, therefore don’t mention that again.’
+
+“‘I feel,’ said I, ‘it’s no use. I know what you will say, you can’t
+quit.’
+
+“‘You have a strange way,’ said she, rather tart, ‘for you ask
+questions, and then answer them yourself. What _do_ you mean?’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I’ll tell you, Liddy.’
+
+“‘Do, dear,’ said she, and she put her hand over her _eyes,_ as if to
+stop her from _hearing_ distinctly. ‘I came to propose to you—’
+
+“‘Oh, Sam,’ said she, ‘to think of that!’
+
+“‘To take a seat in my buggy,’ sais I, ‘and come and spend a month with
+sister Sally and me, at the old location.’
+
+“Poor thing, I pitied her; she had one knee over the other, and, as I
+said, one hand over her eyes, and there she sot, and the way the upper
+foot went bobbin’ up and down was like the palsy, only a little
+quicker. She never said another word, nor sighed, nor groaned, nor
+anything, only her head hung lower. Well, I felt streaked, Doctor, I
+tell _you_. I felt like a man who had stabbed another, and knew he
+ought to be hanged for it; and I looked at her as such a critter would,
+if he had to look on, and see his enemy bleed to death. I knew I had
+done wrong—I had acted spider-like to her—got her into the web—tied her
+hand and foot, and tantalized her. I am given to brag, I know, Doctor,
+when I am in the saddle, and up in the stirrups, and leavin’ all others
+behind; but when a beast is choaked and down in the dirt, no man ever
+heard me brag I had rode the critter to death.
+
+“No, I did wrong, she was a woman, and I was a man, and if she did act
+a part, why, I ought to have known the game she had to play, and made
+allowances for it. I dropt the trump card under the table that time,
+and though I got the odd trick, she had the honours. It warn’t manly in
+me, that’s a fact; but confound her, why the plague did she call me
+‘Mr,’ and act formal, and give me the bag to hold, when she knew me of
+old, and minded the cherry-tree, and all that? Still she was a woman,
+and a defenceless one too, and I did’nt do the pretty. But if she was a
+woman, doctor, she had more clear grit than most men have. After a
+while she took her hand off her eyes and rubbed them, and she opened
+her mouth and yawned so, you could see down to her garters amost.
+
+“‘Dear me!’ said she, trying to smile; but, oh me! how she looked! Her
+eyes had no more expression than a China-aster, and her face was so
+deadly pale, it made the rouge she had put on look like the hectic of a
+dying consumption. Her ugly was out in full bloom, I tell _you_. ‘Dear
+cousin Sam,’ said she, ‘I am so fatigued with my labours as
+presidentess of this institution, that I can hardly keep my peepers
+open. I think, if I recollect—for I am ashamed to say I was a
+noddin’—that you _proposed_ (that word lit her eyes up) that I should
+go with you to visit dear Sally. Oh, Sam!’ said she (how she bit in her
+temper that hitch, didn’t she?) ‘you see, and you saw it at first, I
+can’t leave on so short a notice; but if my sweet Sally would come and
+visit me, how delighted I should be! Sam, I must join my class now. How
+happy it has made me to see you again after so many years! Kiss me,
+dear; good bye—God bless you!’ and she yawned again till she nearly
+dislocated her jaw. ‘Go on and write books, Sam, for no man is better
+skilled in human natur and _spares it less_ than yourself.’ What a
+reproachful look she gave me then! ‘Good bye, dear!’
+
+“Well, when I closed the door, and was opening of the outer one, I
+heard a crash. I paused a moment, for I knew what it was. She had
+fainted and fell into a conniption fit.
+
+“‘Sam,’ sais I to myself, ‘shall I go back?’
+
+“‘No,’ sais I, ‘if you return there will be a scene; and if you don’t,
+if she can’t account naterally for it, the devil can’t, that’s all.’
+
+“Doctor, I felt guilty, I tell you. I had taken a great many rises out
+of folks in my time, but that’s the only one I repent of. Tell you
+what, Doctor, folks may talk about their southern gentlemen, their New
+York prince-merchants, and so on, but the clear grit, bottom and game,
+is New England (Yankee-doodle-dum). Male or female, young or old, I’ll
+back ’em agin all creation.”
+
+Squire, show this chapter to Lord Tandembery, if you know him; and if
+you don’t, Uncle Tom Lavender will give you a letter of introduction to
+him; and then ask him if ever he has suffered half so much as Sam Slick
+has in the cause of edication.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+GIPSEYING.
+
+
+We tried the deck again, but the fog was too disagreeable to remain
+there, for the water fell from the ropes in such large drops, and the
+planks were so wet and slippery, we soon adjourned again to the cabin.
+
+“I have to thank you, Doctor,” said I, “for a most charming day at the
+Beaver-Dam. That was indeed a day in the woods, and I believe every one
+there knew how to enjoy it. How different it is from people in a town
+here, who go out to the country for a pic-nic! A citizen thinks the
+pleasure of gipseying, as they call it in England, consists solely in
+the abundance and variety of the viands, the quality and quantity of
+the wines, and as near an approach to a city dinner as it is possible
+to have, where there are neither tables, chairs, sideboards, nor
+removes. He selects his place for the encampment in the first opening
+adjoining the clearing, as it commands a noble view of the harbour, and
+there is grass enough to recline upon. The woods are gloomy, the
+footing is slippery, and there is nothing to be seen in a forest but
+trees, windfalls which are difficult to climb, and boggy ground that
+wets your feet, and makes you feel uncomfortable. The limbs are
+eternally knocking your hat off, and the spruce gum ruins your clothes,
+while ladies, like sheep, are for ever leaving fragments of their dress
+on every bush. He chooses the skirts of the forest therefore, the
+background is a glorious wood, and the foreground is diversified by the
+shipping. The o-heave-o of the sailors, as it rises and falls in the
+distance, is music to his ears, and suggestive of agreeable
+reflections, or profitable conversation peculiarly appropriate to the
+place and the occasion. The price of fish in the West Indies, or of
+deals in Liverpool, or the probable rise of flour in the market, amuse
+the vacant mind of himself and his partner, not his wife, for she is
+only his _sleeping_ partner, but the wide-awake partner of the firm,
+one of those who are embraced in the comprehensive term the ‘Co.’ He is
+the depository of his secrets, the other of his complaints.
+
+“His wife is equally happy, she enjoys it uncommonly, for she knows it
+will spite those horrid Mudges. She is determined not to invite them,
+for they make too much noise, it gives her the headache, and their
+flirting is too bad. Mrs White called them garrison hacks. And besides
+(for women always put the real reason last—they live in a postscript)
+they don’t deserve it, for they left her girls out when they had the
+lobster-spearing party by torch-light, with the officers of the
+flag-ship, though that was no loss, for by all accounts it was a very
+romping party, knocking off the men’s hats, and then exchanging their
+bonnets for them. And how any mother could allow her daughter to be
+held round the waist by the flag-lieutenant, while she leaned over the
+boat to spear the fish, is a mystery to her. The polka is bad enough,
+but, to her mind, that is not decent, and then she has something to
+whisper about it, that she says is too bad (this is a secret though,
+and she must whisper it, for walls have ears, and who knows but trees
+have, and besides, the _good_ things are never repeated, but the _too
+bad_ always is), and Mrs Black lifts up both her hands, and the whites
+of both eyes in perfect horror.
+
+“‘Now did you ever! Oh, is that true? Why, you don’t!’
+
+“‘Lucy Green saw him with her own eyes,’ and she opens her own as big
+as saucers.
+
+“‘And what did Miss Mudge say?’
+
+“‘Well, upon my word,’ said she, ‘I wonder what you will do next,’ and
+laughed so they nearly fell overboard.
+
+“‘Oh, what carryings on, ain’t it, dear? But I wonder where Sarah
+Matilda is? I don’t see her and Captain De la Cour. I am afraid she
+will get lost in the woods, and that would make people talk as they did
+about Miss Mudge and Doctor Vincent, who couldn’t find their way out
+once till nine o’clock at night.’
+
+“‘They’ll soon get back, dear,’ sais the other, ‘let them be; it looks
+like watching them, and _you_ know,’ laying an emphasis on _you_, ‘you
+and I were young _once_ ourselves, and so they will come back when they
+want to, for though the woods have no straight paths in them, they have
+short cuts enough for them that’s in a hurry. Cupid has no _watch_,
+dear; his _fob_ is for a _purse_,’ and she smiles wicked on the mother
+of the heiress.
+
+“Well, then, who can say this is not a pleasant day to both parties?
+The old gentlemen have their nice snug business chat, and the old
+ladies have their nice snug gossip chat, and the third estate (as the
+head of the firm calls it, who was lately elected member for Grumble
+Town, and begins to talk parliamentary), the third estate, the young
+folks, the people of progression, who are not behind but rather ahead
+of the age they live in, don’t they enjoy themselves? It is very hard
+if youth, beauty, health, good spirits, and a desire to please (because
+if people havn’t that they had better stay to home), can’t or won’t
+make people happy. I don’t mean for to go for to say that will insure
+it, because nothin’ is certain, and I have known many a gall that
+resembled a bottle of beautiful wine. You will find one sometimes as
+enticin’ to appearance as ever was, but hold it up and there is grounds
+there for all that, settled, but still there, and enough too to spile
+all, so you can’t put it to your lips any how you can fix it. What a
+pity it is sweet things turn sour, ain’t it?
+
+“But in a general way these things will make folks happy. There are
+some sword-knots there, and they do look very like woodsmen, that’s a
+fact. If you never saw a forrester, you would swear to them as perfect.
+A wide-awake hat, with a little short pipe stuck in it, a pair of
+whiskers that will be grand when they are a few years older—a coarse
+check or red flannel shirt, a loose neck-handkerchief, tied with a
+sailor’s knot—a cut-away jacket, with lots of pockets—a belt, but
+little or no waistcoat—homespun trowsers and thick buskins—a rough
+glove and a delicate white hand, the real, easy, and natural gait of
+the woodman (only it’s apt to be a little, just a little too stiff, on
+account of the ramrod they have to keep in their throats while on
+parade), when combined, actilly beat natur, for they are too nateral.
+Oh, these amateur woodsmen enact their part so well, you think you
+almost see the identical thing itself. And then they have had the
+advantage of Woolwich or Sandhurst, or Chobham, and are dabs at a
+bivouac, grand hands with an axe—cut a hop-pole down in half a day
+amost, and in the other half stick it into the ground. I don’t make no
+doubt in three or four days they could build a wigwam to sleep in, and
+one night out of four under cover is a great deal for an amateur
+hunter, though it ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to the
+Crimea. As, it is, if a stick ain’t too big for a fire, say not larger
+than your finger, they can break it over their knee, sooner than you
+could cut it with a hatchet for your life, and see how soon it’s in a
+blaze. Take them altogether, they are a killing party of coons them,
+never miss a moose if they shoot out of an Indian’s gun, and use a
+silver bullet.
+
+“Well, then, the young ladies are equipped so nicely—they have uglies
+to their bonnets, the only thing ugly about them, for at a distance
+they look like huge green spectacles. They are very useful in the
+forest, for there is a great glare of the sun generally under trees; or
+else they have green bonnets, that look like eagle’s skins; thin
+dresses, strong ones are too heavy, and they don’t display the beauty
+of nature enough, they are so high, and the whole object of the party
+is to admire that. Their walking shoes are light and thin, they don’t
+fatigue you like coarse ones, and India-rubbers are hideous, they make
+your feet look as if they had the gout; and they have such pretty, dear
+little aprons, how rural it looks altogether—they act a day in the
+woods to admiration. Three of the officers have nicknames, a very nice
+thing to induce good fellowship, especially as it has no tendency
+whatever to promote quarrels. There is Lauder, of the _Rifles,_ he is
+so short, they call him _Pistol;_ he has a year to grow yet, and may
+become a great _gun_ some of these days. Russel takes a joke
+good-humouredly, and therefore is so fortunate as to get more than his
+share of them, accordingly he goes by the name of Target, as every one
+takes a shot at him. Duke is so bad a shot, he has twice nearly pinked
+the marksman, so he is called Trigger. He always lays the blame of his
+want of skill on that unfortunate appendage of the gun, as it is either
+too hard or too quick on the finger. Then there is young Bulger, and as
+everybody pronounces it as if it had two ‘g’s’ in it, he corrects them
+and says, ‘g’ soft, my dear fellow, if you please; so he goes by the
+name of ‘G’ soft. Oh, the conversation of the third estate is so
+pretty, I could listen to it for ever.
+
+“‘Aunt,’ sais Miss Diantha, ‘do you know what
+gyp—gypsy—gypsymum—gypsymuming is? Did you ever hear how I stutter
+to-day? I can’t get a word out hardly. Ain’t it provoking?’
+
+“Well, stammering is provoking; but a pretty little accidental
+impediment of speech like that, accompanied with a little graceful bob
+of the head, is very taking, ain’t it?
+
+“‘Gypsuming,’ sais the wise matron, ‘is the plaster of Paris trade,
+dear. They carry it on at Windsor, your father says.’
+
+“Pistol gives Target a wink, for they are honouring the party by their
+company, though the mother of one keeps a lodging-house at Bath, and
+the father of the other makes real genuine East India curry in London.
+They look down on the whole of the townspeople. It is natural; pot
+always calls kettle an ugly name.
+
+“‘No, Ma,’ sais Di—all the girls address her as Di; ain’t it a pretty
+abbreviation for a die-away young lady? But she is not a die-away lass;
+she is more of a Di Vernon. ‘No, Ma,’ sais Di, ‘gipsey—ing, what a hard
+word it is! Mr Russel says it’s what they call these parties in
+England. It is so like the gipsy life.’
+
+“‘There is one point,’ sais Pistol, ‘in which they differ.’
+
+“‘What’s that?’ sais Di.
+
+“‘Do you give it up?’
+
+“‘Yes.’
+
+“‘There the gipsy girls steal poultry; and here they steal hearts,’ and
+he puts his left hand by mistake on his breast, not knowing that the
+pulsation there indicates that his lungs, and not his gizzard is
+affected, and that he is broken-_winded,_ and not broken-_hearted._
+
+“‘Very good,’ every one sais; but still every one hasn’t heard it, so
+it has to be repeated; and what is worse, as the habits of the gipsies
+are not known to all, the point has to be explained.
+
+“Target sais, ‘He will send it to the paper, and put Trigger’s name to
+it,’ and Pistol says, ‘That is capital, for if he calls you out, he
+can’t hit you,’ and there is a joyous laugh. Oh dear, but a day in the
+woods is a pleasant thing. For my own part, I must say I quite agree
+with the hosier, who, when he first went to New Orleens, and saw such a
+swad of people there, said, he ‘didn’t onderstand how on earth it was
+that folks liked to live in a heap that way, altogether, where there
+was no corn to plant, and no bears to kill.’
+
+“‘My, oh my!’ sais Miss Letitia, or Letkissyou, as Pistol used to call
+her. People ought to be careful what names they give their children, so
+as folks can’t fasten nicknames on ’em. Before others the girls called
+her Letty, and that’s well enough; but sometimes they would call her
+Let, which is the devil. If a man can’t give a pretty fortune to his
+child, he can give it a pretty name at any rate.
+
+“There was a very large family of Cards wunst to Slickville. They were
+mostly in the stage-coach and livery-stable line, and careless,
+reckless sort of people. So one day, Squire Zenas Card had a
+christenin’ at his house.
+
+“‘Sais the Minister, ‘what shall I call the child?’
+
+“‘Pontius Pilate,’ said he.
+
+“‘I can’t,’ said the Minister, ‘and I won’t. No soul ever heerd of such
+a name for a Christian since baptism came in fashion.’
+
+“‘I am sorry for that,’ said the Squire, ‘for it’s a mighty pretty
+name. I heard it once in church, and I thought if ever I had a son I’de
+call him after him; but if I can’t have that—and it’s a dreadful
+pity—call him Trump;’ and he was christenened Trump Card.
+
+“‘Oh my!’ sais Miss Letitia, lispin’, ‘Captain De la Cour has smashed
+my bonnet, see, he is setting upon it. Did you ever?’
+
+“‘Never,’ said Di, ‘he has converted your _cottage_ bonnet into a
+_country seat,_ I do declare!’
+
+“Everybody exclaimed, ‘That is excellent,’ and Russel said, ‘Capital,
+by Jove.’
+
+“‘That kind of thing,’ said De la Cour, ‘is more honoured in the
+_breach_ than the _observance_;’ and winked to Target.
+
+“Miss Di is an inveterate punster, so she returns to the charge.
+
+“‘Letty, what fish is that, the name of which would express all you
+said about your bonnet?—do you give it up? A bon-net-o!’ (Boneto).
+
+“‘Well, I can’t _fathom_ that,’ sais De la Cour.
+
+“‘I don’t wonder at that,’ sais the invincible Di; ‘it is beyond your
+_depth,_ for it is an out-of-_soundings_ fish.’
+
+“Poor De la Cour, you had better let her alone, she is too many guns
+for you. Scratch your head, for your curls and your name are all that
+you have to be proud of. Let her alone, she is wicked, and she is
+meditating a name for you and Pistol that will stick to you as long as
+you live, she has it on the tip of her tongue—‘The babes in the wood.’
+
+“Now for the baskets—now for the spread. The old gentlemen break up
+their Lloyds’ meeting—the old ladies break up their scandal club—the
+young ladies and their beaux are busy in arrangements, and though the
+cork-screws are nowhere to be found, Pistol has his in one of the many
+pockets of his woodsman’s coat, he never goes without it (like one of
+his mother’s waiters), which he calls his _young man’s best companion_;
+and which another, who was a year in an attorney’s office, while
+waiting for his commission, calls _the crown circuit assistant;_ and a
+third, who has just arrived in a steamer, designates as _the screw
+propeller._ It was a sensible provision, and Miss Di said, ‘a
+_corkscrew_ and a _pocket-pistol_ were better suited to him than a
+rifle,’ and every one said it was a capital joke that—for everybody
+likes a shot that don’t hit themselves.
+
+“‘How tough the goose is!’ sais G soft. ‘I can’t carve it.’
+
+“‘Ah!’ sais Di, ‘when Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.’
+
+“Eating and talking lasts a good while, but they don’t last for ever.
+The ladies leave the gentlemen to commence their smoking and finish
+their drinking, and presently there is a loud laugh; it’s more than a
+laugh, it’s a roar; and the ladies turn round and wonder.
+
+“Letty sais, ‘When the wine is in, the wit is out.’
+
+“‘True,” sais Di, ‘the wine is there, but when you left them the wit
+went out.’
+
+“‘Rather severe,’ said Letty.
+
+“‘Not at all,’ sais Di, ‘for I was with you.’
+
+“It is the last shot of poor Di. She won’t take the trouble to talk
+well for ladies, and those horrid Mudges have a party on purpose to
+take away all the pleasant men. She never passed so stupid a day. She
+hates pic-nics, and will never go to one again. De la Cour is a fool,
+and is as full of airs as a night-hawk is of feathers. Pistol is a
+bore; Target is both poor and stingy; Trigger thinks more of himself
+than anybody else; and as for G soft, he is a goose. She will never
+speak to Pippen again for not coming. They are a poor set of devils in
+the garrison; she is glad they are to have a new regiment.
+
+“Letty hasn’t enjoyed herself either, she has been devoured by black
+flies and musquitoes, and has got her feet wet, and is so tired she
+can’t go to the ball. The sleeping partner of the head of the firm is
+out of sorts, too. Her crony-gossip gave her a sly poke early in the
+day, to show her she recollected when she was young (not that she is so
+old now either, for she knows the grave gentleman who visits at her
+house is said to like the mother better than the daughter), but before
+she was married, and friends who have such wonderful memories are not
+very pleasant companions, though it don’t do to have them for enemies.
+But then, poor thing, and she consoles herself with the idea the poor
+thing has daughters herself, and they are as ugly as sin, and not half
+so agreeable. But it isn’t that altogether. Sarah Matilda should not
+have gone wandering out of hearing with the captain, and she must give
+her a piece of her mind about it, for there is a good deal of truth in
+the old saying, ‘If the girls won’t run after the men, the men will run
+after them;’ so she calls out loudly, ‘Sarah Matilda, my love, come
+here, dear,’ and Sarah Matilda knows when the honey is produced, physic
+is to be taken, but she knows she is under observation, and so she
+flies to her dear mamma, with the feet and face of an angel, and they
+gradually withdraw.
+
+“‘Dear ma, how tired you look.’
+
+“‘I am not tired, dear.’
+
+“‘Well, you don’t look well; is anything the matter with you?’
+
+“‘I didn’t say I wasn’t well, and it’s very rude to remark on one’s
+looks that way.’
+
+“‘Something seems to have put you out of sorts, ma, I will run and call
+pa. Dear me, I feel frightened. Shall I ask Mrs Bawdon for her salts?’
+
+“‘You know very well what’s the matter; it’s Captain De la Cour.’
+
+“‘Well, now, how strange,’ said Sarah Matilda. ‘I told him he had
+better go and walk with you; I wanted him to do it; I told him you
+liked attention. Yes, I knew you would be angry, but it isn’t my fault.
+It ain’t, indeed.’
+
+“‘Well, I am astonished,’ replies the horrified mother. ‘I never in all
+my life. So you told him I liked attention. I, your mother, your
+father’s wife, with my position in _so_cie_tee_; and pray what answer
+did he make to this strange conduct?’
+
+“‘He said, No wonder, you were the handsomest woman in town, and so
+agreeable; the only one fit to talk to.’
+
+“‘And you have the face to admit you listened to such stuff?’
+
+“‘I could listen all day to it, ma, for I knew it was true. I never saw
+you look so lovely, the new bishop has improved your appearance
+amazingly.’
+
+“‘Who?’ said the mother, with an hysterical scream; ‘what do you mean?’
+
+“‘The new bustler, ma.’
+
+“‘Oh,’ said she, quite relieved, ‘oh, do you think so?’
+
+“‘But what did you want of me, ma?’
+
+“‘To fasten my gown, dear, there is a hook come undone.’
+
+“‘Coming,’ she said, in a loud voice.
+
+“There was nobody calling, but somebody ought to have called; so she
+fastens the hook, and flies back as fast as she came.
+
+“Sarah Matilda, you were not born yesterday; first you put your mother
+on the defensive, and then you stroked her down with the grain, and
+made her feel good all over, while you escaped from a scolding you know
+you deserved. A jealous mother makes an artful daughter. But, Sarah
+Matilda, one word in your ear. Art ain’t cleverness, and cunning ain’t
+understanding. Semblance only answers once; the second time the door
+ain’t opened to it.
+
+“Henrietta is all adrift, too; she is an old maid, and Di nicknamed her
+‘the old hen.’ She has been shamefully neglected today. The young men
+have been flirting about with those forward young girls—children—mere
+children, and have not had the civility to exchange a word with her.
+The old ladies have been whispering gossip all day, and the old
+gentlemen busy talking about freights, the Fall-catch of mackarel, and
+ship-building. Nor could their talk have been solely confined to these
+subjects, for once when she approached them, she heard the head of the
+firm say:
+
+“‘The ‘lovely lass’ must be thrown down and scraped, for she is so
+foul, and her knees are all gone.’
+
+“And so she turned away in disgust. Catch her at a pic-nic again! No,
+never! It appears the world is changed; girls in her day were never
+allowed to romp that way, and men used to have some manners. Things
+have come to a pretty pass!
+
+“‘Alida, is that you, dear? You look dull.’
+
+“‘Oh, Henrietta! I have torn my beautiful thread-lace mantilla all to
+rags; it’s ruined for ever. And do _you_ know—oh, _I_ don’t know how I
+shall ever dare to face ma again! I have lost her beautiful little
+enamelled watch. Some of these horrid branches have pulled it off the
+chain.’ And Alida cries and is consoled by Henrietta, who is a
+good-natured creature after all. She tells her for her comfort that
+nobody should ever think of wearing a delicate and expensive lace
+mantilla in the woods; she could not expect anything else than to have
+it destroyed; and as for exposing a beautiful gold watch outside of her
+dress, nobody in her senses would have thought of such a thing. Of
+course she was greatly comforted: kind words and a kind manner will
+console any one.
+
+“It is time now to re-assemble, and the party are gathered once more;
+and the ladies have found their smiles again, and Alida has found her
+watch; and there are to be some toasts and some songs before parting.
+All is jollity once more, and the head of the firm and his vigilant
+partner and the officers have all a drop in their eye, and Henrietta is
+addressed by the junior partner, who is a bachelor of about her own
+age, and who assures her he never saw her look better; and she looks
+delighted, and is delighted, and thinks a pic-nic not so bad a thing
+after all.
+
+“But there is a retributive justice in this world. Even pic-nic parties
+have their moral, and folly itself affords an example from which a wise
+saw may be extracted. Captain de Courlay addresses her, and after all,
+he has the manners and appearance of a gentleman, though it is
+whispered he is fond of practical jokes, pulls ‘colt ensigns’ out of
+bed, makes them go through their sword exercise standing shirtless in
+their tubs, and so on. There is one redeeming thing in the story, if it
+be true, he never was known to do it to a young nobleman; he is too
+well bred for that. He talks to her of society as it was before
+good-breeding was reformed out of the colonies. She is delighted; but,
+oh! was it stupidity, or was it insolence, or was it cruelty? he asked
+her if she recollected the Duke of Kent. To be sure it is only
+fifty-two years since he was here; but to have recollected him! How old
+did he suppose she was? She bears it well and meekly. It is not the
+first time she has been painfully reminded she was not young. She says
+her grandmother often spoke of him as a good officer and a handsome
+man; and she laughs, though her heart aches the while, as if it was a
+good joke to ask _her._ He backs out as soon as he can. He meant well,
+though he had expressed himself awkwardly; but to back out shows you
+are in the wrong stall, a place you have no business in, and being out,
+he thinks it as well to jog on to another place.
+
+“Ah, Henrietta! you were unkind to Alida about her lace mantilla and
+her gold watch, and it has come home to you. You ain’t made of glass,
+and nothing else will hold vinegar long without being corroded itself.
+
+“Well, the toasts are drunk, and the men are not far from being drunk
+too, and feats of agility are proposed, and they jump up and catch a
+springing bow, and turn a somerset on it, or over it, and they are
+cheered and applauded when De Courlay pauses in mid-air for a moment,
+as if uncertain what to do. Has the bough given way, or was that the
+sound of cloth rent in twain? Something has gone wrong, for he is
+greeted with uproarious cheers by the men, and he drops on his feet,
+and retires from the company as from the presence of royalty, by
+backing out and bowing as he goes, repeatedly stumbling, and once or
+twice falling in his retrograde motion.
+
+“Ladies never lose their tact—they ask no questions because they see
+something is amiss, and though it is hard to subdue curiosity,
+propriety sometimes restrains it. They join in the general laugh
+however, for it can be nothing serious where his friends make merry
+with it. When he retires from view, his health is drank with three
+times three. Di, who seemed to take pleasure in annoying the spinster,
+said she had a great mind not to join in that toast, for he was a
+_loose_ fellow, otherwise he would have rent his _heart_ and not his
+_garments._ It is a pity a clever girl like her will let her tongue run
+that way, for it leads them to say things they ought not. Wit in a
+woman is a dangerous thing, like a doctor’s lancet, it is apt to be
+employed about matters that offend our delicacy, or hurt our feelings.”
+
+“‘What the devil is that?’ said the head, of the firm, looking up, as a
+few drops of rain fell. ‘Why, here is a thunder-shower coming on us as
+sure as the world. Come, let us pack up and be off.’
+
+“And the servants are urged to be expeditious, and the sword-knots
+tumble the glasses into the baskets, and the cold hams atop of them,
+and break the decanters, to make them stow better, and the head of the
+firm swears, and the sleeping partner says she will faint, she could
+never abide thunder; and Di tells her if she does not want to abide all
+night, she had better move, and a vivid flash of lightning gives notice
+to quit, and tears and screams attest the notice is received, and the
+retreat is commenced; but alas, the carriages are a mile and a half
+off, and the tempest rages, and the rain falls in torrents, and the
+thunder stuns them, and the lightning blinds them.
+
+“‘What’s the use of hurrying?’ says Di, ‘we are now wet through, and
+our clothes are spoiled, and I think we might take it leisurely.
+Pistol, take my arm, I am not afraid of you now.’
+
+“‘Why?’
+
+“‘Your powder is wet, and you can’t go off. You are quite harmless.
+Target, you had better run.’
+
+“‘Why?’
+
+“‘You will be sure to be hit if you don’t—won’t he, Trigger?’
+
+“But Pistol, and Target, and Trigger are alike silent. G _soft_ has
+lost his _softness,_ and lets fall some _hard_ terms. Every one holds
+down his head, why, I can’t understand, because being soaked, that
+attitude can’t dry them.
+
+“‘Uncle,’ says Di, to the head of the firm, ‘you appear to enjoy it,
+you are buttoning up your coat as if you wanted to keep the rain in.’
+
+“‘I wish you would keep your tongue in,’ he said, gruffly.
+
+“‘I came for a party of pleasure,’ said the unconquerable girl, ‘and I
+think there is great fun in this. Hen, I feel sorry for you, you can’t
+stand the wet as those darling ducks can. Aunt will shake herself
+directly, and be as dry as an India rubber model.’
+
+“Aunt is angry, but can’t answer—every clap of thunder makes her
+scream. Sarah Matilda has lost her shoe, and the water has closed over
+it, and she can’t find it. ‘Pistol, where is your corkscrew? draw it
+out.’
+
+“‘It’s all your fault,’ sais the sleeping partner to the head of the
+firm, ‘I told you to bring the umbrellas.’
+
+“‘It’s all yours,’ retorts the afflicted husband, ‘I told you these
+things were all nonsense, and more trouble than they were worth.’
+
+“‘It’s all Hen’s fault,’ said Di, ‘for we came on purpose to bring her
+out; she has never been at a pic-nic before, and it’s holidays now. Oh!
+the brook has risen, and the planks are gone, we shall have to wade;
+Hen, ask those men to go before, I don’t like them to see above my
+ancles.’
+
+“‘Catch me at a pic-nic again,’ said the terrified spinster.
+
+“‘You had better get home from this first, before you talk of another,’
+sais Di.
+
+“‘Oh, Di, Di,’ said Henrietta, ‘how can you act so?’
+
+“‘You may say Di, Di, if you please, dear,’ said the tormentor; ‘but I
+never say die—and never will while there is life in me. Letty, will you
+go to the ball to-night? we shall catch cold if we don’t; for we have
+two miles more of the rain to endure in the open carriages before we
+reach the steamer, and we shall be chilled when we cease walking.’
+
+“But Letty can do nothing but cry, as if she wasn’t wet enough already.
+
+“‘Good gracious!’ sais the head of the house, ‘the horses have
+overturned the carriage, broke the pole, and run away.’
+
+“‘What’s the _upset_ price of it, I wonder?’ sais Di, ‘the horses will
+make ‘their _election_ sure;’ they are at the ‘head of _the pole,_ they
+are returned and they have left no _trace_ behind.’ I wish they had
+taken the _rain_ with them also.’
+
+“‘It’s a pity you wouldn’t _rein_ your tongue in also,’ said the
+fractious uncle.
+
+“‘Well, I will, Nunky, if you will restrain your _choler._ De Courcy,
+the horses are off at a ‘_smashing_ pace;’ G soft, it’s all _dickey_
+with us now, ain’t it? But that _milk-sop,_ Russel, is making a noise
+in his boots, as if he was ‘_churning_ butter.’ Well, I never enjoyed
+anything so much as this in my life; I do wish the Mudges had been
+here, it is the only thing wanting to make this pic-nic perfect. What
+do you say, Target?’
+
+“But Target don’t answer, he only mutters between his teeth something
+that sounds like, ‘what a devil that girl is!’ Nobody minds teasing
+now; their tempers are subdued, and they are dull, weary, and
+silent—dissatisfied with themselves, with each other, and the day of
+pleasure.
+
+“How could it be otherwise? It is a thing they didn’t understand, and
+had no taste for. They took a deal of trouble to get away from the main
+road as far as possible; they never penetrated farther into the forest
+than to obtain a shade, and there eat an uncomfortable cold dinner,
+sitting on the ground, had an ill-assorted party, provided no
+amusements, were thoroughly bored, and drenched to the skin—and this
+some people call a day in the bush.
+
+“There is an old proverb, that has a hidden meaning in it, that is
+applicable to this sort of thing—‘_As a man calleth in the woods, so it
+shall be answered to him_.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI.
+THE WORLD BEFORE THE FLOOD.
+
+
+We made another attempt at walking on the deck—the moon was trying to
+struggle through the fog, which was now of a bright copper colour.
+
+“Doctor,” said I, “have you ever seen a yellow fog before?”
+
+“Yes,” he said, “I have seen a white, black, red, and yellow fog,” and
+went off into a disquisition about optics, mediums, reflections,
+refractions, and all sorts of scientific terms.
+
+Well, I don’t like hard words; when you crack them, which is plaguy
+tough work, you have to pick the kernel out with a cambric needle, and
+unless it’s soaked in wine, like the heart of a hickory nut is, it
+don’t taste nice, and don’t pay you for the trouble. So to change the
+subject, “Doctor,” sais I, “how long is this everlasting mullatto
+lookin’ fog a goin’ to last, for it ain’t white, and it ain’t black,
+but kind of betwixt and between.”
+
+Sais he, and he stopped and listened a moment, “It will be gone by
+twelve o’clock to-night.”
+
+“What makes you think so?” said I.
+
+“Do you hear that?” said he.
+
+“Yes,” sais I, “I do; it’s children a playin’ and a chatterin’ in
+French. Now it’s nateral they should talk French, seein’ their parents
+do. They call it their mother-tongue, for old wives are like old
+hosses, they are all tongue, and when their teeth is gone, that unruly
+member grows thicker and bigger, for it has a larger bed to stretch out
+in,—not that it ever sleeps much, but it has a larger sphere of
+action,—do you take? I don’t know whether you have had this feeling of
+surprise, Doctor, but I have, hearing those little imps talk French,
+when, to save my soul, I can’t jabber it that way myself. In course of
+nature they must talk that lingo, for they are quilted in French—kissed
+in French—fed in French—and put to bed in French,—and told to pray to
+the Virgin in French, for that’s the language she loves best. She knows
+a great many languages, but she can’t speak English since Henry the
+Eighth’s time, when she said to him, ‘You be fiddled,’ which meant, the
+Scotch should come with their fiddles and rule England.
+
+“Still somehow I feel strange when these little critters address me in
+it, or when women use it to me (tho’ I don’t mind that so much, for
+there are certain freemason signs the fair sex understand all over the
+world), but the men puzzle me like Old Scratch, and I often say to
+myself, What a pity it is the critters can’t speak English. I never
+pity myself for not being able to jabber French, but I blush for their
+ignorance. However, all this is neither here nor there. Now, Doctor,
+how can you tell this fog is booked for the twelve o’clock train? Is
+there a Bradshaw for weather?”
+
+“Yes,” said he, “there is, do you hear that?”
+
+“I don’t hear nothing,” sais I, “but two Frenchmen ashore a jawing like
+mad. One darsen’t, and t’other is afraid to fight, so they are taking
+it out in gab—they ain’t worth listening to. How do they tell you the
+weather?”
+
+“Oh,” said he, “it ain’t them. Do you hear the falls at my lake? the
+west wind brings that to us. When I am there and the rote is on the
+beach, it tells me it is the voice of the south wind giving notice of
+rain. All nature warns me. The swallow, the pig, the goose, the fire on
+the hearth, the soot in the flue, the smoke of the chimney, the rising
+and setting sun, the white frost, the stars—all, all tell me.”
+
+“Yes,” sais I, “when I am to home I know all them signs.”
+
+“The spider too is my guide, and the ant also. But the little
+pimpernel, the poor man’s weather-glass, and the convolvulus are truer
+than any barometer, and a glass of water never lies.”
+
+“Ah, Doctor,” said I, “you and I read and study the same book. I don’t
+mean to assert we are, as Sorrow says, nateral children, but we are
+both children of nature, and honour our parents. I agree with you about
+the fog, but I wanted to see if you could answer signals with me. I am
+so glad you have come on board. You want amusement, I want instruction.
+I will swap stories with you for bits of your wisdom, and as you won’t
+take boot, I shall be a great gainer.”
+
+After a good deal of such conversation, we went below, and in due
+season turned in, in a place where true comfort consists in oblivion.
+The morning, as the doctor predicted, was clear, the fog was gone, and
+the little French village lay before us in all the beauty of ugliness.
+The houses were small, unpainted, and uninviting. Fish-flakes were
+spread on the beach, and the women were busy in turning the cod upon
+them. Boats were leaving the shore for the fishing-ground. Each of
+these was manned by two or three or four hands, who made as much noise
+as if they were getting a vessel under weigh, and were severally giving
+orders to each other with a rapidity of utterance that no people but
+Frenchmen are capable of.
+
+“Every nation,” said the doctor, “has its peculiarity, but the French
+Acadians excel all others in their adherence to their own ways; and in
+this particular, the Chesencookers surpass even their own countrymen.
+The men all dress alike, and the women all dress alike, as you will
+presently see, and always have done so within the memory of man. A
+round, short jacket which scarcely covers the waistcoat, trowsers that
+seldom reach below the ankle-joint, and yarn stockings, all four being
+blue, and manufactured at home, and apparently dyed in the same tub,
+with moccasins for the feet, and a round fur or cloth cap to cover the
+head, constitute the uniform and unvaried dress of the men. The attire
+of the women is equally simple. The short gown which reaches to the
+hip, and the petticoat which serves for a skirt, both made of coarse
+domestic cloth, having perpendicular blue and white stripes, constitute
+the difference of dress that marks the distinction of the sexes, if we
+except a handkerchief thrown over the head, and tied under the chin,
+for the blue stockings and the moccasins are common to both, males and
+females.
+
+“There has been no innovation for a century in these particulars,
+unless it be that a hat has found its way into Chesencook, not that
+such a stove-pipe looking thing as that has any beauty in it; but the
+boys of Halifax are not to be despised, if a hat is, and even an
+ourang-outang, if he ventured to walk about the streets, would have to
+submit to wear one. But the case is different with women, especially
+modest, discreet, unobtrusive ones, like those of the ‘long-shore
+French.’ They are stared at because they dress like those in the world
+before the Flood, but it’s an even chance if the antediluvian damsels
+were half so handsome; and what pretty girl can find it in her heart to
+be very angry at attracting attention? Yes, their simple manners, their
+innocence, and their sex are their protection. But no cap, bonnet, or
+ribbon, velvet, muslin, or lace, was ever seen at Chesencook. Whether
+this neglect of finery (the love of which is so natural to their
+countrywomen in Europe) arises from a deep-rooted veneration for the
+ways of their predecessors, or from the sage counsel of their spiritual
+instructors, who desire to keep them from the contamination of the
+heretical world around them, or from the conviction that
+
+‘The adorning thee with so much art
+    Is but a barbarous skill,
+’Tis like the barbing of a dart,
+    Too apt before to kill,’
+
+
+I know not. Such however is the fact nevertheless, and you ought to
+record it, as an instance in which they have shown their superiority to
+this universal weakness. Still, both men and women are decently and
+comfortably clad. There is no such thing as a ragged Acadian, and I
+never yet saw one begging his bread. Some people are distinguished for
+their industry, others for their idleness; some for their ingenuity,
+and others for their patience; but the great characteristic of an
+Acadian is talk, and his talk is, from its novelty, amusing and
+instructive, even in its nonsense.
+
+“These people live close to the banks where cod are found, and but
+little time is required in proceeding to the scene of their labour,
+therefore there is no necessity for being in a hurry, and there is lots
+of time for palaver. Every boat has an oracle in it, who speaks with an
+air of authority. He is a great talker, and a great smoker, and he
+chats so skilfully, that he enjoys his pipe at the same time, and
+manages it so as not to interrupt his jabbering. He can smoke, talk,
+and row at once. He don’t smoke fast, for that puts his pipe out by
+consuming his tobacco; nor row fast, for it fatigues him.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “but the tongue, I suppose, having, like a clock, a
+locomotive power of its own, goes like one of my wooden ones for
+twenty-four hours without ceasing, and like one of them also when it’s
+e’en amost worn-out and up in years, goes at the rate of one hundred
+minutes to the hour, strikes without counting the number, and gives
+good measure, banging away often twenty tunes at one o’clock.”
+
+Every boat now steered for the “Black Hawk,” and the oracle stopped
+talking French to practise English. “How you do, Sare? how you do your
+wife?” said Lewis Le Blanc, addressing me.
+
+“I have no wife.”
+
+“No wife, ton pee? Who turn your fish for you, den?”
+
+“Whereat they all laugh, and all talk French again. And oracle says,
+‘He takes his own eggs to market, den.’ He don’t laugh at that, for
+wits never laugh at their own jokes; but the rest snicker till they
+actilly scream.
+
+“What wind are we going to have, Lewis?”
+
+Oracle stands up, carefully surveys the sky, and notices all the signs,
+and then looks wise, and answers in a way that there can be no mistake.
+“Now you see, Sare, if de wind blow off de shore, den it will be west
+wind; if it blow from de sea, den it will be east wind; and if it blow
+down coast,” pointing to each quarter with his hand like a
+weather-cock, “den it will sartain be sout; and up de coast, den you
+will be sartain it will come from de nort. I never knew dat sign fail.”
+And he takes his pipe from his mouth, knocks some ashes out of it, and
+spits in the water, as much as to say, Now I am ready to swear to that.
+And well he may, for it amounts to this, that the wind will blow from
+any quarter it comes from. The other three all regard him with as much
+respect as if he was clerk of the weather.
+
+“Interesting people these, Doctor,” said I, “ain’t they? It’s the world
+before the Flood. I wonder if they know how to trade? Barter was the
+primitive traffick. Corn was given for oil, and fish for honey, and
+sheep and goats for oxen and horses, and so on. There is a good deal of
+trickery in barter, too, for necessity has no laws. The value of money
+we know, and a thing is worth what it will fetch in cash; but swapping
+is a different matter. It’s a horse of a different colour.”
+
+“You will find,” said the doctor, “the men (I except the other sex
+always) are as acute as you are at a bargain. You are more like to be
+bitten than to bite if you try that game with them.”
+
+“Bet you a dollar,” sais I, “I sell that old coon as easy as a clock.
+What, a Chesencooker a match for a Yankee! Come, I like that; that is
+good. Here goes for a trial, at any rate.
+
+“Mounsheer,” sais I, “have you any wood to sell?”
+
+We didn’t need no wood, but it don’t do to begin to ask for what you
+want, or you can’t do nothin’.
+
+“Yes,” said he.
+
+“What’s the price,” said I, “cash down on the nail?” for I knew the
+critter would see “the _point_” of coming down with the _blunt._
+
+“It’s ten dollars and a half,” said he, “a cord at Halifax, and it
+don’t cost me nothin’ to carry it there, for I have my own shallop—but
+I will sell it for ten dollars to oblige you.” That was just seven
+dollars more than it was worth.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “that’s not high, only cash is scarce. If you will take
+mackarel in pay, at six dollars a barrel (which was two dollars more
+than its value), p’raps we might trade. Could you sell me twenty cord?”
+
+“Yes, may be twenty-five.”
+
+“And the mackarel?” said I.
+
+“Oh,” said he, “mackarel is only worth three dollars and a half at
+Halifax. I can’t sell mine even at that. I have sixty barrels, number
+one, for sale.”
+
+“If you will promise me to let me have all the wood I want, more or
+less,” sais I, “even if it is ever so little; or as much as thirty
+cords, at ten dollars a cord, real rock maple, and yellow birch, then I
+will take all your mackarel at three and a half dollars, money down.”
+
+“Say four,” said he.
+
+“No,” sais I, “you say you can’t git but three and a half at Halifax,
+and I won’t beat you down, nor advance one cent myself. But mind, if I
+oblige you by buying all your mackarel, you must oblige me by letting
+me have all the wood _I want_.”
+
+“Done,” said he; so we warped into the wharf, took the fish on board,
+and I paid him the money, and cleared fifteen pounds by the operation.
+
+“Now,” says I, “where is the wood?”
+
+“All this is mine,” said he, pointing to a pile, containing about fifty
+cords.
+
+“Can I have it all,” said I, “if I want it?”
+
+He took off his cap and scratched his head; scratching helps a man to
+think amazingly. He thought he had better ask a little more than ten
+dollars, as I appeared to be so ready to buy at any price. So he said,
+
+“Yes, you may have it all at ten and a half dollars.”
+
+“I thought you said I might have what I wanted at ten.”
+
+“Well, I have changed my mind,” said he, “it is too low.”
+
+“And so have I,” sais I, “I won’t trade with a man that acts that way,”
+and I went on board, and the men cast off and began to warp the vessel
+again up to her anchor.
+
+Lewis took off his cap and began scratching his head again, he had
+over-reached himself. Expecting an immense profit on his wood, he had
+sold his fish very low; he saw I was in earnest, and jumped on board.
+
+“Capitaine, you will have him at ten, so much as you want of him.”
+
+“Well, measure me off half a cord.”
+
+“What!” said he, opening both eyes to their full extent.
+
+“Measure me off half a cord.”
+
+“Didn’t you say you wanted twenty or thirty cord?”
+
+“No,” sais I, “I said I must have that much if I wanted it, but I don’t
+want it, it is only worth three dollars, and you have had the modesty
+to ask ten, and then ten and a half, but I will take half a cord to
+please you, so measure it off.”
+
+He stormed, and raved, and swore, and threw his cap down on the deck
+and jumped on it, and stretched out his arm as if he was going to
+fight, and stretched out his wizzened face, as if it made halloing
+easier, and foamed at the mouth like a hoss that has eat lobelia in his
+hay.
+
+“Be gar,” he said, “I shall sue you before the common scoundrels
+(council) at Halifax, I shall take it before the _sperm_ (supreme)
+court, and _try_ it out.”
+
+“How much _ile_ will you get,” sais I, “by _tryin’ me_ out, do you
+think?
+
+“Never mind,” said I, in a loud voice, and looking over him at the
+mate, and pretending to answer him. “Never mind if he won’t go on
+shore, he is welcome to stay, and we will land him on the Isle of
+Sable, and catch a wild hoss for him to swim home on.”
+
+The hint was electrical; he picked up his cap and ran aft, and with one
+desperate leap reached the wharf in safety, when he turned and danced
+as before with rage, and his last audible words were, “Be gar, I shall
+go to the _sperm_ court and _try_ it out.”
+
+“In the world before the Flood, you see, Doctor,” said I, “they knew
+how to cheat as well as the present race do; the only improvement this
+fellow has made on the antediluvian race is, he can take himself in, as
+well as others.”
+
+“I have often thought,” said the doctor, “that in our dealings in life,
+and particularly in trading, a difficult question must often arise
+whether a thing, notwithstanding the world sanctions it, is lawful and
+right. Now what is your idea of smuggling?”
+
+“I never smuggled,” said I: “I have sometimes imported goods and didn’t
+pay the duties; not that I wanted to smuggle, but because I hadn’t time
+to go to the office. It’s a good deal of trouble to go to a
+custom-house. When you get there you are sure to be delayed, and half
+the time to git sarce. It costs a good deal; no one thanks you, and
+nobody defrays cab-hire, and makes up for lost time, temper, and
+patience to you—it don’t pay in a general way; sometimes it will; for
+instance, when I left the embassy, I made thirty thousand pounds of
+your money by one operation. Lead was scarce in our market, and very
+high, and the duty was one-third of the prime cost, as a protection to
+the na_tive_ article. So what does I do, but go to old Galena, one of
+the greatest dealers in the lead trade in Great Britain, and
+ascertained the wholesale price.
+
+“Sais I, ‘I want five hundred thousand dollars worth of lead.’
+
+“‘That is an immense order,’ said he, ‘Mr Slick. There is no market in
+the world that can absorb so much at once.’
+
+“‘The loss will be mine,’ said I. ‘What deductions will you make if I
+take it all from your house?’
+
+“Well, he came down handsome, and did the thing genteel.
+
+“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘will you let one of your people go to my cab, and
+bring a mould I have there.’
+
+“Well, it was done.
+
+“‘There,’ said I, ‘is a large bust of Washington. Every citizen of the
+United States ought to have one, if he has a dust of patriotism in him.
+I must have the lead cast into rough busts like that.’
+
+“‘Hollow,’ said he, ‘of course.’
+
+“‘No, no,’ sais I, ‘by no manner of means, the heavier and solider the
+better.’
+
+“‘But,’ said Galena, ‘Mr Slick, excuse me, though it is against my own
+interest, I cannot but suggest you might find a cheaper material, and
+one more suitable to your very laudable object.’
+
+“‘Not at all,’ said I, ‘lead is the very identical thing. If a man
+don’t like the statue and its price, and it’s like as not he wont, he
+will like the lead. There is no duty on statuary, but there is more
+than thirty per cent. on lead. The duty alone is a fortune of not less
+than thirty thousand pounds, after all expenses are paid.’
+
+“‘Well now,’ said he, throwing back his head and laughing, ‘that is the
+most ingenious device to evade duties I ever heard of.’
+
+“I immediately gave orders to my agents at Liverpool to send so many
+tons to Washington and every port and place on the seaboard of the
+United States except New York, but not too many to any one town; and
+then I took passage in a steamer, and ordered all my agents to close
+the consignment immediately, and let the lead hero change hands. It was
+generally allowed to be the handsomest operation ever performed in our
+country. Connecticut offered to send me to Congress for it, the folks
+felt so proud of me.
+
+“But I don’t call that smugglin’. It is a skilful reading of a revenue
+law. My idea of smugglin’ is, there is the duty, and there is the
+penalty; pay one and escape the other if you like, if not, run your
+chance of the penalty. If the state wants revenue, let it collect its
+dues. If I want my debts got in, I attend to drummin’ them up together
+myself; let government do the same. There isn’t a bit of harm in
+smugglin’. I don’t like a law restraining liberty. Let them that impose
+shackles look to the bolts; that’s my idea.”
+
+“That argument won’t hold water, Slick,” said the doctor.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“Because it is as full of holes as a cullender.’
+
+“How?”
+
+“The obligation between a government and a people is reciprocal. To
+protect on the one hand, and to support on the other. Taxes are
+imposed, first, for the maintenance of the government, and secondly,
+for such other objects as are deemed necessary or expedient. The moment
+goods are imported, which are subject to such exactions, the amount of
+the tax is a debt due to the state, the evasion or denial of which is a
+fraud. The penalty is not an alternative at your option; it is a
+punishment, and that always presupposes an offence. There is no
+difference between defrauding the state or an individual. Corporeality,
+or incorporeality, has nothing to do with the matter.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “Domine Doctor, that doctrine of implicit obedience to
+the government won’t hold water neither, otherwise, if you had lived in
+Cromwell’s time, you would have to have assisted in cutting the king’s
+head off, or fight in an unjust war, or a thousand other wicked but
+legal things. I believe every tub must stand on its own bottom; general
+rules won’t do. Take each separate, and judge of it by itself.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais the doctor; “try that in law and see how it would work.
+No two cases would be decided alike; you’d be adrift at once, and a
+drifting ship soon touches bottom. No, that won’t hold water. Stick to
+general principles, and if a thing is an exception to the rule, put it
+in Schedule A or B, and you know where to look for it. General rules
+are fixed principles. But you are only talking for talk sake; I know
+you are. Do you think now that merchant did right to aid you in evading
+the duty on your leaden Washingtons?”
+
+“What the plague had he to do with our revenue laws? They don’t bind
+him,” sais I.
+
+“No,” said the doctor, “but there is a higher law than the statutes of
+the States or of England either, and that is the moral law. In aiding
+you, he made the greatest sale of lead ever effected at once in
+England; the profit on that was his share of the smuggling. But you are
+only drawing me out to see what I am made of. You are an awful man for
+a bam. There goes old Lewis in his fishing boat,” sais he. “Look at him
+shaking his fist at you. Do you hear him jabbering away about _trying_
+it out in the ‘_sperm_ court?’”
+
+“I’ll make him draw his fist in, I know,” sais I. So I seized my rifle,
+and stepped behind the mast, so that he could not see me; and as a
+large grey gull was passing over his boat high up in the air, I fired,
+and down it fell on the old coon’s head so heavily and so suddenly, he
+thought he was shot; and he and the others set up a yell of fright and
+terror that made everybody on board of the little fleet of coasters
+that were anchored round us, combine in three of the heartiest,
+merriest, and loudest cheers I ever heard.
+
+“_Try_ that out in the _sperm_ court, you old bull-frog,” sais I. “I
+guess there is more ile to be found in that fishy gentleman than in me.
+Well,” sais I, “Doctor, to get back to what we was a talking of. It’s a
+tight squeeze sometimes to scrouge between a lie and a truth in
+business, ain’t it? The passage is so narrow, if you don’t take care it
+will rip your trowser buttons off in spite of you. Fortunately I am
+thin, and can do it like an eel, squirmey fashion; but a stout, awkward
+fellow is most sure to be catched.
+
+“I shall never forget a rise I once took out of a set of jockeys at
+Albany. I had an everlastin’ fast Naraganset pacer once to Slickville,
+one that I purchased in Mandarin’s place. I was considerable proud of
+him, I do assure you, for he took the rag off the bush in great style.
+Well, our stable-help, Pat Monaghan (him I used to call Mr Monaghan),
+would stuff him with fresh clover without me knowing it, and as sure as
+rates, I broke his wind in driving him too fast. It gave him the
+heaves, that is, it made his flanks heave like a blacksmith’s bellows.
+We call it ‘heaves,’ Britishers call it ‘broken wind.’ Well, there is
+no cure for it, though some folks tell you a hornet’s nest cut up fine
+and put in their meal will do it, and others say sift the oats clean
+and give them juniper berries in it, and that will do it, or ground
+ginger, or tar, or what not; but these are all quackeries. You can’t
+cure it, for it’s a ruption of an air vessel, and you can’t get at it
+to sew it up. But you can fix it up by diet and care, and proper usage,
+so that you can deceive even an old hand, providin’ you don’t let him
+ride or drive the beast too fast.
+
+“Well, I doctored and worked with him so, the most that could be
+perceived was a slight cold, nothin’ to mind, much less frighten you.
+And when I got him up to the notch, I advertised him for sale, as
+belonging to a person going down east, who only parted with him because
+he thought him too heav_ey_ for a man who never travelled less than a
+mile in two minutes and twenty seconds. Well, he was sold at auction,
+and knocked down to Rip Van Dam, the Attorney-General, for five hundred
+dollars; and the owner put a saddle and bridle on him, and took a bet
+of two hundred dollars with me, he could do a mile in two minutes,
+fifty seconds. He didn’t know me from Adam parsonally, at the time, but
+he had heard of me, and bought the horse because it was said Sam Slick
+owned him.
+
+“Well, he started off, and lost his bet; for when he got near the
+winnin’-post the horse choked, fell, and pitched the rider off half-way
+to Troy, and nearly died himself. The umpire handed me the money, and I
+dug out for the steam-boat intendin’ to pull foot for home. Just as I
+reached the wharf, I heard my name called out, but I didn’t let on I
+noticed it, and walked a-head. Presently, Van Dam seized me by the
+shoulder, quite out of breath, puffin’ and blowin’ like a porpoise.
+
+“‘Mr Slick?’ said he.
+
+“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘what’s left of me; but good gracious,’ sais I, ‘you
+have got the ‘heaves.’ I hope it ain’t catchin’.’
+
+“‘No I haven’t,’ said he, ‘but your cussed hoss has, and nearly broke
+my neck. You are like all the Connecticut men I ever see, a nasty,
+mean, long-necked, long-legged, narrow-chested, slab-sided,
+narrow-souled, lantern-jawed, Yankee cheat.’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘that’s a considerable of a long name to write on the
+back of a letter, ain’t it? It ain’t good to use such a swad of words,
+it’s no wonder you have the heaves; but I’ll cure you; I warn’t brought
+up to wranglin’; I hain’t time to fight you, and besides,’ said I, ‘you
+are broken-winded; but I’ll chuck you over the wharf into the river to
+cool you, boots and all, by gravy.’
+
+“‘Didn’t you advertise,’ said he, ‘that the only reason you had to part
+with that horse was, that he was too heavy for a man who never
+travelled slower than a mile in two minutes and twenty seconds?’
+
+“‘Never!’ sais I, ‘I never said such a word. What will you bet I did?’
+
+“‘Fifty dollars,’ said he.
+
+“‘Done,’ said I. ‘And, Vanderbelt—(he was just going on board the
+steamer at the time)—Vanderbelt,’ sais I, ‘hold these stakes. Friend,’
+sais I, ‘I won’t say you lie, but you talk uncommonly like the way I do
+when I lie. Now prove it.’
+
+“And he pulled out one of my printed advertisements, and said, ‘Read
+that.’
+
+“Well, I read it. ‘It ain’t there,’ said I.
+
+“‘Ain’t it?’ said he. ‘I leave it to Vanderbelt.’
+
+“‘Mr Slick,’ said he, ‘you have lost—it is here.’
+
+“‘Will _you_ bet fifty dollars,’ said I, ‘though you have seen it, that
+it’s there?’
+
+“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I will.’
+
+“‘Done,’ said I. ‘Now how do you spell heavy?’
+
+“‘H-e-a-v-y,’ said he.
+
+“‘Exactly,’ sais I; ‘so do I. But this is spelt _heav-ey._ I did it on
+purpose. I scorn to take a man in about a horse, so I published his
+defect to all the world. I said he was too _heavey_ for harness, and so
+he is. He ain’t worth fifty dollars—I wouldn’t take him as a gift—he
+ain’t worth _von dam_?’
+
+“‘Well, I did see that,’ said he, ‘but I thought it was an error of the
+press, or that the owner couldn’t spell.’
+
+“‘Oh!’ sais I, ‘don’t take me for one of your Dutch boors, I beg of
+you. I can spell, but you can’t read, that’s all. You remind me,’ sais
+I, ‘of a feller in Slickville when the six-cent letter stamps came in
+fashion. He licked the stamp so hard, he took all the gum off, and it
+wouldn’t stay on, no how he could fix it, so what does he do but put a
+pin through it, and writes on the letter, “Paid, if the darned thing
+will only stick.” Now, if you go and lick the stamp etarnally that way,
+folks will put a pin through it, and the story will stick to you for
+ever and ever. But come on board, and let’s liquor, and I will stand
+treat.’
+
+“I felt sorry for the poor critter, and I told him how to feed the
+horse, and advised him to take him to Saratoga, advertise him, and sell
+him the same way; and he did, and got rid of him. The rise raised his
+character as a lawyer amazing. He was elected governor next year; a
+sell like that is the making of a lawyer.
+
+“Now I don’t call the lead Washingtons nor the _heavey_ horse either on
+’em a case of cheat; but I do think a man ought to know how to read a
+law and how to read an advertisement, don’t you? But come, let us go
+ashore, and see how the galls look, for you have raised my curiosity.”
+
+We accordingly had the boat lowered; and taking Sorrow with us to see
+if he could do anything in the catering line, the doctor, Cutler, and
+myself landed on the beach, and walked round the settlement.
+
+The shore was covered with fish flakes, which sent up an aroma not the
+most agreeable in the world except to those who lived there, and they,
+I do suppose, snuff up the breeze as if it was loaded with wealth and
+smelt of the Gold Coast. But this was nothing (although I don’t think I
+can ever eat dum fish again as long as I live) to the effluvia arising
+from decomposed heaps of sea-wood, which had been gathered for manure,
+and was in the act of removal to the fields. No words can describe
+this, and I leave it to your imagination, Squire, to form an idea of a
+new perfume in nastiness that has never yet been appreciated but by an
+Irishman.
+
+I heard a Paddy once, at Halifax, describe the wreck of a carriage
+which had been dashed to pieces. He said there was not “a smell of it
+left.” Poor fellow, he must have landed at Chesencook, and removed one
+of those oloriferous heaps, as Sorrow called them, and borrowed the
+metaphor from it, that there was not “a smell of it left.” On the beach
+between the “flakes” and the water, were smaller heaps of the garbage
+of the cod-fish and mackarel, on which the grey and white gulls fought,
+screamed, and gorged themselves, while on the bar were the remains of
+several enormous black fish, half the size of whales, which had been
+driven on shore, and hauled up out of the reach of the waves by strong
+ox teams. The heads and livers of these huge monsters had been “_tried_
+out in the _Sperm_ court” for ile, and the putrid remains of the
+carcass were disputed for by pigs and crows. The discordant noises of
+these hungry birds and beasts were perfectly deafening.
+
+On the right-hand side of the harbour, boys and girls waded out on the
+flats to dig clams, and were assailed on all sides by the screams of
+wild fowl who resented the invasion of their territory, and were
+replied to in tones no less shrill and unintelligible. On the left was
+the wreck of a large ship, which had perished on the coast, and left
+its ribs and skeleton to bleach on the shore, as if it had failed in
+the vain attempt to reach the forest from which it had sprung, and to
+repose in death in its native valley. From one of its masts, a long,
+loose, solitary shroud was pendant, having at its end a large double
+block attached to it, on which a boy was seated, and swung backward and
+forward. He was a little saucy urchin, of about twelve years of age,
+dressed in striped homespun, and had on his head a red yarn clackmutch,
+that resembled a cap of liberty. He seemed quite happy, and sung a
+verse of a French song with an air of conscious pride and defiance as
+his mother, stick in hand, stood before him, and at the top of her
+voice now threatened him with the rod, his father, and the priest—and
+then treacherously coaxed him with a promise to take him to Halifax,
+where he should see the great chapel, hear the big bell, and look at
+the bishop. A group of little girls stared in amazement at his courage,
+but trembled when they heard his mother predict a broken
+neck—purgatory—and the devil as his portion. The dog was as excited as
+the boy—he didn’t bark, but he whimpered as he gazed upon him, as if he
+would like to jump up and be with him, or to assure him he would catch
+him if he fell, if he had but the power to do so.
+
+What a picture it was—the huge wreck of that that once “walked the
+waters as a thing of life”—the merry boy—the anxious mother—the
+trembling sisters—the affectionate dog; what bits of church-yard scenes
+were here combined—children playing on the tombs—the young and the
+old—the merry and the aching heart—the living among the dead. Far
+beyond this were tall figures wading in the water, and seeking their
+food in the shallows; cranes, who felt the impunity that the
+superstition of the simple _habitans_ had extended to them, and sought
+their daily meal in peace.
+
+Above the beach and parallel with it, ran a main road, on the upper
+side of which were the houses, and on a swelling mound behind them rose
+the spire of the chapel visible far off in the Atlantic, a sacred
+signal-post for the guidance of the poor coaster. As soon as you reach
+this street or road and look around you, you feel at once you are in a
+foreign country and a land of strangers. The people, their dress, and
+their language, the houses, their form and appearance, the implements
+of husbandry, their shape and construction—all that you hear and see is
+unlike anything else. It is neither above, beyond, or behind the age.
+It is the world before the Flood. I have sketched it for you, and I
+think without bragging I may say I can take things off to the life.
+Once I drawed a mutton chop so nateral, my dog broke his teeth in
+tearing the panel to pieces to get at it; and at another time I painted
+a shingle so like stone, when I threw it into the water, it sunk right
+kerlash to the bottom.
+
+“Oh, Mr Slick,” said the doctor, “let me get away from here. I can’t
+bear the sight of the sea-coast, and above all, of this offensive
+place. Let us get into the woods where we can enjoy ourselves. You have
+never witnessed what I have lately, and I trust in God you never will.
+I have seen within this month two hundred dead bodies on a beach in
+every possible shape of disfiguration and decomposition—mangled,
+mutilated, and dismembered corpses; male and female, old and young, the
+prey of fishes, birds, beasts, and, what is worse, of human beings. The
+wrecker had been there—whether he was of your country or mine I know
+not, but I fervently hope he belonged to neither. Oh, I have never
+slept sound since. The screams of the birds terrify me, and yet what do
+they do but follow the instincts of their nature? They batten on the
+dead, and if they do feed on the living, God has given them animated
+beings for their sustenance, as, he has the fowls of the air, the
+fishes of the sea, and the beasts of the field to us, but they feed not
+on each other. Man, man alone is a cannibal. What an awful word that
+is!”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “for he is then below the canine species—‘dog won’t
+eat dog.’1 The wrecker lives not on those who die, but on those whom he
+slays. The pirate has courage at least to boast of, he risks his life
+to rob the ship, but the other attacks the helpless and unarmed, and
+spares neither age nor sex in his thirst for plunder. I don’t mean to
+say we are worse on this side of the Atlantic than the other, God
+forbid. I believe we are better, for the American people are a kind, a
+feeling, and a humane race. But avarice hardens the heart, and
+distress, when it comes in a mass, overpowers pity for the individual,
+while inability to aid a multitude induces a carelessness to assist
+any. A whole community will rush to the rescue of a drowning man, not
+because his purse can enrich them all (that is too dark a view of human
+nature), but because he is the sole object of interest. When there are
+hundreds struggling for life, few of whom can be saved, and when some
+wretches are solely bent on booty, the rest, regardless of duty, rush
+in for their share also, and the ship and her cargo attract all. When
+the wreck is plundered, the transition to rifling the dying and the
+dead is not difficult, and cupidity, when once sharpened by success,
+brooks no resistance, for the remonstrance of conscience is easily
+silenced where supplication is not even heard. Avarice benumbs the
+feelings, and when the heart is hardened, man becomes a mere beast of
+prey. Oh this scene afflicts me—let us move on. These poor people have
+never yet been suspected of such atrocities, and surely they were not
+perpetrated _in the world before the Flood_.”
+
+1 This homely adage is far more expressive than the Latin one:—
+
+
+“Parcit
+Cognates maculis, similis fera.”—Juv.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII.
+LOST AT SEA.
+
+
+“I believe, Doctor,” sais I, “we have seen all that is worth notice
+here, let us go into one of their houses and ascertain if there is
+anything for Sorrow’s larder; but, Doctor,” sais I, “let us first find
+out if they speak English, for if they do we must be careful what we
+say before them. Very few of the old people I guess know anything but
+French, but the younger ones who frequent the Halifax market know more
+than they pretend to if they are like some other _habitans_ I saw at
+New Orleans. They are as cunning as foxes.”
+
+Proceeding to one of the largest cottages, we immediately gained
+admission. The door, unlike those of Nova Scotian houses, opened
+outwards, the fastening being a simple wooden latch. The room into
+which we entered was a large, dark, dingy, dirty apartment. In the
+centre of it was a tub containing some goslins, resembling yellow balls
+of corn-meal, rather than birds. Two females were all that were at
+home, one a little wrinkled woman, whose age it would puzzle a
+physiognomist to pronounce on, the other a girl about twenty-five years
+old. They sat on opposite sides of the fire-place, and both were
+clothed alike, in blue striped homespun, as previously described.
+
+“Look at their moccasins,” said the doctor. “They know much more about
+deer-skins than half the English settlers do. Do you observe, they are
+made of carriboo, and not moose hide. The former contracts with wet and
+the other distends and gets out of shape. Simple as that little thing
+is, few people have ever noticed it.”
+
+The girl, had she been differently trained and dressed, would have been
+handsome, but spare diet, exposure to the sun and wind, and
+field-labour, had bronzed her face, so that it was difficult to say
+what her real complexion was. Her hair was jet black and very
+luxuriant, but the handkerchief which served for bonnet and head-dress
+by day, and for a cap by night, hid all but the ample folds in front.
+Her teeth were as white as ivory, and contrasted strangely with the
+gipsy colour of her cheeks. Her eyes were black, soft, and liquid, and
+the lashes remarkably long, but the expression of her face, which was
+naturally good, indicated, though not very accurately, the absence of
+either thought or curiosity.
+
+After a while objects became more distinct in the room, as we gradually
+became accustomed to the dim light of the small windows. The walls were
+hung round with large hanks of yarn, principally blue and white. An
+open cupboard displayed some plain coarse cups and saucers, and the
+furniture consisted of two rough tables, a large bunk,1 one or two
+sea-chests, and a few chairs of simple workmanship. A large
+old-fashioned spinning-wheel and a barrel-churn stood in one corner,
+and in the other a shoemaker’s bench, while carpenter’s tools were
+suspended on nails in such places as were not occupied by yarn. There
+was no ceiling or plastering visible anywhere, the floor of the attic
+alone separated that portion of the house from the lower room, and the
+joice on which it was laid were thus exposed to view, and supported on
+wooden cleets, leather, oars, rudders, together with some half-dressed
+pieces of ash, snow-shoes, and such other things as necessity might
+require. The wood-work, wherever visible, was begrimed with smoke, and
+the floor, though doubtless sometimes swept, appeared as if it had the
+hydrophobia hidden in its cracks, so carefully were soap and water kept
+from it. Hams and bacon were nowhere visible. It is probable, if they
+had any, they were kept elsewhere, but still more probable that they
+had found their way to market, and been transmuted into money, for
+these people are remarkably frugal and abstemious, and there can be no
+doubt, the doctor says, that there is not a house in the settlement in
+which there is not a supply of ready money, though the appearance of
+the buildings and their inmates would by no means justify a stranger in
+supposing so. They are neither poor nor destitute, but far better off
+than those who live more comfortably and inhabit better houses.
+
+1 Bunk is a word in common use, and means a box that makes a seat by
+day and serves for a bedstead by night.
+
+
+The only article of food that I saw was a barrel of eggs, most probably
+accumulated for the Halifax market, and a few small fish on rods,
+undergoing the process of smoking in the chimney corner.
+
+The old woman was knitting and enjoying her pipe, and the girl was
+dressing wool, and handling a pair of cards with a rapidity and ease
+that would have surprised a Lancashire weaver. The moment she rose to
+sweep up the hearth I saw she was an heiress. When an Acadian girl has
+but her outer and under garment on, it is a clear sign, if she marries,
+there will be a heavy demand on the fleeces of her husband’s sheep; but
+if she wears four or more thick woollen petticoats, it is equally
+certain her portion of worldly goods is not very small.
+
+“Doctor,” sais I, “it tante every darnin’ needle would reach her
+through them petticoats, is it?”
+
+“Oh!” said he, “Mr Slick—oh!” and he rose as usual, stooped forward,
+pressed his hands on his ribs, and ran round the room, if not at the
+imminent risk of his life, certainly to the great danger of the
+spinning wheel and the goslings. Both the females regarded him with
+great surprise, and not without some alarm.
+
+“He has the stomach-ache,” sais I, in French, “he is subject to it.”
+
+“Oh! oh!” said he, when he heard that, “oh, Mr Slick, you will be the
+death of me.”
+
+“Have you got any peppermint?” sais I.
+
+“No,” said she, talking in her own _patois;_ and she scraped a spoonful
+of soot from the chimney, and putting it into a cup, was about pouring
+hot water on it for an emetic, when he could stand it no longer, but
+rushing out of the door, put to flight a flock of geese that were
+awaiting their usual meal, and stumbling over a pig, fell at full
+length on the ground, nearly crushing the dog, who went off yelling as
+if another such blow would be the death of him, and hid himself under
+the barn. The idea of the soot-emetic relieved the old lady, though it
+nearly fixed the doctor’s flint for him. She extolled its virtues to
+the skies; she saved her daughter’s life, she said, with it once, who
+had been to Halifax, and was taken by an officer into a pastrycook’s
+shop and treated. He told her if she would eat as much as she could at
+once, he would pay for it all.
+
+Well, she did her best. She eat one loaf of plumcake, three trays of
+jellies, a whole counter of little tarts, figs, raisins, and oranges,
+and all sorts of things without number. Oh! it was a grand chance, she
+said, and the way she eat was a caution to a cormorant; but at last she
+gave out she couldn’t do no more. The foolish officer, the old lady
+observed, if he had let her fetch all them things home, you know we
+could have helped her to eat them, and if we couldn’t have eat ’em all
+in one day, surely we could in one week; but he didn’t think of that I
+suppose. But her daughter liked to have died; too much of a good thing
+is good for nothing. Well, the soot-emetic cured her, and then she told
+me all its effects; and it’s very surprising, it didn’t sound bad in
+French, but it don’t do to write it in English at all; it’s the same
+thing, but it tells better in French. It must be a very nice language
+that for a doctor, when it makes emetics sound so pretty; you might
+hear of ’em while you was at dinner and not disturb you.
+
+You may depend it made the old lady wake snakes and walk chalks talking
+of physic. She told me if a man was dying or a child was born in all
+that settlement, she was always sent for, and related to me some
+capital stories; but somehow no English or Yankee woman could tell them
+to a man, and a man can’t tell them in English. How is this, Squire, do
+you know? Ah! here is the doctor, I will ask him by and by.
+
+Women, I believe, are born with certain natural tastes. Sally was death
+on lace, and old Aunt Thankful goes the whole figure for furs; either
+on ’em could tell real thread or genuine sable clear across the church.
+Mother was born with a tidy devil, and had an eye for cobwebs and
+blue-bottle flies. She waged eternal war on ’em; while Phoebe Hopewell
+beat all natur for bigotry and virtue as she called them _(bijouterie_
+and _virtu)._ But most Yankee women when they grow old, specially if
+they are spinsters, are grand at compoundin’ medicines and presarves.
+They begin by nursin’ babies and end by nursin’ broughten up folks. Old
+Mother Boudrot, now, was great on herbs, most of which were as simple
+and as harmless as herself. Some of them was new to me, though I think
+I know better ones than she has; but what made her onfallible was she
+had faith. She took a key out of her pocket, big enough for a
+jail-door, and unlocking a huge sailor’s chest, selected a box made by
+the Indians of birch bark, worked with porcupine quills, which enclosed
+another a size smaller, and that a littler one that would just fit into
+it, and so on till she came to one about the size of an old-fashioned
+coffee-cup. They are called a nest of boxes. The inner one contained a
+little horn thing that looked like a pill-box, and that had a charm in
+it.
+
+It was a portion of the nail of St Francis’s big toe, which never
+failed to work a cure on them who believed in it. She said she bought
+it from a French prisoner, who had deserted from Melville Island, at
+Halifax, during the last war. She gave him a suit of clothes, two
+shirts, six pair of stockings, and eight dollars for it. The box was
+only a bit of bone, and not worthy of the sacred relic, but she
+couldn’t afford to get a gold one for it.
+
+“Poor St Croix,” she said, “I shall never see him again. He had great
+larning; he could both read and write. When he sold me that holy thing,
+he said:
+
+“‘Madam, I am afraid something dreadful will happen to me before long
+for selling that relic. When danger and trouble come, where will be my
+charm then?’
+
+“Well, sure enough, two nights after (it was a very dark night) the
+dogs barked dreadful, and in the morning Peter La Roue, when he got up,
+saw his father’s head on the gate-post, grinnin’ at him, and his
+daughter Annie’s handkerchief tied over his crown and down under his
+chin. And St Croix was gone, and Annie was in a trance, and the
+priest’s desk was gone, with two hundred pounds of money in it; and old
+Jodrie’s ram had a saddle and bridle on, and was tied to a gate of the
+widow of Justine Robisheau, that was drowned in a well at Halifax; and
+Simon Como’s boat put off to sea of itself, and was no more heard of.
+Oh, it was a terrible night, and poor St Croix, people felt very sorry
+for him, and for Annie La Roue, who slept two whole days and nights
+before she woke up. She had all her father’s money in her room that
+night; but they searched day after day and never found it.”
+
+Well, I didn’t undeceive her. What’s the use? Master St Croix was an
+old privateers-man. He had drugged La Roue’s daughter to rob her of her
+money; had stolen two hundred pounds from the priest, and Como’s boat,
+and sold the old lady a piece of his toe-nail for eight or ten pounds’
+worth in all. _I never shake the faith of an ignorant person. Suppose
+they do believe too much, it is safer than believing too little. You
+may make them give up their creed, but they ain’t always quite so
+willing to take your’s. It is easier to make an infidel than a
+convert._ So I just let folks be, and suffer them to skin their own
+eels.
+
+After that she took to paying me compliments on my French, and I
+complimented her on her good looks, and she confessed she was very
+handsome when she was young, and all the men were in love with her, and
+so on. Well, when I was about startin’, I inquired what she had to sell
+in the eatin’ line.
+
+“Eggs and fish,” she said, “were all she had in the house.”
+
+On examining the barrel containing the former, I found a white-lookin’,
+tasteless powder among them.
+
+“What’s that?” said I.
+
+Well, she told me what it was (pulverised gypsum), and said, “It would
+keep them sweet and fresh for three months at least, and she didn’t
+know but more.”
+
+So I put my hand away down into the barrel and pulled out two, and that
+layer she said was three months old. I held them to the light, and they
+were as clear as if laid yesterday.
+
+“Boil them,” sais I, and she did so; and I must say it was a wrinkle I
+didn’t expect to pick up at such a place as that, for nothing could be
+fresher.
+
+“Here is a dollar,” said I, “for that receipt, for it’s worth knowing,
+I can tell you.”
+
+“Now,” thinks I, as I took my seat again, “I will try and see if this
+French gall can talk English.” I asked her, but she shook her head.
+
+So to prove her, sais I, “Doctor, ain’t she a beauty, that? See what
+lovely eyes she has, and magnificent hair! Oh, if she was well got up,
+and fashionably dressed, wouldn’t she be a sneezer? What beautiful
+little hands and feet she has! I wonder if she would marry me, seein’ I
+am an orthodox man.”
+
+Well, she never moved a muscle; she kept her eyes fixed on her work,
+and there wasn’t the leastest mite of a smile on her face. I kinder
+sorter thought her head was rather more stationary, if anything, as if
+she was listening, and her eyes more fixed, as if she was all
+attention; but she had dropped a stitch in her knitting, and was taking
+of it up, so perhaps I might be mistaken. Thinks I, I will try you on
+t’other tack.
+
+“Doctor, how would you like to kiss her, eh? Ripe-looking lips them,
+ain’t they? Well, I wouldn’t kiss her for the world,” said I; “I would
+just as soon think of kissing a ham that is covered with creosote.
+There is so much ile and smoke on ’em, I should have the taste in my
+mouth for a week. Phew! I think I taste it now!”
+
+She coloured a little at that, and pretty soon got up and went out of
+the room; and presently I heard her washing her hands and face like
+anything,
+
+Thinks I, “You sly fox! you know English well enough to kiss in it
+anyhow, if you can’t talk in it easy. I thought I’de find you out; for
+a gall that won’t laugh when you tickle her, can’t help screamin’ a
+little when you pinch her; that’s a fact.” She returned in a few
+minutes quite a different lookin’ person, and resumed her usual
+employment, but still persisted that she did not know English. In the
+midst of our conversation, the master of the house, Jerome Boudrot,
+came in. Like most of the natives of Chesencook, he was short in
+stature, but very active, and like all the rest a great talker.
+
+“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, “you follow de sea, eh?”
+
+“No,” sais I, “the sea often follows us, especially when the wind is
+fair.”
+
+“True, true,” he said; “I forget dat. It followed me one time. Oh, I
+was wunst lost at sea; and it’s an awful feelin’. I was out of sight of
+land one whole day, all night, and eetle piece of next day. Oh, I was
+proper frightened. It was all sea and sky, and big wave, and no land,
+and none of us knew our way back.” And he opened his eyes as if the
+very recollection of his danger alarmed him. “At last big ship came by,
+and hailed her, and ask:
+
+“‘My name is Jerry Boudrot; where am I?’
+
+“‘Aboard of your own vessel,’ said they; and they laughed like
+anything, and left us.
+
+“Well, towards night we were overtaken by Yankee vessel, and I say, ‘My
+name is Jerry Boudrot; where am I?’
+
+“‘_Thar_,’ said the sarcy Yankee captain, ‘and if you get this far, you
+will be _here_;’ and they laughed at me, and I swore at them, and
+called ’em all manner of names.
+
+“Well, then I was proper frightened, and I gave myself up for lost, and
+I was so sorry I hadn’t put my deed of my land on recor, and that I
+never got pay for half a cord of wood I sold a woman, who nevare return
+agin, last time I was to Halifax; and Esadore Terrio owe me two
+shillings and sixpence, and I got no note of hand for it, and I lend my
+ox-cart for one day to Martell Baban, and he will keep it for a week,
+and wear it out, and my wife marry again as sure as de world. Oh, I was
+very scare and propare sorry, you may depend, when presently great big
+English ship come by, and I hail her.
+
+“‘My name is Jerry Boudrot,’ sais I, ‘when did you see land last?’
+
+“‘Thirty days ago,’ said the captain.
+
+“‘Where am I?’ sais I.
+
+“‘In 44° 40′ north,’ said he, ‘and 63° 40′ west,’ as near as I could
+hear him.
+
+“‘And what country is dat are?’ said I. ‘My name is Jerry Boudrot.’
+
+“‘Where are you bound?’ said he.
+
+“‘Home,’1 said I.
+
+1 All colonists call England “home.”
+
+
+“‘Well,’ said he, ‘at this season of the year you shall make de run in
+twenty-five day. A pleasant passage to you!’ and away he went.
+
+“Oh, I was plague scared; for it is a dreadful thing to be lost at sea.
+
+“‘Twenty-five days,’ said I, ‘afore we get home! Oh, mon Dieu! oh dear!
+we shall all starve to death; and what is worse, die first. What
+provision have we, boys?’
+
+“‘Well,’ sais they, ‘we counted, and we have two figs of tobacco, and
+six loaf baker’s bread (for the priest), two feet of wood, three
+matches, and five gallons of water, and one pipe among us all.’ Three
+matches and five gallons of water! Oh, I was so sorry to lose my life,
+and what was wus, I had my best clothes on bord.
+
+“‘Oh, boys, we are out of sight of land now,’ sais I, ‘and what is wus,
+may be we go so far we get out sight of de sun too, where is dark like
+down cellar. Oh, it’s a shocking ting to be lost at sea. Oh, people
+lose deir way dere so bad, sometimes dey nevare return no more. People
+that’s lost in de wood dey come back if dey live, but them that’s lost
+at sea nevare. Oh, I was damn scared. Oh, mon Dieu! what is 44° 40′
+north and 63° 40′ west? Is dat de conetry were people who are lost at
+sea go to? Boys, is there any rum on board?’ and they said there was a
+bottle for the old lady’s rheumatis. ‘Well, hand it up,’ sais I, ‘and
+if ever you get back tell her it was lost at sea, and has gone to 44°
+40′ north and 63° 40′ west. Oh, dear, dis all comes from going out of
+sight of land.’
+
+“Oh, I was vary dry you may depend; I was so scared at being lost at
+sea that way, my lips stuck together like the sole and upper-leather of
+a shoe. And when I took down the bottle to draw breath, the boys took
+it away, as it was all we had. Oh, it set my mouth afire, it was made
+to warm outside and not inside. Dere was brimstone, and camphor, and
+eetle red pepper, and turpentene in it. Vary hot, vary nasty, and vary
+trong, and it made me sea-sick, and I gave up my dinner, for I could
+not hole him no longer, he jump so in de stomach, and what was wus, I
+had so little for anoder meal. Fust I lose my way, den I lose my sense,
+den I lose my dinner, and what is wus I lose myself to sea. Oh, I
+repent vary mush of my sin in going out of sight of land. Well, I
+lights my pipe and walks up and down, and presently the sun comes out
+quite bright.
+
+“‘Well, dat sun,’ sais I, ‘boys, sets every night behind my barn in the
+big swamp, somewhere about the Hemlock Grove. Well, dat is 63° 40′ west
+I suppose. And it rises a few miles to the eastward of that barn,
+sometimes out of a fog bank, and sometimes out o’ the water; well that
+is 44° 40′ north, which is all but east I suppose. Now, if we steer
+west we will see our barn, but steering east is being lost at sea, for
+in time you would be behind de sun.’
+
+“Well, we didn’t sleep much dat night, you may depend, but we prayed a
+great deal, and we talked a great deal, and I was so cussed scared I
+did not know what to do. Well, morning came and still no land, and I
+began to get diablement feared again. Every two or tree minutes I run
+up de riggin’ and look out, but couldn’t see notin’. At last I went
+down to my trunk, for I had bottle there for my rheumatics too, only no
+nasty stuff in it, that the boys didn’t know of, and I took very long
+draught, I was so scared; and then I went on deck and up de riggin’
+again.
+
+“‘Boys,’ sais I, ‘there’s the barn. That’s 63° 40′ west. I tole you
+so.’ Well, when I came down I went on my knees, and I vowed as long as
+I lived I would hug as tight and close as ever I could.”
+
+“Your wife?” sais I.
+
+“Pooh, no,” said he, turning round contemptuously towards her; “hug
+her, eh! why, she has got the rheumatiz, and her tongue is in mourning
+for her teeth. No, hug the shore, man, hug it so close as posseeble,
+and nevare lose sight of land for fear of being lost at sea.”
+
+The old woman perceiving that Jerry had been making some joke at her
+expense, asked the girl the meaning of it, when she rose, and seizing
+his cap and boxing his ears with it, right and left, asked what he
+meant by wearing it before gentlemen, and then poured out a torrent of
+abuse on him, with such volubility I was unable to follow it.
+
+Jerry sneaked off, and set in the corner near his daughter, afraid to
+speak, and the old woman took her chair again, unable to do so. There
+was a truce and a calm, so to change the conversation, sais I:
+
+“Sorrow, take the rifle and go and see if there is a Jesuit-priest
+about here, and if there is shoot him, and take him on board and cook
+him.”
+
+“Oh, Massa Sam,” said he, and he opened his eyes and goggled like an
+owl awfully frightened. “Goody gracious me, now you is joking, isn’t
+you? I is sure you is. You wouldn’t now, Massa, you wouldn’t make dis
+child do murder, would you? Oh, Massa!! kill de poor priest who nebber
+did no harm in all his born days, and him hab no wife and child to
+follow him to—”
+
+“The pot,” sais I, “oh, yes, if they ask me arter him I will say he is
+gone to pot.”
+
+“Oh, Massa, now you is funnin, ain’t you?” and he tried to force a
+laugh. “How in de world under de canopy ob hebbin must de priest be
+cooked?”
+
+“Cut his head and feet off,” sais I, “break his thighs short, close up
+to the stumps, bend ’em up his side, ram him into the pot and stew him
+with ham and vegetables. Lick! a Jesuit-priest is delicious done that
+way.”
+
+The girl dropped her cards on her knees and looked at me with intense
+anxiety. She seemed quite handsome, I do actilly believe if she was put
+into a tub and washed, laid out on the grass a few nights with her face
+up to bleach it, her great yarn petticoats hauled off and proper ones
+put on, and her head and feet dressed right, she’d beat the Blue-nose
+galls for beauty out and out; but that is neither here nor there, those
+that want white faces must wash them, and those that want white floors
+must scrub them, it’s enough for me that they are white, without my
+making them so. Well, she looked all eyes and ears. Jerry’s under-jaw
+dropped, Cutler was flabbergasted, and the doctor looked as if he
+thought, “Well, what are you at now?” while the old woman appeared
+anxious enough to give her whole barrel of eggs to know what was going
+on.
+
+“Oh, Massa,” said Sorrow, “dis here child can’t have no hand in it. De
+priest will pyson you, to a dead sartainty. If he was baked he mout do.
+In Africa dey is hannibals and eat dere prisoners, but den dey bake or
+roast ’em, but stew him, Massa! by golly he will pyson you, as sure as
+‘postles. My dear ole missus died from only eaten hogs wid dere heads
+on.”
+
+“Hogs!” said I.
+
+“Yes, Massa, in course, hogs wid dere heads on. Oh, she was a most a
+beautiful cook, but she was fizzled out by bad cookery at de last.”
+
+“You black villain,” said I, “do you mean to say your mistress ever eat
+whole hogs?”
+
+“Yes, Massa, in course I do, but it was abbin’ dere heads on fixed her
+flint for her.”
+
+“What an awful liar you are, Sorrow!”
+
+“‘Pon my sacred word and honour, Massa,” he said, “I stake my testament
+oat on it; does you tink dis here child now would swear to a lie? true
+as preachin’, Sar.”
+
+“Go on,” said I, “I like to see a fellow go the whole animal while he
+is about it. How many did it take to kill her?”
+
+“Well, Massa, she told me herself, on her def bed, she didn’t eat no
+more nor ten or a dozen hogs, but she didn’t blame dem, it was havin’
+dere heads on did all the mischief. I was away when dey was cooked, or
+it wouldn’t a happened. I was down to Charleston Bank to draw six
+hundred dollars for her, and when I came back she sent for me.
+‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘Plutarch has poisoned me.’
+
+“‘Oh, de black villain’, sais I, ‘Missus, I will tye him to a tree and
+burn him.’
+
+“‘No, no,’ she said, ‘I will return good for ebil. Send for Rev. Mr
+Hominy, and Mr Succatash, de Yankee oberseer, and tell my poor granny
+Chloe her ole missus is dyin’, and to come back, hot foot, and bring
+Plutarch, for my disgestion is all gone.’ Well, when Plutarch came she
+said, ‘Plue, my child, you have killed your missus by cooking de hogs
+wid dere heads on, but I won’t punish you, I is intendin’ to extinguish
+you by kindness among de plantation niggers. I will heap coals of fire
+on your head.’
+
+“‘Dat’s right, Missus,’ sais I, ‘burn the villain up, but burn him with
+green wood so as to make slow fire, dat’s de ticket, Missus, it sarves
+him right.’
+
+“Oh, if you eber heard yellin’, Massa, you’d a heard it den. Plue he
+trowed himself down on de ground, and he rolled and he kicked and he
+screamed like mad.
+
+“‘Don’t make a noise, Plutarch,’ said she, ‘I can’t stand it. I isn’t a
+goin’ to put you to def. You shall lib. I will gib you a wife.’
+
+“‘Oh, tankee, Missus,’ said he, ‘oh, I will pray for you night and day,
+when I ain’t at work or asleep, for eber and eber. Amen.’
+
+“‘You shall ab Cloe for a wife.’
+
+“Cloe, Massa, was seventy-five, if she was one blessed second old. She
+was crippled with rheumatis, and walked on crutches, and hadn’t a tooth
+in her head. She was just doubled up like a tall nigger in a short bed.
+
+“‘Oh, Lord, Missus,’ said Plutarch, ‘hab mercy on dis sinner, O dear
+Missus, O lubly Missus, oh hab mercy on dis child.’
+
+“‘Tankee, Missus,’ said Cloe. ‘God bless you, Missus, I is quite appy
+now. I is a leetle too young for dat spark, for I is cuttin’ a new set
+o’ teeth now, and ab suffered from teethin’ most amazin’, but I will
+make him a lubin’ wife. Don’t be shy, Mr Plue,’ said she, and she up
+wid one ob her crutches and gub him a poke in de ribs dat made him
+grunt like a pig. ‘Come, tand up,’ said she, ‘till de parson tie de
+knot round your neck.’
+
+“‘Oh! Lord, Missus,’ said he, ‘ab massy!’ But de parson married ’em,
+and said, ‘Slute your bride!’ but he didn’t move.
+
+“‘He is so bashful,’ said Cloe, takin’ him round de neck and kissin’ ob
+him. ‘Oh, Missus!’ she said, ‘I is so proud ob my bridegroom—he do look
+so genteel wid ole massa’s frill shirt on, don’t he?’
+
+“When dey went out o’ de room into de entry, Cloe fotched him a crack
+ober his pate with her crutch that sounded like a cocoa-nut, it was so
+hollow.
+
+“‘Take dat,’ said she, ‘for not slutin’ ob your bride, you
+good-for-nottin’ onmanerly scallawag you.’
+
+“Poor dear missus! she died dat identical night.”
+
+“Come here, Sorrow,” said I; “come and look me in the face.”
+
+The moment he advanced, Jerry slipt across the room, and tried to hide
+behind the tongues near his wife. He was terrified to death. “Do you
+mean to say,” said I, “she died of going the whole hog? Was it a
+hog—tell me the truth?”
+
+“Well, Massa,” said he, “I don’t know to a zact sartainty, for I was
+not dere when she was tooked ill,—I was at de bank at de time,—but I
+will take my davy it was hogs or dogs. I wont just zackly sartify
+which, because she was ‘mazin’ fond of both; but I will swear it was
+one or toder, and dat dey was cooked wid dere heads on—dat I will
+stificate to till I die!”
+
+“Hogs or dogs,” said I, “whole, with their heads on—do you mean that?”
+
+“Yes, Massa, dis here child do, of a sartainty.”
+
+“Hogs like the pig, and dogs like the Newfoundlander at the door?”
+
+“Oh, no, Massa, in course it don’t stand to argument ob reason it was.
+Oh, no, it was quadogs and quahogs—clams, you know. We calls ’em down
+South, for shortness, hogs and dogs. Oh, Massa, in course you knows
+dat—I is sure you does—you is only intendin’ on puppose to make game of
+dis here nigger, isn’t you?”
+
+“You villain,” said I, “you took a rise out of me that time, at any
+rate. It ain’t often any feller does that, so I think you deserve a
+glass of the old Jamaiky for it when we go on board. Now go and shoot a
+Jesuit-priest if you see one.”
+
+The gall explained the order to her mother.
+
+“Shoot the priest?” said she, in French.
+
+“Shoot the priest,” said Jerry; “shoot me!” And he popped down behind
+his wife, as if he had no objection to her receiving the ball first.
+
+She ran to her chest, and got out the little horn box with the nail of
+St Francis, and looked determined to die at her post. Sorrow deposited
+the gun in the corner, hung down his head, and said:
+
+“Dis here child, Massa Slick, can’t do no murder.”
+
+“Then I must do it myself,” said I, rising and proceeding to get my
+rifle.
+
+“Slick,” said the doctor, “what the devil do you mean?”
+
+“Why,” says I, a settin’ down again, “I’ll tell you. Jesuit-priests
+were first seen in Spain and Portugal, where they are very fond of
+them. I have often eaten them there.”
+
+“First seen in Spain and Portugal!” he replied. “You are out there—but
+go on.”
+
+“There is a man,” said I, “in Yorkshire, who says his ancestor brought
+the first over from America, when he accompanied Cabot in his voyages,
+and he has one as a crest. But that is all bunkum. Cabot never saw
+one.”
+
+“What in the world do you call a Jesuit-priest?”
+
+“Why a turkey to be sure,” said I; “that’s what they call them at
+Madrid and Lisbon, after the Jesuits who first introduced them into
+Europe.”
+
+“My goody gracious!” said Sorrow, “if that ain’t fun alive it’s a pity,
+that’s all.”
+
+“We’ll,” said Jerry, “I was lost at sea that time; I was out of sight
+of land. It puzzled me like 44° north, and 63° 40′ west.”
+
+“Hogs, dogs, and Jesuit-priests!” said the doctor, and off he set
+again, with his hands on his sides, rushing round the room in
+convulsions of laughter.
+
+“The priest,” said I to the old woman, “has given him a pain in his
+stomach,” when she ran to the dresser again, and got the cup of soot
+for him which had not yet been emptied.
+
+“Oh dear!” said he, “I can’t stand that; oh, Slick, you will be the
+death of me yet,” and he bolted out of the house.
+
+Having purchased a bushel of clams from the old lady, and bid her and
+her daughter good-bye, we _vamosed the ranche_.1 At the door I saw a
+noble gobbler.
+
+1 One of the numerous corruptions of Spanish words introduced into the
+States since the Mexican war, and signifies to quit the house or
+shanty. Rancho designates a hut, covered with branches, where herdsmen
+temporarily reside.
+
+
+“What will you take for that Jesuit-priest,” said I, “Jerry?”
+
+“Seven and sixpence,” said he.
+
+“Done,” said I, and his head was perforated with a ball in an instant.
+
+The dog unused to such a sound from his master’s house, and
+recollecting the damage he received from the fall of the doctor, set
+off with the most piteous howls that ever were heard, and fled for
+safety—the pigs squealed as if they had each been wounded—and the geese
+joined in the general uproar—while old Madam Boudrot and her daughter
+rushed screaming to the door to ascertain what these dreadful men were
+about, who talked of shooting priests, and eating hogs and dogs entire
+with their heads on. It was some time before order was restored, and
+when Jerry went into the house to light his pipe and deposit his money,
+I called Cutler’s attention to the action and style of a horse in the
+pasture whom my gun had alarmed.
+
+“That animal,” said I, “must have dropped from the clouds. If he is
+young and sound, and he moves as if he were both, he is worth six
+hundred dollars. I must have him; can you give him a passage till we
+meet one of our large coal ships coming from Pictou?”
+
+“Certainly,” said he.
+
+“Jerry,” sais I, when he returned, “what in the world do you keep such
+a fly-away devil as that for? why don’t you sell him and buy cattle?
+Can’t you sell him at Halifax?”
+
+“Oh”, said he, “I can’t go there now no more, Mr Slick. The boys call
+after me and say: Jerry, when did you see land last? My name is Jerry
+Boudrot, where am I? Jerry, I thought you was lost at sea! Jerry, has
+your colt got any slippares on yet (shoes)? Jerry, what does 44—40
+mean? Oh! I can’t stand it!”
+
+“Why don’t you send him by a neighbour?”
+
+“Oh! none o’ my neighbours can ride him. We can’t break him. We are
+fishermen, not horsemen.”
+
+“Where did he come from?”
+
+“The priest brought a mare from Canada with him, and this is her colt.
+He gave it to me when I returned from being lost at sea, he was so glad
+to see me. I wish you would buy him, Mr Slick; you will have him cheap;
+I can’t do noting with him, and no fence shall stop him.”
+
+“What the plague,” sais I, “do you suppose I want of a horse on board
+of a ship? do you want me to be lost at sea too? and besides, if I did
+try to oblige you,” said I, “and offered you five pounds for that devil
+nobody can ride, and no fence stop, you’d ask seven pound ten right
+off. Now, that turkey was not worth a dollar here, and you asked at
+once seven and sixpence. Nobody can trade with you, you are so
+everlasting sharp. If you was lost at sea, you know your way by land,
+at all events.”
+
+“Well,” sais he, “say seven pounds ten, and you will have him.”
+
+“Oh! of course,” said I, “there is capital pasture on board of a
+vessel, ain’t there? Where am I to get hay till I send him home?”
+
+“I will give you tree hundredweight into the bargain.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “let’s look at him; can you catch him?”
+
+He went into the house, and bringing out a pan of oats, and calling
+him, the horse followed him into the stable, where he was secured. I
+soon ascertained he was perfectly sound, and that he was an uncommonly
+fine animal. I sent Sorrow on board for my saddle and bridle, whip and
+spurs, and desired that the vessel might be warped into the wharf. When
+the negro returned, I repeated the terms of the bargain to Jerry, which
+being assented to, the animal was brought out into the centre of the
+field, and while his owner was talking to him, I vaulted into the
+saddle. At first he seemed very much alarmed, snorting, and blowing
+violently; he then bounded forward and lashed out with his hind feet
+most furiously, which was succeeded by alternate rearing, kicking, and
+backing. I don’t think I ever see a critter splurge so badly; at last
+he ran the whole length of the field, occasionally throwing up his
+heels very high in the air, and returned unwillingly, stopping every
+few minutes and plunging outrageously. On the second trial he again
+ran, and for the first time I gave him both whip and spur, and made him
+take the fence, and in returning I pushed him in the same manner,
+making him take the leap as before. Though awkward and ignorant of the
+meaning of the rein, the animal knew he was in the hands of a power
+superior to his own, and submitted far more easily than I expected.
+
+When we arrived at the wharf, I removed the saddle, and placing a
+strong rope round his neck, had it attached to the windlass, not to
+drag him on board, but to make him feel if he refused to advance that
+he was powerless to resist, an indispensable precaution in breaking
+horses. Once and once only he attempted escape; he reared and threw
+himself, but finding the strain irresistible, he yielded and went on
+board quietly. Jerry was as delighted to get rid of him as I was to
+purchase him, and though I knew that seven pounds ten was as much as he
+could ever realize out of him, I felt I ought to pay him for the hay,
+and also that I could well afford to give him a little conciliation
+present; so I gave him two barrels of flour in addition, to enable him
+to make his peace with his wife, whom he had so grossly insulted by
+asserting that his vow to heaven was to hug the shore hereafter, and
+had no reference to her. If I ain’t mistaken, Jerry Boudrot, for so I
+have named the animal after him, will astonish the folks to Slickville;
+for of all the horses on this continent, to my mind, the real genuine
+Canadian is the best by all odds.
+
+“Ah! my friend,” said Jerry, addressing the horse, “you shall soon be
+out of sight of land, like your master; but unlike him, I hope you
+shall never be lost at sea.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII.
+HOLDING UP THE MIRROR.
+
+
+From Halifax to Cumberland, Squire, the eastern coast of Nova Scotia
+presents more harbours fit for the entrance of men-of-war than the
+whole Atlantic coast of our country from Maine to Mexico. No part of
+the world I am acquainted with is so well supplied and so little
+frequented. They are “thar,” as we say, but where are the large ships?
+growing in the forest I guess. And the large towns? all got to be built
+I reckon. And the mines? why wanting to be worked. And the fisheries?
+Well, I’ll tell you, if you will promise not to let on about it. We are
+going to have them by treaty, as we now have them by trespass. Fact is,
+we treat with the British and the Indians in the same way. Bully them
+if we can, and when that won’t do, get the most valuable things they
+have in exchange for trash, like glass beads and wooden clocks. Still,
+Squire, there is a vast improvement here, though I won’t say there
+ain’t room for more; but there is such a change come over the people,
+as is quite astonishing. The Blue-nose of 1834 is no longer the
+Blue-nose of 1854. He is more active, more industrious, and more
+enterprising. Intelligent the critter always was, but unfortunately he
+was lazy. He was asleep then, now he is wide awake, and up and doing.
+He never had no occasion to be ashamed to show himself, for he is a
+good-looking feller, but he needn’t now be no longer skeered to answer
+to his name, when the muster is come and his’n is called out in the
+roll, and say, “Here am I, _Sirree_.” A new generation has sprung up,
+some of the drones are still about the hive, but there is a young
+vigorous race coming on who will keep pace with the age.
+
+It’s a great thing to have a good glass to look in now and then and see
+yourself. They have had the mirror held up to them.
+
+Lord, I shall never forget when I was up to Rawdon here once, a
+countryman came to the inn where I was, to pay me for a clock I had put
+off on him, and as I was a passin’ through the entry I saw the critter
+standin’ before the glass, awfully horrified.
+
+“My good gracious,” said he, a talking to himself, “my good gracious,
+is this you, John Smiler? I havn’t seen you before now going on twenty
+years. Oh, how shockingly you are altered, I shouldn’t a known you, I
+declare.”
+
+Now, I have held the mirror to these fellows to see themselves in, and
+it has scared them so they have shaved slick up, and made themselves
+look decent. I won’t say I made all the changes myself, for Providence
+scourged them into activity, by sending the weavel into their
+wheat-fields, the rot into their potatoes, and the drought into their
+hay crops. It made them scratch round, I tell you, so as to earn their
+grub, and the exertion did them good. Well, the blisters I have put on
+their vanity stung ’em so, they jumped high enough to see the right
+road, and the way they travel ahead now is a caution to snails.
+
+Now, if it was you who had done your country this sarvice, you would
+have spoke as mealy-mouthed of it as if butter wouldn’t melt in it. “I
+flatter myself,” you would have said, “I had some little small share in
+it.” “I have lent my feeble aid.” “I have contributed my poor mite,”
+and so on, and looked as meek and felt as proud as a Pharisee. Now,
+that’s not my way. I hold up the mirror, whether when folks see
+themselves in it they see me there or not. The value of a glass is its
+truth. And where colonists have suffered is from false reports,
+ignorance, and misrepresentation. There is not a word said of them that
+can be depended on. Missionary returns of all kinds are coloured and
+doctored to suit English subscribing palates, and it’s a pity they
+should stand at the head of the list. British travellers distort things
+the same way. They land at Halifax, where they see the first contrast
+between Europe and America, and that contrast ain’t favourable, for the
+town is dingy lookin’ and wants paint, and the land round it is poor
+and stony. But that is enough, so they set down and abuse the whole
+country, stock and fluke, and write as wise about it as if they had
+seen it all instead of overlooking one mile from the deck of a steamer.
+The military enjoy it beyond anything, and are far more comfortable
+than in soldiering in England; but it don’t do to say so, for it counts
+for foreign service, and like the witnesses at the court-marshall at
+Windsor, every feller sais, _Non mi ricordo._ Governors who now-a-days
+have nothing to do, have plenty of leisure to write, and their
+sufferings are such, their pens are inadequate to the task. They are
+very much to be pitied.
+
+Well, colonists on the other hand seldom get their noses out of it. But
+if provincials do now and then come up on the other side of the big
+pond, like deep sea-fish rising to the surface, they spout and blow
+like porpoises, and try to look as large as whales, and people only
+laugh at them. Navy officers extol the harbour and the market, and the
+kindness and hospitality of the Haligonians, but that is all they know,
+and as far as that goes they speak the truth. It wants an impartial
+friend like me to hold up the mirror, both for their sakes and the
+Downing Street officials too. Is it any wonder then that the English
+don’t know what they are talking about? Did you ever hear of the
+devil’s advocate? a nickname I gave to one of the understrappers of the
+Colonial office, an ear mark that will stick to the feller for ever!
+Well, when they go to make a saint at Rome, and canonize some one who
+has been dead so long he is in danger of being forgot, the cardinals
+hold a sort of court-martial on him, and a man is appointed to rake and
+scrape all he can agin him, and they listen very patiently to all he
+has to say, so as not to do things in a hurry. He is called “the
+devil’s advocate,” but he never gained a cause yet. The same form used
+to be gone through at Downing Street, by an underling, but he always
+gained his point. The nickname of the “devil’s advocate” that I gave
+him did his business for him, he is no longer there now.
+
+The British cabinet wants the mirror held up to them, to show them how
+they look to others. Now, when an order is transmitted by a minister of
+the crown, as was done last war, to send all Yankee prisoners to the
+fortress of Louisburg for safe keeping, when that fortress more than
+sixty years before had been effectually razed from the face of the
+earth by engineer officers sent from England for the purpose, why it is
+natural a colonist should laugh, and say Capital! only it is a little
+too good; and when another minister says, he can’t find good men to be
+governors, in order to defend appointments that his own party say are
+too _bad,_ what language is strong enough to express his indignation?
+Had he said openly and manly, We are so situated, and so bound by
+parliamentary obligations, _we not only have to pass over the whole
+body of provincials themselves, who have the most interest and are best
+informed in colonial matters,_ but we have to appoint some people like
+those to whom you object, who are forced upon us by hollerin’ their
+daylights out for us at elections, when we would gladly select others,
+who are wholly unexceptionable, and their name is legion; why, he would
+have pitied his condition, and admired his manliness. If this sweeping
+charge be true, what an encomium it is upon the Dalhousies, the
+Gosfords, the Durhams, Sydenhams, Metcalfs, and Elgins, that they were
+chosen because suitable men could not be found if not supported by
+party. All that can be said for a minister who talks such stuff, is
+that a man who knows so little of London as to be unable to find the
+shortest way home, may easily lose himself in the wilds of Canada.
+
+Now we licked the British when we had only three millions of people
+including niggers, who are about as much use in a war as crows that
+feed on the slain, but don’t help to kill ’em. We have “run up” an
+empire, as we say of a “wooden house,” or as the gall who was asked
+where she was raised, said “She warn’t raised, she growed up.” We have
+shot up into manhood afore our beards grew, and have made a nation that
+ain’t afeard of all creation. Where will you find a nation like ours?
+Answer me that question, but don’t reply as an Irishman does by
+repeating it,—“Is it where I will find one, your Honour?”
+
+Minister used to talk of some old chap, that killed a dragon and
+planted his teeth, and armed men sprung up. As soon as we whipped the
+British we sowed their teeth, and full-grown coons growed right out of
+the earth. Lord bless you, we have fellows like Crocket, that would
+sneeze a man-of-war right out of the water.
+
+We have a right to brag, in fact it ain’t braggin’, its talking
+history, and cramming statistics down a fellow’s throat, and if he
+wants tables to set down to, and study them, there’s the old chairs of
+the governors of the thirteen united universal worlds of the old
+States, besides the rough ones of the new States to sit on, and
+canvas-back ducks, blue-point oysters, and, as Sorrow says, “hogs and
+dogs,” for soup and pies, for refreshment from labour, as Freemasons
+say. Brag is a good dog, and Holdfast is a better one, but what do you
+say to a cross of the two?—and that’s just what we are. An English
+statesman actually thinks nobody knows anything but himself. And his
+conduct puts folks both on the defensive and offensive. He eyes even an
+American all over as much as to say, Where the plague did you
+originate, what field of cotton or tobacco was you took from? and if a
+Canadian goes to Downing Street, the secretary starts as much as to
+say, I hope you han’t got one o’ them rotten eggs in your hand you
+pelted Elgin with. Upon my soul, it wern’t my fault, his indemnifyin’
+rebels, we never encourage traitors except in Spain, Sicily, Hungary,
+and places we have nothin’ to do with. He brags of purity as much as a
+dirty piece of paper does, that it was originally clean.
+
+“We appreciate your loyalty most fully, I assure you,” he says. “When
+the militia put down the rebellion, without efficient aid from the
+military, parliament would have passed a vote of thanks to you for your
+devotion to _our_ cause, but really we were so busy just then we forgot
+it. Put that egg in your pocket, that’s a good fellow, but don’t set
+down on it, or it might stain the chair, and folks might think you was
+frightened at seeing so big a man as me;” and then he would turn round
+to the window and laugh.
+
+Whoever brags over me gets the worst of it, that’s a fact. Lord, I
+shall never forget a rise I once took out of one of these magnetized
+officials, who know all about the colonies, tho’ he never saw one. I
+don’t want any man to call me coward, and say I won’t take it parsonal.
+There was a complaint made by some of our folks against the people of
+the Lower provinces seizing our coasters under pretence they were
+intrudin’ on the fisheries. Our embassador was laid up at the time with
+rheumatism, which he called gout, because it sounded diplomatic. So
+says he, “Slick, take this letter and deliver it to the minister, and
+give him some verbal explanations.”
+
+Well, down I goes, was announced and ushered in, and when he saw me, he
+looked me all over as a tailor does a man before he takes his measure.
+It made me hoppin’ mad I tell you, for in a general way I don’t allow
+any man to turn up his nose at me without having a shot at it. So when
+I sat down I spit into the fire, in a way to put it out amost, and he
+drew back and made a face, a leettle, just a leettle uglier than his
+natural one was.
+
+“Bad habit,” sais I, “that’of spittin’, ain’t it?” lookin’ up at him as
+innocent as you please, and makin’ a face exactly like his.
+
+“Very,” said he, and he gave a shudder.
+
+Sais I, “I don’t know whether you are aware of it or not, but most bad
+habits are catching.”
+
+“I should hope not,” said he, and he drew a little further off.
+
+“Fact,” sais I; “now if you look long and often at a man that winks, it
+sets you a winkin’. If you see a fellow with a twitch in his face, you
+feel your cheek doin’ the same, and stammerin’ is catching too. Now I
+caught that habit at court, since I came to Europe. I dined wunst with
+the King of Prussia, when I was with our embassador on a visit at
+Berlin, and the King beats all natur in spittin’, and the noise he
+makes aforehand is like clearin’ a grate out with a poker, it’s horrid.
+Well, that’s not the worst of it, he uses that ugly German word for it,
+that vulgarians translate ‘spitting.’ Now some of our western people
+are compelled to chew a little tobacco, but like a broker tasting
+cheese, when testing wine, it is only done to be able to judge of the
+quality of the article, but even them unsophisticated, free, and
+enlightened citizens have an innate refinement about them. They never
+use that nasty word ‘spitting,’ but call it ‘expressing the ambia.’
+Well, whenever his Majesty crosses my mind, I do the same out of clear
+sheer disgust. Some o’ them sort of uppercrust people, I call them big
+bugs, think they can do as they like, and use the privilege of
+indulging those evil habits. When folks like the king do it, I call
+them ‘High, low, jack, and the game.’”
+
+Well, the stare he gave me would have made you die a larfin’. I never
+saw a man in my life look so skeywonaky. He knew it was true that the
+king had that custom, and it dumb-foundered him. He looked at me as
+much as to say, “Well, that is capital; the idea of a Yankee, who spits
+like a garden-engine, swearing it’s a bad habit he larned in Europe,
+and a trick he got from dining with a king, is the richest thing I ever
+heard in my life. I must tell that to Palmerston.”
+
+But I didn’t let him off so easy. In the course of talk, sais he:
+
+“Mr Slick, is it true that in South Carolina, if a free nigger, on
+board of one of our vessels, lands there, he is put into jail until the
+ship sails?” and he looked good, as much as to say, “Thank heaven I
+ain’t like that republican.”
+
+“It is,” said I. “We consider a free nigger and a free Englishman on a
+parr; we imprison a free black, lest he should corrupt _our_ slaves.
+The Duke of Tuscany imprisons a free Englishman, if he has a Bible in
+his possession, lest he should corrupt _his_ slaves. It’s upon the
+principle, that what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”
+
+He didn’t pursue the subject.
+
+That’s what I call brag for brag. We never allow any created critter,
+male or female, to go a-head of us in anything. I heard a lady say to
+embassador’s wife once, in answer to her question, “how she was?”
+
+“Oh, I am in such _rude_ health, I have grown quite _indecently_
+stout.”
+
+Embassadress never heard them slang words before (for even high life
+has its slang), but she wouldn’t be beat.
+
+“Oh,” said she, “all that will yield to exercise. Before I was married
+I was the _rudest_ and _most indecent gall_ in all Connecticut.”
+
+Well, an Irishman, with his elbow through his coat, and his shirt, if
+he has one, playing diggy-diggy-doubt from his trowsers, flourishes his
+shillalah over his head, and brags of the “Imirald Isle,” and the most
+splindid pisantry in the world; a Scotchman boasts, that next to the
+devil and the royal owner of Etna, he is the richest proprietor of
+sulphur that ever was heard of; while a Frenchman, whose vanity exceeds
+both, has the modesty to call the English a nation of shopkeepers, the
+Yankees, _canaille,_ and all the rest of the world beasts. Even John
+Chinaman swaggers about with his three tails, and calls foreigners
+“Barbarians.” If we go a-head and speak out, do you do so, too. You
+have a right to do so. Hold the mirror to them, and your countrymen,
+too. It won’t lie, that’s a fact. They require it, I assure you. The
+way the just expectations of provincials have been disappointed, the
+loyal portion depressed, the turbulent petted, and the manner the
+feelings of all disregarded, the contempt that has accompanied
+concessions, the neglect that has followed devotion and self-sacrifice,
+and the extraordinary manner the just claims of the meritorious
+postponed to parliamentary support, has worked a change in the feelings
+of the people that the Downing Street officials cannot understand, or
+surely they would pursue a different course. They want to have the
+mirror held up to them.
+
+I know they feel sore here about the picture my mirror gives them, and
+it’s natural they should, especially comin’ from a Yankee; and they
+call me a great bragger. But that’s nothin’ new; doctors do the same
+when a feller cures a poor wretch they have squeezed like a sponge,
+ruinated, and given up as past hope. They sing out Quack. But I don’t
+care; I have a right to brag nationally and individually, and I’d be no
+good if I didn’t take my own part. Now, though I say it that shouldn’t
+say it, for I ain’t afraid to speak out, the sketches I send you are
+from life; I paint things as you will find them and know them to be.
+I’ll take a bet of a hundred dollars, ten people out of twelve in this
+country will recognise Jerry Boudrot’s house who have never entered it,
+but who have seen others exactly like it, and will say, “I know who is
+meant by Jerry and his daughter and wife; I have often been there; it
+is at Clare or Arichat or Pumnico, or some such place or another.”
+
+Is that braggin’? Not a bit; it’s only the naked fact. To my mind there
+is no vally in a sketch if it ain’t true to nature. We needn’t go
+searching about for strange people or strange things; life is full of
+them. There is queerer things happening every day than an author can
+imagine for the life of him. It takes a great many odd people to make a
+world, that’s a fact. Now, if I describe a house that has an old hat in
+one window, and a pair of trousers in another, I don’t stop to turn
+glazier, take ’em out and put whole glass in, nor make a garden where
+there is none, and put a large tree in the foreground for effect; but I
+take it as I find it, and I take people in the dress I find ’em in, and
+if I set ’em a talkin’ I take their very words down. Nothing gives you
+a right idea of a country and its people like that.
+
+There is always some interest in natur, where truly depicted. Minister
+used to say that some author (I think he said it was old Dictionary
+Johnson) remarked, that the life of any man, if wrote truly, would be
+interesting. I think so too; for every man has a story of his own,
+adventures of his own, and some things have happened to him that never
+happened to anybody else. People here abuse me for all this, they say,
+after all my boastin’ I don’t do ’em justice. But after you and I are
+dead and gone, and things have been changed, as it is to be hoped they
+will some day or another for the better, unless they are like their
+Acadian French neighbours, and intend to remain just as they are for
+two hundred and fifty years, then these sketches will be curious; and,
+as they are as true to life as a Dutch picture, it will be interestin’
+to see what sort of folks were here in 1854, how they lived, and how
+they employed themselves, and so on.
+
+Now it’s more than a hundred years ago since Smollett wrote, but his
+men and women were taken from real life, his sailors from the navy, his
+attorneys from the jails and criminal courts, and his fops and fine
+ladies from the herd of such cattle that he daily met with. Well, they
+are read now; I have ’em to home, and laugh till I cry over them. Why?
+Because natur is the same always. Although we didn’t live a hundred
+years ago, we can see how the folks of that age did; and, although
+society is altered, and there are no Admiral Benbows, nor Hawser
+Trunnions, and folks don’t travel in vans with canvas covers, or wear
+swords, and frequent taverns, and all that as they used to did to
+England; still it’s a pictur of the times, and instructin’ as well as
+amusin’. I have learned more how folks dressed, talked, and lived, and
+thought, and what sort of critters they were, and what the state of
+society, high and low, was then, from his books and Fielding’s than any
+I know of. They are true to life, and as long as natur remains the
+same, which it always will, they will be read. That’s my idea at least.
+
+Some squeamish people turn up the whites of their peepers at both those
+authors and say they are coarse. How can they be otherwise? society was
+coarse. There are more veils worn now, but the devil still lurks in the
+eye under the veil. Things ain’t talked of so openly, or done so
+openly, in modern as in old times. There is more concealment; and
+concealment is called delicacy. But where concealment is, the passions
+are excited by the difficulties imposed by society. Barriers are
+erected too high to scale, but every barrier has its wicket, its latch
+key, and its private door. Natur is natur still, and there is as much
+of that that is condemned in his books now, as there was then. There is
+a horrid sight of hypocrisy now, more than there was one hundred years
+ago; vice was audacious then, and scared folks. It ain’t so bold at
+present as it used to did to be; but if it is forbid to enter the
+drawing-room, the back staircase is still free. Where there is a will
+there is a way, and always will be. I hate pretence, and, above all,
+mock modesty; it’s a bad sign.
+
+I knew a clergyman to home a monstrous pious man, and so
+delicate-minded, he altered a great many words and passages in the
+Church Service, he said he couldn’t find it in his heart to read them
+out in meetin’, and yet that fellow, to my sartain knowledge, was the
+greatest scamp in private life I ever knew. Gracious knows, I don’t
+approbate coarseness, it shocks me, but narvous sensibility makes me
+sick. I like to call things by their right names, and I call a leg a
+leg, and not a larger limb; a shirt a shirt, though it is next the
+skin, and not a linen vestment; and a stocking a stocking, though it
+does reach up the leg, and not a silk hose; and a garter a garter,
+though it is above the calf, and not an elastic band or a hose
+suspender. _A really modest woman was never squeamish. Fastidiousness
+is the envelope of indelicacy. To see harm in ordinary words betrays a
+knowledge, and not an ignorance of evil._
+
+But that is neither here nor there, as I was sayin’, when you are dead
+and gone these Journals of mine which you have edited, when mellowed by
+time, will let the hereafter-to-be Blue-noses, see what the has-been
+Nova Scotians here from ‘34 to ‘54 were. Now if something of the same
+kind had been done when Halifax was first settled a hundred years ago,
+what strange coons the old folks would seem to us. That state of
+society has passed away, as well as the actors. For instance, when the
+militia was embodied to do duty so late as the Duke of Kent’s time,
+Ensign Lane’s name was called on parade. “Not here,” said Lieutenant
+Grover, “he is mending Sargent Street’s breeches.”
+
+Many a queer thing occurred then that would make a queer book, I assure
+you. There is much that is characteristic both to be seen and heard in
+every harbour in this province, the right way is to jot all down. Every
+place has its standing topic. At Windsor it is the gypsum trade, the St
+John’s steamer, the Halifax coach, and a new house that is building. In
+King’s County it is export of potatoes, bullocks, and horses. At
+Annapolis, cord, wood, oars, staves, shingles, and agricultural produce
+of all kinds. At Digby, smoked herrings, fish weirs, and St John
+markets. At Yarmouth, foreign freights, berthing, rails, cat-heads,
+lower cheeks, wooden bolsters, and the crown, palm, and shank of
+anchors. At Shelburne, it is divided between fish, lumber, and the
+price of vessels. At Liverpool, ship-building, deals, and timber,
+knees, transums, and futtucks, pintles, keelsons, and moose lines. At
+Lunenburg, Jeddore, and Chesencook, the state of the market at the
+capital. At the other harbours further to the eastward, the coal trade
+and the fisheries engross most of the conversation. You hear
+continually of the fall _run_ and the spring _catch_ of mackerel that
+_set_ in but don’t stop to _bait._ The remarkable discovery of the
+French coasters, that was made fifty years ago, and still is as new and
+as fresh as ever, that when fish are plenty there is no salt, and when
+salt is abundant there are no fish, continually startles you with its
+novelty and importance. While you are both amused and instructed by
+learning the meaning of coal cakes, Albion tops, and what a
+Chesencooker delights in, “slack;” you also find out that a hundred
+tons of coal at Sydney means when it reaches Halifax one hundred and
+fifteen, and that West India, Mediterranean, and Brazilian fish are
+actually _made_ on these shores. These local topics are greatly
+diversified by politics, which, like crowfoot and white-weed, abound
+everywhere.
+
+Halifax has all sorts of talk. Now if you was writin’ and not me, you
+would have to call it, to please the people, that flourishing great
+capital of the greatest colony of Great Britain, the town with the
+harbour, as you say of a feller who has a large handle to his face, the
+man with the nose, that place that is destined to be the London of
+America, which is a fact if it ever fulfils its destiny. The little
+scrubby dwarf spruces on the coast are destined not to be lofty pines,
+because that can’t be in the natur of things, although some folks talk
+as if they expected it; but they are destined to be enormous trees, and
+although they havn’t grown an inch the last fifty years, who can tell
+but they may exceed the expectations that has been formed of them? Yes,
+you would have to give it a shove, it wants it bad enough, and lay it
+on thick too, so as it will stick for one season.
+
+It reminds me of a Yankee I met at New York wunst, he was disposin’ of
+a new hydraulic cement he had invented. Now cements, either to resist
+fire or water, or to mend the most delicate china, or to stop a crack
+in a stove, is a thing I rather pride myself on. I make my own cement
+always, it is so much better than any I can buy.
+
+Sais I, “What are your ingredients?”
+
+“Yes,” sais he, “tell you my secrets, let the cat out of the bag for
+you to catch by the tail. No, no,” sais he, “excuse me, if you please.”
+
+It ryled me that, so I just steps up to him, as savage as a meat-axe,
+intendin’ to throw him down-stairs, when the feller turned as pale as a
+rabbit’s belly, I vow I could hardly help laughin’, so I didn’t touch
+him at all.
+
+“But,” sais I, “you and the cat in the bag may run to Old Nick and see
+which will get to him first, and say tag—I don’t want the secret, for I
+don’t believe you know it yourself. If I was to see a bit of the
+cement, and break it up myself, I’d tell you in a moment whether it was
+good for anything.”
+
+“Well,” sais he, “I’ll tell you;” and he gave me all the particulars.
+
+Sais I, “It’s no good, two important ingredients are wantin’, and you
+haven’t tempered it right, and it won’t stick.”
+
+Sais he, “I guess it will stick till I leave the city, and that will
+answer me and my eends.”
+
+“No,” sais I, “it won’t, it will ruin you for ever, and injure the
+reputation of Connecticut among the nations of the airth. Come to me
+when I return to Slickville, and I will show you the proper thing in
+use, tested by experience, in tanks, in brick and stone walls, and in a
+small furnace. Give me two thousand dollars for the receipt, take out a
+patent, and your fortune is made.”
+
+“Well,” sais he, “I will if it’s all you say, for there is a great
+demand for the article, if it’s only the true Jeremiah.”
+
+“Don’t mind what I say,” said I, “ask it what it says, there it is, go
+look at it.”
+
+Well, you would have to give these Haligonians a coat of white-wash
+that would stick till you leave the town. But that’s your affair, and
+not mine. I hold the mirror truly, and don’t flatter. Now, Halifax is a
+sizable place, and covers a good deal of ground, it is most as large as
+a piece of chalk, which will give a stranger a very good notion of it.
+It is the seat of government, and there are some very important
+officers there, judging by their titles. There are a receiver-general,
+an accountant-general, an attorney-general, a solicitor-general, a
+commissary-general, an assistant commissary-general, the general in
+command, the quartermaster-general, the adjutant-general, the
+vicar-general, surrogate-general, and postmaster-general. His
+Excellency the governor, and his Excellency the admiral. The master of
+the Rolls, their lordships the judges, the lord bishop, and the
+archbishop, archdeacon, secretary for the Home department, and a host
+of great men, with the handle of honourable to their names. Mayors,
+colonels, and captains, whether of the regulars or the militia, they
+don’t count more than fore-cabin passengers. It ain’t considered
+genteel for them to come abaft the paddle-wheel. Indeed, the
+quarter-deck wouldn’t accommodate so many. Now, there is the same
+marvel about this small town that there was about the scholar’s head—
+
+“And still the wonder grew,
+How one small head could carry all he knew.”
+
+
+Well, it is a wonder so many great men can be warm-clothed,
+bedded-down, and well stalled there, ain’t it? But they are, and very
+comfortably, too. This is the upper crust; now the under crust consists
+of lawyers, doctors, merchants, army and navy folks, small officials,
+articled clerks, and so on. Well, in course such a town, I beg pardon,
+it is a city (which is more than Liverpool in England is), and has two
+cathedral churches, with so many grades, trades, blades, and pretty
+maids in it, the talk must be various. The military talk is
+professional, with tender reminiscences of home, and some little
+boasting, that they are suffering in their country’s cause by being so
+long on foreign service at Halifax. The young swordknots that have just
+joined are brim full of ardour, and swear by Jove (the young heathens)
+it is too bad to be shut up in this vile hole (youngsters, take my
+advice, and don’t let the town’s-people hear that, or they will lynch
+you), instead of going to Constantinople.
+
+“I say, Lennox, wouldn’t that be jolly work?”
+
+“Great work,” says Lennox, “rum coves those Turks must be in the field,
+eh? The colonel is up to a thing or two; if he was knocked on the head,
+there would be such promotion, no one would lament him, but his dear
+wife and five lovely daughters, and they would be _really distressed_
+to lose him.”
+
+He don’t check the youthful ardour, on the contrary, chimes in, and is
+in hopes he can make interest at the Horse-guards for the regiment to
+go yet, and then he gives a wink to the doctor, who was in the corps
+when he was a boy, as much as to say, “Old fellow, you and I have seen
+enough of the pleasures of campaigning in our day, eh! Doctor, that is
+good wine; but it’s getting confounded dear lately; I don’t mind it
+myself, but it makes the expense of the mess fall heavy upon the
+youngsters.” The jolly subs look across the table and wink, for they
+know that’s all bunkum.
+
+“Doctor,” sais a new hand, “do you know if Cargill has sold his orses.
+His leada is a cleverwish saut of thing, but the wheela is a riglar
+bute. That’s a goodish orse the Admewall wides; I wonder if he is going
+to take him ome with him.”
+
+“Haven’t heard—can’t say. Jones, what’s that thing that wont burn, do
+you know? Confound the thing, I have got it on the tip of my tongue
+too.”
+
+“Asphalt,” sais Jones.
+
+“No! that’s not it; that’s what wide-awakes are made of.”
+
+“Perhaps so,” sais Gage, “_ass’felt_ is very appropriate for a _fool’s_
+cap.”
+
+At which there is a great roar.
+
+“No; but really what is it?”
+
+“Is it arbutus?” sais Simpkins, “I think they make it at Killarney—”
+
+“No, no; oh! I have it, asbestos; well, that’s what I believe the
+cigars here are made of—they won’t go.”
+
+“There are a good many things here that are no go,” sais Gage, “like
+Perry’s bills on Coutts; but, Smith, where did you get that flash
+waistcoat I saw last night?”
+
+“Oh! that was worked by a poor despairing girl at Bath, during a fit of
+the _scarlet_ fever.”
+
+“It was a _memento mori_ then, I suppose,” replies the other.
+
+But all the talk is not quite so frivolous. Opposite to that large
+stone edifice, is an old cannon standing on end at the corner of the
+street, to keep carriages from trespassing on the pavement, and the
+non-military assemble round it; they are civic great guns. They are
+discussing the great event of the season—the vote of want of confidence
+of last night, the resignation of the provincial ministry this morning,
+and the startling fact that the head upholsterer has been sent for to
+furnish a new cabinet, that won’t warp with the heat and fly apart. It
+is very important news; it has been telegraphed to Washington, and was
+considered so alarming, the President was waked up to be informed of
+it. He rubbed his eyes and said:
+
+“Well, I acknowledge the coin, you may take my hat. I hope I may be
+cow-hided if I knew they had a ministry. I thought they only had a
+governor, and a regiment for a constitution. Will it affect the stocks?
+How it will scare the Emperor of Rooshia, won’t it?” and he roared so
+loud he nearly choked. That just shows (everybody regards the speaker
+with silence, for he is an oracle), says Omniscient Pitt.
+
+That just shows how little the Yankees know and how little the English
+care about us. “If we want to be indepindent and respictable,” sais an
+Hibernian magnate, “we must repale the Union.” But what is this? here
+is a fellow tied hand and foot on a truck, which is conveying him to
+the police court, swearing and screaming horribly. What is the meaning
+of all that?
+
+A little cynical old man, commonly called the major, looks knowing,
+puts on a quizzical expression, and touching his nose with the tip of
+his finger, says, “One of the new magistrates qualifying as he goes
+down to be sworn into office.”
+
+It makes the politicians smile, restores their equanimity, and they
+make room for another committee of safety. A little lower down the
+street, a mail-coach is starting for Windsor, and ten or fifteen men
+are assembled doing their utmost, and twenty or thirty boys helping
+them, to look at the passengers, but are unexpectedly relieved from
+their arduous duty by a military band at the head of a marching
+regiment.
+
+Give me the bar though. I don’t mean the bar-room, though there are
+some capital songs sung, and good stories told, and first-rate rises
+taken out of green ones, in that bar-room at the big hotel, but I mean
+the lawyers. They are the merriest and best fellows everywhere. They
+fight like prize-boxers in public and before all the world, and shake
+hands when they set to and after it’s over. Preachers, on the contrary,
+write anonymous letters in newspapers, or let fly pamphlets at each
+other, and call ugly names. While doctors go from house to house
+insinuating, undermining, shrugging shoulders, turning up noses, and
+looking as amazed as when they was fust born into the world, at each
+other’s prescriptions. Well, politicians are dirty birds too, they get
+up all sorts of lies against each other, and if any one lays an egg,
+t’other swears it was stole out of his nest. But lawyers are above all
+these tricks. As soon as court is ended, off they go arm-in-arm, as if
+they had both been fighting on one side. “I say, Blowem, that was a
+capital hit of yours, making old Gurdy swear he was king of the
+mountains.”
+
+“Not half as good as yours, Monk, telling the witness he couldn’t be a
+partner, for the plaintiff had put in all the ‘stock in hand,’ and he
+had only put in his ‘stock in feet.’”
+
+They are full of stories, too, tragic as well as comic, picked up in
+the circuits.
+
+“Jones, do you know Mc Farlane of Barney’s River, a Presbyterian
+clergyman? He told me he was once in a remote district there where no
+minister had ever been, and visiting the house of a settler of Scotch
+descent, he began to examine the children.
+
+“‘Well, my man,’ said he, patting on the shoulder a stout junk of a boy
+of about sixteen years of age, ‘can you tell me what is the chief end
+of man?’
+
+“‘Yes, Sir,’ said he. ‘To pile and burn brush.’1
+
+1 In clearing woodland, after the trees are chopped down and cut into
+convenient sizes for handling, they are piled into heaps and burned.
+
+
+“‘No it ain’t,’ said his sister.
+
+“‘Oh, but it is though,’ replied the boy, ‘for father told me so
+himself.’
+
+“‘No, no,’ said the minister, ‘it’s not that; but perhaps, my dear,’
+addressing the girl, ‘you can tell me what it is?’
+
+“‘Oh, yes, Sir,’ said she, ‘I can tell you, and so could John, but he
+never will think before he speaks.’
+
+“‘Well, what is it, dear?’
+
+“‘Why, the chief end of man, Sir, is his head and shoulders.’
+
+“‘Oh,’ said a little lassie that was listening to the conversation, ‘if
+you know all these things, Sir, can you tell me if Noah had any
+butterflies in the ark? I wonder how in the world he ever got hold of
+them! Many and many a beauty have I chased all day, and I never could
+catch one yet.’”
+
+“I can tell you a better one than that,” says Larry Hilliard. “Do you
+recollect old Hardwood, our under-sheriff? He has a very beautiful
+daughter, and she was married last week at St Paul’s Church, to a
+lieutenant in the navy. There was such an immense crowd present (for
+they were considered the handsomest couple ever married there), that
+she got so confused she could hardly get through the responses. When
+the archdeacon said, ‘Will you have this man to be your wedded
+husband?’
+
+“‘Yes,’ she said, and made a slight pause; and then became bewildered,
+and got into her catechism. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘by God’s grace I will,
+and I humbly thank my Heavenly Father for having brought me to this
+state of salvation.’
+
+“It was lucky she spoke low, and that the people didn’t distinctly hear
+her, but it nearly choaked the parson.”
+
+“Talking of church anecdotes,” says Lawyer Martin, “reminds me of old
+Parson Byles, of St John’s, New Brunswick. Before the American
+rebellion he was rector at Boston, and he had a curate who always
+preached against the Roman Catholics. It tickled the Puritans, but
+didn’t injure the Papists, for there were none there at that time. For
+three successive Sundays he expounded the text, ‘And Peter’s wife’s
+mother lay ill of a fever.’
+
+“From which he inferred priests ought to marry. Shortly after that the
+bell was tolling one day, and somebody asked Dr Byles who was dead.
+
+“Says he, and he looked solemcoly, shut one eye and winked with the
+other, as if he was trying to shut that also—‘I rather think it is
+Peter’s wife’s mother, for she has been ill of a fever for three
+weeks.’”
+
+There are charms in these little “home scenes,” these little detached
+sketches, which are wholly lost in a large landscape.
+
+There is one very redeeming property about the people. Although they
+differ widely in politics, I infer that they live in the greatest
+possible harmony together, from the fact that they speak of each other
+like members of the same family. The word Mr is laid aside as too cold
+and formal, and the whole Christian name as too ceremonious. Their most
+distinguished men speak of each other, and the public follow their
+example, as Joe A, or Jim B, or Bill C, or Tom D, or Fitz this, or Dick
+that. It sounds odd to strangers no doubt, but the inference that may
+be drawn from it is one of great amiability.
+
+Still, in holding up the mirror, hold it up fairly, and take in all the
+groups, and not merely those that excite ridicule. Halifax has more
+real substantial wealth about it than any place of its size in America;
+wealth not amassed by reckless speculation, but by judicious
+enterprise, persevering industry, and consistent economy. In like
+manner there is better society in it than in any similar American or
+colonial town. A man must know the people to appreciate them. He must
+not merely judge by those whom he is accustomed to meet at the social
+board, for they are not always the best specimens anywhere, but by
+those also who prefer retirement, and a narrower circle, and rather
+avoid general society, as not suited to their tastes. The character of
+its mercantile men stands very high, and those that are engaged in
+professional pursuits are distinguished for their ability and
+integrity. In short, as a colonist, Squire, you may at least be
+satisfied to hear from a stranger like me, that they contrast so
+favourably with those who are sent officially among them from England,
+that they need not be ashamed to see themselves grouped with the best
+of them in the same mirror.
+
+Yes, yes, Squire, every place has its queer people, queer talk, and
+queer grouping. I draw what is before me, and I can’t go wrong. Now, if
+the sketcher introduces his own person into his foregrounds, and I
+guess I figure in all mine as large as life (for like a respectable man
+I never forget myself), he must take care he has a good likeness of his
+skuldiferous head, as well as a flattering one. Now, you may call it
+crackin’ and braggin’, and all that sort of a thing, if you please, but
+I must say, I allot that I look, sit, walk, stand, eat, drink, smoke,
+think, and talk, aye, and brag too, like a Yankee clockmaker, don’t
+you? Yes, there is a decided and manifest improvement in the appearance
+of this province. When I say the province, I don’t refer to Halifax
+alone, though there are folks there that think it stands for and
+represents the whole colony. I mean what I say in using that
+expression, which extends to the country at large—and I am glad to see
+this change, for I like it. And there is a still more decided and
+manifest improvement in the people, and I am glad of that too, for I
+like them also. Now, I’ll tell you one great reason of this alteration.
+Blue-nose has seen himself as other folks see him, he has had “_the
+mirror held up to him_.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX.
+THE BUNDLE OF STICKS.
+
+
+I had hardly entered these remarks in my Journal, and ascended the
+companion-ladder, when the doctor joined me in my quarter-deck walk,
+and said, “Mr Slick, what is your opinion of the state of these North
+American colonies?”
+
+What a curious thing these coincidences are, Squire, ain’t they? How
+often when you are speaking of a man, he unexpectedly makes his
+appearance, don’t he? or if you are thinking of a subject, the person
+who is with you starts the same topic, or if you are a going to say a
+thing, he takes, as we say, the very words out of your mouth. It is
+something more than accident that, but what is it? Is it animal
+magnetism, or what is it? Well, I leave you to answer that question,
+for I can’t.
+
+“Their growth beats all. The way they are going ahead is a caution to
+them that live in Sleepy Hollow, a quiet little place the English call
+Downing Street. It astonishes them as a young turkey does a hen that
+has hatched it, thinking it was a chicken of her own. She don’t know
+what in the world to make of the great long-legged, long-bodied
+critter, that is six times as large as herself, that has cheeks as red
+as if it drank brandy, an imperial as large as a Russian dragoon, eats
+all the food of the poultry-yard, takes a shocking sight of nursing
+when it is young, and gets as sarcy as the devil when it grows up.”
+
+“Yes,” said he, “I am aware of its growth; but what do you suppose is
+the destiny of British North America?”
+
+“Oh,” sais I, “I could tell you if I was Colonial minister, because I
+should then have the power to guide that destiny. I know full well what
+ought to be done, and the importance of doing it soon, but I am not in
+the position to give them the right direction. No English statesmen
+have the information, the time, or the inclination to meddle with the
+subject. To get rid of the bother of them, they have given up all
+control and said to them, ‘There is responsible government for you, now
+tortle off hum, and manage your own affairs.’ Yes, yes, so far so
+good—they can manage their own _domestic_ matters, but who is to manage
+their foreign affairs, as I said wunst to a member of parliament. They
+have outgrown colonial dependance; their minority is ended; their
+clerkship is out; they are of age now: they never did well in your
+house; they were put out to nurse at a distance; they had their
+schooling; they learnt figures early; they can add and multiply faster
+than you can to save your soul; and now they are uneasy. They have your
+name, for they are your children, but they are younger sons. The estate
+and all the honours go to the eldest, who resides at home. They know
+but little about their parents, further than that their bills have been
+liberally paid, but they have no personal acquaintance with you. You
+are tired of maintaining them, and they have too much pride and too
+much energy to continue to be a burden to you. They can and they will
+do for themselves.
+
+“Have you ever thought of setting them up in business on their own
+account, or of taking them into partnership with yourself? In the
+course of nature they must form some connection soon. Shall they seek
+it with you or the States, or intermarry among themselves, and begin
+the world on their own hook? These are important questions, and they
+must be answered soon. Have you acquired their confidence and
+affection? What has been your manner to them? Do you treat them like
+your other younger children that remain at home? Them you put into your
+army and navy, place a sword in their hands and say, Distinguish
+yourselves, and the highest rewards are open to you; or you send them
+to the church or the bar, and say, A mitre or a coronet shall be the
+prize to contend for. If you prefer diplomacy, you shall be attaché to
+your elder brother. I will place the ladder before you; ascend it. If
+you like politics, I will place you in parliament, and if you have not
+talents sufficient for the House of Commons, you shall go out as
+governor of one of _our_ colonies. _Those appointments belong of right
+to them, but they can’t help themselves at present._ Get one while you
+can.
+
+“Have you done this, or anything like it, for your children abroad? If
+you have, perhaps you will be kind enough to furnish me with some
+names, that I may mention them when I hear you accused of neglect. You
+are very hospitable and very considerate to strangers. The
+representative of any little insignificant German state, of the size of
+a Canadian township, has a place assigned him on state occasions. Do
+you ever show the same attention to the delegate of a colony, of
+infinitely more extent and value than Ireland? There can’t be a doubt
+you have, though I have never heard of it. Such little trifles are
+matters of course, but still, as great interests are at stake, perhaps
+it would be as well to notice such things occasionally in the Gazette,
+for distant and humble relations are always touchy.
+
+“Ah, Doctor,” said I, “_things can’t and won’t remain long as they
+are._ England has three things among which to choose for her North
+American colonies:—First: Incorporation with herself, and
+representation in Parliament. Secondly: Independence. Thirdly:
+Annexation with the States. Instead of deliberating and selecting what
+will be most conducive to the interest of herself and her dependencies,
+she is allowing things to take their chance. Now, this is all very well
+in matters over which we have no control, because Providence directs
+things better than we can; but if one of these three alternatives is
+infinitely better than the other, and it is in our power to adopt it,
+it is the height of folly not to do so. I know it is said, for I have
+often heard it myself, Why, we can but lose the colonies at last.
+Pardon me, you can do more than that, for you can lose their affections
+also. If the partnership is to be dissolved, it had better be done by
+mutual consent, and it would be for the interest of both that you
+should part friends. You didn’t shake hands with, but fists at, us when
+we separated. We had a stand-up fight, and you got licked, and wounds
+were given that the best part of a century hasn’t healed, and wounds
+that will leave tender spots for ever; so don’t talk nonsense.
+
+“Now, Doctor, mark my words. I say again, things won’t remain long as
+they are. I am glad I have you to talk to instead of the Squire, for he
+always says, I am chockfull of crotchets, and brimfull of brag. Now, it
+is easy, we all know, to prophesy a thing after it has happened, but if
+I foretell a thing and it comes out true, if I haven’t a right to brag
+of my skill, I have a right to boast that I guessed right at all
+events. Now, when I set on foot a scheme for carrying the Atlantic mail
+in steamers, and calculated all the distances and chances, and showed
+them Bristol folks (for I went to that place on purpose) that it was
+shorter by thirty-six miles to come to Halifax, and then go to New
+York, than to go to New York direct, they just laughed at me, and so
+did the English Government. They said it couldn’t be shorter in the
+nature of things. There was a captain in the navy to London too, who
+said, ‘Mr Slick, you are wrong, and I think I ought to know something
+about it,’ giving a toss of his head. ‘Well,’ sais I, with another toss
+of mine, ‘I think you ought too, and I am sorry you don’t, that’s all.’
+
+“Then the Squire said:—‘Why, how you talk, Mr Slick! Recollect, if you
+please, that Doctor Lardner says that steam won’t do to cross the
+Atlantic, and he is a great gun.”
+
+“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I don’t care a fig for what Lardner says, or any
+other locomotive lecturer under the light of the living sun. If a
+steamer can go agin a stream, and a plaguy strong one too, two thousand
+five hundred miles up the Mississippi, why in natur can’t it be fixed
+so as to go across the Atlantic?’
+
+“Well, some time after that, my second Clockmaker came out in London,
+and, sais I, I’ll stand or fall by my opinion, right or wrong, and I
+just put it body and breeches all down in figures in that book. Well,
+that set inquiries on foot, folks began to calculate—a tender was made
+and accepted, and now steam across the Atlantic is a fixed fact, and an
+old story. Our folks warn’t over pleased about it, they consaited I
+should have told them first, so they might have taken the lead in it,
+as they like to go ahead of the British in all things, and I wish to
+goodness I had, for thanks are better nor jeers at any time.
+
+“Well, I was right there, you see. So on this subject I have told
+Squire, and them who ought to know something of the colonies they rule,
+over and over again, and warned government that something was wanting
+to place these provinces on a proper permanent footing; that I knew the
+temper of colony folks better than they did, and you will find in my
+Journals the subject often mentioned. But no, a debate on a beer bill,
+or a metropolitan bridge, or a constabulary act, is so pressing, there
+is no time. Well, sure enough that’s all come true. First, the Canadian
+league started up, it was a feverish symptom, and it subsided by good
+treatment, without letting blood. Last winter it was debated in the
+Legislature here, and the best and ablest speeches made on it ever
+heard in British America, and infinitely superior to the great majority
+of those uttered in the House of Commons.1 Do you suppose for a moment
+that proud-spirited, independent, able men like those members, will
+long endure the control of a Colonial minister, who, they feel, is as
+much below them in talent, as by accident he may be above them in rank?
+No, Sir, the day is past. The form of provincial government is changed,
+and with it provincial dependence also. _When we become men, we must
+put away childish thing’s._
+
+1 All these speeches are well worth reading, especially those of Mr
+Howe, Mr Johnston, and Mr M. Wilkins. That of the former gentleman is
+incomparably superior to any one delivered during the last session of
+the Imperial Parliament.
+
+
+“There is a sense of soreness that is uncomfortably felt by a colonist
+now when he surveys our condition, and that of Englishmen, and compares
+his own with it. He can hardly tell you what he wants, he has yet no
+definite plan: but he desires something that will place him on a
+perfect equality with either. When I was in Europe lately, I spent a
+day at Richmond, with one of them I had known out in America. He was a
+Tory, too, and a pretty staunch one, I tell you.
+
+“Thinks I to myself, ‘I’ll put you through your paces a little, my
+young sucking Washington, for fear you will get out of practice when
+you get back.’
+
+“So, sais I, ‘how do you get on now? I suppose responsible government
+has put an end to all complaints, hain’t it?’
+
+“Sais he, ‘Mr Slick,’ and I saw he felt sore, for he looked like it,
+and talked like it; ‘Mr Slick,’ said he, ‘kinder niblin’ at the
+question, I have no remonstrance to make. There is something very
+repulsive in a complaint. I can’t bear the sound of it myself. It
+should never be pronounced but in the ear of a doctor, or a police
+magistrate. Your man with a grievance is everywhere voted a bore. If he
+goes to the Colonial Office with one, that stout gentleman at the door,
+the porter, who has the keys of that realm of knowledge and bliss, and
+knows as much and has as many airs as his master, soon receives an
+order not to admit him.
+
+“‘Worn out with fatigue and disappointment, the unfortunate suitor
+finds at last his original grievance merged in the greater one, that he
+can obtain no hearing and no redress, and he returns to his own
+province, like Franklin, or the Australian delegate, with thoughts of
+deep revenge, and visions of a glorious revolution that shall set his
+countrymen free from foreign dominion. He goes a humble suppliant, he
+returns an implacable rebel. The restless Pole, who would rather play
+the part of a freebooting officer than an honest farmer, and who
+prefers even begging to labour, wanders over Europe and America,
+uttering execrations against all monarchs in general, and his own in
+particular, and, when you shake your head at his oft-told tale of
+fictitious patriotism, as he replaces his stereotyped memorial in his
+pocket, exhibits the handle of a stiletto, with a savage smile of
+unmistakeable scoundrelism.’
+
+“‘_Poles_ loom large,’ sais I, ‘in the fogs of London, but they dwindle
+into poor _sticks_ with us.’
+
+“He was in no temper however to laugh. It was evident he felt deeply,
+but he was unwilling to exhibit the tender spot. ‘The world, Sir,’ he
+said, ‘is full of grievances. Papineau’s parliament mustered ninety-two
+of them at one time, and a Falmouth packet-ship actually foundered with
+its shifting cargo. What a pity it is that their worthlessness and
+lightness alone caused them to float! The English, who reverse every
+wholesome maxim, in this instance pursued their usual course. The sage
+advice, _parcere subjectis, et debilare superbos,_ was disregarded. The
+loyalists suffered, the arrogant and turbulent triumphed. Every house,
+Sir, in the kingdom is infested with grievances. Fathers grieve over
+the extravagances of their sons, the giddiness of their daughters, and
+the ceaseless murmurs of their wives, while they in their turn unite in
+complaining of parental parsimony and meanness. Social intercourse I
+have long since given up, for I am tired of tedious narratives of the
+delinquencies of servants and the degeneracy of the times. I prefer
+large parties, where, although you know the smile hides the peevish
+temper, the aching heart, the jealous fear, and the wounded pride; yet
+it is such a great satisfaction to know there is a truce to complaints,
+that I prefer its many falsehoods to unceasing wailings over the sad
+realities of life.’
+
+“This was no answer, but something to bluff me off. I saw he was
+unwilling to speak out, and that it was a mere effort to button up and
+evade the subject. So to draw him out, I said,
+
+“‘Well, there is one thing you _can_ boast. Canada is the most valuable
+and beautiful appendage of the British Crown.’
+
+“‘England may boast of it as such,’ he said, ‘but I have no right to do
+so. I prefer being one of the pariahs of the empire, a mere colonist,
+having neither grade nor caste, without a country of my own, and
+without nationality. I am a humble man, and when I am asked where I
+come from, readily answer, the Chaudiere River. Where is that? Out of
+the world? _Extra flammantia limina mundi_. What is the name of your
+country? It is not a country, it is only a place. It is better to have
+no flag than a borrowed one. If I had one I should have to defend it.
+If it were wrested from me I should be disgraced, while my victorious
+enemy would be thanked by the Imperial Legislature, and rewarded by his
+sovereign. If I were triumphant, the affair would be deemed too small
+to merit a notice in the Gazette. He who called out the militia, and
+quelled amid a shower of _balls_ the late rebellion, was knighted. He
+who assented amid a shower of _eggs_ to a bill to indemnify the rebels,
+was created an earl. Now to pelt a governor-general with eggs is an
+overt act of treason, for it is an attempt to throw off the _yoke._ If
+therefore he was advanced in the peerage for remunerating traitors for
+their losses, he ought now to assent to another act for reimbursing the
+expenses of the exhausted stores of the poultry yards, and be made a
+marquis, unless the British see a difference between a rebel mob and an
+indignant crowd, between those whose life has been spent in hatching
+mischief, and those who desired to scare the foul birds from their
+nests.
+
+“‘If that man had been a colonist, the dispatch marked ‘private’ would
+have said, ‘It sarved you right,’ whereas it announced to him, ‘You are
+one of us,’ and to mark our approbation of your conduct, you may add
+one of these savoury missiles to your coat of arms, that others may be
+_egged_ on to do their duty. Indeed, we couldn’t well have a flag of
+our own. The Americans have a very appropriate and elegant one,
+containing stripes emblematical of their slaves, and stars to represent
+their free states, while a Connecticut goose typifies the good cheer of
+thanksgiving day. It is true we have the honour of fighting under that
+of England; but there is, as we have seen, this hard condition annexed
+to it, we must consent to be taxed, to reimburse the losses of those
+whom by our gallantry we subdue. If we take Sebastopol, we must pay for
+the damage we have done. We are not entitled to a separate flag, and I
+am afraid if we had one we should be subject to ridicule. A pure white
+ground would prefigure our snow drifts; a gull with outspread wings,
+our credulous qualities; and a few discoloured eggs, portray our
+celebrated missiles. But what sort of a flag would that be? No, Sir,
+these provinces should be united, and they would from their territorial
+extent, their commercial enterprise, their mineral wealth, their
+wonderful agricultural productions, and, above all, their intelligent,
+industrious, and still loyal population, in time form a nation second
+to none on earth, until then I prefer to be a citizen of the world.
+
+“‘I once asked an Indian where he lived, I meant of course where his
+camp was, but the question was too broad, and puzzled him. Stretching
+out his arm and describing a circle with his heel, he said, ‘I live in
+all these woods!’ Like him, I live in all this world. Those who, like
+the English and Americans, have appropriated so large a portion of it
+to themselves, may severally boast, if they think proper, of their
+respective governments and territories. My boast, Sir, is a peculiar
+one, that I have nothing to boast of.’
+
+“‘If such are your views,’ I said, ‘I must say, I do not understand
+that absurd act of firing your parliament house. It is, I assure you,
+reprobated everywhere. Our folks say your party commenced as old
+_Hunkers_1 and ended as _Barnburners_.’
+
+1 “We have been requested to give a definition of this term, ‘Old
+Hunkers.’ Party nicknames are not often logically justified; and we can
+only say that that section of the late dominant party in this State
+(the democratic) which claims to be the more radical, progressive,
+reformatory, &c., bestowed the appellation of ‘Old Hunker’ on the other
+section, to indicate that it was distinguished by opposite qualities
+from those claimed for itself. We believe the title was also intended
+to indicate that those on whom it was conferred had an appetite for a
+large ‘hunk’ of the spoils, though we never could discover that they
+were peculiar in that. On the other hand, the opposite school was
+termed ‘Barnburners,’ in allusion to the story of an old Dutchman, who
+relieved himself of rats by burning his barns, which they infested—just
+like exterminating all banks and corporations to root out the abuses
+connected therewith. The fitness or unfitness of these family terms of
+endearment is none of our business.”—NEW YORK TRIBUNE.
+
+
+“That remark threw him off his guard; he rose up greatly agitated; his
+eyes flashed fire, and he extended out his arm as if he intended by
+gesticulation to give full force to what he was about to say. He stood
+in this attitude for a moment without uttering a word, when by a sudden
+effort he mastered himself, and took up his hat to walk out on the
+terrace and recover his composure.
+
+“As he reached the door, he turned, and said:
+
+“‘The assenting to that infamous indemnity act, Mr Slick, and the still
+more disreputable manner in which it received the gubernational
+sanction, has produced an impression in Canada that no loyal man—’ but
+he again checked himself, and left the sentence unfinished.
+
+“I was sorry I had pushed him so hard, but the way he tried to evade
+the subject at first, the bitterness of his tone, and the excitement
+into which the allusion threw him, convinced me that the English
+neither know who their real friends in Canada are, nor how to retain
+their affections.
+
+“When he returned, I said to him, ‘I was only jesting about your having
+no grievances in Canada, and I regret having agitated you. I agree with
+you however that it is of no use to remonstrate with the English
+public. They won’t listen to you. If you want to be heard, attract
+their attention, in the first instance, by talking of their own
+immediate concerns, and while they are regarding you with intense
+interest and anxiety, by a sleight of hand shift the dissolving view,
+and substitute a sketch of your own. For instance, says you, ‘How is it
+the army in the Crimea had no tents in the autumn, and no huts in the
+winter—the hospitals no fittings, and the doctors no nurses or
+medicines? How is it disease and neglect have killed more men than the
+enemy? Why is England the laughing-stock of Russia, and the butt of
+French and Yankee ridicule? and how does it happen this country is
+filled with grief and humiliation from one end of it to the other? I
+will tell you. These affairs were managed _by a branch of the Colonial
+Office._ The minister for that department said to the army, as he did
+to the distant provinces, ‘Manage your own affairs, and don’t bother
+us.’ Then pause and say, slowly and emphatically, ‘_You now have a
+taste of what we have endured in the colonies. The same incompetency
+has ruled over both_.’”
+
+“‘Good heavens,’ said he, ‘Mr Slick. I wish you was one of us.’
+
+“‘Thank you for the compliment.’ sais I. ‘I feel flattered, I assure
+you; but, excuse me. I have no such ambition. I am content to be a
+humble Yankee clockmaker. _A Colonial Office, in which there is not a
+single man that ever saw a colony, is not exactly the government to
+suit me. The moment I found my master knew less than I did, I quit his
+school and set up for myself.’_
+
+‘Yes, my friend, the English want to have the mirror held up to them;
+but that is your business and not mine. It would be out of place for
+me. I am a Yankee, and politics are not my line; I have no turn for
+them, and I don’t think I have the requisite knowledge of the subject
+for discussing it; but you have both, and I wonder you don’t.
+
+“Now, Doctor, you may judge from that conversation, and the deep
+feeling it exhibits, that men’s thoughts are wandering in new channels.
+The great thing for a statesman is to direct them to the right one. I
+have said there were three courses to be considered; first,
+incorporation with England; secondly, independence; thirdly,
+annexation. The subject is too large for a quarter-deck walk, so I will
+only say a few words more. Let’s begin with annexation first. The
+thinking, reflecting people among us don’t want these provinces. We
+guess we are big enough already, and nothing but our great rivers,
+canals, railroads, and telegraphs (which, like skewers in a round of
+beef, fasten the unwieldy mass together) could possibly keep us united.
+Without them we should fall to pieces in no time. It’s as much as they
+can keep all tight and snug now; but them skewers nor no others can tie
+a greater bulk than we have. Well, I don’t think colonists want to be
+swamped in our vast republic either. So there ain’t no great danger
+from that, unless the devil gits into us both, which, if a favourable
+chance offered, he is not onlikely to do. So let that pass. Secondly,
+as to incorporation. That is a grand idea, but it is almost too grand
+for John Bull’s head, and a little grain too large for his pride. There
+are difficulties, and serious ones, in the way. It would require
+participation in the legislature, which would involve knocking off some
+of the Irish brigade to make room for your members; and there would be
+a hurrush at that, as O’Connell used to say, that would bang Banaghar.
+It would also involve an invasion of the upper house, for colonists
+won’t take half a loaf now, I tell you; which would make some o’ those
+gouty old lords fly round and scream like Mother Cary’s chickens in a
+gale of wind; and then there would be the story of the national debt,
+and a participation in imperial taxes to adjust, and so on; but none of
+these difficulties are insuperable.
+
+“A statesman with a clever head, a sound judgment, and a good heart,
+could adjust a scheme that would satisfy all; at least it would satisfy
+colonists by its justice, and reconcile the peers and the people of
+England by its expediency, for the day Great Britain parts with these
+colonies, depend upon it, she descends in the scale of nations most
+rapidly. India she may lose any day, for it is a government of opinion
+only. Australia will emancipate itself ere long, but these provinces
+she may and ought to retain.
+
+“Thirdly, independence. This is better for her than annexation by a
+long chalk, and better for the colonies too, if I was allowed to spend
+my opinion on it; but if that is decided upon, something must be done
+soon. The way ought to be prepared for it by an immediate federative
+and legislative union of them all. It is of no use to consult their
+governors, they don’t and they can’t know anything of the country but
+its roads, lakes, rivers, and towns; but of the people they know
+nothing whatever. You might as well ask the steeple of a wooden church
+whether the sill that rests on the stone foundation is sound. They are
+too big according to their own absurd notions, too small in the eyes of
+colonists, and too far removed and unbending to know anything about it.
+What can a man learn in five years except the painful fact, that he
+knew nothing when he came, and knows as little when he leaves? He can
+form a better estimate of himself than when he landed, and returns a
+humbler, but not a wiser man; but that’s all his schoolin’ ends in. No,
+_Sirree,_ it’s only men like you and me who know the ins and outs of
+the people here.”
+
+“Don’t say me,” said the doctor, “for goodness’ sake, for I know
+nothing about the inhabitants of these woods and waters, but the birds,
+the fish, and the beasts.”
+
+“Don’t you include politicians,” said I, “of all shades and colours,
+under the last genus? because I do, they are regular beasts of prey.”
+
+Well, he laughed; he said he didn’t know nothing about them.
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I ain’t so modest, I can tell you, for I _do_ know. I
+am a clockmaker, and understand machinery. I know all about the wheels,
+pulleys, pendulum, balances, and so on, the length of the chain, and
+what is best of all, the way to wind ’em up, set ’em a going, and make
+’em keep time. Now, Doctor, I’ll tell you what neither the English nor
+the Yankees, nor the colonists themselves, know anything of, and that
+is about the extent and importance of these North American provinces
+under British rule. Take your pencil now, and write down a few facts I
+will give you, and when you are alone meditating, just chew on ’em.
+
+“First—there are four millions of square miles of territory in them,
+whereas all Europe has but three millions some odd hundred thousands,
+and our almighty, everlastin’ United States still less than that again.
+Canada alone is equal in size to Great Britain, France, and Prussia.
+The maritime provinces themselves cover a space as large as Holland,
+Belgium, Greece, Portugal, and Switzerland, all put together. The
+imports for 1853 were between ten and eleven millions, and the exports
+(ships sold included) between nine and ten millions. At the
+commencement of the American Revolution, when we first dared the
+English to fight us, we had but two and a half, these provinces now
+contain nearly three, and in half a century will reach the enormous
+amount of eighteen millions of inhabitants. The increase of population
+in the States is thirty-three per cent., in Canada sixty-eight. The
+united revenue is nearly a million and a half, and their shipping
+amounts to four hundred and fifty thousand tons.
+
+“Now, take these facts and see what an empire is here, surely the best
+in climate, soil, mineral, and other productions in the world, and
+peopled by such a race as no other country under heaven can produce.
+No, Sir, here are _the bundle of sticks_, all they want is to be well
+united. How absurd it seems to us Yankees that England is both so
+ignorant and so blind to her own interests, as not to give her
+attention to this interesting portion of the empire, that in natural
+and commercial wealth is of infinitely more importance than half a
+dozen Wallachias and Moldavias, and in loyalty, intelligence, and
+enterprise, as far superior to turbulent Ireland as it is possible for
+one country to surpass another. However, Doctor, it’s no affair of
+mine. I hate politics, and I hate talking figures. Sposin’ we try a
+cigar, and _some white satin_.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX.
+TOWN AND COUNTRY.
+
+
+“Doctor,” sais I, as we ascended the deck the following morning, “I
+can’t tell you how I have enjoyed these incidental runs on shore I have
+had during my cruise in the ‘Black Hawk.’ I am amazin’ fond of the
+country, and bein’ an early riser, I manage to lose none of its charms.
+I like to see the early streak in the east, and look on the glorious
+sky when the sun rises. I like everything about the country, and the
+people that live in it. The town is artificial, the country is natural.
+Whoever sees the peep of the morning in the city but a drowsy watchman,
+who waits for it to go to his bed? a nurse, that is counting the heavy
+hours, and longs to put out the unsnuffed candles, and take a cup of
+strong tea to keep her peepers open; or some houseless wretch, that is
+woke up from his nap on a door-step, by a punch in the ribs from the
+staff of a policeman, who begrudges the misfortunate critter a luxury
+he is deprived of himself, and asks him what he is a doin’ of there, as
+if he didn’t know he had nothin’ to do nowhere, and tells him to mizzle
+off home, as if he took pleasure in reminding him he had none. Duty
+petrifies these critters’ hearts harder than the grand marble porch
+stone that served for a couch, or the doorstep that was used for a
+pillow. Even the dogs turn in then, for they don’t think it’s necessary
+to mount guard any longer. Blinds and curtains are all down, and every
+livin’ critter is asleep, breathing the nasty, hot, confined,
+unwholesome air of their bed-rooms, instead of inhaling the cool dewy
+breeze of heaven.
+
+“Is it any wonder that the galls are thin, and pale, and delicate, and
+are so languid, they look as if they were givin’ themselves airs, when
+all they want is air? or that the men complain of dyspepsy, and look
+hollow and unhealthy, having neither cheeks, stomach, nor thighs, and
+have to take bitters to get an appetite for their food, and pickles and
+red pepper to digest it? The sun is up, and has performed the first
+stage of his journey before the maid turns out, opens the front door,
+and takes a look up and down street, to see who is a stirrin’. Early
+risin’ must be cheerfulsome, for she is very chipper, and throws some
+orange-peel at the shopman of their next neighbour, as a hint if he was
+to chase her, he would catch her behind the hall-door, as he did
+yesterday, after which she would show him into the supper-room, where
+the liquors and cakes are still standing as they were left last night.
+
+“Yes, she is right to hide, for it is decent, if it ain’t modest,
+seein’ the way she has jumped into her clothes, and the danger there is
+of jumping out of them again. How can it be otherwise, when she has to
+get up so horrid early? It’s all the fault of the vile milkman, who
+will come for fear his milk will get sour; and that beast, the iceman,
+who won’t wait, for fear his ice will melt; and that stupid nigger who
+will brush the shoes then, he has so many to clean elsewhere.
+
+“As she stands there, a woman ascends the step, and produces a basket
+from under her cloak, into which she looks carefully, examines its
+contents (some lace frills, tippets, and collars of her mistress, which
+she wore a few nights ago at a ball), and returns with something heavy
+in it, for the arm is extended in carrying it, and the stranger
+disappears. She still lingers, she is expecting some one. It is the
+postman, he gives her three or four letters, one of which is for
+herself. She reads it approvingly, and then carefully puts it into her
+bosom, but that won’t retain it no how she can fix it, so she shifts it
+to her pocket. It is manifest Posty carries a verbal answer, for she
+talks very earnestly to him, and shakes hands with him at parting most
+cordially.
+
+“It must be her turn for a ball to-night I reckon, for a carriage
+drives very rapidly to within three or four hundred yards of the house,
+and then crawls to the door so as not to disturb the family. A very
+fashionably-dressed maid is there (her mistress must be very kind to
+lend her such expensive head-gear, splendid jewelry, and costly and
+elegant toggery), and her beau is there with such a handsome moustache
+and becoming beard, and an exquisitely-worked chain that winds six or
+seven times round him, and hangs loose over his waistcoat, like a coil
+of golden cord. At a given signal, from the boss of the hack, who
+stands door in hand, the young lady gathers her clothes well up her
+drumsticks, and would you believe, two steps or springs only, like
+those of a kangaroo, take her into the house? It’s a streak of light,
+and nothing more. It’s lucky she is thin, for fat tames every critter
+that is foolish enough to wear it, and spoils agility.
+
+“The beau takes it more leisurely. There are two epochs in a critter’s
+life of intense happiness, first when he doffs the petticoats,
+pantellets, the hermaphrodite rig of a child, and mounts the jacket and
+trowsers of a boy; and the other is when that gives way to a ‘long tail
+blue,’ and a beard. He is then a man.
+
+“The beau has reached this enviable age, and as he is full of
+admiration of himself, is generous enough to allow time to others to
+feast their eyes on him. So he takes it leisurely, his character, like
+that charming girl’s, won’t suffer if it is known they return with the
+cats in the morning; on the contrary, women, as they always do, the
+little fools, will think more of him. They make no allowance for one of
+their own sex, but they are very indulgent, indeed they are both blind
+and deaf, to the errors of the other. The fact is, if I didn’t know it
+was only vindicating the honour of their sex, I vow I should think it
+was all envy of the gall who was so lucky, as to be unlucky; but I know
+better than that. If the owner of the house should be foolish enough to
+be up so early, or entirely take leave of his senses, and ask him why
+he was mousing about there, he flatters himself he is just the child to
+kick him. Indeed he feels inclined to flap his wings and crow. He is
+very proud. Celestina is in love with him, and tells him (but he knew
+that before) he is very handsome. He is a man, he has a beard as black
+as the ace of spades, is full dressed, and the world is before him. He
+thrashed a watchman last night, and now he has a drop in his eye, would
+fight the devil. He has succeeded in deceiving that gall, he has no
+more idea of marrying her than I have. It shows his power. He would
+give a dollar to crow, but suffers himself to be gently pushed out of
+the hall, and the door fastened behind him, amid such endearing
+expressions, that they would turn a fellow’s head, even after his hair
+had grown gray. He then lights a cigar, gets up with the driver, and
+looks round with an air of triumph, as much as to say—‘What would you
+give to be admired and as successful as I am?’ and when he turns the
+next corner, he does actilly crow.
+
+“Yes, yes, when the cat’s away, the mice will play. Things ain’t in a
+mess, and that house a hurrah’s nest, is it? Time wears on, and the
+alternate gall must be a movin’ now, for the other who was at the ball
+has gone to bed, and intends to have her by-daily head-ache if inquired
+for. To-night it will be her turn to dance, and to-morrow to sleep, so
+she cuts round considerable smart. Poor thing, the time is not far off
+when you will go to bed and not sleep, but it’s only the child that
+burns its fingers that dreads the fire. In the mean time, set things to
+rights.
+
+“The curtains are looped up, and the shutters folded back into the
+wall, and the rooms are sprinkled with tea-leaves, which are lightly
+swept up, and the dust left behind, where it ought to be, on the
+carpet,—that’s all the use there is of a carpet, except you have got
+corns. And then the Venetians are let down to darken the rooms, and the
+windows are kept closed to keep out the flies, the dust, and the heat,
+and the flowers brought in and placed in the stands. And there is a
+beautiful temperature in the parlour, for it is the same air that was
+there a fortnight before. It is so hot, when the young ladies come down
+to breakfast, they can’t eat, so they take nothing but a plate of
+buck-wheat cakes, and another of hot buttered rolls, a dozen of
+oysters, a pot of preserves, a cup of honey, and a few ears of Indian
+corn. They can’t abide meat, it’s too solid and heavy. It’s so horrid
+warm it’s impossible they can have an appetite, and even that little
+trifle makes them feel dyspeptic. They’ll starve soon; what can be the
+matter? A glass of cool ginger pop, with ice, would be refreshing, and
+soda water is still better, it is too early for wine, and at any rate
+it’s heating, besides being unscriptural.
+
+“Well, the men look at their watches, and say they are in a hurry, and
+must be off for their counting-houses like wink, so they bolt. What a
+wonder it is the English common people call the stomach a bread-basket,
+for it has no meanin’ there. They should have called it a meat-tray,
+for they are the boys for beef and mutton. But with us it’s the
+identical thing. They clear the table in no time, it’s a grand thing,
+for it saves the servants trouble. And a steak, and a dish of chops,
+added to what the ladies had, is grand. The best way to make a pie is
+to make it in the stomach. But flour fixins piping hot is the best, and
+as their disgestion ain’t good, it is better to try a little of
+everything on table to see which best agrees with them. So down goes
+the Johnny cakes, Indian flappers, Lucy Neals, Hoe cakes—with toast,
+fine cookies, rice batter, Indian batter, Kentucky batter, flannel
+cakes, and clam fritters. Super-superior fine flour is the wholesomest
+thing in the world, and you can’t have too much of it. It’s grand for
+pastry, and that is as light and as flakey as snow when well made. How
+can it make paste inside of you and be wholesome? If you would believe
+some Yankee doctors you’d think it would make the stomach a regular
+glue pot. They pretend to tell you pap made of it will kill a baby as
+dead as a herring. But doctors must have some hidden thing to lay the
+blame of their ignorance on. Once when they didn’t know what was the
+matter of a child, they said it was water in the brain, and now when it
+dies—oh, they say, the poor thing was killed by that pastry flour. But
+they be hanged. How can the best of anything that is good be bad? The
+only thing is to be sure a thing is best, and then go a-head with it.
+
+“Well, when the men get to their offices, they are half roasted alive,
+and have to take ices to cool them, and then for fear the cold will
+heat them, they have to take brandy cock-tail to counteract it. So they
+keep up a sort of artificial fever and ague all day. The ice gives the
+one, and brandy the other, like shuttlecock and battledore. If they had
+walked down as they had ought to have done, in the cool of the morning,
+they would have avoided all this.
+
+“How different it is now in the country, ain’t it? What a glorious
+thing the sun-rise is! How beautiful the dew-spangled bushes, and the
+pearly drops they shed, are! How sweet and cool is the morning air, and
+how refreshing and bracing the light breeze is to the nerves that have
+been relaxed in warm repose! The new-ploughed earth, the snowy-headed
+clover, the wild flowers, the blooming trees, and the balsamic spruce,
+all exhale their fragrance to invite you forth. While the birds offer
+up their morning hymn, as if to proclaim that all things praise the
+Lord. The lowing herd remind you that they have kept their appointed
+time; and the freshening breezes, as they swell in the forest and
+awaken the sleeping leaves, seem to whisper, ‘We too come with healing
+on our wings;’ and the babbling brook, that it also has its mission to
+minister to your wants. Oh, morning in the country is a glorious thing,
+and it is impossible when one rises and walks forth and surveys the
+scene not to exclaim, ‘God is good.’
+
+“Oh, that early hour has health, vigour, and cheerfulness in it. How
+natural it seems to me, how familiar I am with everything it indicates!
+The dew tells me there will be no showers, the white frost warns me of
+its approach; and if that does not arrive in time, the sun instructs me
+to notice and remember, that if it rises bright and clear and soon
+disappears in a cloud, I must prepare for heavy rain. The birds and the
+animals all, all say, ‘We too are cared for, and we have our
+foreknowledge, which we disclose by our conduct to you.” The brooks too
+have meaning in their voices, and the southern sentinel proclaims
+aloud, ‘Prepare.’ And the western, ‘All is well.’”
+
+Oh, how well I know the face of nature! What pleasure I take as I
+commence my journey at this hour, to witness the rising of the mist in
+the autumn from the low grounds, and its pausing on the hill-tops, as
+if regretting the scene it was about to leave! And how I admire the
+little insect webs, that are spangled over the field at that time; and
+the partridge warming itself in the first gleam of sunshine it can
+discover on the road! The alder, as I descend into the glen, gives me
+notice that the first frost has visited him, as it always does, before
+others, to warn him that it has arrived to claim every leaf of the
+forest as its own. Oh, the country is the place for peace, health,
+beauty, and innocence. I love it, I was born in it. I lived the greater
+part of my life there, and I look forward to die in it.
+
+“How different from town life is that of the country! There are duties
+to be performed in-door and out-door, and the inmates assemble round
+their breakfast-table, refreshed by sleep and invigorated by the cool
+air, partake of their simple, plain, and substantial meal, with the
+relish of health, cheerfulness, and appetite. The open window admits
+the fresh breeze, in happy ignorance of dust, noise, or fashionable
+darkness. The verandah defies rain or noon-day sun, and employment
+affords no room for complaint that the day is hot, the weather
+oppressive, the nerves weak, or the digestion enfeebled. There can be
+no happiness where there is an alternation of listlessness and
+excitement. They are the two extremes between which it resides, and
+that locality to my mind is the country. Care, disease, sorrow, and
+disappointment are common to both. They are the lot of humanity; but
+the children of mammon, and of God, bear them differently.
+
+“I didn’t intend to turn preacher, Doctor, but I do positively believe,
+if I hadn’t a been a clockmaker, dear old Minister would have made me
+one. I don’t allot, though, I would have taken in Slickville, for I
+actilly think I couldn’t help waltzing with the galls, which would have
+put our folks into fits, or kept old Clay, clergymen like, to leave
+sinners behind me. I can’t make out these puritan fellows, or
+evangelical boys, at all. To my mind, religion is a cheerful thing,
+intended to make us happy, not miserable; and that our faces, like that
+of nature, should be smiling, and that like birds we should sing and
+carol, and like lilies, we should be well arrayed, and not that our
+countenances should make folks believe we were chosen vessels,
+containing, not the milk of human kindness, but horrid sour vinegar and
+acid mothery grounds. Why, the very swamp behind our house is full of a
+plant called ‘a gall’s side-saddle.’1
+
+1 This is the common name for the Sarracenia.
+
+
+“Plague take them old Independents; I can’t and never could understand
+them. I believe, if Bishop Laud had allowed them to sing through their
+noses, pray without gowns, and build chapels without steeples, they
+would have died out like Quakers, by being let alone. They wanted to
+make the state believe they were of consequence. If the state had
+treated them as if they were of no importance, they would have felt
+that too very soon. Opposition made them obstinate. They won’t stick at
+nothing to carry their own ends.
+
+“They made a law once in Connecticut that no man should ride or drive
+on a Sunday except to a conventicle. Well, an old Dutch governor of New
+York, when that was called New Amsterdam and belonged to Holland, once
+rode into the colony on horseback on a Sabbath day, pretty hard job it
+was too, for he was a very stout man, and a poor horseman. There were
+no wheel carriages in those days, and he had been used to home to
+travel in canal boats, and smoke at his ease; but he had to make the
+journey, and he did it, and he arrived just as the puritans were coming
+out of meeting, and going home, slowly, stately, and solemnly, to their
+cold dinner cooked the day before (for they didn’t think it no harm to
+make servants work double tides on Saturday), their rule being to do
+_anything_ of a week day, but _nothing_ on the Sabbath.
+
+“Well, it was an awful scandal this, and a dreadful violation of the
+blue laws of the young nation. Connecticut and New Amsterdam (New York)
+were nothing then but colonies; but the puritans owed no obedience to
+princes, and set up for themselves. The elders and ministry and learned
+men met on Monday to consider of this dreadful profanity of the Dutch
+governor. On the one hand it was argued, if he entered their state (for
+so they called it then) he was amenable to their laws, and ought to be
+cited, condemned, and put into the stocks, as an example to evil-doers.
+On the other hand, they got hold of a Dutch book on the Law of Nations,
+to cite agin him; but it was written in Latin, and although it
+contained all about it, they couldn’t find the place, for their
+minister said there was no index to it. Well, it was said, if we are
+independent, so is he, and whoever heard of a king or a prince being
+put in the stocks? It bothered them, so they sent their Yankee governor
+to him to bully and threaten him, and see how he would take it, as we
+now do, at the present day, to Spain about Cuba, and England about your
+fisheries.
+
+“Well, the governor made a long speech to him, read him a chapter in
+the Bible, and then expounded it, and told him they must put him in the
+stocks. All this time the Dutchman went on smoking, and blowing out
+great long puffs of tobacco. At last he paused, and said:
+
+“‘You be tamned. Stockum me—stockum teivel.’ And he laid down his pipe,
+and with one hand took hold of their governor by the fore-top, and with
+the other drew a line across his forehead and said, ‘Den I declare war,
+and Gooten Himmel! I shall scalp you all.’
+
+“After delivering himself of that long speech, he poured out two
+glasses of Schiedam, drunk one himself, and offered the Yankee governor
+the other, who objected to the word Schiedam, as it terminated in a
+profane oath, with which, he said, the Dutch language was greatly
+defiled; but seeing it was also called Geneva, he would swallow it.
+Well, his high mightiness didn’t understand him, but he opened his eyes
+like an owl and stared, and said, ‘Dat is tam coot,’ and the conference
+broke up.
+
+“Well, it was the first visit of the Dutch governor, and they hoped it
+would be the last, so they passed it over. But his business was
+important, and it occupied him the whole week to settle it, and he took
+his leave on Saturday evening, and was to set out for home on Sunday
+again. Well, this was considered as adding insult to injury. What was
+to be done? Now it’s very easy and very proper for us to sit down and
+condemn the Duke of Tuscany, who encourages pilgrims to go to shrines
+where marble statues weep blood, and cataliptic galls let flies walk
+over their eyes without winking, and yet imprisons an English lady for
+giving away the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ It’s very wrong, no doubt, but it
+ain’t very new after all. Ignorant and bigoted people always have
+persecuted, and always will to the end of the chapter. But what was to
+be done with his high mightiness, the Dutch governor? Well, they
+decided that it was not lawful to put him into the stocks; but that it
+was lawful to deprive him of the means of sinning. So one of the elders
+swapped horses with him, and when he started on the Sabbath, the
+critter was so lame after he went a mile, he had to return and wait
+till Monday.
+
+“No, I don’t understand these puritan folks; and I suppose if I had
+been a preacher they wouldn’t have understood me. But I must get back
+to where I left off. I was a talkin’ about the difference of life in
+town and in the country, and how in the world I got away, off from the
+subject, to the Dutch governor and them puritans, I don’t know. When I
+say I love the country, I mean it in its fullest extent, not merely old
+settlements and rural districts, but the great unbroken forest. This is
+a taste, I believe, a man must have in early life. I don’t think it can
+be acquired in middle age, any more than playin’ marbles can, though
+old Elgin tried that game and made money at it. A man must know how to
+take care of himself, forage for himself, shelter himself, and cook for
+himself. It’s no place for an epicure, because he can’t carry his cook,
+and his spices, and sauces, and all that, with him. Still a man ought
+to know a goose from a gridiron; and if he wants to enjoy the sports of
+the flood and the forest, he should be able to help himself; and what
+he does he ought to do well. Fingers were made afore knives and forks;
+flat stones before bake-pans; crotched sticks before jacks; bark before
+tin; and chips before plates; and it’s worth knowing how to use them or
+form them.
+
+“It takes two or three years to build and finish a good house. A wigwam
+is knocked up in an hour; and as you have to be your own architect,
+carpenter, mason, and labourer, it’s just as well to be handy as not. A
+critter that can’t do that, hante the gumption of a bear who makes a
+den, a fox who makes a hole, or a bird that makes a nest, let alone a
+beaver, who is a dab at house building. No man can enjoy the woods that
+ain’t up to these things. If he ain’t, he had better stay to his hotel,
+where there is one servant to clean his shoes, another to brush his
+coat, a third to make his bed, a fourth to shave him, a fifth to cook
+for him, a sixth to wait on him, a seventh to wash for him, and half a
+dozen more for him to scold and bless all day. That’s a place where he
+can go to bed, and get no sleep—go to dinner, and have no appetite—go
+to the window, and get no fresh air, but snuff up the perfume of
+drains, bar-rooms, and cooking ranges—suffer from heat, because he
+can’t wear his coat, or from politeness, because he can’t take it
+off—or go to the beach, where the sea breeze won’t come, it’s so far up
+the country, where the white sand will dazzle, and where there is no
+shade, because trees won’t grow—or stand and throw stones into the
+water, and then jump in arter ’em in despair, and forget the way out.
+He’d better do anything than go to the woods.
+
+“But if he can help himself like a man, oh, it’s a glorious place. The
+ways of the forest are easy to learn, its nature is simple, and the
+cooking plain, while the fare is abundant. Fish for the catching, deer
+for the shooting, cool springs for the drinking, wood for the cutting,
+appetite for eating, and sleep that waits no wooing. It comes with the
+first star, and tarries till it fades into morning. For the time you
+are monarch of all you survey. No claimant forbids you; no bailiff
+haunts you; no thieves molest you; no fops annoy you. If the tempest
+rages without, you are secure in your lowly tent. Though it humbles in
+its fury the lofty pine, and uproots the stubborn oak, it passes
+harmlessly over you, and you feel for once you are a free and
+independent man. You realize a term which is a fiction in our
+constitution. Nor pride nor envy, hatred nor malice, rivalry nor strife
+is there. You are at peace with all the world, and the world is at
+peace with you. You own not its authority. You can worship God after
+your own fashion, and dread not the name of bigot, idolater, heretic,
+or schismatic. The forest is his temple—he is ever present, and the
+still small voice of your short and simple prayer seems more audible
+amid the silence that reigns around you. You feel that you are in the
+presence of your Creator, before whom you humble yourself, and not of
+man, before whom you clothe yourself with pride. Your very solitude
+seems to impress you with the belief that, though hidden from the
+world, you are more distinctly visible, and more individually an object
+of Divine protection, than any worthless atom like yourself ever could
+be in the midst of a multitude—a mere unit of millions. Yes, you are
+free to come, to go, to stay; your home is co-extensive with the wild
+woods. Perhaps it is better for a solitary retreat than a permanent
+home; still it forms a part of what I call the country.
+
+“At Country Harbour we had a sample of the simple, plain, natural,
+unpretending way in which neighbours meet of an evening in the rural
+districts. But look at that house in the town, where we saw the family
+assembled at breakfast this morning, and see what is going on there
+to-night. It is the last party of the season. The family leave the city
+in a week for the country. What a delightful change from the heated air
+of a town-house, to the quiet retreat of an hotel at a watering-place,
+where there are _only_ six hundred people collected. It is positively
+the very last party, and would have been given weeks ago, but everybody
+was engaged for so long a time a-head, there was no getting the
+fashionable folks to come. It is a charming ball. The old ladies are
+_fully_ dressed, only they are so squeezed against the walls, their
+diamonds and pearls are hid. And the young ladies are so _lightly_
+dressed, they look lovely. And the old gentlemen seem so happy as they
+walk round the room, and smile on all the acquaintances of their early
+days; and tell every one they look so well, and their daughters are so
+handsome. It ain’t possible they are bored, and they try not even to
+look so. And the room is so well lighted, and so well filled, perhaps a
+little too much so to leave space for the dancers; but yet not more so
+than is fashionable. And then the young gentlemen talk so enchantingly
+about Paris, and London, and Rome, and so disparagingly of home, it is
+quite refreshing to hear them. And they have been in such high society
+abroad, they ought to be well bred, for they know John _Manners,_ and
+all the _Manners_ family, and well informed in politics; for they know
+John Russell, who never says I’ll be hanged if I do this or that, but I
+will be beheaded if I do; in allusion to one of his great ancestors who
+was as _innocent_ of trying to subvert the _constitution_ as he is. And
+they have often seen ‘Albert, Albert, Prince of Wales, and all the
+royal family,’ as they say in England for shortness. They have
+travelled with their eyes open, ears open, mouths open, and pockets
+open. They have heard, seen, tasted, and bought everything worth
+having. They are capital judges of wine, and that reminds them there is
+lots of the best in the next room; but they soon discover they can’t
+have it in perfection in America. It has been nourished for the voyage,
+it has been fed with brandy. It is heady, for when they return to their
+fair friends, their hands are not quite steady, they are apt to spill
+things over the ladies dresses (but _they_ are so good-natured, they
+only laugh; for they never wear a dress but wunst). And their eyes
+sparkle like jewels, and they look at their partners as if they would
+eat ’em up. And I guess they tell them so, for they start sometimes,
+and say:
+
+“‘Oh, well now, that’s too bad! Why how you talk! Well, travellin’
+hasn’t improved you?’
+
+“But it must be a charming thing to be eat up, for they look delighted
+at the very idea of it; and their mammas seem pleased that they are so
+much to the _taste_ of these travelled gentlemen.
+
+“Well then, dancing is voted a bore by the handsomest couple in the
+room, and they sit apart, and the uninitiated think they are making
+love. And they talk so confidentially, and look so amused; they seem
+delighted with each other. But they are only criticising.
+
+“‘Who is pink skirt?’
+
+“‘Blue-nose Mary.’
+
+“‘What in the world do they call her Blue-nose for?’
+
+“‘It is a nickname for the Nova Scotians. Her father is one; he made
+his fortune by a diving-_bell_.’
+
+“‘Did he? Well, it’s quite right then it should go with a _belle_.’
+
+“‘How very good! May I repeat that? You do say such clever things! And
+who is that pale girl that reminds you of brown holland, bleached
+white? She looks quite scriptural; she has a proud look and a high
+stomach.’
+
+“‘That’s Rachael Scott, one of my very best friends. She is as good a
+girl as ever lived. My! I wish I was as rich as she is. I have only
+three hundred thousand dollars, but she will have four at her father’s
+death if he don’t bust and fail. But, dear me! how severe you are! I am
+quite afraid of you. I wonder what you will say of me when my back is
+turned!’
+
+“‘Shall I tell you?’
+
+“‘Yes, if it isn’t too savage.’
+
+“The hint about the money is not lost, for he is looking for a fortune,
+it saves the trouble of making one; and he whispers something in her
+ear that pleases her uncommonly, for she sais,
+
+“‘Ah now, the severest thing you can do is to flatter me that way.’
+
+“They don’t discourse of the company anymore; they have too much to say
+to each other of themselves now.
+
+“‘My! what a smash! what in the world is that?’
+
+“‘Nothing but a large mirror. It is lucky it is broken, for if the host
+saw himself in it, he might see the face of a fool.’
+
+“‘How uproariously those young men talk, and how loud the music is, and
+how confounded hot the room is! I must go home. But I must wait a
+moment till that noisy, tipsy boy is dragged down-stairs, and shoved
+into a hack.’
+
+“And this is upstart life, is it? Yes, but there are changing scenes in
+life. Look at these rooms next morning. The chandelier is broken; the
+centre table upset, the curtains are ruined, the carpets are covered
+with ice-creams, jellies, blancmanges, and broken glass. And the
+elegant album, souvenirs, and autograph books, are all in the midst of
+this nasty mess.1 The couches are greasy, the _silk_ ottoman shows it
+has been _sat in_ since it met with an accident which was only a
+_trifle,_ and there has been the devil to pay everywhere. A doctor is
+seen going into the house, and soon after a coffin is seen coming out.
+An unbidden guest, a disgusting levelling democrat came to that ball,
+how or when no one knew; but there he is and there he will remain for
+the rest of the summer. He has victimized one poor girl already, and is
+now strangling another. The yellow fever is there. Nature has sent her
+avenging angel. There is no safety but in flight.
+
+1 Whoever thinks this description over-drawn, is referred to a
+remarkably clever work which lately appeared in New York, entitled “The
+Potiphar Papers.” Mr Slick has evidently spared this class of society.
+
+
+“Good gracious! if people will ape their superiors, why won’t they
+imitate their elegance as well as their extravagance, and learn that it
+is the refinement alone, of the higher orders which in all countries
+distinguishes them from the rest of mankind? _The decencies of life,
+when polished, become its brightest ornaments._ Gold is a means, and
+not an end. It can do a great deal, still it can’t do everything; and
+among others I guess it can’t make a gentleman, or else California
+would be chock full of ’em. No, give me the country, and the folks that
+live in it, I say.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+THE HONEYMOON.
+
+
+After having given vent to the foregoing lockrum, I took Jehosophat
+Bean’s illustrated “Biography of the Eleven Hundred and Seven
+Illustrious American Heroes,” and turned in to read a spell; but arter
+a while I lost sight of the heroes and their exploits, and I got into a
+wide spekilation on all sorts of subjects, and among the rest my mind
+wandered off to Jordan river, the Collingwood girls in particular, and
+Jessie and the doctor, and the Beaver-dam, and its inmates in general.
+I shall set down my musings as if I was thinking aloud.
+
+I wonder, sais I to myself, whether Sophy and I shall be happy
+together, sposin’ always, that she is willing to put her head into the
+yoke, for that’s by no means sartain yet. I’ll know better when I can
+study her more at leisure. Still matrimony is always a risk, where you
+don’t know what sort of breaking a critter has had when young. Women in
+a general way don’t look like the same critters when they are spliced,
+that they do before; matrimony, like sugar and water, has a nateral
+affinity for and tendency to acidity. The clear, beautiful, bright
+sunshine of the wedding morning is too apt to cloud over at twelve
+o’clock, and the afternoon to be cold, raw, and uncomfortable, or else
+the heat generates storms that fairly make the house shake, and the
+happy pair tremble again. Everybody knows the real, solid grounds which
+can alone make married life perfect. I should only prose if I was to
+state them, but I have an idea as cheerfulness is a great ingredient, a
+good climate has a vast deal to do with it, for who can be chirp in a
+bad one? Wedlock was first instituted in Paradise. Well, there must
+have been a charming climate there. It could not have been too hot, for
+Eve never used a parasol, or even a “kiss-me-quick,” and Adam never
+complained, though he wore no clothes, that the sun blistered his skin.
+It couldn’t have been wet, or they would have coughed all the time,
+like consumptive sheep, and it would have spoiled their garden, let
+alone giving them the chilblains and the snuffles. They didn’t require
+umbrellas, uglies, fans, or India-rubber shoes. There was no such a
+thing as a stroke of the sun or a snow-drift there. The temperature
+must have been perfect, and connubial bliss, I allot, was rael jam up.
+The only thing that seemed wanting there, was for some one to drop in
+to tea now and then for Eve to have a good chat with, while Adam was a
+studyin’ astronomy, or tryin’ to invent a kettle that would stand fire;
+for women do like talking, that’s a fact, and there are many little
+things they have to say to each other that no man has any right to
+hear, and if he did, he couldn’t understand.
+
+It’s like a dodge Sally and I had to blind mother. Sally was for
+everlastingly leaving the keys about, and every time there was an
+inquiry about them, or a hunt for them, the old lady would read her a
+proper lecture. So at last she altered the name, and said, “Sam, wo is
+shlizel?” instead of Where is the key, and she tried all she could to
+find it out, but she couldn’t for the life of her.
+
+Yes, what can be expected of such a climate as Nova Scotia or England?
+Though the first can ripen Indian corn and the other can’t, and that is
+a great test, I can tell you. It is hard to tell which of them is wuss,
+for both are bad enough, gracious knows, and yet the fools that live in
+them brag that their own beats all natur. If it is the former, well
+then thunder don’t clear the weather as it does to the South, and the
+sun don’t come out bright again at wunst and all natur look clear and
+tranquil and refreshed; and the flowers and roses don’t hang their
+heads down coily for the breeze to brush the drops from their
+newly-painted leaves, and then hold up and look more lovely than ever;
+nor does the voice of song and merriment arise from every tree; nor
+fragrance and perfume fill the air, till you are tempted to say, Now
+did you ever see anything so charming as this? nor do you stroll out
+arm-in-arm (that is, sposin’ you ain’t in a nasty dirty horrid town),
+and feel pleased with the dear married gall and yourself, and all you
+see and hear, while you drink in pleasure with every sense—oh, it don’t
+do that. Thunder unsettles everything for most a week, there seems no
+end to the gloom during these three or four days. You shiver if you
+don’t make a fire, and if you do you are fairly roasted alive. It’s all
+grumblin’ and growlin’ within, and all mud, slush, and slop outside.
+You are bored to death everywhere. And if it’s English climate it is
+wuss still, because in Nova Scotia there is an end to all this at last,
+for the west wind blows towards the end of the week soft and cool and
+bracing, and sweeps away the clouds, and lays the dust and dries all
+up, and makes everything smile again. But if it is English it’s
+unsettled and uncertain all the time. You can’t depend on it for an
+hour. Now it rains, then it clears, after that the sun shines; but it
+rains too, both together, like hystericks, laughing and crying at the
+same time. The trees are loaded with water, and hold it like a sponge;
+touch a bough of one with your hat, and you are drowned in a
+shower-bath. There is no hope, for there is no end visible, and when
+there does seem a little glimpse of light, so as to make you think it
+is a going to relent, it wraps itself up in a foggy, drizzly mist, and
+sulks like anything.
+
+In this country they have a warm summer, a magnificent autumn, a clear,
+cold, healthy winter, but no sort of spring at all. In England they
+have no summer and no winter.1 Now, in my opinion, that makes the
+difference in temper between the two races. The clear sky and bracing
+air here, when they do come, give the folks good spirits; but the
+extremes of heat and cold limit the time, and decrease the inclination
+for exercise. Still the people are good-natured, merry fellows. In
+England, the perpetual gloom of the sky affects the disposition of the
+men. America knows no such temper as exists in Britain. People here
+can’t even form an idea of it. Folks often cut off their children there
+in their wills for half nothing, won’t be reconciled to them on any
+terms, if they once displease them, and both they and their sons die
+game, and when death sends cards of invitation for the last assemblage
+of a family, they write declensions. There can’t be much real love
+where there is no tenderness. A gloomy sky, stately houses, and a cold,
+formal people, make Cupid, like a bird of passage, spread his wings,
+and take flight to a more congenial climate.
+
+1 I wonder what Mr Slick would say now, in 1855?
+
+
+Castles have show-apartments, and the vulgar gaze with stupid wonder,
+and envy the owners. But there are rooms in them all, not exhibited. In
+them the imprisoned bird may occasionally be seen, as in the olden
+time, to flutter against the casement and pine in the gloom of its
+noble cage. There are chambers too in which grief, anger, jealousy,
+wounded pride, and disappointed ambition, pour out their sighs, their
+groans, and imprecations, unseen and unheard. The halls resound with
+mirth and revelry, and the eye grows dim with its glittering splendour;
+but amid all this ostentatious brilliancy, poor human nature refuses to
+be comforted with diamonds and pearls, or to acknowledge that happiness
+consists in gilded galleries, gay equipages, or fashionable parties.
+They are cold and artificial. The heart longs to discard this joyless
+pageantry, to surround itself with human affections, and only asks to
+love and be loved.
+
+Still England is not wholly composed of castles and cottages, and there
+are very many happy homes in it, and thousands upon thousands of happy
+people in them, in spite of the melancholy climate, the destitution of
+the poor, and the luxury of the rich. God is good. He is not only
+merciful, but a just judge. He equalizes the condition of all. The
+industrious poor man is content, for he relies on Providence and his
+own exertions for his daily bread. He earns his food, and his labour
+gives him a zest for it. Ambition craves, and is never satisfied, one
+is poor amid his prodigal wealth, the other rich in his frugal poverty.
+_No man is rich whose expenditure exceeds his means; and no one is poor
+whose incomings exceeds his outgoings._ Barring such things as climate,
+over which we have no control, happiness, in my idea, consists in the
+mind, and not in the purse. These are plain common truths, and
+everybody will tell you there is nothing new in them, just as if there
+was anything new under the sun but my wooden clocks, and yet they only
+say so because they can’t deny them, for who acts as if he ever heard
+of them before. Now, if they do know them, why the plague don’t they
+regulate their timepieces by them? If they did, matrimony wouldn’t make
+such an everlastin’ transmogrification of folks as it does, would it?
+
+The way cupidists scratch their head and open their eyes and stare
+after they are married, reminds me of Felix Culpepper. He was a judge
+at Saint Lewis, on the Mississippi, and the lawyers used to talk
+gibberish to him, yougerry, eyegerry, iggery, ogerry, and tell him it
+was Littleton’s Norman French and Law Latin. It fairly onfakilised him.
+Wedlock works just such changes on folks sometimes. It makes me laugh,
+and then it fairly scares me.
+
+Sophy, dear, how will you and I get on, eh? The Lord only knows, but
+you are an uncommon sensible gall, and people tell me till I begin to
+believe it myself, that I have some common sense, so we must try to
+learn the chart of life, so as to avoid those sunk rocks so many people
+make shipwreck on. I have often asked myself the reason of all this
+onsartainty. Let us jist see how folks talk and think, and decide on
+this subject. First and foremost they have got a great many cant terms,
+and you can judge a good deal from them. There is the honeymoon, now,
+was there ever such a silly word as that? Minister said the Dutch at
+New Amsterdam, as they used to call New York, brought out the word to
+America, for all the friends of the new married couple, in Holland, did
+nothing for a whole month but smoke, drink metheglin (a tipple made of
+honey and gin), and they called that bender the honeymoon; since then
+the word has remained, though metheglin is forgot for something better.
+
+Well, when a couple is married now, they give up a whole month to each
+other, what an everlastin’ sacrifice, ain’t it, out of a man’s short
+life? The reason is, they say, the metheglin gets sour after that, and
+ain’t palatable no more, and what is left of it is used for picklin’
+cucumbers, peppers, and nastertions, and what not. Now, as Brother
+Eldad, the doctor, says, let us dissect this phrase, and find out what
+one whole moon means, and then we shall understand what this wonderful
+thing is. The new moon now, as a body might say, ain’t nothing. It’s
+just two small lines of a semicircle, like half a wheel, with a little
+strip of white in it, about as big as a cart tire, and it sets a little
+after sundown; and as it gives no light, you must either use a candle
+or go to bed in the dark: now that’s the first week, and it’s no great
+shakes to brag on, is it? Well, then there is the first quarter, and
+calling that the first which ought to be second, unless the moon has
+only three quarters, which sounds odd, shows that the new moon counts
+for nothin’. Well, the first quarter is something like the thing,
+though not the real genuine article either. It’s better than the other,
+but its light don’t quite satisfy us neither. Well, then comes the full
+moon, and that is all there is, as one may say. Now, neither the moon
+nor nothin’ else can be more than full, and when you have got all,
+there is nothing more to expect. But a man must be a blockhead, indeed,
+to expect the moon to remain one minute after it is full, as every
+night clips a little bit off, till there is a considerable junk gone by
+the time the week is out, and what is worse, every night there is more
+and more darkness afore it rises. It comes reluctant, and when it does
+arrive it hante long to stay, for the last quarter takes its turn at
+the lantern. That only rises a little afore the sun, as if it was
+ashamed to be caught napping at that hour—that quarter therefore is
+nearly as dark as ink. So you see the new and last quarter go for
+nothing; that everybody will admit. The first ain’t much better, but
+the last half of that quarter and the first of the full, make a very
+decent respectable week.
+
+Well, then, what’s all this when it’s fried? Why, it amounts to this,
+that if there is any resemblance between a lunar and a lunatic month,
+that the honeymoon lasts only one good week.
+
+Don’t be skeared, Sophy, when you read this, because we must look
+things in the face and call them by their right name.
+
+Well, then, let us call it the honey-week. Now if it takes a whole
+month to make one honey-week, it must cut to waste terribly, mustn’t
+it? But then you know a man can’t wive and thrive the same year. Now
+wastin’ so much of that precious month is terrible, ain’t it? But oh
+me, bad as it is, it ain’t the worst of it. There is no insurance
+office for happiness, there is no policy to be had to cover losses—you
+must bear them all yourself. Now suppose, just suppose for one moment,
+and positively such things have happened before now, they have indeed;
+I have known them occur more than once or twice myself among my own
+friends, fact, I assure you. Suppose now that week is cold, cloudy, or
+uncomfortable, where is the honeymoon then? Recollect there is only one
+of them, there ain’t two. You can’t say it rained cats and dogs this
+week, let us try the next; you can’t do that, it’s over and gone for
+ever. Well, if you begin life with disappointment, it is apt to end in
+despair.
+
+Now, Sophy, dear, as I said before, don’t get skittish at seeing this,
+and start and race off and vow you won’t ever let the halter be put on
+you, for I kinder sorter guess that, with your sweet temper, good
+sense, and lovin’ heart, and with the light-hand I have for a rein, our
+honeymoon will last through life. We will give up that silly word, that
+foolish boys and girls use without knowing its meanin’, and we will
+count by years and not by months, and we won’t expect, what neither
+marriage nor any other earthly thing can give, perfect happiness. It
+tante in the nature of things, and don’t stand to reason, that earth is
+Heaven, Slickville paradise, or you and me angels; we ain’t no such a
+thing. If you was, most likely the first eastwardly wind (and though it
+is a painful thing to confess it, I must candidly admit there is an
+eastwardly wind sometimes to my place to home), why you would just up
+wings and off to the sky like wink, and say you didn’t like the land of
+the puritans, it was just like themselves, cold, hard, uncongenial, and
+repulsive; and what should I do? Why most likely remain behind, for
+there is no marrying or giving in marriage up there.
+
+No, no, dear, if you are an angel, and positively you are amazingly
+like one, why the first time I catch you asleep I will clip your wings
+and keep you here with me, until we are both ready to start together.
+We won’t hope for too much, nor fret for trifles, will we? These two
+things are the greatest maxims in life I know of. When I was a boy I
+used to call them commandments, but I got such a lecture for that, and
+felt so sorry for it afterwards, I never did again, nor will as long as
+I live. Oh, dear, I shall never forget the lesson poor dear old
+Minister taught me on that occasion.
+
+There was a thanksgiving ball wunst to Slickville, and I wanted to go,
+but I had no clothes suitable for such an occasion as that, and father
+said it would cost more than it was worth to rig me out for it, so I
+had to stop at home. Sais Mr Hopewell to me,
+
+“Sam,” said he, “don’t fret about it, you will find it ‘all the same a
+year hence.’ As that holds good in most things, don’t it show us the
+folly now of those trifles we set our hearts on, when in one short year
+they will be disregarded or forgotten?”
+
+“Never fear,” said I, “I am not a going to break the twelfth
+commandment.”
+
+“Twelfth commandment,” said he, repeatin’ the words slowly, laying down
+his book, taking off his spectacles, and lookin’ hard at me, almost
+onfakilised. “Twelfth commandment, did I hear right, Sam,” said he,
+“did you say that?”
+
+Well, I saw there was a squall rising to windward, but boy like,
+instead of shortening sail, and taking down royals and topgallant
+masts, and making all snug, I just braved it out, and prepared to meet
+the blast with every inch of canvas set. “Yes, Sir,” said I, “the
+twelfth.”
+
+“Dear me,” said he, “poor boy, that is my fault. I really thought you
+knew there were only ten, and had them by heart years ago. They were
+among the first things I taught you. How on earth could you have
+forgotten them so soon? Repeat them to me.”
+
+Well, I went through them all, down to “anything that is his,” to
+ampersand without making a single stop.
+
+“Sam,” said he, “don’t do it again, that’s a good soul, for it
+frightens me. I thought I must have neglected you.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “there are two more, Sir.”
+
+“Two more,” he said, “why what under the sun do you mean? what are
+they?”
+
+“Why,” sais I, “the eleventh is, ‘Expect nothin’, and you shall not be
+disappointed,’ and the twelfth is, ‘Fret not thy gizzard.’”
+
+“And pray, Sir,” said he, lookin’ thunder-squalls at me, “where did you
+learn them?”
+
+“From Major Zeb Vidito,” said I.
+
+“Major Zeb Vidito,” he replied, “is the greatest reprobate in the army.
+He is the wretch who boasts that he fears neither God, man, nor devil.
+Go, my son, gather up your books, and go home. You can return to your
+father. My poor house has no room in it for Major Zeb Vidito, or his
+pupil, Sam Slick, or any such profane wicked people, and may the Lord
+have mercy on you.”
+
+Well, to make a long story short, it brought me to my bearings that. I
+had to heave to, lower a boat, send a white flag to him, beg pardon,
+and so on, and we knocked up a treaty of peace, and made friends again.
+
+“I won’t say no more about it, Sam,” said he, “but mind my words, and
+apply your experience to it afterwards in life, and see if I ain’t
+right. _Crime has but two travelling companions. It commences its
+journey with the scoffer, and ends it with the blasphemer:_ not that
+talking irreverently ain’t very improper in itself, but it destroys the
+sense of right and wrong, and prepares the way for sin.”
+
+Now, I won’t call these commandments, for the old man was right, it’s
+no way to talk, I’ll call them maxims. Now, we won’t expect too much,
+nor fret over trifles, will we, Sophy? It takes a great deal to make
+happiness, for everything must be in tune like a piano; but it takes
+very little to spoil it. Fancy a bride now having a tooth-ache, or a
+swelled face during the honeymoon—in courtship she won’t show, but in
+marriage she can’t help it,—or a felon on her finger (it is to be hoped
+she hain’t given her hand to one); or fancy now; just fancy, a
+hooping-cough caught in the cold church, that causes her to make a
+noise like drowning, a great gurgling in-draught, and a great
+out-blowing, like a young sporting porpoise, and instead of being all
+alone with her own dear husband, to have to admit the horrid doctor,
+and take draughts that make her breath as hot as steam, and submit to
+have nauseous garlic and brandy rubbed on her breast, spine, palms of
+her hands, and soles of her feet, that makes the bridegroom, every time
+he comes near her to ask her how she is, sneeze, as if he was catching
+it himself. He don’t say to himself in an under-tone damn it, how
+unlucky this is. Of course not; he is too happy to swear, if he ain’t
+too good, as he ought to be; and she don’t say, eigh—augh, like a
+donkey, for they have the hooping-cough all the year round; “dear love,
+eigh—augh, how wretched this is, ain’t it? eigh—augh,” of course not;
+how can she be wretched? Ain’t it her honeymoon? and ain’t she as happy
+as a bride can be, though she does eigh—augh her slippers up amost. But
+it won’t last long, she feels sure it won’t, she is better now, the
+doctor says it will be soon over; yes, but the honeymoon will be over
+too, and it don’t come like Christmas, once a-year. When it expires,
+like a dying swan, it sings its own funeral hymn.
+
+Well, then fancy, just fancy, when she gets well, and looks as chipper
+as a canary-bird, though not quite so yaller from the effects of the
+cold, that the bridegroom has his turn, and is taken down with the
+acute rheumatism, and can’t move, tack nor sheet, and has camphor,
+turpentine, and hot embrocations of all sorts and kinds applied to him,
+till his room has the identical perfume of a druggist’s shop, while he
+screams if he ain’t moved, and yells if he is, and his temper peeps
+out. It don’t break out of course, for he is a happy man; but it just
+peeps out as a masculine he-angel’s would if he was tortured.
+
+The fact is, lookin’ at life, with its false notions, false hopes, and
+false promises, my wonder is, not that married folks don’t get on
+better, but that they get on as well as they do. If they regard
+matrimony as a lottery, is it any wonder more blanks than prizes turn
+up on the wheel? Now, my idea of mating a man is, that it is the same
+as matching a horse; the mate ought to have the same spirit, the same
+action, the same temper, and the same training. Each should do his
+part, or else one soon becomes strained, sprained, and spavined, or
+broken-winded, and that one is about the best in a general way that
+suffers the most.
+
+Don’t be shocked at the comparison; but to my mind a splendiferous
+woman and a first chop horse is the noblest works of creation. They
+take the rag off the bush quite; a woman “that will come” and a horse
+that “will go” ought to make any man happy. Give me a gall that all I
+have to say to is, “_Quick, pick up chips and call your father to
+dinner_,” and a horse that enables you to say, “_I am thar_.” That’s
+all I ask. Now just look at the different sorts of love-making in this
+world. First, there is boy and gall love; they are practising the
+gamut, and a great bore it is to hear and see them; but poor little
+things, their whole heart and soul is in it, as they were the year
+before on a doll or a top. They don’t know a heart from a gizzard, and
+if you ask them what a soul is, they will say it is the dear sweet soul
+they love. It begins when they enter the dancing-school, and ends when
+they go out into the world; but after all, I believe it is the only
+real romance in life.
+
+Then there is young maturity love, and what is that half the time based
+on? vanity, vanity, and the deuce a thing else. The young lady is
+handsome, no, that’s not the word, she is beautiful, and is a belle,
+and all the young fellows are in her train. To win the prize is an
+object of ambition. The gentleman rides well, hunts and shoots well,
+and does everything well, and moreover he is a fancy man, and all the
+girls admire him. It is a great thing to conquer the hero, ain’t it?
+and distance all her companions; and it is a proud thing for him to win
+the prize from higher, richer, and more distinguished men than himself.
+It is the triumph of the two sexes. They are allowed to be the
+handsomest couple ever married in that church. What an elegant man,
+what a lovely woman, what a splendid bride! they seem made for each
+other! how happy they both are, eyes can’t show—words can’t express it;
+they are the admiration of all.
+
+If it is in England, they have two courses of pleasure before them—to
+retire to a country-house or to travel. The latter is a great bore, it
+exposes people, it is very annoying to be stared at. Solitude is the
+thing. They are all the world to each other, what do they desire beyond
+it—what more can they ask? They are quite happy. How long does it last?
+for they have no resources beyond excitement. Why, it lasts till the
+first juicy day comes, and that comes soon in England, and the
+bridegroom don’t get up and look out of the window, on the cloudy sky,
+the falling rain, and the inundated meadows, and think to himself,
+“Well, this is too much bush, ain’t it? I wonder what de Courcy and de
+Lacy and de Devilcourt are about to-day?” and then turn round with a
+yawn that nearly dislocates his jaw. Not a bit of it. He is the most
+happy man in England, and his wife is an angel, and he don’t throw
+himself down on a sofa and wish they were back in town. It ain’t
+natural he should; and she don’t say, “Charles, you look dull, dear,”
+nor he reply, “Well, to tell you the truth, it is devilish dull here,
+that’s a fact,” nor she say, “Why, you are very complimentary,” nor he
+rejoin, “No, I don’t mean it as a compliment, but to state it as a
+fact, what that Yankee, what is his name? Sam Slick, or Jim Crow, or
+Uncle Tom, or somebody or another calls an established fact!” Her eyes
+don’t fill with tears at that, nor does she retire to her room and pout
+and have a good cry; why should she? she is so happy, and when the
+honied honeymoon is over, they will return to town, and all will be
+sunshine once more.
+
+But there is one little thing both of them forget, which they find out
+when they do return. They have rather just a little overlooked or
+undervalued means, and they can’t keep such an establishment as they
+desire, or equal to their former friends. They are both no longer
+single. He is not asked so often where he used to be, nor courted and
+flattered as he lately was; and she is a married woman now, and the
+beaus no longer cluster around her. Each one thinks the other the cause
+of this dreadful change. It was the imprudent and unfortunate match did
+it. Affection was sacrificed to pride, and that deity can’t and won’t
+help them, but takes pleasure in tormenting them. First comes coldness,
+and then estrangement; after that words ensue, that don’t sound like
+the voice of true love, and they fish on their own hook, seek their own
+remedy, take their own road, and one or the other, perhaps both, find
+that road leads to the devil.
+
+Then, there is the “ring-fence match,” which happens everywhere. Two
+estates, or plantations, or farms adjoin, and there is an only son in
+one, and an only daughter in the other; and the world, and fathers, and
+mothers, think what a suitable match it would be, and what a grand
+thing a ring-fence is, and they cook it up in the most fashionable
+style, and the parties most concerned take no interest in it, and,
+having nothing particular to object to, marry. Well, strange to say,
+half the time it don’t turn out bad, for as they don’t expect much,
+they can’t be much disappointed. They get after a while to love each
+other from habit; and finding qualities they didn’t look for, end by
+getting amazin’ fond of each other.
+
+Next is a cash match. Well, that’s a cheat. It begins in dissimulation,
+and ends in detection and punishment. I don’t pity the parties; it
+serves them right. They meet without pleasure, and part without pain.
+The first time I went to Nova Scotia to vend clocks, I fell in with a
+German officer, who married a woman with a large fortune; she had as
+much as three hundred pounds. He could never speak of it without
+getting up, walking round the room, rubbing his hands, and smacking his
+lips. The greatest man he ever saw, his own prince, had only five
+hundred a-year, and his daughters had to select and buy the chickens,
+wipe the glasses, starch their own muslins, and see the fine soap made.
+One half of them were Protestants, and the other half Catholics, so as
+to bait the hooks for royal fish of either creed. They were poor and
+proud, but he hadn’t a morsel of pride in him, for he had condescended
+to marry the daughter of a staff surgeon; and she warn’t poor, for she
+had three hundred pounds. He couldn’t think of nothin’ but his fortune.
+He spent the most of his time in building castles, not in Germany, but
+in the air, for they cost nothing. He used to delight to go marooning1
+for a day or two in Maitland settlement, where old soldiers are
+located, and measured every man he met by the gauge of his purse. “Dat
+poor teevil,” he would say, “is wort twenty pounds, well, I am good for
+tree hundred, in gold and silver, and provinch notes, and de mortgage
+on Burkit Crowse’s farm for twenty-five pounds ten shillings and eleven
+pence halfpenny—fifteen times as much as he is, pesides ten pounds
+interest.” If he rode a horse, he calculated now many he could
+purchase; and he found they would make an everlastin’ cahoot.2 If he
+sailed in a boat, he counted the flotilla he could buy; and at last he
+used to think, “Vell now, if my vrow would go to de depot (graveyard)
+vat is near to de church, Goten Himmel, mid my fortune I could marry
+any pody I liked, who had shtock of cattle, shtock of clothes, and
+shtock in de Bank, pesides farms and foresht lands, and dyke lands, and
+meadow lands, and vind-mill and vater-mill; but dere is no chanse she
+shall die, for I was dirty (thirty) when I married her, and she was
+dirty-too (thirty-two). Tree hundred pounds! Vell, it’s a great shum;
+but vat shall I do mid it? If I leave him mid a lawyer, he say, Mr Von
+Sheik, you gub it to me. If I put him into de pank, den de ting shall
+break, and my forten go smash, squash—vot dey call von shilling in de
+pound. If I lock him up, den soldier steal and desert away, and conetry
+people shall hide him, and I will not find him no more. I shall
+mortgage it on a farm. I feel vary goot, vary pig, and vary rich. If I
+would not lose my bay and commission, I would kick de colonel, kiss his
+vife, and put my cane thro’ his vinder. I don’t care von damn for
+nopoty no more.”
+
+1 Marooning differs from pic-nicing in this—the former continues
+several days, the other lasts but one.
+
+
+2 Cahoot is one of the new coinage, and in Mexico, means a band or
+cavalcade.
+
+
+Well, his wife soon after that took a day and died; and he followed her
+to the grave. It was the first time he ever gave her precedence, for he
+was a disciplinarian; he knew the difference of “rank and file,” and
+liked to give the word of command, “Rear rank, take open order—march!”
+Well, I condoled with him about his loss. Sais he: “Mr Shlick, I did’nt
+lose much by her: the soldier carry her per order, de pand play for
+noting, and de crape on de arm came from her ponnet.”
+
+“But the loss of your wife?” said I.
+
+Well, that excited him, and he began to talk Hessian. “_Jubes renovare
+dolorem_,” said he.
+
+“I don’t understand High Dutch,” sais I, “when it’s spoke so almighty
+fast.”
+
+“It’s a ted language,” said he.
+
+I was a goin’ to tell him I didn’t know the dead had any language, but
+I bit in my breath.
+
+“Mr Shlick,” said he, “de vife is gone” (and clapping his waistcoat
+pocket with his hand, and grinning like a chissy cat), he added, “but
+_de monish remain_.”
+
+Yes, such fellows as Von Sheik don’t call this ecclesiastical and civil
+contract, wedlock. They use a word that expresses their meaning
+better—matri-_money_. Well, even money ain’t all gold, for there are
+two hundred and forty nasty, dirty, mulatto-looking copper pennies in a
+sovereign; and they have the affectation to call the filthy
+incrustation, if they happen to be ancient coin, verd-antique. Well,
+fine words are like fine dresses; one often covers ideas that ain’t
+nice, and the other sometimes conceals garments that are a little the
+worse for wear. Ambition is just as poor a motive. It can only be
+gratified at the expense of a journey over a rough road, and he is a
+fool who travels it by a borrowed light, and generally finds he takes a
+_rise_ out of himself.
+
+Then there is a class like Von Sheik, “who feel so pig and so
+hugeaciously grandiferous,” they look on a wife’s fortune with
+contempt. The independent man scorns connection, station, and money. He
+has got all three, and more of each than is sufficient for a dozen men.
+He regards with utter indifference the opinion of the world, and its
+false notions of life. He can afford to please himself; he does not
+stoop if he marries beneath his own rank; for he is able to elevate any
+wife to his. He is a great admirer of beauty, which is confined to no
+circle and no region. The world is before him, and he will select a
+woman to gratify himself and not another. He has the right and ability
+to do so, and he fulfils his intention. Now an independent man is an
+immoveable one until he is proved, and a soldier is brave until the day
+of trial comes. He however is independent and brave enough to set the
+opinion of the world at defiance, and he marries. Until then society is
+passive, but when defied and disobeyed, it is active, bitter, and
+relentless.
+
+The conflict is only commenced—marrying is merely firing the first gun.
+The battle has yet to be fought. If he can do without the world, the
+world can do without him, but, if he enters it again bride in hand, he
+must fight his way inch by inch, and step by step. She is slighted and
+he is stung to the quick. She is ridiculed and he is mortified to
+death. He is able to meet open resistance, but he is for ever in dread
+of an ambuscade. He sees a sneer in every smile, he fears an insult in
+every whisper. The unmeaning jest must have a hidden point for him.
+Politeness seems cold, even good-nature looks like the insolence of
+condescension. If his wife is addressed, it is manifestly to draw her
+out. If her society is not sought, it is equally plain there is a
+conspiracy to place her in Coventry. To defend her properly, and to put
+her on her guard, it is necessary he should know her weak points
+himself.
+
+But, alas, in this painful investigation, his ears are wounded by false
+accents, his eyes by false motions and vulgar attitudes, he finds
+ignorance where ignorance is absurd, and knowledge where knowledge is
+shame, and what is worse, this distressing criticism has been forced
+upon him, and he has arrived at the conclusion that beauty without
+intelligence is the most valueless attribute of a woman. Alas, the
+world is an argus-eyed, many-headed, sleepless, heartless monster. The
+independent man, if he would retain his independence, must retire with
+his wife to his own home, and it would be a pity if in thinking of his
+defeat he was to ask himself, Was my pretty doll worth this terrible
+struggle after all? wouldn’t it? Well, I pity that man, for at most he
+has only done a foolish thing, and he has not passed through life
+without being a public benefactor. _He has held a reversed lamp. While
+he has walked in the dark himself, he has shed light on the path of
+others._
+
+Ah, Sophy, when you read this, and I know you will, you’ll say, What a
+dreadful picture you have drawn! it ain’t like you—you are too
+good-natured, I can’t believe you ever wrote so spiteful an article as
+this, and, woman like, make more complimentary remarks than I deserve.
+Well, it ain’t like me, that’s a fact, but it is like the world for all
+that. Well, then you will puzzle your little head whether after all
+there is any happiness in married life, won’t you?
+
+Well, I will answer that question. I believe there may be and are many,
+very many happy marriages; but then people must be as near as possible
+in the same station of life, their tempers compatible, their religious
+views the same, their notions of the world similar, and their union
+based on mutual affection, entire mutual confidence, and what is of the
+utmost consequence, the greatest possible mutual respect. Can you feel
+this towards me, Sophy, can you, dear? Then be quick—“pick up chips and
+call your father to dinner.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII.
+A DISH OF CLAMS.
+
+
+Eating is the chief occupation at sea. It’s the great topic as well as
+the great business of the day, especially in small sailing vessels like
+the “Black Hawk;” although anything is good enough for me when I can’t
+get nothin’ better, which is the true philosophy of life. If there is a
+good dish and a bad one set before me, I am something of a rat, I
+always choose the best.
+
+There are few animals, as there are few men, that we can’t learn
+something from. Now a rat, although I hate him like pyson, is a
+travelling gentleman, and accommodates himself to circumstances. He
+likes to visit people that are well off, and has a free and easy way
+about him, and don’t require an introduction. He does not wait to be
+pressed to eat, but helps himself, and does justice to his host and his
+viands. When hungry, he will walk into the larder and take a lunch or a
+supper without requiring any waiting on. He is abstemious, or rather
+temperate in his drinking. Molasses and syrup he prefers to strong
+liquors, and he is a connoisseur in all things pertaining to the
+dessert. He is fond of ripe fruit, and dry or liquid preserves, the
+latter of which he eats with cream, for which purpose he forms a
+passage to the dairy. He prides himself on his knowledge of cheese, and
+will tell you in the twinkling of an eye which is the best in point of
+flavour or richness. Still he is not proud—he visits the poor when
+there is no gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and can accommodate himself
+to coarse fare and poor cookery. To see him in one of these hovels, you
+would think he never knew anything better, for he has a capital
+appetite, and can content himself with mere bread and water. He is a
+wise traveller, too. He is up to the ways of the world, and is aware of
+the disposition there is everywhere to entrap strangers. He knows now
+to take care of himself. If he is ever deceived, it is by treachery. He
+is seized sometimes at the hospitable board, and assassinated, or
+perhaps cruelly poisoned. But what skill can ensure safety, where
+confidence is so shamefully abused? He is a capital sailor, even
+bilge-water don’t make him squeamish, and he is so good a judge of the
+sea-worthiness of a ship, that he leaves her at the first port if he
+finds she is leaky or weak. Few architects, on the other hand, have
+such a knowledge of the stability of a house as he has. He examines its
+foundations thoroughly, and if he perceives any, the slightest chance
+of its falling, he retreats in season, and leaves it to its fate. In
+short, he is a model traveller, and much may be learned from him.
+
+But, then, who is perfect? He has some serious faults, from which we
+may also take instructive lessons, so as to avoid them. He runs all
+over a house, sits up late at night, and makes a devil of a noise. He
+is a nasty, cross-grained critter, and treacherous even to those who
+feed him best. He is very dirty in his habits, and spoils as much food
+as he eats. If a door ain’t left open for him, he cuts right through
+it, and if by accident he is locked in, he won’t wait to be let out,
+but hacks a passage ship through the floor. Not content with being
+entertained himself, he brings a whole retinue with him, and actilly
+eats a feller out of house and home, and gets as sassy as a free
+nigger. He gets into the servant-gall’s bed-room sometimes at night,
+and nearly scares her to death under pretence he wants her candle; and
+sometimes jumps right on to the bed, and says she is handsome enough to
+eat, gives her a nip on the nose, sneezes on her with great contempt,
+and tells her she takes snuff. The fact is, he is hated everywhere he
+travels for his ugly behaviour as much as an Englishman, and that is a
+great deal more than sin is by half the world.
+
+Now, being fond of natur, I try to take lessons from all created
+critters. I copy the rat’s travelling knowledge and good points as near
+as possible, and strive to avoid the bad. I confine myself to the
+company apartments, and them that’s allotted to me! Havin’ no family, I
+take nobody with me a-visitin’, keep good hours, and give as little
+trouble as possible; and as for goin’ to the servant-gall’s room, under
+pretence of wanting a candle, I’d scorn such an action. Now, as there
+is lots of good things in this vessel, rat like, I intend to have a
+good dinner.
+
+“Sorrow, what have you got for us to-day?”
+
+“There is the moose-meat, Massa.”
+
+“Let that hang over the stern, we shall get tired of it.”
+
+“Den, Massa, dar is de Jesuit-priest; by golly, Massa, dat is a funny
+name. Yah, yah, yah! dis here niggar was took in dat time. Dat ar a
+fac.”
+
+“Well, the turkey had better hang over too.”
+
+“Sposin’ I git you fish dinner to-day, Massa?”
+
+“What have you got?”
+
+“Some tobacco-pipes, Massa, and some miller’s thumbs.” The rascal
+expected to take a rise out of me, but I was too wide awake for him.
+Cutler and the doctor, strange to say, fell into the trap, and required
+an explanation, which delighted Sorrow amazingly. Cutler, though an old
+fisherman on the coast, didn’t know these fish at all. And the doctor
+had some difficulty in recognising them, under names he had never heard
+of before.
+
+“Let us have them.”
+
+“Well, there is a fresh salmon, Massa?”
+
+“Let us have steaks off of it. Do them as I told you, and take care the
+paper don’t catch fire, and don’t let the coals smoke ’em. Serve some
+lobster sauce with them, but use no butter, it spoils salmon. Let us
+have some hoss-radish with it.”
+
+“Hoss-radish! yah, yah, yah! Why, Massa, whar under the sun does you
+suppose now I could git hoss-radish, on board ob dis ‘Black Hawk?’ De
+sea broke into my garden de oder night, and kill ebery created ting in
+it. Lord a massy, Massa, you know dis is notin’ but a fishin’-craft,
+salt pork and taters one day, and salt beef and taters next day, den
+twice laid for third day, and den begin agin. Why, dere neber has been
+no cooking on board of dis here fore-and-after till you yourself comed
+on board. Dey don’t know nuffin’. Dey is as stupid and ignorant as
+coots.”
+
+Here his eye rested on the captain, when with the greatest coolness he
+gave me a wink, and went on without stopping.
+
+“Scept massa captain,” said he, “and he do know what is good, dat ar a
+fact, but he don’t like to be ticular, so he takes same fare as men,
+and dey isn’t jealous. ‘Sorrow,’ sais he, ‘make no stinction for me. I
+is used to better tings, but I’ll put up wid same fare as men.’”
+
+“Sorrow,” said the captain, “how can you tell such a barefaced
+falsehood. What an impudent liar you are, to talk so before my face. I
+never said anything of the kind to you.”
+
+“Why, Massa, now,” said Sorrow, “dis here child is wide awake, that are
+a fac, and no mistake, and it’s onpossible he is a dreamin’. What is it
+you did say den, when you ordered dinner?”
+
+“I gave my orders and said nothing more.”
+
+“Exactly, Massa, I knowed I was right; dat is de identical ting I said.
+You was used to better tings; you made no stinctions, and ordered all
+the same for boaf of you. Hoss-radish, Massa Slick,” said he, “I wish I
+had some, or could get some ashore for you, but hoss-radish ain’t
+French, and dese folks nebber hear tell ob him.”
+
+“Make some.”
+
+“Oh, Massa, now you is makin’ fun ob dis poor niggar.”
+
+“I am not. Take a turnip, scrape it the same as the radish, into fine
+shaving, mix it with fresh mustard, and a little pepper and vinegar,
+and you can’t tell it from t’other.”
+
+“By golly, Massa, but dat are a wrinkle. Oh, how missus would a lubbed
+you. It was loud all down sout dere was a great deal ob ’finement in
+her. Nobody was good nuff for her dere; dey had no taste for cookin’.
+She was mighty high ‘mong de ladies, in de instep, but not a mossel of
+pride to de niggars. Oh, you would a walked right into de cockles ob
+her heart. If you had tredded up to her, she would a married you, and
+gub you her tree plantations, and eight hundred niggar, and ebery ting,
+and order dinner for you herself. Oh, wouldn’t she been done, gone
+stracted, when you showed her how she had shot her grandmother?1
+wouldn’t she? I’ll be dad fetched if she wouldn’t.”
+
+1 Shooting one’s granny, or grandmother, means fancying you have
+discovered what was well known before.
+
+
+“Have you any other fish?” I said.
+
+“Oh yes, Massa; some grand fresh clams.”
+
+“Do you know how to cook them?”
+
+“Massa,” said he, putting his hands under his white apron, and,
+sailor-like, giving a hitch up to his trousers, preparatory to
+stretching himself straight; “Massa, dis here niggar is a rambitious
+niggar, and he kersaits he can take de shine out ob any niggar that
+ever played de juice harp in cookin’ clams. Missus structed me husself.
+Massa, I shall nebber forget dat time, de longest day I live. She sent
+for me, she did, and I went in, and she was lyin’ on de sofa, lookin’
+pale as de inside of parsimmon seed, for de wedder was brilin’ hot.
+
+“‘Sorrow,’ said she.
+
+“‘Yes, Missus,’ said I.
+
+“‘Put the pillar under my head. Dat is right,’ said she; ‘tank you,
+Sorrow.’
+
+“Oh, Massa, how different she was from abulitinists to Boston. She
+always said Tankee, for ebery ting. Now ablutinists say, ‘Hand me dat
+piller, you darned rascal, and den make yourself skase, you is as black
+as de debbil’s hind leg.’ And den she say—
+
+“‘Trow dat scarf over my ankles, to keep de bominable flies off.
+Tankee, Sorrow; you is far more handier dan Aunt Dolly is. Dat are
+niggar is so rumbustious, she jerks my close so, sometimes I tink in my
+soul she will pull ’em off.’ Den she shut her eye, and she gabe a cold
+shiver all ober.
+
+“‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘I am goin’ to take a long, bery long journey, to
+de far off counteree.’
+
+“‘Oh dear me! Missus,’ says I; ‘Oh Lord; Missus, you ain’t a goin’ to
+die, is you?’ and I fell down on my knees, and kissed her hand, and
+said, ‘Oh, Missus; don’t die, please Missus. What will become oh dis
+niggar if you do? If de Lord in his goodness take you away, let me go
+wid you, Missus;’ and I was so sorry I boohooed right out, and groaned
+and wipy eye like courtin’ amost.
+
+“‘Why, Uncle Sorrow,’ said she, ‘I isn’t a goin’ to die; what makes you
+tink dat? Stand up: I do railly believe you do lub your missus. Go to
+dat closet, and pour yourself out a glass of whiskey;’ and I goes to de
+closet—just dis way—and dere stood de bottle and a glass, as dis here
+one do, and I helpt myself dis fashen.
+
+“‘What made you tink I was a goin’ for to die?’ said she, ‘do I look so
+ill?’
+
+“‘No, Missus; but dat is de way de Boston preacher dat staid here last
+week spoke to me,—de long-legged, sour face, Yankee villain. He is
+uglier and yallerer dan Aunt Phillissy Anne’s crooked-necked squashes.
+I don’t want to see no more ob such fellers pysonin’ de minds ob de
+niggars here.’
+
+“Says he, ‘My man.’
+
+“‘I isn’t a man,’ sais I, ‘I is only a niggar.’
+
+“‘Poor, ignorant wretch,’ said he.
+
+“‘Massa,’ sais I, ‘you has waked up de wrong passenger dis present
+time. I isn’t poor, I ab plenty to eat, and plenty to drink, and two
+great trong wenches to help me cook, and plenty of fine frill shirt,
+longin’ to my old massa, and bran new hat, and when I wants money I
+asks missus, and she gives it to me, and I ab white oberseer to shoot
+game for me. When I wants wild ducks or wenson, all I got to do is to
+say to dat Yankee oberseer, ‘Missus and I want some deer or some
+canvasback, I spect you had better go look for some, Massa Buccra.’ No,
+no, Massa, I ain’t so ignorant as to let any man come over me to make
+seed-corn out of me. If you want to see wretches, go to James Town, and
+see de poor white critters dat ab to do all dere own work deyselves,
+cause dey is so poor, dey ab no niggars to do it for ’em.’
+
+“Sais he, ‘Hab you ebber tort ob dat long journey dat is afore you? to
+dat far off counteree where you will be mancipated and free, where de
+weary hab no rest, and de wicked hab no labor?’
+
+“‘Down to Boston I spose, Massa,’ sais I, ‘mong dem pententionists and
+ablutionists, Massa; ablution is a mean, nasty, dirty ting, and don’t
+suit niggars what hab good missus like me, and I won’t take dat
+journey, and I hate dat cold counteree, and I want nottin’ to do wid
+mansipationists.’
+
+“‘It ain’t dat, said he, ‘it’s up above.’
+
+“‘What,’ sais I, ‘up dere in de mountains? What onder de sun should I
+go dere for to be froze to defth, or to be voured by wild beasts?
+Massa, I won’t go nowhere widout dear missus goes.’
+
+“‘I mean Heaben,’ he said, ‘where all are free and all equal; where
+_joy_ is, and _sorrow_ enters not.’
+
+“‘What,’ sais I, ‘Joy in Heaben? I don’t believe one word of it. Joy
+was de greatest tief on all dese tree plantations of missus; he stole
+more chicken, and corn, and backey, dan his great bull neck was worth,
+and when he ran off, missus wouldn’t let no one look for him. Joy in
+Heaben, eh; and Sorrow nebber go dere! Well, I clare now! Yah, yah,
+yah, Massa, you is foolin’ dis here niggar now, I know you is when you
+say Joy is dead, and gone to Heaben, and dis child is shot out for
+ebber. Massa,’ sais I, ‘me and missus don’t low ablution talk here, on
+no account whatsomever, de only larnin’ we lows of is whippin’ fellows
+who tice niggars to rections, and de slaves of dis plantation will larn
+you as sure as you is bawn, for dey lub missus dearly. You had better
+kummence de long journey usself. Sallust, bring out dis gentleman hoss;
+and Plutarch, go fetch de saddle-bag down.’
+
+“I led his hoss by where de dogs was, and, sais I, ‘Massa, I can’t help
+larfin’ no how I can fix it, at dat ar story you told me about dat
+young rascal Joy. Dat story do smell rader tall, dat are a fac; yah,
+yah, yah,’ and I fell down and rolled ober and ober on de grass, and
+it’s lucky I did, for as I dodged he fetched a back-handed blow at me
+wid his huntin’ whip, that would a cut my head off if it had tooked me
+round my neck.
+
+“My missus larfed right out like any ting, tho’ it was so hot, and when
+missus larf I always know she is good-natured.
+
+“‘Sorrow,’ said missus, ‘I am afraid you is more rogue dan fool.’
+
+“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘I nebber stole the vally of a pin’s head off ob dis
+plantation, I scorn to do such a nasty, dirty, mean action, and you so
+kind as to gib me more nor I want, and you knows dat, Missus; you knows
+it, oderwise you wouldn’t send me to de bank, instead ob white
+oberseer, Mr Succatash, for six, seben, or eight hundred dollars at a
+time. But, dere is too much stealin’ going on here, and you and I,
+Missus, must be more ticklar. You is too dulgent altogether.’
+
+“‘I didn’t mean that, Sorrow,’ she said, ‘I don’t mean stealin’.
+
+“‘Well, Missus, I’s glad to hear dat, if you will let me ab permission
+den, I will drink you good helf.’
+
+“‘Why didn’t you do it half an hour ago?’ she said.
+
+“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘I was so busy talkin’, and so scared about your
+helf, and dere was no hurry,’ and I stept near to her side, where she
+could see me, and I turned de bottle up, and advanced dis way, for it
+hadn’t no more dan what old Cloe’s thimble would hold, jist like dis
+bottle.
+
+“‘Why,’ said she (and she smiled, and I knowed she was good-natured),
+‘dere is nottin’ dere, see if dere isn’t some in de oder bottle,’ and I
+went back and set it down, and took it up to her, and poured it out dis
+way.”
+
+“Slick,” said Cutler, “I am astonished at you, you are encouraging that
+black rascal in drinking, and allowing him to make a beast of himself,”
+and he went on deck to attend to his duty, saying as he shut the door,
+“That fellow will prate all day if you allow him.” Sorrow followed him
+with a very peculiar expression of eye as he retired.
+
+“Massa Captain,” said he, “as sure as de world, is an ablutionist, dat
+is just de way dey talk. Dey call us coloured breddren when they tice
+us off from home, and den dey call us black rascals and beasts. I wish
+I was to home agin, Yankees treat dere coloured breddren like dogs, dat
+is a fact; but he is excellent man, Massa Captain, bery good man, and
+though I don’t believe it’s a possible ting Joy is in heaben, I is
+certain de captain, when de Lord be good nuff to take him, will go
+dere.”
+
+“The captain is right,” said I, “Sorrow, put down that bottle; you have
+had more than enough already—put it down;” but he had no idea of
+obeying, and held on to it.
+
+“If you don’t put that down, Sorrow,” I said, “I will break it over
+your head.”
+
+“Oh! Massa,” said he, “dat would be a sin to waste dis oloriferous rum
+dat way; just let me drink it first, and den I will stand, and you may
+break de bottle on my head; it can’t hurt niggar’s head, only cut a
+little wool.”
+
+“Come, no more of this nonsense,” I said, “put it down;” and seeing me
+in earnest, he did so.
+
+“Now,” sais I, “tell us how you are going to cook the clams.”
+
+“Oh! Massa,” said he, “do let me finish de story about de way I larned
+it.
+
+“‘Sorrow,’ said missus, ‘I am going to take a long journey all de way
+to Boston, and de wedder is so cold, and what is wus, de people is so
+cold, it makes me shudder,’ and she shivered like cold ague fit, and I
+was afraid she would unjoint de sofa.
+
+“‘Don’t lay too close to them, Missus,’ sais I.
+
+“‘What,’ said she, and she raised herself up off ob de pillar, and she
+larfed, and rolled ober and ober, and tosticated about almost in a
+conniption fit, ‘you old goose,’ said she, ‘you onaccountable fool,’
+and den she larfed and rolled ober agin, I tought she would a tumbled
+off on de floor, ‘do go way; you is too foolish to talk to, but turn my
+pillar again. Sorrow,’ said she, ‘is I showin’ of my ankles,’ said she,
+‘rollin’ about so like mad?’
+
+“‘Little bit,’ sais I, ‘Missus.’
+
+“‘Den put dat scarf ober my feet agin. What on earth does you mean,
+Sorrow, bout not sleepin’ too close to de Yankees?’
+
+“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘does you recollect de day when Zeno was drownded
+off de raft? Well, dat day Plutarch was lowed to visit next plantation,
+and dey bring him home mazin’ drunk—stupid as owl, his mout open and he
+couldn’t speak, and his eye open and he couldn’t see. Well, as you
+don’t low niggar to be flogged, Aunt Phillissy Ann and I lay our heads
+together, and we tought we’d punish him; so we ondressed him, and put
+him into same bed wid poor Zeno, and when he woke up in de mornin’ he
+was most frighten to def, and had de cold chills on him, and his eye
+stared out ob his head, and his teeth chattered like monkeys. He was so
+frighten, we had to burn lights for a week—he tought after dat he saw
+Zeno in bed wid him all de time. It’s werry dangerous, Missus, to sleep
+near cold people like Yankees and dead niggars.’
+
+“‘Sorrow, you is a knave I believe,’ she said.
+
+“‘Knave, knave, Missus,’ I sais, ‘I don’t know dat word.’
+
+“‘Sorrow,’ said she, ‘I is a goin’ to take you wid me.’
+
+“‘Tank you, Missus,’ said I, ‘oh! bless your heart, Missus.’”
+
+“Sorrow,” said I, sternly, “do you ever intend to tell us how you are
+going to cook them clams, or do you mean to chat all day?”
+
+“Jist in one minute, Massa, I is jist comin’ to it,” said he.
+
+“‘Now,’ sais missus, ‘Sorrow, it’s werry genteel to travel wid one’s
+own cook; but it is werry ongenteel when de cook can’t do nuffin’
+super-superior; for bad cooks is plenty eberywhere widout travellin’
+wid ’em. It brings disgrace.’
+
+“‘Exactly, Missus,’ sais I, ‘when you and me was up to de president’s
+plantation, his cook was makin’ plum pudden, he was. Now how in natur
+does you rimagine he did it? why, Missus, he actilly made it wid flour,
+de stupid tick-headed fool, instead ob de crumbs ob a six cent stale
+loaf, he did; and he nebber ‘pared de gredients de day afore, as he had
+aughten to do. It was nuffin’ but stick jaw—jist fit to feed turkeys
+and little niggeroons wid. Did you ebber hear de likes ob dat in all
+your bawn days, Missus; but den, Marm, de general was a berry poor cook
+hisself you know, and it stand to argument ob reason, where massa or
+missus don’t know nuffin’, de sarvant can’t neither. Dat is what all de
+gentlemen and ladies says dat wisit here, Marm: ‘What a lubly beautiful
+woman Miss Lunn is,’ dey say, ‘dere is so much ‘finement in her, and
+her table is de best in all Meriky.’
+
+“‘What a fool you is, Uncle Sorrow,’ she say, and den she larf again;
+and when missus larf den I know she was pleased. ‘Well,’ sais she, ‘now
+mind you keep all your secrets to yourself when travellin’, and keep
+your eyes open wide, and see eberyting and say nuffin’.’
+
+“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘I will be wide awake; you may pend on me—eyes as
+big as two dog-wood blossoms, and ears open like mackarel.’
+
+“‘What you got for dinner to-day?’ she say—jist as you say, Massa.
+Well, I tell her all ober, as I tells you, numeratin’ all I had. Den
+she picked out what she wanted, and mong dem I recklect was clams.’”
+
+“Now tell us how you cooked the clams,” I said; “what’s the use of
+standing chattering all day there like a monkey?”
+
+“Dat, Massa, now is jist what I is goin’ to do dis blessid minit.
+‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘talkin’ of clams, minds me of chickens.’
+
+“‘What on airth do you mean,’ sais she, ‘you blockhead; it might as
+well mind you of tunder.’
+
+“‘Well, Missus,’ sais I, ‘now sometimes one ting does mind me of anoder
+ting dat way; I nebber sees you, Missus, but what you mind me ob de
+beautiful white lily, and dat agin ob de white rose dat hab de lubly
+color on his cheek.’
+
+“‘Do go away, and don’t talk nonsense,’ she said, larfing; and when she
+larfed den I know she was pleased.
+
+“‘So clams mind me of chickens.’
+
+“‘And whiskey,’ she said.
+
+“‘Well, it do, Missus; dat are a fac;’ and I helped myself agin dis
+way.”
+
+“Sorrow,” said I, “this is too bad; go forward now and cut this foolery
+short. You will be too drunk to cook the dinner if you go on that way.”
+
+“Massa,” said he, “dis child nebber was drunk in his life; but he is
+frose most to deaf wid de wretched fogs (dat give people here ‘blue
+noses’), an de field ice, and raw winds: I is as cold as if I slept wid
+a dead niggar or a Yankee. Yah, yah, yah.
+
+“‘Well, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dem clams do mind me ob chickens. Now,
+Missus, will you skuse me if I git you the receipt Miss Phillis and I
+ab cyphered out, how to presarve chickens?’
+
+“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will. Let me hear it. Dat is sumthen new.’
+
+“‘Well, Missus, you know how you and I is robbed by our niggars like so
+many minks. Now, Missus, sposin’ you and I pass a law dat all fat
+poultry is to be brought to me to buy, and den we keep our fat poultry
+locked up; and if dey steal de lean fowls, and we buy ’em, we saves de
+fattenin’ of ’em, and gibs no more arter all dan de vally of food and
+tendin’, which is all dey gits now, for dere fowls is always de best
+fed in course; and when we ab more nor we wants for you and me, den I
+take ’em to market and sell ’em; and if dey will steal ’em arter dat,
+Missus, we must try ticklin’; dere is nuffin’ like it. It makes de down
+fly like a feather-bed. It makes niggars wery sarcy to see white tief
+punished tree times as much as dey is; dat are a fac, Missus. A poor
+white man can’t work, and in course he steal. Well, his time bein’ no
+airthly use, dey gib him six month pensiontary; and niggar, who can
+airn a dollar or may be 100 cents a day, only one month. I spise a poor
+white man as I do a skunk. Dey is a cuss to de country; and it’s berry
+hard for you and me to pay rates to support ’em: our rates last year
+was bominable. Let us pass dis law, Missus, and fowl stealin’ is
+done—de ting is dead.’
+
+“‘Well, you may try it for six months,’ she say, ‘only no whippin’. We
+must find some oder punishment,’ she said.
+
+“‘I ab it,’ sais I, ‘Missus! Oh Lord a massy, Missus! oh dear missus! I
+got an inwention as bright as bran new pewter button. I’ll shave de
+head of a tief close and smooth. Dat will keep his head warm in de sun,
+and cool at night; do him good. He can’t go courtin’ den, when he ab
+‘no wool whar de wool ought to grow,’ and spile his ‘frolicken, and all
+de niggaroons make game ob him. It do more good praps to tickle fancy
+ob niggars dan to tickle dere hide. I make him go to church reglar den
+to show hisself and his bald pate. Yah, yah, yah!’”
+
+“Come, Sorrow,” I said, “I am tired of all this foolery; either tell me
+how you propose to cook the clams, or substitute something else in
+their place.”
+
+“Well, Massa,” he said, “I will; but railly now when I gits talkin’
+bout my dear ole missus, pears to me as if my tongue would run for
+ebber. Dis is de last voyage I ebber make in a fishin’ craft. I is used
+to de first society, and always moved round wid ladies and gentlemen
+what had ‘finement in ’em. Well, Massa, now I comes to de clams. First
+of all, you must dig de clams. Now dere is great art in diggin’ clams.
+
+“Where you see little hole like worm hole dere is de clam. He breathe
+up tru dat, and suck in his drink like sherry-cobbler through a straw.
+Whar dere is no little air holes, dere is no clam, dat are a fac. Now,
+Massa, can you tell who is de most knowin’ clam-digger in de worl? De
+gull is, Massa; and he eat his clam raw, as some folks who don’t know
+nuffin’ bout cookin’ eat oysters. He take up de clam ebber so far in de
+air, and let him fall right on de rock, which break shell for him, and
+down he goes and pounces on him like a duck on a June bug. Sometimes
+clam catch him by de toe though, and hold on like grim death to a dead
+niggar, and away goes bird screamin’ and yellin’, and clam sticking to
+him like burr to a hosses tail. Oh, geehillikin, what fun it is. And
+all de oder gulls larf at him like any ting; dat comes o’ seezin’ him
+by de mout instead ob de scruff ob de neck.
+
+“Well, when you git clam nuff, den you must wash ’em, and dat is more
+trouble dan dey is worth; for dey is werry gritty naturally, like
+buckwheat dat is trashed in de field—takes two or tree waters, and salt
+is better dan fresh, cause you see fresh water make him sick. Well,
+now, Massa, de question is, what will you ab; clam soup, clam
+sweetbread, clam pie, clam fritter, or bake clam?”
+
+“Which do you tink best, Sorrow?” sais I.
+
+“Well, Massa, dey is all good in dere way; missus used to fection baked
+clams mighty well, but we can’t do dem so tip-top at sea; clam
+sweetbread, she said, was better den what is made ob oyster; and as to
+clam soup, dat pends on de cook. Now, Massa, when missus and me went to
+wisit de president’s plantation, I see his cook, Mr Sallust, didn’t
+know nuffin’ bout parin’ de soup. What you tink he did, Massa? stead ob
+poundin’ de clams in a mortar fust, he jist cut ’em in quarters and
+puts ’em in dat way. I nebber see such ignorance since I was raised. He
+made de soup ob water, and actilly put some salt in it; when it was
+sarved up—it was rediculous disgraceful—he left dem pieces in de
+tureen, and dey was like leather. Missus said to me:
+
+“‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘I shall starve here; dem military men know
+nuffin’ but bout hosses, dogs, and wine; but dey ain’t delicate no way
+in dere tastes, and yet to hear ’em talk you’d be most afeered to offer
+’em anyting, you’d tink dey was de debbel and all.’”
+
+“Did she use those words, Sorrow?”
+
+“Well, not zactly,” he said, scratching his head, “dey was dicksionary
+words and werry fine, for she had great ‘finement bout her; but dat was
+de meanin’ ob ’em.
+
+“‘Now, Sorrow,’ she said, ‘tell me de trut, wasn’t dat soup now made of
+water?’
+
+“‘Yes, Missus, it was,’ said I, ‘I seed it wid my own eyes.’
+
+“‘I taut so,’ she said, ‘why dat cook ain’t fit to tend a bear trap,
+and bait it wid sheep’s innerds.’”
+
+“Did she use those words?”
+
+“Why laws a massy, Massa! I can’t swear to de identical words; how can
+I? but as I was a sayin’, dere was ‘finement in ’em, werry long, werry
+crooked, and werry pretty, but dat was all de sense ob ’em.
+
+“‘Now, Sorrow,’ said she, ‘he ought to ab used milk; all fish soups
+ought to be made o’ milk, and den tickened wid flour.’
+
+“‘Why in course, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dat is de way you and me always
+likes it.’
+
+“‘It has made me quite ill,’ said she.
+
+“‘So it ab nearly killed me, Missus,’ sais I, puttin’ my hand on my
+stomach, ‘I ab such a pain down here, I tink sometimes I shall die.’
+
+“‘Well, you look ill, Uncle Sorrow,’ she said, and she went to her
+dressin’-case, and took a little small bottle (covered ober wid printed
+words), ‘Take some o’ dis,’ said she, and she poured me out bout dis
+much (filling his glass again), ‘take dat, it will do you good.’
+
+“‘Is it berry bad to swaller,’ sais I, ‘Missus? I is most afeard it
+will spile the ‘finement of my taste.’
+
+“‘Try it,’ sais she, and I shut to my eyes, and made awful long face,
+and swallowed it jist dis way.
+
+“‘By golly,’ sais I, ‘Missus, but dat is grand. What is dat?’
+
+“‘Clove, water,’ said she.
+
+“‘Oh, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dat is plaguy trong water, dat are a fac, and
+bery nice flavoured. I wish in my heart we had a nice spring ob it to
+home. Wouldn’t it be grand, for dis is a bery thirsty niggar, dat are a
+fac. Clam pie, Massa, is first chop, my missus ambitioned it some
+punkins.’
+
+“Well, how do you make it?”
+
+“Dere is seberal ways, Massa. Sometime we used one way and sometime
+anoder. I do believe missus could do it fifty ways.”
+
+“Fifty ways!” said I, “now Sorrow, how can you lie that way? I shall
+begin to think at last you never had a mistress at all.”
+
+“Fifty ways! Well, Massa, goodness gracious me! You isn’t goin’ to tie
+me down to swear to figures now, any more nor identical words, is you?
+I ab no manner o’ doubt she could fifty ways, but she only used eight
+or ten ways which she said was de best. First dere is de clam bake.”
+
+“Well, I know that,” sais I, “go on to the clam pie.”
+
+“What is it?” said the doctor, “for I should like to know how they are
+prepared.”
+
+“This,” said I, “is the most approved mode. A cavity is dug in the
+earth, about eighteen inches deep, which is lined with round stones. On
+this a fire is made; and when the stones are sufficiently heated, a
+bushel or more of clams (according to the number of persons who are to
+partake of the feast) is thrown upon them. On this is put a layer of
+rock-weed, gathered from the beach, and over this a second layer of
+sea-weed. This prevents the escape of the steam, and preserves the
+sweetness of the fish. Clams baked in this manner are preferred to
+those cooked in the usual way in the kitchen. On one occasion, that of
+a grand political mass-meeting in favour of General Harrison on the 4th
+of July, 1840, nearly 10,000 persons assembled in Rhode Island, for
+whom a clambake and chowder was prepared. This was probably the
+greatest feast of the kind that ever took place in New England.”
+
+“Zactly,” said Sorrow, “den dere is anoder way.”
+
+“I won’t hear it,” said I, “stiver now, make the pie any way you like.”
+
+“Massa,” said he, “eber since poor missus died from eaten hogs wid dere
+heads on, I feel kinder faint when I sees clams, I hab neber swallowed
+one since, and neber will. De parfume gits into my stomach, as it did
+when de General’s cook used water instead of milk, in his soup. I don’t
+spose you ab any clove-water, but if you will let me take jist a
+tumblerfull ob dis, I tink it would make me survive a little,” and
+without waiting for leave he helped himself to a bumper. “Now, Massa,”
+he said, “I show you what cookin’ is, I know,” and making a scrape of
+his leg, he left the cabin.
+
+“Doctor,” said I, “I am glad you have seen this specimen of a southern
+negro. He is a fair sample of a servant in the houses of our great
+planters. Cheerful, grateful, and contented, they are better off and
+happier than any portion of the same race I have met with in any part
+of the world. They have a quick perception of humour, a sort of
+instinctive knowledge of character, and great cunning, but their
+reasoning powers are very limited. Their appetites are gross, and their
+constitutional indolence such that they prefer enduring any suffering
+and privation to regular habits of industry.
+
+“Slavery in the abstract is a thing that nobody approves of, or
+attempts to justify. We all consider it an evil—but unhappily it was
+entailed upon us by our forefathers, and has now grown to be one of
+such magnitude that it is difficult to know now to deal with it—and
+this difficulty is much increased by the irritation which has grown out
+of the unskilful and unjustifiable conduct of abolitionists. The
+grossest exaggerations have been circulated as to the conduct and
+treatment of our slaves, by persons who either did not know what they
+were talking about, or who have wilfully perverted facts. The devil we
+have painted black, and the negro received the same colour from the
+hand of his Maker. It only remained to represent the planter as of a
+deeper dye than either. This picture however wanted effect, and
+latterly lights and shades have been judiciously introduced, by
+mingling with these groups eastern abolitionists, white overseers, and
+English noblemen, and ladies of rank. It made a clever caricature—had a
+great run—has been superseded by other follies and extravagancies, and
+is now nearly forgotten. The social evil still remains, and ever will,
+while ignorant zeal, blind bigotry, hypocrisy, and politics, demand to
+have the exclusive treatment of it. The planter has rights as well as
+the slave, and the claims of both must be well weighed and considered
+before any dispassionate judgment can be formed.
+
+“In the mean time invective and misrepresentation, by irritating the
+public, disqualify it for the deliberate exercise of its functions. If
+the slaves have to mourn over the want of freedom, the planters may
+lament the want of truth in their opponents; and it must be admitted
+that they have submitted to the atrocious calumnies that have been so
+liberally heaped upon them of late years, with a contempt that is the
+best refutation of falsehood, or a meekness and forbearance that
+contrast very favourably with the violence and fury of their
+adversaries.”
+
+My object however, Squire, is not to write a lecture on emancipation,
+but to give you a receipt for cooking “a dish of clams.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII.
+THE DEVIL’S HOLE; OR, FISH AND FLESH.
+
+
+“Sorrow,” said the doctor, “seems to me to consider women, from the way
+he flatters his mistress, as if she was not unlike the grupers at
+Bermuda. There is a natural fish-pond there near Flats Village, in
+which there is a great lot of these critters, which are about the size
+of the cod. They will rise to the surface, and approach the bank for
+you to tickle their sides, which seems to afford them particular
+delight.”
+
+“It is what you would call, I suppose, practical soft sawdering.”
+
+“But it is an operation of which the rest are exceedingly jealous, and
+while you are thus amusing one of them, you must take care others do
+not feel offended, and make a dash at your fingers. With true feminine
+jealousy too they change colour when excited, for envy seems to pervade
+all animate nature.”
+
+“It’s called the Devil’s Hole where they are, ain’t it?” sais I.
+
+“Yes,” said he, “it is, and it is situated not far from Moore’s
+favourite tree, under whose shade he used to recline while writing his
+poetry, at a time when his deputy was equally idle, and instead of
+keeping his accounts, kept his money. Bermuda is a fatal place to
+poets. Moore lost his purse there, and Waller his favourite ring; the
+latter has been recently found, the former was never recovered. In one
+thing these two celebrated authors greatly resembled each other, they
+both fawned and flattered on the great.”
+
+“Yes,” said Cutler, “and both have met their reward. Everybody regrets
+that anything was known of either, but his poetry—”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “I am glad I am not an Englishman, or as true as the
+world, a chap like Lord John Russell would ruin me for ever. I am not a
+poet, and can’t write poetry, but I am a Clockmaker, and write common
+sense. Now a biographer like that man, that knows as little of one as
+he does of the other, would ruin me for everlastingly. It ain’t
+pleasant to have such a burr as that stick on to your tail, especially
+if you have no comb to get it off, is it? A politician is like a bee;
+he travels a zig-zag course every way, turnin’ first to the right and
+then to the left, now makin’ a dive at the wild honeysuckle, and then
+at the sweet briar; now at the buck-wheat blossom, and then at the
+rose; he is here and there and everywhere; you don’t know where the
+plague to find him; he courts all and is constant to none. But when his
+point is gained and he has wooed and deceived all, attained his object,
+and his bag is filled, he then shows plain enough what he was after all
+the time. He returns as straight as a chalk line, or as we say, as the
+crow flies to his home, and neither looks to the right or to the left,
+or knows or cares for any of them who contributed to his success. His
+object is to enrich himself and make a family name. A politician
+therefore is the last man in the world to write a biography. Having a
+kind of sneakin’ regard for a winding, wavy way himself, he sees more
+beauty in the in and out line of a Varginny fence, than the stiff
+straight formal post and rail one of New England. As long as a partizan
+critter is a thorn in the flesh of the adverse party, he don’t care
+whether he is Jew or Gentile. He overlooks little peccadilloes, as he
+calls the worst stories, and thinks everybody else will be just as
+indulgent as himself. He uses romanists, dissenters, republicans, and
+evangelicals at his own great log-rolling1 frollicks, and rolls for
+them in return.
+
+1 Log-rolling.—In the lumber regions of Maine, it is customary for men
+of different logging camps to appoint days for helping each other in
+rolling the logs to the river after they are felled and trimmed, this
+rolling being about the hardest work incident to the business. Thus the
+men of three or four different camps will unite, say on Monday, to roll
+for camp No. 1, on Tuesday, for camp No. 2, on Wednesday, for camp No.
+3, and so on through the whole number of camps within convenient
+distance of each other. The term has been adopted in legislation to
+signify a little system of mutual co-operation. For instance, a member
+from St Lawrence has a pet bill for a plank-road which he wants pushed
+through. He accordingly makes a bargain with a member from Onondaga,
+who is coaxing along a charter for a bank, by which St Lawrence agrees
+to vote for Onondaga’s bank if Onondaga will vote St Lawrence’s
+plank-road. This is legislative log-rolling, and there is abundance of
+it carried on at Albany every winter. Generally speaking, the subject
+of the log-rolling is some merely local project, interesting only to
+the people of a certain district; but sometimes there is party
+log-rolling, where the Whigs, for instance, will come to an
+understanding with the Democrats that the former shall not oppose a
+certain democratic measure merely on party grounds, provided the
+Democrats will be equally tender to some Whig measure in return.—J.
+INMAN.
+
+
+“Who the plague hain’t done something, said something, or thought
+something he is sorry for, and prays may be forgot and forgiven; big
+brag as I am, I know I can’t say I haven’t over and over again
+offended. Well, if it’s the part of a friend to go and rake all these
+things up, and expose ’em to the public, and if it’s agreeable to my
+wife, sposin’ I had one, to have ’em published because the stained
+paper will sell, all I can sais is, I wish he had shown his regard for
+me by running away with my wife and letting me alone. It’s astonishing
+how many friends Moore’s disloyalty made him. A seditious song or a
+treasonable speech finds more favour with some people in the old
+country than building a church, that’s a fact. Howsomever, I think I am
+safe from him, for first, I am a Yankee, secondly, I ain’t married,
+thirdly, I am a Clockmaker, and fourthly, my biography is written by
+myself in my book, fifthly, I write no letters I can help, and never
+answer one except on business.”
+
+“This is a hint father gave me: ‘Sam,’ said he, ‘never talk to a woman,
+for others may hear you; only whisper to her, and never write to her,
+or your own letters may rise up in judgment against you some day or
+another. Many a man afore now has had reason to wish he had never seen
+a pen in his life;’ so I ain’t afeard therefore that he can write
+himself up or me down, and make me look skuywoniky, no how he can fix
+it. If he does, we will declare war again England, and blow the little
+darned thing out of the map of Europe; for it ain’t much bigger than
+the little island Cronstadt is built on after all, is it? It’s just a
+little dot and nothin’ more, dad fetch my buttons if it is.
+
+“But to go back to the grupers and the devil’s hole; I have been there
+myself and seen it, Doctor,” sais I, “but there is other fish besides
+these in it; there is the parrot-fish, and they are like the feminine
+gender too; if the grupers are fond of being tickled, parrots are fond
+of hearing their own voices. Then there is the angel-fish, they have
+fins like wings of a pale blue colour; but they must be fallen angels
+to be in such a place as that hole too, musn’t they? and yet they are
+handsome even now. Gracious! what must they have been before the fall!
+and how many humans has beauty caused to fall, Doctor, hasn’t it? and
+how many there are that the sound of that old song, ‘My face is my
+fortune, Sir, she said,’ would make their hearts swell till they would
+almost burst.
+
+“Well, then there is another fish there, and those Mudians sartainly
+must have a good deal of fun in them, to make such a capital and
+comical assortment of queer ones for that pond. There is the
+lawyer-fish—can anything under the sun be more appropriate than the
+devil’s hole for a lawyer? What a nice place for him to hang out his
+shingle in, ain’t it? it’s no wonder his old friend the landlord finds
+him an office in it—rent free, is it? What mischief he must brood
+there; bringing actions of slander against the foolish parrot-fish that
+will let their tongues run, ticklin’ the grupers, and while they are
+smirking and smiling, devour their food, and prosecute the fallen
+angels for violating the Maine law and disturbing the peace. The
+devil’s hole, like Westminster Hall, is a dangerous place for a fellow
+of substance to get into, I can tell you; the way they fleece him is a
+caution to sinners.
+
+“My dog fell into that fish-pond, and they nearly fixed his flint
+before I got him out, I tell you; his coat was almost stripped off when
+I rescued him.”
+
+“Why, Mr Slick,” said the doctor, “what in the world took you to
+Bermuda?”
+
+“Why,” sais I, “I had heard a great deal about it. It is a beautiful
+spot and very healthy. It is all that has ever been said or sung of it,
+and more too, and that’s sayin’ a great deal, for most celebrated
+places disappoint you; you expect too much, and few crack parts of the
+world come up to the idea you form of them beforehand. Well, I went
+down there to see if there was anything to be done in the way of
+business, but it was too small a field for me, although I made a spec
+that paid me very well too. There is a passage through the reefs there,
+and it’s not every pilot knows it, but there was a manuscript chart of
+it made by a captain of a tradin’ vessel. When he died his widow
+offered it to the government, but they hummed and hawed about the
+price, and was for gitting it for half nothing, as they always do. So
+what does I do, but just steps in and buys it, for in war time it is of
+the greatest importance to know this passage, and I sold it to our
+navy-board, and I think if ever we are at loggerheads with the British,
+we shall astonish the weak nerves of the folks at the summer islands
+some fine day.
+
+“I had a charming visit. There are some magnificent caves there, and in
+that climate they are grand places, I do assure you. I never saw
+anything so beautiful. The ceiling is covered with splendiferous
+spary-like icicles, or chandelier drops. What do you call that word,
+Doctor?”
+
+“Stalactites.”
+
+“Exactly, that’s it, glorious stalactites reaching to the bottom and
+forming fluted pillars. In one of those caves where the water runs, the
+admiral floored over the bottom and gave a ball in it, and it was the
+most Arabian Night’s entertainment kind of thing that I ever saw. It
+looked like a diamond hall, and didn’t it show off the Mudian galls to
+advantage, lick! I guess it did, for they are the handsomest Creoles in
+all creation. There is more substance in ’em than in the tropical
+ladies. I don’t mean worldly (though that ain’t to be sneered at,
+neither, by them that ain’t got none themselves). When the people used
+to build small clippers there for the West Indian trade, cedar was very
+valuable, and a gall’s fortune was reckoned, not by pounds, but by so
+many cedars. Now it is banana trees. But dear me, somehow or another we
+have drifted away down to Bermuda, we must stretch back again to the
+Nova Scotian coast east of Chesencook, or, like Jerry Boudrot, we shall
+be out of sight of land, and lost at sea.”
+
+On going up on the deck, my attention was naturally attracted to my new
+purchase, the Canadian horse.
+
+“To my mind,” said the doctor, “Jerry’s knee action does not merit the
+extravagant praise you bestowed upon it. It is not high enough to
+please me.”
+
+“There you are wrong,” sais I, “that’s the mistake most people make. It
+is not the height of the action, but the nature of it, that is to be
+regarded. A high-stepping horse pleases the eye more than the judgment.
+He seems to go faster than he does. There is not only power wasted in
+it, but it injures the foot. My idea is this; you may compare a man to
+a man, and a woman to a woman, for the two, including young and old,
+make the world. You see more of them and know more about ’em than
+horses, for you have your own structure to examine and compare them by,
+and can talk to them, and if they are of the feminine gender, hear
+their own account of themselves. They can speak, for they were not
+behind the door when tongues were given out, I can tell you. The range
+of your experience is larger, for you are always with them, but how few
+hosses does a man own in his life. How few he examines, and how little
+he knows about other folk’s beasts. They don’t live with you, you only
+see them when you mount, drive, or visit the stable. They have separate
+houses of their own, and pretty buildings they are too in general,
+containin’ about as much space for sleepin’ as a berth on board a ship,
+and about as much ventilation too, and the poor critters get about as
+little exercise as passengers, and are just about worth as much as they
+are when they land for a day’s hard tramp. Poor critters, they have to
+be on their taps most all the time.1 The Arab and the Canadian have the
+best horses, not only because they have the best breed, but because one
+has no stalls, and t’other has no stable treatment.
+
+1 On their feet.
+
+
+“Now in judging of a horse’s action, I compare him not with other
+horses, but with animals of a different species. Did you ever know a
+fox stumble, or a cat make a false step? I guess not; but haven’t you
+seen a bear when chased and tired go head over heels? A dog in a
+general way is a sure-footed critter, but he trips now and then, and if
+he was as big as a horse, would throw his rider sometimes. Now then I
+look to these animals, and I find there are two actions to be combined,
+the knee and the foot action. The fox and the cat bend the knee easy
+and supply, but don’t arch ’em, and though they go near the ground,
+they don’t trip. I take that then as a sort of standard. I like my
+beast, especially if he is for the saddle, to be said to trot like a
+fox. Now, if he lifts too high, you see, he describes half a circle,
+and don’t go ahead as he ought, and then he pounds his frog into a sort
+of mortar at every step, for the horny shell of a foot is just like
+one. Well then, if he sends his fore leg away out in front, and his
+hind leg away out behind like a hen scratchin’ gravel, he moves more
+like an ox than anything else, and hainte sufficient power to fetch
+them home quick enough for fast movement. Then the foot action is a
+great point, I looked at this critter’s tracks on the pasture and asked
+myself, Does he cut turf, or squash it flat? If he cuts it as a
+gardener does weeds with his spade, then good bye, Mr Jerry, you won’t
+suit me, it’s very well to dance on your toes, but it don’t convene to
+_travel on ’em,_ or you’re apt to make somersets.
+
+“Now, a neck is a valuable thing. We have two legs, two eyes, two
+hands, two ears, two nostrils, and so on, but we have only one neck,
+which makes it so easy to hang a fellow, or to break it by a chuck from
+your saddle; and besides, we can’t mend it, as we do a leg or an arm.
+When it’s broken it’s done for; and what use is it if it’s insured? The
+money don’t go to you, but to your heirs, and half the time they
+wouldn’t cry, except for decency sake, if you did break it. Indeed, I
+knew a great man once, who got his neck broke, and all his friends
+said, for his own reputation, it was a pity he hadn’t broke it ten
+years sooner. The Lord save me from such friends, I say. Fact is, a
+broken neck is only a nine days’ wonder after all, and is soon
+forgotten.
+
+“Now, the fox has the right knee action, and the leg is ‘thar.’ In the
+real knee movement, there is a peculiar spring, that must be seen to be
+known and valued, words don’t give you the idea of it. It’s like the
+wire end of a pair of galluses—oh, it’s charming. It’s down and off in
+a jiffy, like a gall’s finger on a piano when she is doin’ chromatic
+runs. Fact is, if I am walking out, and see a critter with it, I have
+to stop and stare; and, Doctor, I will tell you a queer thing. Halt and
+look at a splendid movin’ hoss, and the rider is pleased; he thinks
+half the admiration is for him, as rider and owner, and t’other half
+for his trotter. The gony’s delighted, chirups his beast, gives him a
+sly touch up with the off heel, and shows him off to advantage. But
+stop and look at a woman, and she is as mad as a hatter. She don’t care
+how much you look at her, as long as you don’t stand still or turn your
+head round. She wouldn’t mind slackin’ her pace if you only attended to
+that.
+
+“Now the fox has that special springy movement I speak of, and he puts
+his foot down flat, he bends the grass rather to him, than from him, if
+anything, but most commonly crumples it flat; but you never see it
+inclinin’ in the line of the course he is runnin’—never. Fact is, they
+never get a hoist, and that is a very curious word, it has a very
+different meanin’ at sea from what it has on land. In one case it means
+to haul up, in the other to fall down. The term ‘look out’ is just the
+same.
+
+“A canal boat was once passing through a narrow lock on the Erie line,
+and the captain hailed the passengers and said, ‘Look out.’ Well, a
+Frenchman thinking something strange was to be seen, popt his head out,
+and it was cut off in a minute. ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’ said his comrade, ‘dat
+is a very _striking_ lesson in English. On land, look out means, open
+de window and see what you will see. On board canal boat it means, haul
+your head in, and don’t look at nothin’.’
+
+“Well, the worst hoist that I ever had was from a very high-actioned
+mare, the down foot slipped, and t’other was too high to be back in
+time for her to recover, and over both of us went kerlash in the mud. I
+was skeered more about her than myself, lest she should git the skin of
+her knee cut, for to a knowing one’s eye that’s an awful blemish. It’s
+a long story to tell how such a blemish warn’t the hoss’s fault, for
+I’d rather praise than apologize for a critter any time. And there is
+one thing few-people knows. _Let the cut come which way it will, the
+animal is never so safe afterwards. Nature’s bandage, the skin, is
+severed, and that leg is the weakest._
+
+“Well, as I was a sayin’, Doctor, there is the knee action and the foot
+action, and then there is a third thing. The leg must be just _thar_.”
+
+“Where?” said the doctor.
+
+“_Thar_,” said I, “there is only one place for that, and that is
+‘thar,’ well forward at the shoulder-point, and not where it most
+commonly is, too much under the body—for if it’s too far back he
+stumbles, or too forward he can’t ‘pick chips quick stick.’ Doctor, I
+am a borin’ of you, but the fact is, when I get a goin’ ‘talkin’ hoss,’
+I never know where to stop. How much better tempered they are than half
+the women in the world, ain’t they? and I don’t mean to undervally the
+dear critters neither by no manner of means, and how much more sense
+they have than half the men either, after all their cracking and
+bragging! How grateful they are for kindness, how attached to you they
+get. How willin’ they are to race like dry dust in a thunder squall,
+till they die for you! I do love them, that is a fact, and when I see a
+feller a ill-usin’ of one of ’em, it makes me feel as cross as two
+crooked gate-posts, I tell you.
+
+“Indeed, a man that don’t love a hoss is no man at all. I don’t think
+he can be religious. A hoss makes a man humane and tender-hearted,
+teaches him to feel for others, to share his food, and be unselfish; to
+anticipate wants and supply them; to be gentle and patient. Then the
+hoss improves him otherwise. He makes him rise early, attend to meal
+hours, and to be cleanly. He softens and improves the heart. Who is
+there that ever went into a stable of a morning, and his critter
+whinnered to him and played his ears back and forward, and turned his
+head affectionately to him, and lifted his fore-feet short and moved
+his tail, and tried all he could to express his delight, and say,
+‘Morning to you, master,’ or when he went up to the manger and patted
+his neck, and the lovin’ critter rubbed his head agin him in return,
+that didn’t think within himself, well, after all, the hoss is a noble
+critter? I do love him. Is it nothin’ to make a man love at all? How
+many fellers get more kicks than coppers in their life—have no home,
+nobody to love them and nobody to love, in whose breast all the
+affections are pent up, until they get unwholesome and want
+ventilation. Is it nothin’ to such an unfortunate critter to be made a
+stable help? Why, it elevates him in the scale of humanity. He
+discovers at last he has a head to think and a heart to feel. He is a
+new man. Hosses warn’t given to us, Doctor, to ride steeple-chases, or
+run races, or brutify a man, but to add new powers and lend new speed
+to him. He was destined for nobler uses.
+
+“Is it any wonder that a man that has owned old Clay likes to talk
+hoss? I guess not. If I was a gall I wouldn’t have nothin’ to say to a
+man that didn’t love a hoss and know all about him. I wouldn’t touch
+him with a pair of tongs. I’d scorn him as I would a nigger. Sportsmen
+breed pheasants to kill, and amature huntsmen shoot dear for the
+pleasure of the slaughter. The angler hooks salmon for the cruel
+delight he has in witnessing the strength of their dying struggles. The
+black-leg gentleman runs his hoss agin time, and wins the race, and
+kills his noble steed, and sometimes loses both money and hoss, I wish
+to gracious he always did; but the rail hossman, Doctor, is a rail
+_man,_ every inch of him, stock, lock, and barrel.”
+
+“Massa,” said Sorrow, who stood listenin’ to me as I was warmin’ on the
+subject. “Massa, dis hoss will be no manner of remaginable use under de
+blessed light ob de sun.”
+
+“Why, Sorrow?”
+
+“Cause, Massa, he don’t understand one word of English, and de French
+he knows no libbin’ soul can understand but a Cheesencooker, yah, yah,
+yah! Dey called him a ‘_shovel_,’ and his tail a ‘_queue_.’ “
+
+“What a goose you are, Sorrow,” sais I.
+
+“Fac, Massa,” he said, “fac I do ressure you, and dey called de little
+piggy doctor fell over, ‘_a coach_.’ Dod drat my hide if they didn’t
+yah, yah, yah!”
+
+“The English ought to import, Doctor,” sais I, “some of these into
+their country, for as to ridin’ and drivin’ there is nothin’ like them.
+But catch Britishers admitting there is anything good in Canada, but
+the office of Governor-General, the military commands, and other pieces
+of patronage, which they keep to themselves, and then say they have
+nothing left. Ah me! times is altered, as Elgin knows. The pillory and
+the peerage have changed places. Once, a man who did wrong was first
+elevated, and then pelted. A peer is now assailed with eggs, and then
+exalted.”
+
+“_Palmam qui meruit ferat_,” said the doctor.
+
+“Is that the Latin for how many hands high the horse is?” sais I.
+“Well, on an average, say fifteen, perhaps oftener less than more. It’s
+the old Norman horse of two centuries ago, a compound of the Flemish
+stock and the Barb, introduced into the Low Countries by the Spaniards.
+Havin’ been transported to Canada at that early period, it has remained
+unchanged, and now may be called a distinct breed, differing widely in
+many respects from those found at the present day in the locations from
+which they originally came. But look at the amazin’ strength of his
+hip, look at the lines, and anatomical formation (as you would say) of
+his frame, which fit him for both a saddle and a gig hoss. Look at his
+chest, not too wide to make him paddle in his gait, nor too narrow to
+limit his wind. Observe all the points of strength. Do you see the bone
+below the knee and the freedom of the cord there. Do you mark the eye
+and head of the Barb. Twig the shoulder, the identical medium for a
+hoss of all work, and the enormous power to shove him ahead. This
+fellow is a picture, and I am glad they have not mutilated or broken
+him. He is just the hoss I have been looking for, for our folks go in
+to the handle for fast trotters, and drive so much and ride so little,
+it ain’t easy to get the right saddle beast in our State. The Cape
+Breton pony is of the same breed, though poor feed, exposure to the
+weather, and rough usage has caused him to dwindle in size; but they
+are the toughest, hardiest, strongest, and most serviceable of their
+inches, I know anywhere.”
+
+I always feel scared when I git on the subject of hosses for fear I
+should ear-wig people, so I stopt short; “And,” sais I, “Doctor, I
+think I have done pretty well with the talking tacks, spose you give me
+some of your experience in the trapping line, you must have had some
+strange adventures in your time.”
+
+“Well, I have,” said he, “but I have listened with pleasure to you, for
+although I am not experienced in horses, performing most of my journeys
+on foot, I see you know what you are talking about, for I am familiar
+with the anatomy of the horse. My road is the trackless forest, and I
+am more at home there than in a city. Like you I am fond of nature, but
+unlike you I know little of human nature, and I would rather listen to
+your experience than undergo the labour of acquiring it. Man is an
+artificial animal, but all the inhabitants of the forest are natural.
+The study of their habits, propensities, and instincts is very
+interesting, and in this country the only one that is formidable is the
+bear, for he is not only strong and courageous, but he has the power to
+climb trees, which no other animal will attempt in pursuit of man in
+Nova Scotia. The bear therefore is an ugly customer, particularly the
+female when she has her cubs about her, and a man requires to have his
+wits about him when she turns the table on him and hunts him. But you
+know these things as well as I do, and to tell you the truth there is
+little or nothing that is new to be said on the subject; one bear hunt
+is like another. The interest of these things is not so much in their
+incidents or accidents, as in the mode of telling them.”
+
+“That’s a fact,” sais I, “Doctor. But what do you suppose was the
+object Providence had in view in filling the world with beasts of prey?
+The east has its lions, tigers, and boa-constrictors; the south its
+panthers and catamounts; the north its bears and wolves; and the west
+its crocodiles and rattle-snakes. We read that dominion was given over
+the birds of the air, the fish of the sea, and the beast of the forest,
+and yet no man in a state of nature scarcely is a match for any one of
+these creatures; they don’t minister to his wants, and he can’t tame
+them to his uses.”
+
+“I have often asked myself, Slick,” said he, “the same question, for
+nothing is made in vain, but it is a query not easy to answer. My own
+opinion is, they were designed to enforce civilisation. Without these
+terrors attending a sojourn in the wilderness, man would have wandered
+off as they do, and lived alone; he would have made no home, dwelt with
+no wife, and nurtured no children. His descendants would have done the
+same. When he encountered another male, he would have given him battle,
+perhaps killed and eat him. His very language would have perished, if
+ever he had any, and he would have been no better than an
+ourang-outang. The option was not given him. He was so constructed and
+so situated, he could not live alone. Individual strength was
+insufficient for independent existence. To preserve life he had to herd
+with his kind. Thus tribes were first formed, and to preserve one tribe
+from the violence of another, they again united and formed nations.
+This combination laid the foundation of civilisation, and as that
+extended, these beasts of prey retired to the confines of the country,
+enforcing while they still remain the observance of that law of nature
+which assigned to them this outpost duty.
+
+“Where there is nothing revealed to us on the subject, all is left to
+conjecture. Whatever the cause was, we know it was a wise and a
+necessary one; and this appears to me to be the most plausible reason I
+can assign. Perhaps we may also trace a further purpose in their
+creation, in compelling by the terror they inspire the inferior animals
+to submit themselves to man, who is alone able to protect them against
+their formidable enemies, or to congregate, so that he may easily find
+them when he requires food; and may we not further infer that man also
+may by a similar sense of weakness be led to invoke in like manner the
+aid of Him who made all things and governs all things? Whatever is, is
+right,” and then he quoted two Latin lines.
+
+I hate to have a feller do that, it’s like throwin’ an apple into the
+water before a boy. He either has to lose it and go off disappointed,
+wonderin’ what its flavour is, or else wade out for it, and like as not
+get out of his depth afore he knows where he is. So I generally make
+him first translate it, and then write it down for me. He ain’t likely
+after that to do it a second time. Here are the words:
+
+“Siquid novisti rectius istis
+Candidas imperti, si non his utere mecum.”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+THE CUCUMBER LAKE.
+
+
+“Here is a place under the lee bow,” said the pilot, “in which there
+are sure to be some coasters, among whom the mate may find a market for
+his wares, and make a good exchange for his mackarel.”
+
+So we accordingly entered and cast anchor among a fleet of
+fore-and-afters in one of those magnificent ports with which the
+eastern coast is so liberally supplied.
+
+“There is some good salmon-fishing in the stream that falls into the
+harbour,” said the doctor, “suppose we try our rods;” and while Cutler
+and his people were occupied in traffic, we rowed up the river beyond
+the little settlement, which had nothing attractive in it, and landed
+at the last habitation we could see. Some thirty or forty acres had
+been cleared of the wood, the fields were well fenced, and a small
+stock of horned cattle, principally young ones, and a few sheep, were
+grazing in the pasture. A substantial rough log hut and barn were the
+only buildings. With the exception of two little children playing about
+the door, there were none of the family to be seen.
+
+On entering the house, we found a young woman, who appeared to be its
+sole occupant. She was about twenty-five years of age; tall, well
+formed, strong, and apparently in the enjoyment of good health and
+spirits. She had a fine open countenance, an artless and prepossessing
+manner, and was plainly but comfortably clad in the ordinary homespun
+of the country, and not only looked neat herself, but everything around
+her was beautifully clean. It was manifest she had been brought up in
+one of the older townships of the province, for there was an ease and
+air about her somewhat superior to the log hut in which we found her.
+The furniture was simple and of rude manufacture, but sufficient for
+the wants of a small family, though here and there was an article of a
+different kind and old-fashioned shape, that looked as if it had once
+graced a substantial farm-house, probably a present from the inmates of
+the old homestead.
+
+We soon found from her that she and her husband were as she said new
+beginners, who, like most persons in the wilderness, had had many
+difficulties to contend with, which from accidental causes had during
+the past year been greatly increased. The weavil had destroyed their
+grain crop and the rot their potatoes, their main dependence, and they
+had felt the pressure of hard times. She had good hopes however she
+said for the present season, for they had sowed the golden straw wheat,
+which they heard was exempt from the ravages of insects, and their
+potatoes had been planted early on burnt land without barn manure, and
+she was confident they would thereby be rescued from the disease. Her
+husband, she informed us, in order to earn some money to make up for
+their losses, had entered on board of an American fishing vessel, and
+she was in daily expectation of his arrival, to remain at home until
+the captain should call for him again, after he had landed his cargo at
+Portland. All this was told in a simple and unaffected manner, but
+there was a total absence of complaint or despondency, which often
+accompany the recital of such severe trials.
+
+Having sent Sorrow back in the boat with an injunction to watch our
+signal of recall, we proceeded further up the river, and commenced
+fishing. In a short time we killed two beautiful salmon, but the black
+flies and musquitoes were so intolerably troublesome, we were compelled
+to return to the log hut. I asked permission of our cheerful, tidy
+young hostess to broil a piece of the salmon by her fire, more for the
+purpose of leaving the fish with her than anything else, when she
+immediately offered to perform that friendly office for us herself.
+
+“I believe,” she said, “I have a drawing of tea left,” and taking from
+the shelf a small mahogany caddy, emptied it of its contents. It was
+all she had. The flour-barrel was also examined and enough was
+gathered, as she said by great good luck, to make a few cakes. Her old
+man, she remarked, for so she termed her young husband, would be back
+in a day or two and bring a fresh supply. To relieve her of our
+presence, while she was busied in those preparations, we strolled to
+the bank of the river, where the breeze in the open ground swept away
+our tormentors, the venomous and ravenous flies, and by the time our
+meal was ready, returned almost loaded with trout. I do not know that I
+ever enjoyed anything more than this unexpected meal. The cloth was
+snowy white, the butter delicious, and the eggs fresh laid. In addition
+to this, and what rendered it so acceptable, it was a free offering of
+the heart.
+
+In the course of conversation I learned from her, that the first year
+they had been settled there they had been burnt out, and lost nearly
+all they had, but she didn’t mind that she said, for, thank God, she
+had saved her children, and she believed they had originally put up
+their building in the wrong place. The neighbours had been very kind to
+them, helped them to erect a new and larger house, near the beautiful
+spring we saw in the green; and besides, she and her husband were both
+young, and she really believed they were better off than they were
+before the accident.
+
+Poor thing, she didn’t need words of comfort, her reliance on
+Providence and their own exertions was so great, she seemed to have no
+doubt as to their ultimate success. Still, though she did not require
+encouragement, confirmation of her hopes, I knew, would be grateful to
+her, and I told her to tell her husband on no account to think of
+parting with or removing from the place, for I observed there was an
+extensive intervale of capital quality, an excellent mill privilege on
+the stream where I caught the salmon, and as he had the advantage of
+water carriage, that the wood on the place, which was of a quality to
+suit the Halifax market, would soon place him in independent
+circumstances.
+
+“He will be glad to hear you think so, Sir,” she replied, “for he has
+often said the very same thing himself; but the folks at the settlement
+laugh at him when he talks that way, and say he is too sanguine. But I
+am sure he ain’t, for it is very much like my poor father’s place in
+Colchester, only it has the privilege of a harbour which he had not,
+and that is a great thing.”
+
+The signal for Sorrow having been hung out for some time, we rose to
+take leave, and wishing to find an excuse for leaving some money behind
+me, and recollecting having seen some cows in the field, I asked her if
+she could sell me some of her excellent butter for the use of the
+cabin. She said she could not do so, for the cows all had calves, and
+she made but little; but she had five or six small prints, if I would
+accept them, and she could fill me a bottle or two with cream.
+
+I felt much hurt—I didn’t know what to do. She had given me her last
+ounce of tea, baked her last cake, and presented me with all the butter
+she had in the house. “Could or would you have done that?” said I to
+myself, “come, Sam, speak the truth now.” Well, Squire, I only brag
+when I have a right to boast, though you do say I am always brim full
+of it, and I won’t go for to deceive you or myself either, I know I
+couldn’t, that’s a fact. I have mixed too much with the world, my
+feelings have got blunted, and my heart ain’t no longer as soft as it
+used to did to be. I can give, and give liberally, because I am able,
+but I give what I don’t want and what I don’t miss; but to give as this
+poor woman did all she had of these two indispensable articles, tea and
+flour, is a thing, there is no two ways about it, I could not.
+
+I must say I was in a fix; if I was to offer to pay her, I knew I
+should only wound her feelings. She derived pleasure from her
+hospitality, why should I deprive her of that gratification? If she
+delighted to give, why should I not in a like feeling be pleased to
+accept, when a grateful reception was all that was desired—must I be
+outdone in all things? must she teach me how to give freely and accept
+gracefully?
+
+She shall have her way this hitch, and so will I have mine bime by, or
+the deuce is in the die. I didn’t surely come to Liscombe Harbour to be
+taught those things.
+
+“Tell your husband,” sais I, “I think very highly of his location, and
+if hard times continue to pinch him, or he needs a helping hand, I am
+both able and willing to assist him, and will have great pleasure in
+doing so for her sake who has so kindly entertained us in his absence.
+Here is my card and address, if he wants a friend let him come to me,
+and if he can’t do that, write to me, and he will find I am on hand.
+Any man in Boston will tell him where Sam Slick lives.”
+
+“Who?” said she.
+
+“Sam Slick,” sais I.
+
+“My goodness,” said she, “are you _the_ Mr Slick who used to sell—” She
+paused and coloured slightly, thinking perhaps, as many people do, I
+would be ashamed to be reminded of pedling.
+
+“Wooden clocks,” sais I, helping her to the word. “Yes,” sais I, “I am
+Sam Slick the Clockmaker, at least what is left of me.”
+
+“Goodness gracious, Sir,” said she, advancing and shaking hands
+cordially with me, “how glad I am to see you! You don’t recollect me of
+course, I have grown so since we met, and I don’t recollect your
+features, for it is so long ago, but I mind seeing you at my father’s
+old house, Deacon Flint’s, as well as if it was yesterday. We bought a
+clock from you; you asked mother’s leave to let you put it up, and
+leave it in the room till you called for it. You said you trusted to
+‘soft sawder’ to get it into the house, and to ‘human natur’ that it
+should never come out of it. How often our folks have laughed over that
+story. Dear, dear, only to think we should have ever met again,” and
+going to a trunk she took out of a bark-box a silver sixpence with a
+hole in it, by which it was suspended on a black ribbon.
+
+“See, Sir, do you recollect that, you gave that to me for a keepsake?
+you said it was ‘luck-money.’”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “_if that_ don’t pass, don’t it? Oh, dear, how glad I
+am to see you, and yet how sad it makes me too! I am delighted at
+meetin’ you so onexpected, and yet it makes me feel so old it scares
+me. It only seems as if it was the other day when I was at your
+father’s house, and since then yon have growd up from a little girl
+into a tall handsome woman, got married, been settled, and are the
+mother of two children. Dear me, it’s one o’ the slaps old Father Time
+gives me in the face sometimes, as much as to hint, ‘I say, Slick, you
+are gettin’ too old now to talk so much nonsense as you do.’ Well,”
+sais I, “my words have come true about that silver sixpence.”
+
+“Come here, my little man,” sais I to her pretty curly-headed little
+boy; “come here to me,” and I resumed my seat. “Now,” sais I, “my old
+friend, I will show you how that prophecy is fulfilled to this child.
+That clock I sold to Deacon Flint only cost me five dollars, and five
+dollars more would pay duty, freight, and carriage, and all expenses,
+which left five pounds clear profit, but that warn’t the least share of
+the gain. It introduced my wares all round and through the country, and
+it would have paid me well if I had given him a dozen clocks for his
+patronage. I always thought I would return him that profit if I could
+see him, and as I can’t do that I will give it to this little boy,” so
+I took out my pocket-book and gave her twenty dollars for him.
+
+“Come,” sais I, “my friend, that relieves my conscience now of a debt
+of gratitude, for that is what I always intended to do if I got a
+chance.”
+
+Well, she took it, said it was very kind, and would be a great help to
+them; but that she didn’t see what occasion there was to return the
+money, for it was nothing but the fair profit of a trade, and the clock
+was a most excellent one, kept capital time, and was still standing in
+the old house.
+
+Thinks I to myself, “You have taught me two things, my pretty friend;
+first, how to give, and second, how to receive.”
+
+Well, we bid her good-bye, and after we had proceeded a short distance
+I returned.
+
+Sais I, “Mrs Steele, there is one thing I wish you would do for me; is
+there any cranberries in this neighbourhood?”
+
+“Plenty, Sir,” she said; “at the head of this river there is an immense
+bog, chock full of them.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “there is nothin’ in natur I am so fond of as them; I
+would give anything in the world for a few bushel. Tell your husband to
+employ some people to pick me this fall a barrel of them, and send them
+to me by one of our vessels, directed to me to Slickville, and when I
+go on board I will send you a barrel of flour to pay for it.
+
+“Dear me, Sir,” said she, “that’s a great deal more than their value;
+why they ain’t worth more than two dollars. We will pick them for you
+with great pleasure. We don’t want pay.”
+
+“Ain’t they worth that?” said I, “so much the better. Well, then, he
+can send me another barrel the next year. Why, they are as cheap as
+bull beef at a cent a pound. Good bye; tell him to be sure to come and
+see me the first time he goes to the States. Adieu.”
+
+“What do you think of that, Doctor?” said I, as we proceeded to the
+boat; “ain’t that a nice woman? how cheerful and uncomplaining she is;
+how full of hope and confidence in the future. Her heart is in the
+right place, ain’t it? My old mother had that same sort of contentment
+about her, only, perhaps, her resignation was stronger than her hope.
+When anything ever went wrong about our place to home to Slickville,
+she’d always say, ‘Well, Sam, it might have been worse;’ or, ‘Sam, the
+darkest hour is always just afore day,’ and so on. But Minister used to
+amuse me beyond anything, poor old soul. Once the congregation met and
+raised his wages from three to four hundred dollars a-year. Well, it
+nearly set him crazy; it bothered him so he could hardly sleep. So
+after church was over the next Sunday, he sais, ‘My dear brethren, I
+hear you have raised my salary to four hundred dollars. I am greatly
+obliged to you for your kindness, but I can’t think of taking it on no
+account. First, you can’t afford it no how you can fix it, and I know
+it; secondly, I ain’t worth it, and you know it; and thirdly, I am
+nearly tired to death collecting my present income; if I have to dun
+the same way for that, it will kill me. I can’t stand it; I shall die.
+No, no; pay me what you allow me more punctually, and it is all I ask,
+or will ever receive.’
+
+“But this poor woman is a fair sample of her class in this country; I
+do believe the only true friendship and hospitality is to be found
+among them. They ain’t rich enough for ostentation, and are too equal
+in condition and circumstances for the action of jealousy or rivalry; I
+believe they are the happiest people in the world, but I know they are
+the kindest. Their feelings are not chilled by poverty or corrupted by
+plenty; their occupations preclude the hope of wealth and forbid the
+fear of distress. Dependent on each other for mutual assistance, in
+those things that are beyond individual exertion, they interchange
+friendly offices, which commencing in necessity, grow into habit, and
+soon become the ‘labour of love.’ They are poor, but not destitute, a
+region in my opinion in which the heart is more fully developed than in
+any other. Those who are situated like Steele and his wife, and
+commence a settlement in the woods, with the previous training they
+have received in the rural districts, begin at the right end; but they
+are the only people who are fit to be pioneers in the forest. How many
+there are who begin at the wrong end; perhaps there is no one subject
+on which men form such false notions as the mode of settling in the
+country, whether they are citizens of a colonial town, or strangers,
+from Great Britain.
+
+“Look at that officer at Halifax: he is the best dressed man in the
+garrison; he is well got up always; he looks the gentleman every inch
+of him; how well his horses are groomed; how perfect his turn-out
+looks; how well appointed it is, as he calls it. He and his servant and
+his cattle are a little bit of fashion imported from the park, and
+astonish the natives. Look at his wife, ain’t she a beautiful creature?
+they are proud of, and were just made for each other. This is not
+merely all external appearance either: they are accomplished people;
+they sing, they play, they sketch, they paint, they speak several
+languages, they are well read, they have many resources. Soldiering is
+dull, and, in time of peace, only a police service. It has disagreeable
+duties; it involves repeated removals, and the alternation of bad
+climates—from Hudson’s Bay to Calcutta’s Black Hole. The juniors of the
+regimental officers are mere boys, the seniors great empty
+cartouch-boxes, and the women have cabals,—there is a sameness even in
+its variety; but worse than all, it has no home—in short, the whole
+thing is a bore. It is better to sell out and settle in the province;
+land is cheap; their means are ample, and more than sufficient for the
+requirements of the colony; country society is stupid; there are no
+people fit to visit. It is best to be out of the reach of their morning
+calls and their gossip. A few miles back in the woods there is a
+splendid stream with a beautiful cascade on it; there is a magnificent
+lake communicating with several others that form a chain of many miles
+in extent. That swelling knoll that slopes so gently to the water would
+be such a pretty site for a cottage-_orné_, and the back-ground of
+hanging wood has an indescribable beauty in it, especially in the
+autumn, when the trees are one complete mass of variegated hues. He
+warms on the theme as he dilates on it, and sings as he turns to his
+pretty wife:
+
+‘I knew by the smoke that so gracefully curled
+    Above the green elms that a cottage was near;
+And I said, if there’s peace to be found in the world,
+    The heart that is humble might hope for it here.’
+
+
+“How sweet to plan, how pleasant to execute. How exciting to see it
+grow under one’s own eye, the work of one’s own hand, the creation of
+one’s own taste. It is decided on; Dechamps retires, the papers go in,
+the hero goes out—what a relief! no inspection of soldiers’ dirty
+kits—no parade by day—no guards nor rounds by night—no fatigue parties
+of men who never fatigue themselves—no stupid court-martial—no horrid
+punishments—no reviews to please a colonel who never is pleased, or a
+general who will swear—no marching through streets, to be stared at by
+housemaids from upper windows, and by dirty boys in the side paths—no
+procession to follow brass instruments, like the train of a circus—no
+bearded band-master with his gold cane to lead on his musicians, and no
+bearded white goat to march at the head of the regiment. All, all are
+gone.
+
+“He is out of livery, he has played at soldiering long enough, he is
+tired of the game, he sells out, the man of business is called in,
+_his_ lawyer, as he terms him, as if every gentleman kept a lawyer as
+he does a footman. He is in a hurry to have the purchase completed with
+as little delay as possible. But delays will occur, he is no longer a
+centurion and a man of authority, who has nothing to do but to say to
+this one, Come, and he cometh; and another, Go, and he goeth; Do this,
+and it is done. He can’t put a lawyer under arrest, he is a man of
+arrests himself. He never heard of an attachment for contempt, and if
+he had, he couldn’t understand it; for, when the devil was an attorney,
+he invented the term, as the softest and kindest name for the hardest
+and most unkind process there is. _Attachment_ for _contempt,_ what a
+mockery of Christian forgiveness!
+
+“A conveyancer is a slow coach, he must proceed cautiously, he has a
+long journey to take, he has to travel back to a grant from the crown,
+through all the ‘mesne’ conveyances. He don’t want a _mean_ conveyance,
+he will pay liberally if it is only done quickly; and is informed
+‘mesne’ in law signifies intermediate. It is hard to say what the
+language of law does mean. Then there are searches to be made in the
+record offices, and the—damn the searches, for he is in a hurry and
+loses his patience—search at the bankers, and all will be found right.
+Then there are releases and assignments and discharges. He can stand it
+no longer, he releases his lawyer, discharges him, and assigns another,
+who hints, insinuates, he don’t charge; but gives him to understand his
+predecessor was idle. He will lose no time, indeed he has no time to
+lose, he is so busy with other clients’ affairs, and is as slow as the
+first man was.
+
+“But at last it is done; the titles are completed. He is presented with
+a huge pile of foolscap paper, very neatly folded, beautifully
+engrossed and endorsed in black letters, and nicely tied up with red
+tape, which, with sundry plans, surveys, and grants, are secured in a
+large despatch box, on which are inscribed in gold letters the
+‘_Epaigwit estate_.’ It is a pretty Indian word that, it means the
+‘home on the wave.’ It is the original name of that gem of the western
+ocean which the vulgar inhabitants have christened Prince Edward’s
+Island.
+
+“But what can you expect of a people whose governor calls the gentry
+‘the upper crust of society,’ and who in their turn see an affinity
+between a Scotch and a Roman fiddle, and denounce him as a Nero? But
+then who looks, as he says, for taste in a colony? it is only us
+Englishmen who have any. Yes, he calls this place ‘Epaigwit.’ It has a
+_distingué_ appearance on his letters. It has now a name, the next
+thing is ‘a local habitation.’ Well, we won’t stop to describe it, but
+it has an elegant drawing-room, if there was only company to collect in
+it, a spacious dining-room, and though only two plates are on the table
+there is room for twenty, and a charming study, only awaiting his
+leisure to enjoy it, and so on.
+
+“It is done and the design carried out, though not completed; prudence
+forbids a further expenditure just now. It has cost five times as much
+as was contemplated, and is not worth a tenth part of the outlay, still
+it is very beautiful. Strangers go to see it, and every one pronounces
+it the prettiest thing in the Lower provinces. There have been some
+little drawbacks, but they are to be expected in a colony, and among
+the Goths and Vandals who live there. The contractors have repudiated
+their agreement on account of the extensive alterations made in the
+design and the nature of the work, and he has found there is law in the
+country if not justice. The servants find it too lonely, they have no
+taste for the beauties of nature, and remain without work, or quit
+without notice. If he refuses to pay he is sued, if he pays he is
+cheated. The house leaks, for the materials are green; the chimneys
+smoke, for the drafts are in the wrong place. The children are
+tormented by black flies and musquitoes, and their eyes are so swelled
+they can’t see. The bears make love to his sheep, and the minks and
+foxes devour his poultry. The Indians who come to beg are supposed to
+come to murder, and the negroes who come to sell wild berries are
+suspected of coming to steal. He has no neighbours, he did not desire
+any, and if a heavy weight has to be lifted, it is a little, but not
+much, inconvenience to send to the town for assistance; and the people
+go cheerfully, for they have only five miles to come, and five to
+return, and they are not detained more than five minutes, for he never
+asks them into his house. The butcher won’t come so far to carry his
+meat, nor the baker his bread, nor the postman to deliver his letters.
+
+“The church is too far off, and there is no school. But the clergyman
+is not fit to be heard, he is such a drone in the pulpit; and it is a
+sweet employment to train one’s own children, who thus avoid
+contamination by not associating with vulgar companions.
+
+“These are trifling vexations, and what is there in this life that has
+not some little drawback? But there is something very charming in
+perfect independence, in living for each other, and in residing in one
+of the most delightful spots in America, surrounded by the most
+exquisite scenery that was ever beheld. There is one thing however that
+is annoying. The country people will not use or adopt that pretty word
+Epaigwit, ‘the home of the wave,’ which rivals in beauty of conception
+an eastern expression. The place was originally granted to a fellow of
+the name of Umber, who was called after the celebrated navigator Cook.
+These two words when united soon became corrupted, and the magnificent
+sheet of water was designated ‘the Cucumber Lake,’ while its splendid
+cataract, known in ancient days by the Indians as the ‘Pan-ook,’ or
+‘the River’s Leap,’ is perversely called by way of variation ‘the
+Cowcumber Falls;’ can anything be conceived more vulgar or more
+vexatious, unless it be their awkward attempt at pronunciation, which
+converts Epaigwit into ‘a pig’s wit,’ and Pan-ook into ‘Pond-hook?’
+
+“But then, what can you expect of such boors, and who cares, or what
+does it matter? for after all, if you come to that, the ‘Cumberland
+Lakes’ is not very euphonious, as he calls it, whatever that means. He
+is right in saying it is a beautiful place, and, as he often observes,
+what an immense sum of money it would be worth if it were only in
+England! but the day is not far distant, now that the Atlantic is
+bridged by steamers, when ‘bag-men’ will give place to tourists, and
+‘Epaigwit’ will be the ‘Killarney’ of America. He is quite right, that
+day will come, and so will the millennium, but it is a good way off
+yet; and dear old Minister used to say there was no dependable
+authority that it ever would come at all.
+
+“Now and then a brother officer visits him. Elliott is there now, not
+the last of the Elliotts, for there is no end of them, and though only
+a hundred of them have been heard of in the world, there are a thousand
+well known to the Treasury. But he is the last chum from his regiment
+he will ever see. As they sit after dinner he hands the olives to his
+friend, and suddenly checks himself, saying, I forgot, you never touch
+the ‘_after-feed_.’ Then he throws up both eyes and hands, and affects
+to look aghast at the mistake. ‘Really,’ he says, ‘I shall soon become
+us much of a boor as the people of this country. I hear nothing now but
+mowing, browsing, and ‘after-feed,’ until at last I find myself using
+the latter word for ‘dessert.’ He says it prettily and acts it well,
+and although his wife has often listened to the same joke, she looks as
+if it would bear repetition, and her face expresses great pleasure.
+Poor Dechamps, if your place is worth nothing, she at least is a
+treasure above all price.
+
+“Presently Elliott sais, ‘By-the-by, Dechamps, have you heard we are
+ordered to Corfu, and embark immediately?’
+
+“Dear me, what magic there is in a word. Sometimes it discloses in
+painful distinctness the past, at others it reveals a prophetic page of
+the future; who would ever suppose there was anything in that little
+insignificant word to occasion a thought, unless it was whether it is
+pronounced Corfoo or Corfew, and it’s so little consequence which, I
+always give it the go by and say Ionian Isles.
+
+“But it startled Dechamps. He had hoped before he left the army to have
+been ordered there, and from thence to have visited the classic coasts
+of Greece. Alas, that vision has gone, and there is a slight sigh of
+regret, for possession seldom equals expectation, and always cloys. He
+can never more see his regiment, they have parted for ever. Time and
+distance have softened some of the rougher features of military life.
+He thinks of the joyous days of youth, the varied scenes of life, his
+profession exposed to his view, and the friends he has left behind him.
+The service he thinks not so intolerable after all, and though
+regimental society is certainly not what he should choose, especially
+as a married man, yet, except in a rollicking corps, it may at least
+negatively be said to be ‘not bad.’
+
+“From this review of the past he turns to the prospect before him. But
+he discerns something that he does not like to contemplate, a slight
+shadow passes over his face, and he asks Elliott to pass the wine. His
+wife, with the quickness of perception so natural to a woman, sees at
+once what is passing in his mind; for similar, but deeper, far deeper
+thoughts, like unbidden guests, have occupied hers many an anxious
+hour. Poor thing, she at once perceives her duty and resolves to fulfil
+it. She will be more cheerful. She at least will never murmur. After
+all, Doctor, it’s no great exaggeration to call a woman that has a good
+head and kind heart, and the right shape, build, and bearings, an
+angel, is it? But let us mark their progress, for we shall be better
+able to judge then.
+
+“Let us visit Epaigwit again in a few years. Who is that man near the
+gate that looks unlike a servant, unlike a farmer, unlike a gentleman,
+unlike a sportsman, and yet has a touch of all four characters about
+him? He has a shocking bad hat on but what’s the use of a good hat in
+the woods, as poor Jackson said, where there is no one to see it. He
+has not been shaved since last sheep-shearing, and has a short black
+pipe in his mouth, and the tobacco smells like nigger-head or pig-tail.
+He wears a coarse check shirt without a collar, a black silk neck-cloth
+frayed at the edge, that looks like a rope of old ribbons. His coat
+appears as if it had once been new, but had been on its travels, until
+at last it had got pawned to a Jew at Rag-alley. His waistcoat was
+formerly buff, but now resembles yellow flannel, and the buttons,
+though complete in number are of different sorts. The trowsers are
+homespun, much worn, and his boots coarse enough to swap with a
+fisherman for mackarel. His air and look betokens pride rendered sour
+by poverty.
+
+“But there is something worse than all this, something one never sees
+without disgust or pain, because it is the sure precursor of a diseased
+body, a shattered intellect, and voluntary degradation. There is a
+bright red colour that extends over the whole face, and reaches behind
+the ears. The whiskers are prematurely tipt with white, as if the
+heated skin refused to nourish them any longer. The lips are slightly
+swelled, and the inflamed skin indicates inward fever, while the eyes
+are bloodshot, the under lids distended, and incline to shrink from
+contact with the heated orbs they were destined to protect. He is a
+dram-drinker; and the poison that he imbibes with New England rum is as
+fatal, and nearly as rapid in its destruction, as strikline.
+
+“Who is he; can you guess? do you give it up? He is that handsome
+officer, the Laird of Epaigwit as the Scotch would say, the general as
+we should call him, for we are liberal of titles, and the man that
+lives at Cowcumber Falls, as they say here. Poor fellow, he has made
+the same discovery Sergeant Jackson did, that there is no use of good
+things in the woods where there is no one to see them. He is about to
+order you off his premises, but it occurs to him that would be absurd,
+for he has nothing now worth seeing. He scrutinises you however to
+ascertain if he has ever seen you before. He fears recognition, for he
+dreads both your pity and your ridicule; so he strolls leisurely back
+to the house with a certain bull-dog air of defiance.
+
+“Let us follow him thither; but before we enter, observe there is some
+glass out of the window, and its place supplied by shingles. The
+stanhope is in the coach-house, but the by-road was so full of stumps
+and cradle-hills, it was impossible to drive in it, and the moths have
+eaten the lining out. The carriage has been broken so often it is not
+worth repairing, and the double harness has been cut up to patch the
+tacklin’ of the horse-team. The shrubbery has been browsed away by the
+cattle, and the rank grass has choked all the rose bushes and pretty
+little flowers. What is the use of these things in the woods? That
+remark was on a level with the old dragoon’s intellect; but I am
+surprised that this intelligent officer; this man of the world, this
+martinet, didn’t also discover, that he who neglects himself soon
+becomes so careless as to neglect his other duties, and that to lose
+sight of them is to create and invite certain ruin. But let us look at
+the interior.
+
+“There are some pictures on the walls, and there are yellow stains
+where others hung. Where are they? for I think I heard a man say he
+bought them on account of their handsome frames, from that
+crack-brained officer at Cucumber Lake; and he shut his eye, and looked
+knowing and whispered, ‘Something wrong there, had to sell out of the
+army; some queer story about another wife still living; don’t know
+particulars.’ Poor Dechamps, you are guiltless of that charge at any
+rate, to my certain knowledge; _but how often does slander bequeath to
+folly that which of right belongs to crime!_ The nick-knacks, the
+antique china, the Apostles’ spoons, the queer little old-fashioned
+silver ornaments, the French clock, the illustrated works, and all that
+sort of thing,—all, all are gone. The housemaids broke some, the
+children destroyed others, and the rest were sent to auction, merely to
+_secure their preservation._ The paper is stained in some places, in
+others has peeled off; but where under the sun have all the
+accomplishments gone to?
+
+“The piano got out of tune, and there was nobody to put it in order: it
+was no use; the strings were taken out, and the case was converted into
+a cupboard. The machinery of the harp became rusty, and the cords were
+wanted for something else. But what is the use of these things in the
+woods where there is nobody to see them? But here is Mrs Dechamps. Is
+it possible! My goody gracious as I am a living sinner! Well I never in
+all my born days! what a dreadful wreck! you know how handsome she was.
+Well, I won’t describe her now, I pity her too much. You know I said
+they were counterparts, just made for each other, and so they were; but
+they are of different sexes, made of different stuff, and trouble has
+had a different effect on them. He has neglected himself, and she is
+negligent of her dress too, but not in the same way. She is still neat,
+but utterly regardless of what her attire is; but let it be what it
+may, and let her put on what she will, still she looks like a lady. But
+her health is gone, and her spirits too; and in their place a little,
+delicate hectic spot has settled in her cheek, beautiful to look at,
+but painful to think of. This faint blush is kindly sent to conceal
+consumption, and the faint smile is assumed to hide the broken heart.
+If it didn’t sound unfeelin’, I should say she was booked for an early
+train; but I think so if I don’t say so. The hour is fixed, the
+departure certain; she is glad to leave Epaigwit.
+
+“Somehow though I must say I am a little disappointed in her. She was a
+soldier’s wife; I thought she was made of better stuff, and if she had
+died would have at least died game. Suppose they have been unfortunate
+in pitching their tent ‘on the home of the wave,’ and got aground, and
+their effects have been thrown overboard; what is that, after all?
+Thousands hare done the same; there is still hope for them. They are
+more than a match for these casualties; how is it she has given up so
+soon? Well, don’t allude to it, but there is a sad tragical story
+connected with that lake. Do you recollect that beautiful curly-headed
+child, her eldest daughter, that she used to walk with at Halifax?
+Well, she grew up into a magnificent girl; she was full of health and
+spirits, and as fleet and as wild as a hare. She lived in the woods and
+on the lake. She didn’t shoot, and she didn’t fish, but she accompanied
+those who did. The beautiful but dangerous bark canoe was her delight;
+she never was happy but when she was in it. Tom Hodges, the orphan boy
+they had brought with them from the regiment, who alone of all their
+servants had remained faithful in their voluntary exile, was the only
+one permitted to accompany her; for he was so careful, so expert, and
+so good a swimmer. Alas! one night the canoe returned not. What a long,
+eager, anxious night was that! but towards noon the next day the
+upturned bark drifted by the shore, and then it was but too evident
+that that sad event which the anxious mother had so often dreaded and
+predicted had come to pass. They had met a watery grave. Often and
+often were the whole chain of lakes explored, but their bodies were
+never found. Entangled in the long grass and sunken driftwood that
+covered the bottom of these basins, it was not likely they would ever
+rise to the surface.
+
+“It was impossible to contemplate that fearful lake without a shudder.
+They must leave the place soon and for ever. Oh, had Emily’s life been
+spared, she could have endured any and everything for her sake. Poor
+thing! how little she knew what she was a talking about, as she broke
+the seal of a letter in a well-known hand. Her life was spared; it
+never was endangered. She had eloped with Tom Hodges—she had reached
+Boston—she was very happy—Tom was all kindness to her. She hoped they
+would forgive her and write to her, for they were going to California,
+where they proposed to be married as soon as they arrived. Who ever
+appealed to a mother for forgiveness in vain? Everything appeared in a
+new light. The child had been neglected; she ought not to have been
+suffered to spend so much of her time with that boy; both her parents
+had strangely forgotten that they had grown up, and—it was no use to
+say more. Her father had locked her out of his heart, and thrown away
+the key for ever. He wished she had been drowned, for in that case she
+would have died innocent; and he poured out such a torrent of
+imprecations, that the poor mother was terrified lest, as the Persians
+say, these curses, like fowls, might return home to roost, or like
+prayers, might be heard, and procure more than was asked.
+
+“You may grieve over the conduct of a child, and lament its untimely
+death, and trust in God for his mercy; but no human being can reverse
+the order of things, and first mourn the decease of a child, and then
+grieve for its disgraceful life; for there is a grave again to be dug,
+and who knoweth whether the end shall be peace? We can endure much, but
+there is a load that crusheth. Poor thing! you were right, and your
+husband wrong. Woman-like, your judgment was correct, your impulses
+good, and your heart in the right place. The child was not to be
+blamed, but its parents. You could, if you thought proper, give up
+society and live for each other; you had proved it, and knew how hollow
+and false it was; but your children could not resign what they never
+had, nor ignore feelings which God had implanted within them. Nature
+has laws which must and will be obeyed. The swallow selects its mate,
+builds its nest, and occupies itself in nurturing its young. The heart
+must have something to love, and if it is restricted in its choice, it
+will bestow its affections not on what it would approve and select, but
+upon what it may chance to find; you are not singular in your domestic
+affliction; it is the natural consequence of your isolation, and I have
+known it happen over and over again.
+
+“Now, Doctor, let us return, after the lapse of a few years, as I did,
+to Epaigwit. I shall never forget the impression it made upon me. It
+was about this season of the year I went there to fish, intending to
+spend the night in a camp, so as to be ready for the morning sport:
+‘Why, where am I?’ sais I to myself, when I reached the place. ‘Why,
+surely this ain’t Cucumber Lake! where is that beautiful hanging wood,
+the temptation in the wilderness that ruined poor Dechamps? gone, not
+cleared, but destroyed; not subdued to cultivation, but reduced to
+desolation.’ Tall gaunt black trees stretch out their withered arms on
+either side, as if balancing themselves against a fall, while huge
+trunks lie scattered over the ground, where they fell in their fierce
+conflict with the devouring fire that overthrew them. The ground is
+thickly covered with ashes, and large white glistening granite rocks,
+which had formerly been concealed by moss, the creeping evergreen, and
+the smiling, blushing may-flower, now rear their cold snowy heads that
+contrast so strangely with the funereal pall that envelopes all around
+them. No living thing is seen there, nor bird, nor animal, nor insect,
+nor verdant plant; even the hardy fire-weed has not yet ventured to
+intrude on this scene of desolation, and the woodpecker, afraid of the
+atmosphere which charcoal has deprived of vitality, shrinks back in
+terror when he approaches it. Poor Dechamps, had you remained to
+witness this awful conflagration, you would have observed in those
+impenetrable boulders of granite a type of the hard, cold, unfeeling
+world around you, and in that withered and blackened forest, a fitting
+emblem of your blighted and blasted prospects.
+
+“But if the trees had disappeared from that side of the lake, they had
+been reproduced on the other. The fields, the lawn, and the garden were
+over-run with a second growth of wood that had nearly concealed the
+house from view. It was with some difficulty I forced my way through
+the chaparel (thicket), which was rendered almost impenetrable by
+thorns, Virginia creepers, honeysuckles, and sweet-briars, that had
+spread in the wildest profusion. The windows, doors, mantle-pieces,
+bannisters, and every portable thing had been removed from the house by
+the blacks, who had squatted in the neighbourhood; even the chimneys
+had been taken down for the bricks. The swallows were the sole tenants;
+the barn had fallen a prey to decay and storms, and the roof lay
+comparatively uninjured at some distance on the ground. A pair of
+glistening eyes, peeping through a broken board at the end, showed me
+that the foxes had appropriated it to their own use. The horse-stable,
+coach-house, and other buildings were in a similar state of
+dilapidation.
+
+“I returned to the camp, and learned that Mrs Dechamps was reposing in
+peace in the village church-yard, the children had been sent to England
+to their relatives, and the captain was residing in California with his
+daughter and Tom Hodges, who were the richest people in St Francisco.”
+
+“What a sad picture!” said the doctor.
+
+“Well, it’s true though,” said I, “ain’t it?”
+
+“I never was at Cucumber Lake,” said he, smiling, “but I have known
+several similar failures. The truth is, Mr Slick, though I needn’t tell
+you, for you know better than I do, our friend Steele began at the
+right and Dechamps at the wrong end. The poor native ought always to go
+to the woods, the emigrant or gentleman never; the one is a rough and
+ready man; he is at home with an axe, and is conversant as well with
+the privations and requirements as with the expedients and shifts of
+forest life; his condition is ameliorated every year, and in his latter
+days he can afford to rest from his labours; whereas, if he buys what
+is called a half-improved farm, and is unable to pay for it at the time
+of the purchase, the mortgage is almost sure to ruin him at last. Now a
+man of means who retires to the country is wholly unfit for a pioneer,
+and should never attempt to become one; he should purchase a farm ready
+made to his hands, and then he has nothing to do but to cultivate and
+adorn it. It takes two generations, at least, to make such a place as
+he requires. The native, again is one of a class, and the most
+necessary one too in the country; the people sympathise with him, aid
+and encourage him. The emigrant-gentleman belongs to no class, and wins
+no affection; he is kindly received and judiciously advised by people
+of his own standing in life, but he affects to consider their counsel
+obtrusive and their society a bore; he is therefore suffered to proceed
+his own way, which they all well know, as it has been so often
+travelled before, leads to ruin. They pity, but they can’t assist him.
+Yes, yes, your sketch of ‘Epaigwit’ is so close to nature, I shouldn’t
+wonder if many a man who reads it should think he sees the history of
+his own place under the name of ‘the Cucumber Lake.’”
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV.
+THE RECALL.
+
+
+In compiling this Journal, Squire, my object has been less to give you
+the details of my cruise, than to furnish you with my remarks on men
+and things in general. Climate, locality, and occupation form or vary
+character, but man is the same sort of critter everywhere. To know him
+thoroughly, he must be studied in his various aspects. When I learned
+drawing, I had an India-rubber figure, with springs in it, and I used
+to put it into all sorts of attitudes. Sometimes it had its arms up,
+and sometimes down, now a-kimbo, and then in a boxing posture. I stuck
+out its legs or made it stand bolt upright, and put its head every way
+I could think of, and so on. It taught me to draw, and showed me the
+effect of light and shade. So in sketching human character, feelings,
+prejudices, and motives of action, I have considered man at one time as
+a politician, a preacher, or a trader, and at another as a countryman
+or a citizen, as ignorant or wise, and so on. In this way I soon
+learned to take his gauge as you do a cask of spirits, and prove his
+strength or weakness by the bead I could raise on him.
+
+If I know anything of these matters, and you seem to consait I do, why
+I won’t act “Peter Funk”1 to myself, but this I will say, “Human natur
+is my weakness.” Now I think it best to send you only such portions of
+my Journal as will interest you, for a mere diary of a cruise is a mere
+nothing. So I skip over my sojourn at Canzeau, and a trip the doctor
+and I took to Prince Edward’s Island, as containing nothing but a sort
+of ship’s log, and will proceed to tell you about our sayings and
+doings at that celebrated place Louisburg, in Cape Breton, which was
+twice besieged and taken, first by our colony-forefathers from Boston,
+and then by General Wolfe, the Quebec hero, and of which nothing now
+remains but its name, which you will find in history, and its harbour,
+which you will find in the map. The French thought building a fortress
+was colonization, and the English that blowing it up was the right way
+to settle the country. The world is wiser now.
+
+1 At petty auctions in the States, a person is employed to bid up
+articles, in order to raise their price. Such a person is called a
+_Peter Funk,_ probably from that name having frequently been given when
+things were bought in. In short, it is now used as a
+“puffer.”—BARTLETT.
+
+
+As we approached the place the Doctor said, “You see, Mr Slick, the
+entrance to Louisburg is pointed out to voyagers coming from the
+eastward, by the ruins of an old French lighthouse, and the lantern of
+a new one, on the rocky wall of the north shore, a few minutes after
+approaching which the mariner shoots from a fretful sea into the smooth
+and capacious port. The ancient ruins display even yet the most
+attractive object to the eye. The outline of these neglected mounds,
+you observe, is boldly marked against the sky, and induces a visit to
+the spot where the fortress once stood. Louisburg is everywhere covered
+with a mantle of turf, and without the assistance of a native it is not
+easy to discover even the foundations of the public buildings. Two or
+three casemates still remain, appearing like the mouths of huge ovens,
+surmounted by a great mass of earth and stone. These caverns,
+originally the safeguards of powder and other combustible munitions of
+war, now serve to shelter the flocks of sheep that graze upon the grass
+that conceals them. The floors are rendered nearly impassable by the
+ordure of these animals, but the vaulted ceilings are adorned by
+dependent stalactites, like icicles in shape, but not in purity of
+colour, being of a material somewhat similar to oyster shells. The mass
+of stone1 and brick that composed the buildings, and which is now swept
+so completely from its site, has been distributed along the shores of
+America, as far as Halifax and Boston, having been successively carried
+away for the erections in those places and the intermediate coast,
+which contains many a chimney bearing the memorials of Louisburg. The
+remains of the different batteries on the island and round the harbour
+are still shown by the inhabitants, as well as of the wharves,
+stockade, and sunken ships of war. On gaining the walls above the town,
+they are found to consist of a range of earthen fortifications with
+projecting angles, and extending as already mentioned from the harbour
+to the sea, interrupted at intervals by large pits, said to have been
+produced by the efforts of the captors to blow up the walls. From these
+heights, the glacis slopes away to the edge of the bog outside, forming
+a beautiful level walk, though now only enjoyed by the sheep, being,
+like the walls, carpeted by short turf. At the termination of this line
+of fortification on the sea-shore, is a huge and uncouth black rock,
+which appears to have been formerly quarried for building stone, large
+quantities ready hewn being still scattered round it, and gathered in
+masses as if prepared for that use.
+
+1 See Haliburton’s “History of Nova Scotia.”
+
+
+“The prospect from the brow of the dilapidated ramparts is one of the
+most impressive that the place affords. Looking to the south-west over
+the former city, the eye wanders upon the interminable ocean, its blue
+rolling waves occupying three-fourths of the scene, and beyond them, on
+the verge of the horizon, a dense bank of fog sweeps along with the
+prevailing S.W. wind, precluding all hopes of discerning any vista
+beyond that curtain. Turning landwards towards the south-west, over the
+spacious bog that lies at the foot of the walls, the sight is met by a
+range of low wood in the direction of Gabarus, and can penetrate no
+further. The harbour is the only prospect to the northward, and
+immediately in its rear the land rises so as to prevent anymore distant
+view, and even the harbour appears dwindled to a miniature of itself,
+being seen in the same picture with the mighty ocean that nearly
+surrounds the beholder. The character of the whole scene is melancholy,
+presenting the memorials of former life and population, contrasted with
+its present apparent isolation from the natives of the earth. The
+impression is not weakened by the sight of the few miserable huts
+scattered along the shores of the port, and the little fishing vessels,
+scarcely perceptible in the mountain-swell of the ocean; they serve but
+to recall painfully the images of elegant edifices that once graced the
+foreground, and of proud flags that waved upon the face of that heaving
+deep.
+
+“It is not easy to give a reason for the continued desolation of
+Louisburg. A harbour opening directly upon the sea, whence egress is
+unobstructed and expeditious, and return equally convenient at all
+seasons; excellent fishing grounds at the very entrance; space on shore
+for all the operations of curing the fish; every advantage for trade
+and the fisheries is offered in vain. The place would appear to be
+shunned by tacit consent. The shallops come from Arichet and St Peter’s
+Bay to fish at its very mouth, but no one sets up his establishment
+there. The merchants resort to every station in its vicinity, to
+Main-a-Dieu, the Bras d’Or, St Anne, Inganish, nay, even Cape North,
+places holding out no advantage to compare with those of Louisburg, yet
+no one ventures there. The fatality that hangs over places of fallen
+celebrity seems to press heavily on this once valued spot.”
+
+“Massa Doctor,” said Sorrow, when he heard this description, “peers to
+me, dem English did gib de French goss widout sweetenin’, most
+particular jess dat are a nateral fac. By golly, but dey was strange
+folks boff on ’em. Ki dey must been gwine stracted, sure as you born,
+when dey was decomposed (angry) wid each other, to come all de way out
+here to fight. Lordy gracious, peers to me crossin’ de sea might a
+cooled them, sposin’ dar hair was rumpled.”
+
+“You are right, Sorrow,” said I; “and, Doctor, niggers and women often
+come to a right conclusion, though they cannot give the right reasons
+for it, don’t they?”
+
+“Oh, oh, Mr Slick,” said he, “pray don’t class ladies and niggers
+together. Oh, I thought you had more gallantry about you than that.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “there is where the shoe pinches. You are a so far
+and no further emancipationist. You will break up the social system of
+the south, deprive the planter of his slave, and set the nigger free;
+but you will not admit him to your family circle, associate with him,
+or permit him to intermarry with your daughter. Ah, Doctor, you can
+emancipate him, but you can’t emancipate yourself. You are willing to
+give him the liberty of a dog; he may sleep in your stable, exercise
+himself in the coachyard, and may stand or run behind your carriage,
+but he must not enter the house, for he is offensive, nor eat at your
+table, for the way he devours his food is wolfish; you unchain him, and
+that is all. But before the collar was unfastened he was well and
+regularly fed, now he has to forage for it; and if he can’t pay for his
+grub, he can and will steal it. Abolition has done great things for
+him. He was once a life-labourer on a plantation in the south, he is
+now a prisoner for life in a penitentiary in the north, or an idle
+vagrant, and a shameless, houseless beggar. The fruit of cant is indeed
+bitter. The Yankees emancipated their niggers because it didn’t pay to
+keep slaves. They now want the southern planters to liberate theirs for
+conscience sake. But here we are on the beach; let us land.”
+
+After taking a survey of the scene from the sight of the old town, we
+sat down on one of the eastern mounds, and the doctor continued his
+account of the place. “It took the French twenty-fire years to erect
+Louisburg,” he said, “and though not completed according to the
+original design, it cost not less than thirty millions of livres. It
+was environed, two miles and a half in circumference, with a stone wall
+from thirty to thirty-six feet high, and a ditch eighty feet wide.
+There was, as you will see, six bastions and eight batteries, with
+embrasures for 148 cannon. On the island at the entrance of the
+harbour, which we just passed, was a battery of thirty twenty-eight
+pounders, and at the bottom of the port another mounting thirty-eight
+heavy guns. In 1745, a plan for taking it was conceived by a
+colonial-lawyer, a Governor of Massachusetts, and executed by a body of
+New England volunteers, led on by a country trader. History can hardly
+furnish such another instance of courage and conduct in an
+undisciplined body, laying siege to a regular constructed fortress like
+this. Commodore Warren, when first applied to for assistance, declined
+to afford it, as well because he had no orders as that he thought the
+enterprise a rash one. He was however at last instructed from home to
+co-operate with the Yankee troops, and arrived in season to witness the
+progress of the siege, and receive the whole of the honour which was so
+exclusively due to the Provincials. This act of insolence and injustice
+on the part of the British was never forgotten by your countrymen, but
+the memory of favours is short-lived, and a similar distribution of
+rewards has lately surprised and annoyed the Canadians. The colonist
+who raised the militia and saved Canada, as you have justly remarked
+elsewhere, was knighted, while he who did no more than his duty as an
+officer in the army, was compensated for two or three little affairs in
+which the soldiers were engaged by a coronet and a pension.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais I, “what’s sauce for the goose ought to be sauce for
+the gander; but it seems English geese are all swans.”
+
+“Well, in 1758, it was again taken by the English, who attacked it with
+an immense and overpowering armament, consisting of 151 sail, and
+14,000 men. Profiting by the experience of the Provincials, they soon
+reduced the place, which it is astonishing could have made any
+resistance at all against such an overwhelming force. Still, this
+attack was mostly an English one; and though it dwindles into utter
+insignificance when compared with the previous capture by the
+colonists, occasioned a great outbreak of national pride. The French
+colours were carried in pompous parade, escorted by detachments of
+horse and foot-guards, with kettle-drums and trumpets, from the palace
+of Kensington to St Paul’s Cathedral, where they were deposited as
+trophies, under a discharge of cannon, and other noisy expressions of
+triumph and exultation. Indeed, the public rejoicings for the conquest
+of Louisburg were diffused through every part of the British dominions;
+and addresses of congratulation were presented to the king by a great
+number of flourishing towns and corporations.”
+
+“Twenty-five years afterwards the colonists, who were denied the credit
+of their gallant enterprise, made good their claim to it by conquering
+those who boasted that they were the conquerors themselves.”
+
+“I am glad to hear you say so, Doctor,” said I, “for I concur in it
+all. The English are liberal, but half the time they ain’t just.
+Spendin’ money in colonies is one thing, but givin’ them fair play is
+another. The army complains that all commendation and promotion is
+reserved for the staff. Provincials complain of similar injustice, but
+there is this wide difference, the one has the ‘Times’ for its
+advocate, the other is unheard or unheeded. An _honest_ statesman will
+not refuse to do justice—a _willy_ poilitician will concede with grace
+what he knows he must soon yield to compulsion. The old Tory was a man
+after all, every inch of him.”
+
+“Now,” sais the doctor, “that remark reminds me of what I have long
+intended to ask you if I got a chance. How is it, Mr Slick, that you,
+who are a republican, whenever you speak of England are so
+conservative? It always seemed to me as if it warn’t quite natural. If
+I didn’t know you, I should say your books were written by a colonist
+who had used your name for a medium for giving his own ideas.”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “Doctor, I am glad you asked me, for I have thought
+myself it wasn’t unlikely some folks would fall into that mistake. I’ll
+tell you how this comes, though I wouldn’t take the trouble to
+enlighten others, for it kinder amuses me to see a fellow find a mare’s
+nest with a tee-hee’s egg in it. First, I believe that a republic is
+the only form of government suited to us, or practicable in North
+America. A limited monarchy could not exist in the States, for royalty
+and aristocracy never had an original root there. A military or
+despotic one could be introduced, because a standing army can do
+anything, but it couldn’t last long. Liberty is too deeply seated, and
+too highly prized, to be suppressed for any length of time.
+
+“Now, I like a republic, but I hate a democracy. The wit of man never
+could have devised anything more beautiful, better balanced, and more
+skilfully checked, than our constitution is, or rather was; but every
+change we make is for the worse. I am therefore a conservative at home.
+On the other hand, the English constitution is equally well suited to
+the British. It is admirably adapted to the genius, traditions, tastes,
+and feelings of the people. They are not fitted for a republic. They
+tried it once, and it failed; and if they were to try it again it would
+not succeed. Every change _they_ make is also for the worse. In talking
+therefore as I do, I only act and talk consistently, when I say I am a
+conservative abroad also.
+
+“Conservatism, both in the States and in Great Britain, when rightly
+understood, has a fixed principle of action, which is to conserve the
+constitution of the country, and not subvert it. Now, liberalism
+everywhere is distinguished by having no principle. In England it longs
+for office, and sacrifices everything to it. It does nothing but
+pander. It says religion is a matter of taste, leave it to itself and
+it will take care of itself; now that maxim was forced on us by
+necessity, for at the Revolution we scarcely had an Episcopal church,
+it was so small as hardly to deserve the name. But in England it is an
+unconstitutional, irrational, and monstrous maxim. Still it suits the
+views of Romanists (although they hold no such doctrine themselves),
+for it is likely to hand over the church revenues in Ireland to them.
+It also suits Dissenters, for it will relieve them of church rates; and
+it meets the wishes of the republican party, because they know no
+church and no bishop will soon lead to no monarch. Again, it says,
+enlarge the franchise, so as to give an increase of voters; that
+doctrine suits all those sections also, for it weakens both monarchy
+and aristocracy. Then again, it advocates free-trade, for that weakens
+the landed interest, and knocks from under nobility one of its best
+pillars. To lower the influence of the church pleases all political
+Come-outers, some for one, and some for another reason. Their views are
+not identical, but it is for their interest to unite. One advocates it
+because it destroys Protestantism as a principle of the constitution,
+another because the materials of this fortress, like those of
+Louisburg, may be useful for erecting others, and among them
+conventicles.
+
+“Then there is no truth in liberalism. When Irish emancipation was
+discussed, it was said, Pass that and you will hear no more grievances,
+it will tend to consolidate the church and pacify the people. It was no
+sooner granted, than ten bishopricks were suppressed, and monster
+meetings paraded through and terrified the land. One cardinal came in
+place of ten Protestant prelates, and so on. So liberalism said Pass
+the Reform Bill, and all England will be satisfied; well, though it has
+not worked well for the kingdom, it has done wonders for the radical
+party, and now another and more extensive one is promised. The British
+Lion has been fed with living raw meat, and now roars for more victims.
+It ain’t easy to onseat liberals, I tell you, for they know how to
+pander. If you promise power to those who have none, you must have the
+masses with you. I could point you out some fellows that are sure to
+win the dead1 heads, the dough2 boys, the numerous body that is on the
+fence,3 and political come-outers.4 There is at this time a postponed
+Reform Bill. The proposer actually cried when it was deferred to
+another session. It nearly broke his heart. He couldn’t bear that the
+public should have it to say, ‘They had seen the elephant.’”
+
+1 Dead heads may perhaps be best explained by substituting the words
+“the unproductive class of operatives,” such as spend their time in
+ale-houses; demagogues, the men who, with free tickets, travel in
+steam-boats, frequent theatres, tavern-keepers, &c.
+
+
+2 Pliable politicians, men who are accessible to personal influences or
+considerations.
+
+
+3 A man is said _to be on a fence_ who is ready to join the strongest
+party because he who sits on a fence is in a position to jump down,
+with equal facility, on either side of it.
+
+
+4 “Political come-outers” are the loose fish of all parties. Dissenters
+from their own side.—See Bartlett’s definitions.
+
+
+“Seeing the elephant,” said the doctor, “was he so large a man as
+that?”
+
+“Lord bless you,” sais I, “no, he is a man that thinks he pulls the
+wires, like one of Punch’s small figures, but the wires pull him and
+set him in motion. It is a cant term we have, and signifies ‘going out
+for wool and coming back shorn.’ Yes, he actually shed tears, like a
+cook peelin’ onions. He reminded me of a poor fellow at Slickville, who
+had a family of twelve small children. His wife took a day, and died
+one fine morning, leaving another youngster to complete the baker’s
+dozen, and next week that dear little innocent died too. He took on
+dreadfully about it. He boo-hooed right out, which is more than the
+politicioner did over his chloroformed bill.
+
+“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘Jeddediah, you ought to be more of a man than to take
+on that way. With no means to support your family of poor helpless
+little children, with no wife to look after them, and no airthly way to
+pay a woman to dry-nurse and starve the unfortunate baby, it’s a mercy
+it did die, and was taken out of this wicked world.’
+
+“‘I know it and feel it, Mr Sam,’ said he, lookin’ up in a way that
+nobody but him could look, ‘but—’
+
+“‘But what?’ sais I.
+
+“‘Why,’ says he, ‘but it don’t do to say so, you know.’
+
+“Jist then some of the neighbours came in, when he burst out wuss than
+before, and groaned like a thousand sinners at a camp-meetin’.
+
+“Most likely the radical father of the strangled Reform Bill comforted
+himself with the same reflection, only he thought _it wouldn’t do to
+say so._ Crocodiles can cry when they are _hungry,_ but when they do
+it’s time to vamose the poke-loken,1 that’s a fact. Yes, yes, they
+understand these things to England as well as we do, you may depend.
+They warn’t born yesterday. But I won’t follow it out. Liberalism is
+playing the devil both with us and the British. Change is going on with
+railroad haste in America, but in England, though it travels not so
+fast, it never stops, and like a steam-packet that has no freight, it
+daily increases its rate of speed as it advances towards the end of the
+voyage. Now you have my explanation, Doctor, why I am a conservative on
+principle, both at home and abroad.”
+
+1 Poke-loken, a marshy place, or stagnant pool, connected with a river.
+
+
+“Well,” said the doctor,” that is true enough as far as England is
+concerned, but still I don’t quite understand how it is, as a
+republican, you are so much of a conservative at home, for your reasons
+appear to me to be more applicable to Britain than to the United
+States.”
+
+“Why,” sais I, “my good friend, liberalism is the same thing in both
+countries, though its work and tactics may be different. It is
+destructive but not creative. It tampers with the checks and balances
+of our constitution. It flatters the people by removing the restraints
+they so wisely placed on themselves to curb their own impetuosity. It
+has shaken the stability of the judiciary by making the experiment of
+electing the judges. It has abolished equity, in name, but infused it
+so strongly in the administration of the law, that the distinctive
+boundaries are destroyed, and the will of the court is now substituted
+for both. In proportion as the independence of these high officers is
+diminished, their integrity may be doubted. Elected, and subsequently
+sustained by a faction, they become its tools, and decide upon party
+and not legal grounds. In like manner, wherever the franchise was
+limited, the limit is attempted to be removed. We are, in fact, fast
+merging into a mere pure democracy,1 for the first blow on the point of
+the wedge that secures the franchise, weakens it so that it is sure to
+come out at last. Our liberals know this as well your British
+Gerrymanderers do.”
+
+1 De Tocqueville, who has written incomparably the best work that has
+ever appeared on the United States, makes the following judicious
+remarks on this subject: “Where a nation modifies the elective
+qualification, it may easily be foreseen, that sooner or later that
+qualification will be abolished. There is no more invariable rule in
+the history of society. The further electoral rights are extended, the
+more is felt the need of extending them; for after each concession, the
+strength of the democracy increases, and its demands increase with its
+strength. The ambition of those who are below the appointed rate is
+irritated, in exact proportion of the number of those who are above it.
+The exception at last becomes the rule, concession follows concession,
+and no step can be made, short of universal suffrage.”
+
+
+“Genymanderers,”1 he said, “who in the world are they? I never heard of
+them before.”
+
+1 This term came into use in the year 1811, in Massachusetts, where,
+for several years previous, the federal and democratic parties stood
+nearly equal. In that year, the democratic party, having a majority in
+the Legislature, determined so to district the State anew, that those
+sections which gave a large number of federal votes might be brought
+into one district. The result was, that the democratic party carried
+everything before them at the following election, and filled every
+office in the State, although it appeared by the votes returned, that
+nearly two-thirds of the votes were Federalists. Elridge Gerry, a
+distinguished politician at that period, was the inventor of that plan,
+which was called Gerrymandering, after him.—Glossary of Americanisms.
+
+
+“Why,” sais I, “skilful politicians, who so arrange the electoral
+districts of a State, that in an election one party may obtain an
+advantage over its opponent, even though the latter may possess a
+majority of the votes in the State; the truth is, it would be a long
+story to go through, but we are corrupted by our liberals with our own
+money, that’s a fact. Would you believe it now, that so long ago as six
+years, and that is a great while in our history seein’ we are growing
+at such a rate, there were sixty thousand offices in the gift of the
+general government, and patronage to the extent of more than forty
+million of dollars, besides official pickings and parquisites, which
+are nearly as much more in the aggregate? Since then it has grown with
+our growth. Or would you believe that a larger sum is assessed in the
+city of _New York,_ than would cover the expenses of the general
+government at _Washington?_ Constructive mileage may be considered as
+the principle of the party, and literally runs through everything.”
+
+“What strange terms you have, Mr Slick,” said he; “do pray tell me what
+that is.”
+
+“Snooping and stool-pidgeoning,” sais I.
+
+“Constructive mileage, snooping and stool-pidgeoning!” said he, and he
+put his hands on his ribs, and running round in a circle, laughed until
+he nearly fell on the ground fairly tuckered out, “what _do_ you mean?”
+
+“Constructive mileage,” says I, “is the same allowance for journeys
+_supposed_ to be performed as for those that are _actually_ made, to
+and from the seat of government. When a new president comes into
+office, Congress adjourns of course on the third of March, and his
+inauguration is made on the fourth; the senate is immediately convened
+to act on his nominations, and though not a man of them leaves
+Washington, each is _supposed_ to go home and return again in the
+course of the ten or twelve hours that intervene between the
+adjournment and their reassembling. For this ideal journey the senators
+are allowed their mileages, as if the journey was actually made. In the
+case of those who come from a distance, the sum often amounts,
+individually, to one thousand or fifteen hundred dollars.”
+
+“Why, Mr Slick,” said he, “that ain’t honest.”
+
+“Honest,” said I, “who the plague ever said it was? but what can you
+expect from _red_ republicans? Well, snooping means taking things on
+the sly after a good rumage; and stool-pidgeoning means plundering
+under cover of law; for instance, if a judge takes a bribe, or a fellow
+is seized by a constable, and the stolen property found on him is given
+up, the merciful officer seizes the goods and lets him run, and that is
+all that ever is heard of it—that is stool-pidgeoning. But now,” sais
+I, “sposin’ we take a survey of the place here, for in a general way I
+don’t affection politics, and as for party leaders, whether English
+reformers or American democrats, critters that are dyed in the wool, I
+hate the whole caboodle of them. Now, having donated you with my
+reasons for being a conservative, sposin’ you have a row yourself. What
+do you consider best worth seeing here, if you can be said to see a
+place when it don’t exist? for the English did sartainly deacon the
+calf1 here, that’s a fact. They made them smell cotton, and gave them
+partikilar Moses, and no mistake.”
+
+1 To deacon a calf, is to knock a thing on the head as soon as born or
+finished.
+
+
+“Of the doings of the dead,” he said, “all that is around us has a
+melancholy interest; but of the living there is a most extraordinary
+old fellow that dwells in that white house on the opposite side of the
+harbour. He can tell us all the particulars of the two sieges, and show
+us the site of most of the public buildings; he is filled with
+anecdotes of all the principal actors in the sad tragedies that have
+been enacted here; but he labours under a most singular monomania.
+Having told these stories so often he now believes that he was present
+at the first capture of the fortress, under Colonel Pepperal and the
+New England militia in 1745, and at the second in 1754, when it was
+taken by Generals Amherst and Wolfe. I suppose he may be ninety years
+of age; the first event must have happened therefore nineteen and the
+other six years before he was born; in everything else his accuracy of
+dates and details is perfectly astonishing.”
+
+“Massa,” said Sorrow, “I don’t believe he is nuffin’ but a
+reeblushionary suspensioner (a revolutionary pensioner), but it peers
+to me dem folks do libb for ebber. My poor old missus used to call ’em
+King George’s hard bargains, yah, yah, yah. But who comma dere, Massa?”
+said he, pointing to a boat that was rapidly approaching the spot where
+we stood.
+
+The steersman, who appeared to be the skipper of a vessel, inquired for
+Cutler, and gave him a letter, who said as soon as he had read it,
+“Slick, our cruise has come to a sudden termination. Blowhard has
+purchased and fitted out his whaler, and only awaits my return to take
+charge of her and proceed to the Pacific. With his usual generosity, he
+has entered my name as the owner of one half of the ship, her tackle
+and outfit. I must go on board the ‘Black Hawk’ immediately, and
+prepare for departing this evening.”
+
+It was agreed that he should land the doctor at Ship Harbour, who was
+anxious to see Jessie, which made him as happy as a clam at high-water,
+and put me ashore at Jordan, where I was no less in a hurry to see a
+fair friend whose name is of no consequence now, for I hope to induce
+her to change it for one that is far shorter, easier to write and
+remember, and, though I say it that shouldn’t say it, one that I
+consait she needn’t be ashamed of neither.
+
+On our way back, sais the doctor to me:
+
+“Mr Slick, will you allow me to ask you another question?”
+
+“A hundred,” sais I, “if you like.”
+
+“Well,” sais he, “I have inquired of you what you think of state
+affairs; will you tell me what you think about the Church? I see you
+belong to what we call the Establishment, and what you denominate the
+American Episcopal Church, which is very nearly the same thing. What is
+your opinion, now, of the Evangelical and Puseyite parties? Which is
+right and which is wrong?”
+
+“Well,” sais I, “coming to me about theology is like going to a goat’s
+house for wool. It is out of my line. My views on all subjects are
+practical, and not theoretical. But first and foremost, I must tell
+you, I hate all nick-names. In general, they are all a critter knows of
+his own side, or the other either. As you have asked me my opinion,
+though, I will give it. I think both parties are wrong, because both go
+to extremes, and therefore are to be equally avoided. Our Articles, as
+dear old Minister used to say, are very wisely so worded as to admit of
+some considerable latitude of opinion; but that very latitude naturally
+excludes anything ultra. The Puritanical section, and the Newmanites
+(for Pusey, so far, is stedfast), are not, in fact, real churchmen, and
+ought to leave us. One are Dissenters and the other Romanists. The
+ground they severally stand on is slippery. A false step takes one to
+the conventicle and the other to the chapel. If I was an Evangelical,
+as an honest man, I would quit the Establishment as Baptist Noel did,
+and so I would if I were a Newmanite. It’s only rats that consume the
+food and undermine the foundations of the house that shelters them. A
+traitor within the camp is more to be dreaded than an open enemy
+without. Of the two, the extreme low-churchmen are the most dangerous,
+for they furnish the greatest number of recruits of schism, and,
+strange to say, for popery too. Search the list of those who have gone
+over to Rome, from Ahab Meldrum to Wilberforce, and you will find the
+majority were originally Puritans or infidels—men who were restless,
+and ambitious of notoriety, who had learning and talent, but wanted
+common sense. They set out to astonish the world, and ended by
+astonishing themselves. They went forth in pursuit of a name, and lost
+the only one they were known by. Who can recognise Newman in Father
+Ignatius, who, while searching for truth, embraced error? or Baptist
+Noel in the strolling preacher, who uses a horse-pond instead of a
+font, baptizes adults instead of infants, and, unlike his Master, ‘will
+not suffer little children to come unto him?’ Ah, Doctor, there are
+texts neither of these men know the meaning of, ‘Vanity of vanities,
+all is vanity.’ One of them has yet to learn that pictures, vestments,
+music, processions, candlesticks, and confessionals are not religion,
+and the other that it does not consist in oratory, excitement,
+camp-meetings, rant, or novelties. There are many, very many,
+unobtrusive, noiseless, laborious, practical duties which clergymen
+have to perform; what a pity it is they won’t occupy themselves in
+discharging them, instead of entangling themselves in controversies on
+subjects not necessary to salvation! But, alas! the Evangelical divine,
+instead of combating the devil, occupies himself in fighting his
+bishop, and the Newmanite, instead of striving to save sinners, prefers
+to ‘curse and quit’ his church. Don’t ask me therefore which is
+_right;_ I tell you, they are both _wrong_.”
+
+“Exactly,” sais he.
+
+“In medio tutissimus ibis.”
+
+
+“Doctor,” sais I, “there are five languages spoke on the Nova Scotia
+coast already: English, Yankee, Gaelic, French, and Indian; for
+goodness gracious sake don’t fly off the handle that way now and add
+Latin to them! But, my friend, as I have said, you have waked up the
+wrong passenger, if you think I am an ecclesiastical Bradshaw. I know
+my own track. It is a broad gauge, and a straight line, and I never
+travel by another, for fear of being put on a wrong one. Do you take?
+But here is the boat alongside;” and I shook him by the hand, and
+obtained his promise at parting that he and Jessie would visit me at
+Slickville in the autumn.
+
+And now, Squire, I must write finis to the cruise of the “Black Hawk,”
+and close my remarks on “Nature and Human Nature,” or, “Men and
+Things,” for I have brought it to a termination, though it is a hard
+thing to do, I assure you, for I seem as if I couldn’t say Farewell. It
+is a word that don’t come handy, no how I can fix it. It’s like Sam’s
+hat-band which goes nineteen times round, and won’t tie at last. I
+don’t like to bid good-bye to my Journal, and I don’t like to bid
+good-bye to you, for one is like a child and the other a brother. The
+first I shall see again, when Hurst has a launch in the spring, but
+shall you and I ever meet again, Squire? that is the question, for it
+is dark to me. If it ever does come to pass, there must be a
+considerable slip of time first. Well, what can’t be cured must be
+endured. So here goes. Here is the last fatal word, I shut my eyes when
+I write it, for I can’t bear to see it. Here it is—
+
+_Ampersand._
+
+THE END.
+
+
+
+
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