The Attaché; or, Sam Slick in England — Complete

“It might do for a nigger, suckin’ sugar candy and drinkin’ mint-julep; but it won’t do for a free and enlightened citizen like me. A country house—oh goody gracious! the Lord presarve me from it, I say. If ever any soul ever catches me there agin, I’ll give ‘em leave to tell me of it, that’s all. Oh go, Squire, by all means; you will find it monstrous pleasant, I know you will. Go and spend a week there; it will make you feel up in the stirrups, I know. Pr’aps nothin’ can exceed it. It takes the rag off the bush quite. It caps all, that’s a fact, does ‘Life in the Country.’”

CHAPTER VIII. BUNKUM.

I am not surprised at the views expressed by Mr. Slick in the previous chapter. He has led too active a life, and his habits and thoughts are too business-like to admit of his enjoying retirement, or accommodating himself to the formal restraints of polished society. And yet, after making this allowance for his erratic life, it is but fair to add that his descriptions were always exaggerated; and, wearied as he no doubt was by the uniformity of country life, yet in describing it, he has evidently seized on the most striking features, and made them more prominent than they really appeared, even to his fatigued and prejudiced vision.

In other respects, they are just the sentiments we may suppose would be naturally entertained by a man like the Attache, under such circumstances. On the evening after that on which he had described “Life in the Country” to me, he called with two “orders” for admission to the House of Commons, and took me down with him to hear the debates.

“It’s a great sight,” said he. “We shall see all their uppercrust men put their best foot out. There’s a great musterin’ of the tribes, to-night, and the Sachems will come out with a great talk. There’ll be some sport, I guess; some hard hittin’, scalpin’, and tomahawkin’. To see a Britisher scalp a Britisher is equal to a bullfight, anytime. You don’t keer whether the bull, or the horse, or the rider is killed, none of ‘em is nothin’ to you; so you can enjoy it, and hurror for him that wins. I don’t keer who carries the day, the valy of a treat of julep, but I want to see the sport. It’s excitin’, them things. Come, let’s go.”

We were shown into a small gallery, at one end of the legislative wall (the two side ones being appropriated to members), and with some difficulty found sitting room in a place that commanded a view of the whole house. We were unfortunate. All the great speakers, Lord Stanley, Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Shiel, and Lord John Russell, had either already addressed the Chair, and were thereby precluded by the rules of the House from coming forward again, or did not choose to answer second-rate men. Those whom we did hear, made a most wretched exhibition. About one o’clock, the adjournment took place, and we returned, fatigued and disappointed.

“Did you ever see the beat of that, Squire?” said Mr. Slick. “Don’t that take the rag off quite? Cuss them fellers that spoke, they are wuss than assembly men, hang me if they aint; and they aint fit to tend a bear trap, for they’d be sure to catch themselves, if they did, in their own pit-fall.

“Did you hear that Irishman a latherin’ away with both arms, as if he was tryin’ to thrash out wheat, and see how bothered he looked, as if he couldn’t find nothin’ but dust and chaff in the straw? Well, that critter was agin the Bill, in course, and Irish like, used every argument in favour of it. Like a pig swimmin’ agin stream, every time he struck out, he was a cuttin’ of his own throat. He then blob blob blobbered, and gog gog goggled, till he choked with words and passion, and then sot down.

“Then that English Radical feller, that spoke with great voice, and little sense. Aint he a beauty, without paint, that critter? He know’d he had to vote agin the Bill, ‘cause it was a Government Bill, and be know’d he had to speak for Bunkum, and therefore—”

“Bunkum!” I said, “pray, what is that?”

“Did you never hear of Bunkum?”

“No, never.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say you don’t know what that is?”

“I do not indeed.”

“Not Bunkum? Why, there is more of it to Nova Scotia every winter, than would paper every room in Government House, and then curl the hair of every gall in the town. Not heer of Bunkum? why how you talk!”

“No, never.”

“Well, if that don’t pass! I thought every body know’d that word. I’ll tell you then, what Bunkum is. All over America, every place likes to hear of its members to Congress, and see their speeches, and if they don’t, they send a piece to the paper, enquirin’ if their member died a nateral death, or was skivered with a bowie knife, for they hante seen his speeches lately, and his friends are anxious to know his fate. Our free and enlightened citizens don’t approbate silent members; it don’t seem to them as if Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown was right represented, unless Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown, makes itself heard and known, ay, and feared too. So every feller in bounden duty, talks, and talks big too, and the smaller the State, the louder, bigger, and fiercer its members talk.

“Well, when a critter talks for talk sake, jist to have a speech in the paper to send to home, and not for any other airthly puppus but electioneering, our folks call it Bunkum. Now the State o’ Maine is a great place for Bunkum—its members for years threatened to run foul of England, with all steam on, and sink her, about the boundary line, voted a million of dollars, payable in pine logs and spruce boards, up to Bangor mills—and called out a hundred thousand militia, (only they never come,) to captur’ a saw mill to New Brunswick—that’s Bunkum. All that flourish about Right o’ Sarch was Bunkum—all that brag about hangin’ your Canada sheriff was Bunkum. All the speeches about the Caroline, and Creole, and Right of Sarch, was Bunkum, In short, almost all that’s said in Congress in the colonies, (for we set the fashions to them, as Paris galls do to our milliners,) and all over America is Bunkum.

“Well, they talk Bunkum here too, as well as there. Slavery speeches are all Bunkum; so are reform speeches, too. Do you think them fellers that keep up such an everlastin’ gab about representation, care one cent about the extension of franchise? Why no, not they; it’s only to secure their seats to gull their constituents, to get a name. Do you think them goneys that make such a touss about the Arms’ Bill, care about the Irish? No, not they; they want Irish votes, that’s all—it’s Bunkum. Do you jist go and mesmerise John Russell, and Macauley, and the other officers of the regiment of Reformers, and then take the awkward squad of recruits—fellers that were made drunk with excitement, and then enlisted with the promise of a shillin’, which they never got, the sargeants having drank it all; go and mesmerise them all, from General Russell down to Private Chartist, clap ‘em into a caterwaulin’ or catalapsin’ sleep, or whatever the word is, and make ‘em tell the secrets of their hearts, as Dupotet did the Clear-voyancing gall, and jist hear what they’ll tell you.

“Lord John will say—‘I was sincere!’ (and I believe on my soul he was. He is wrong beyond all doubt, but he is an honest man, and a clever man, and if he had taken his own way more, and given Powlet Thompson his less, he would a’ been a great colony secretary; and more’s the pity he is in such company. He’ll get off his beam ends, and right himself though, yet, I guess.) Well, he’d say—‘I was sincere, I was disinterested; but I am disappointed. I have awakened a pack of hungry villains who have sharp teeth, long claws, and the appetite of the devil. They have swallered all I gave ‘em, and now would eat me up without salt, if they could. Oh, that I could hark back! there is no satisfyin’ a movement party.’

“Now what do the men say, (I don’t mean men of rank, but the men in the ranks),—‘Where’s all the fine things we were promised when Reform gained the day?’ sais they, ‘ay, where are they? for we are wuss off than ever, now, havin’ lost all our old friends, and got bilked by our new ones tarnationly. What did all their fine speeches end in at last? Bunkum; damn the thing but Bunkum.

“But that aint the wust of it, nother. Bunkum, like lyin’, is plaguy apt to make a man believe his own bams at last. From telling ‘em so often, he forgets whether he grow’d ‘em or dreamt ‘em, and so he stands’ right up on end, kisses the book, and swears to ‘em, as positive as the Irishman did to the gun, which he said he know’d ever since it was a pistol. Now, that’s Bunkum.

“But to get back to what we was a talkin’ of, did you ever hear such bad speakin’ in your life, now tell me candid? because if you have, I never did, that’s all. Both sides was bad, it aint easy to say which is wus, six of one and half a dozen of t’other, nothin to brag of nary way. That government man, that spoke in their favour, warn’t his speech rich?

“Lord love you! I aint no speaker, I never made but one speech since I was raised, and that was afore a Slickville legislatur, and then I broke down. I know’d who I was a talkin’ afore; they was men that had cut their eye-teeth, and that you could’nt pull the wool over their eyes, nohow you could fix it, and I was young then. Now I’m growed up, I guess, and I’ve got my narves in the right place, and as taught as a drum; and I could speak if I was in the House o’ Commons, that’s a fact. If a man was to try there, that was worth any thin’, he’d find he was a flute without knowin’ it. They don’t onderstand nothin’ but Latin and Greek, and I’d buoy out them sand banks, keep the lead agoin’, stick to the channel, and never take ground, I know. The way I’d cut water aint no matter. Oh Solomon! what a field for good speakin’ that question was to-night, if they only had half an eye, them fellers, and what a’most a beautiful mess they made of it on both sides!

“I ain’t a vain man, and never was. You know, Squire, I hante a mossel of it in my composition; no, if you was to look at me with a ship’s glass you wouldn’t see a grease spot of it in me. I don’t think any of us Yankees is vain people; it’s a thing don’t grow in our diggins. We have too much sense in a giniral way for that; indeed if we wanted any, we couldn’t get none for love nor money, for John Bull has a monopoly of it. He won’t open the trade. It’s a home market he looks to, and the best of it is, he thinks he hante none to spare.

“Oh, John Bull, John Bull, when you are full rigged, with your white cravat and white waistcoat like Young England, and have got your go-to-meetin’ clothes on, if you ain’t a sneezer, it’s a pity, that’s all. No, I ain’t a vain man, I despise it, as I do a nigger; but, Squire, what a glorious field the subject to-night is for a man that knows what’s what, and was up to snuff, ain’t it? Airth and seas! if I was there, I could speak on either side; for like Waterloo it’s a fair field; it’s good ground for both parties. Heavens what a speech I could make! I’d electrify ‘em and kill ‘em dead like lightnin’, and then galvanise ‘em and fetch’ em to life agin, and then give them exhiliratin’ gass and set ‘em a larfin’, till they fairly wet themselves agin with cryin’. Wouldn’t it be fun, that’s all? I could sting Peel so if I liked, he’d think a galley nipper had bit him, and he’d spring right off the floor on to the table at one jump, gout or no gout, ravin’ mad with pain and say, ‘I’m bit thro’ the boot by Gosh;’ or if I was to take his side, for I care so little about the British, all sides is alike to me, I’d make them Irish members dance like ravin’, distractin’ bed bugs. I’d make ‘em howl, first wicked and then dismal, I know.

“But they can’t do it, to save their souls alive; some has it in ‘em and can’t get it out, physic ‘em as you would, first with vanity, and then with office; others have got a way out, but have nothin’ to drive thro’ the gate; some is so timid, they can’t go ahead; and others are in such an infarnal hurry, they spend the whole time in false starts.

“No, there, is no good oratory to parliament now, and the English brag so, I doubt if it ever was so good, as they say it was in old times. At any rate, it’s all got down to “Bunkum” now. It’s makin’ a speech for newspapers and not for the House. It’s to tell on voters and not on members. Then, what a row they make, don’t they? Hear, hear, hear; divide, divide, divide; oh, oh, oh; haw, haw, haw. It tante much different from stump oratory in America arter all, or speakin’ off a whiskey barrel, is it? It’s a sort of divil me-kear-kind o’ audience; independent critters, that look at a feller full in the face, as sarcy as the divil; as much as to say, ‘Talk away, my old ‘coon, you won’t alter me, I can tell you, it’s all Bunkum.’

“Lord, I shall never forget poor old Davy Crocket’s last speech; there was no “bunkum” in that. He despised it; all good shots do, they aim right straight for the mark and hit it. There’s no shootin’ round the ring, with them kinder men. Poor old feller, he was a great hunter; a great shot with the rifle, a great wit, and a great man. He didn’t leave his span behind him, when he slipt off the handle, I know.

“Well he stood for an election and lost it, just afore he left the States; so when it was over, he slings his powder horn on, over his shoulders, takes his “Betsey,” which was his best rifle, onder his arm, and mounts on a barrel, to talk it into his constituents, and take leave of ‘em.

“‘Feller citizens,’ sais he, ‘we’ve had a fair stand-up fight for it, and I’m whipped, that are a fact; and thar is no denyin’ of it. I’ve come now to take my leave of you. You may all go to H—l, and I’ll go to Texas.’

“And he stepped right down, and went over the boundary, and jined the patriots agin Mexico, and was killed there.

“Why it will never be forgot, that speech. It struck into the bull’s eye of the heart. It was noble. It said so much in a few words, and left the mind to fill the gaps up. The last words is a sayin’ now, and always will be, to all etarnity. Whenever a feller wants to shew how indifferent he is, he jist sais, ‘you may go to (hem, hem, you know,) and I’ll go to Texas.’ There is no Bunkum in that, Squire.

“Yes, there is no good speakin’ there, speakin’ is no use. Every feller is pledged and supports his party. A speech don’t alter no man’s opinions; yes it may alter his opinions, but it don’t alter his vote, that ain’t his’n, it’s his party’s. Still, there is some credit in a good speech, and some fun too. No feller there has any ridicule; he has got no ginger in him, he can neither crack his whip, nor lay it on; he can neither cut the hide nor sting it. Heavens! if I was there I and I’m sure it’s no great boastin’ to say I’m better than such fellers, as them small fry of white bait is. If I was there, give me a good subject like that to-night, give me a good horn of lignum vitae—”

“Lignum vitae—what’s that?”

“Lord-o-massy on us! you don’t know nothin’, Squire. Where have you been all your born days, not to know what lignum vitae is? why lignum vitae, is hot brandy and water to be sure, pipin’ hot, scald an iron pot amost, and spiced with cloves and sugar in it, stiff enough to make a tea-spoon stand up in it, as straight as a dead nigger. Wine ain’t no good, it goes off as quick as the white beads off of champaign does, and then leaves a stupid head-ache behind it. But give me the subject and a horn of lignum vitae (of the wickedest kind), and then let a feller rile me, so as to get my back up like a fightin’ cat’s, and I’ll tell you what I’d do, I’d sarve him as our Slickville boys sarve the cows to California. One on ‘em lays hold of the tail, and the other skins her as she runs strait an eend. Next year, it’s all growed ready for another flayin’. Fact, I assure you. Lord! I’d skin a feller so, his hide would never grow agin; I’d make a caution of him to sinners, I know.

“Only hear them fellers now talk of extendin’ of the representation; why the house is a mob now, plaguy little better, I assure you. Like the house in Cromwell’s time, they want “Sam Slick’s” purge. But talkin’ of mobs, puts me in mind of a Swoi-ree, I told you I’d describe that to you, and I don’t care if I do now, for I’ve jist got my talkin’ tacks aboard. A Swoi-ree is—

“We’ll talk of that some other time, Mr. Slick,” said I; “it is now near two o’clock, I must retire.”

“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose it is e’en a’most time to be a movin’. But, Squire, you are a Britisher, why the plague don’t you get into the house? you know more about colony matters than the whole bilin’ of” them put together, quite as much about other things, and speak like a—”

“Come, come, Mr. Slick,” said I, rising and lighting my bed-room candle, “it is now high time to bid you good night, for you are beginning to talk Bunkum.”

CHAPTER IX. THROWING THE LAVENDER.

Mr. Slick’s character, like that of many of his countrymen, is not so easily understood as a person might suppose. We err more often than we are aware of, when we judge of others by ourselves. English tourists have all fallen into this mistake, in their, estimate of the Americans. They judge them by their own standard; they attribute effects to wrong causes, forgetting that a different tone of feeling, produced by a different social and political state from their own, must naturally produce dissimilar results.

Any person reading the last sketch containing the account, given by Mr. Slick of the House of Commons, his opinion of his own abilities as a speaker, and his aspiration after a seat in that body, for the purpose of “skinning,” as he calls it, impertinent or stupid members, could not avoid coming to the conclusion that he was a conceited block-head; and that if his countrymen talked in that absurd manner, they must be the weakest, and most vain-glorious people in the world.

That he is a vain man, cannot be denied—self-taught men are apt to be so every where; but those who understand the New England humour, will at once perceive, that he has spoken in his own name merely as a personification, and that the whole passage means after all, when transposed into that phraseology which an Englishman would use, very little more than this, that the House of Commons presented a noble field for a man of abilities as a public speaker; but that in fact, it contained very few such persons. We must not judge of words or phrases, when used by foreigners, by the sense we attribute to them, but endeavour to understand the meaning they attach to them themselves.

In Mexico, if you admire any thing, the proprietor immediately says, “Pray do me the honour to consider it yours, I shall be most happy, if you will permit me, to place it upon you, (if it be an ornament), or to send it to your hotel,” if it be of a different description. All this means in English, a present; in Mexican Spanish, a civil speech, purporting that the owner is gratified, that it meets the approbation of his visiter. A Frenchman, who heard this grandiloquent reply to his praises of a horse, astonished his friend, by thanking him in terms equally amplified, accepting it, and riding it home.

Mr. Slick would be no less amazed, if understood literally. He has used a peculiar style; here again, a stranger would be in error, in supposing the phraseology common to all Americans. It is peculiar only to a certain class of persons in a certain state of life, and in a particular section of the States. Of this class, Mr. Slick is a specimen. I do not mean to say he is not a vain man, but merely that a portion only of that, which appears so to us, is vanity, and that the rest and by far the greater portion too, is local or provincial peculiarity.

This explanation is due to the Americans, who have been grossly misrepresented, and to the English, who have been egregiously deceived, by persons attempting to delineate character, who were utterly incapable of perceiving those minute lights and shades, without which, a portrait becomes a contemptible daub, or at most a mere caricature.

“A droll scene that at the house o’ representatives last night,” said Mr. Slick when we next met, “warn’t it? A sort o’ rookery, like that at the Shropshire Squire’s, where I spent the juicy day. What a darned cau-cau-cawin’ they keep, don’t they? These members are jist like the rooks, too, fond of old houses, old woods, old trees, and old harnts. And they are jist as proud, too, as they be. Cuss ‘em, they won’t visit a new man, or new plantation. They are too aristocratic for that. They have a circle of their own. Like the rooks, too, they are privileged to scour over the farmers’ fields all round home, and play the very devil.

“And then a fellow can’t hear himself speak for ‘em; divide, divide, divide, question, question, question; cau, cau, cau, cau, cau, cau. Oh! we must go there again. I want you to see Peel, Stanley, Graham, Shiel, Russell, Macauley, Old Joe, and so on. These men are all upper crust here. Fust of all, I want to hear your opinion of ‘em. I take you to be a considerable of a good judge in these matters.”

“No Bunkum, Mr. Slick.”

“D—— that word Bunkum! If you say that ‘ere agin, I won’t say another syllable, so come now. Don’t I know who you are? You know every mite, and morsel as well as I do, that you be a considerable of a judge of these critters, though you are nothin’ but an outlandish colonist; and are an everlastin’ sight better judge, too, if you come to that, than them that judge you. Cuss ‘em, the state would be a nation sight better sarved, if one o’ these old rooks was sent out to try trover for a goose, and larceny for an old hat, to Nova Scotia, and you was sent for to take the ribbons o’ the state coach here; hang me if it wouldn’t. You know that, and feel your oats, too, as well as any one. So don’t be so infarnal mealy-mouthed, with your mock modesty face, a turnin’ up of the whites of your eyes as if you was a chokin’, and savin’ ‘No Bun-kum, Mr. Slick.’ Cuss that word Bunkum! I am sorry I ever told you that are story, you will be for everlastinly a throwin’ up of that are, to me now.

“Do you think if I warnted to soft sawder you, I’d take the white-wash brush to you, and slobber it, on, as a nigger wench does to a board fence, or a kitchen wall to home, and put your eyes out with the lime? No, not I; but I could tickel you though, and have done it afore now, jist for practice, and you warn’t a bit the wiser. Lord, I’d take a camel’s-hair brush to you, knowin’ how skittish and ticklesome you are, and do it so it would feel good. I’d make you feel kinder pleasant, I know, and you’d jist bend your face over to it, and take it as kindly as a gall does a whisper, when your lips keep jist a brushin’ of the cheek while you are a talkin’. I wouldn’t go to shock you by a doin’ of it coarse; you are too quick, and too knowin’ for that. You should smell the otter o’ roses, and sniff, sniff it up your nostrils, and say to yourself, ‘How nice that is, ain’t it? Come, I like that, how sweet it stinks!’ I wouldn’t go for to dash scented water on your face, as a hired lady does on a winder to wash it, it would make you start back, take out your pocket-handkercher, and say, “Come, Mister Slick, no nonsense, if you please.” I’d do it delicate, I know my man: I’d use a light touch, a soft brush, and a smooth oily rouge.”

“Pardon me,” I said, “you overrate your own powers, and over-estimate my vanity. You are flattering yourself now, you can’t flatter me, for I detest it.”

“Creation, man,” said Mr. Slick, “I have done it now afore your face, these last five minutes, and you didn’t know it. Well, if that don’t bang the bush. It’s tarnation all over that. Tellin’ you, you was so knowin’, so shy if touched on the flanks; how difficult you was to take-in, bein’ a sensible, knowin’ man, what’s that but soft sawder? You swallowed it all. You took it off without winkin’, and opened your mouth as wide as a young blind robbin does for another worm, and then down went the Bunkum about making you a Secretary of State, which was rather a large bolus to swaller, without a draft; down, down it went, like a greased-wad through a smooth rifle bore; it did, upon my soul. Heavens! what a take in! what a splendid sleight-of-hand! I never did nothin’ better in all my born days. I hope I may be shot, if I did. Ha! ha! ha! ain’t it rich? Don’t it cut six inches on the rib of clear shear, that. Oh! it’s hansum, that’s a fact.”

“It’s no use to talk about it, Mr. Slick,” I replied; “I plead guilty. You took me in then. You touched a weak point. You insensibly flattered my vanity, by assenting to my self-sufficiency, in supposing I was exempt from that universal frailty of human nature; you “threw the Lavender” well.”

“I did put the leake into you, Squire, that’s a fact,” said he; “but let me alone, I know what I am about; let me talk on, my own way. Swaller what you like, spit out what is too strong for you; but don’t put a drag-chain on to me, when I am a doin’ tall talkin’, and set my wheels as fast as pine stumps. You know me, and I know you. You know my speed, and I know your bottom don’t throw back in the breetchin’ for nothin’ that way.”

“Well, as I was a-sayin’, I want you to see these great men, as they call ‘em. Let’s weigh ‘em, and measure ‘em, and handle ‘em, and then price ‘em, and see what their market valy is. Don’t consider ‘em as Tories, or Whigs, or Radicals; we hante got nothin’ to do with none o’ them; but consider ‘em as statesmen. It’s pot-luck with ‘em all; take your fork as the pot biles up, jab it in, and fetch a feller up, see whether he is beef, pork or mutton; partridge, rabbit or lobster; what his name, grain and flavour is, and how you like him. Treat ‘em indifferent, and treat ‘em independent.

“I don’t care a chaw o’ tobacky for the whole on ‘em; and none on ‘em care a pinch o’ snuff for you or any Hortentort of a colonist that ever was or ever will be. Lord love you! if you was to write like Scott, and map the human mind like Bacon, would it advance you a bit in prefarment? Not it. They have done enough for the colonists, they have turned ‘em upside down, and given ‘em responsible government? What more do the rascals want? Do they ask to be made equal to us? No, look at their social system, and their political system, and tell ‘em your opinion like a man. You have heard enough of their opinions of colonies, and suffered enough from their erroneous ones too. You have had Durham reports, and commissioners’ reports, and parliament reports till your stomach refuses any more on ‘em. And what are they? a bundle of mistakes and misconceptions, from beginnin’ to eend. They have travelled by stumblin’, and have measured every thing by the length of their knee, as they fell on the ground, as a milliner measures lace, by the bendin’ down of the forefinger—cuss ‘em! Turn the tables on ‘em. Report on them, measure them, but take care to keep your feet though, don’t be caught trippin’, don’t make no mistakes.

“Then we’ll go to the Lords’ House—I don’t mean to meetin’ house, though we must go there too, and hear Me Neil and Chalmers, and them sort o’ cattle; but I mean the house where the nobles meet, pick out the big bugs, and see what sort o’ stuff they are made of. Let’s take minister with us—he is a great judge of these things. I should like you to hear his opinion; he knows every thin’ a’most, though the ways of the world bother him a little sometimes; but for valyin’ a man, or stating principles, or talkin’ politics, there ain’t no man equal to him, hardly. He is a book, that’s a fact; it’s all there what you want; all you’ve got to do is to cut the leaves. Name the word in the index, he’ll turn to the page, and give you day, date, and fact, for it. There is no mistake in him.

“That cussed provokin’ visit of yours to Scotland will shove them things into the next book, I’m afeered. But it don’t signify nothin’; you can’t cram all into one, and we hante only broke the crust yet, and p’rhaps it’s as well to look afore you leap too, or you might make as big a fool of yourself, as some of the Britishers have a-writin’ about us and the provinces. Oh yes, it’s a great advantage havin’ minister with you. He’ll fell the big stiff trees for you; and I’m the boy for the saplin’s, I’ve got the eye and the stroke for them. They spring so confoundedly under the axe, does second growth and underwood, it’s dangerous work, but I’ve got the sleight o’ hand for that, and we’ll make a clean field of it.

“Then come and survey; take your compass and chain to the ground and measure, and lay that off—branch and bark the spars for snakin’ off the ground; cord up the fire-wood, tie up the hoop poles, and then burn off the trash and rubbish. Do it workman-like. Take your time to it as if you was workin’ by the day. Don’t hurry, like job work; don’t slobber it over, and leave half-burnt trees and logs strewed about the surface, but make smack smooth work. Do that, Squire, do it well, and that is, only half as good as you can, if you choose, and then—”

“And then,” said I, “I make no doubt you will have great pleasure ‘in throwin’ the Lavender again.”

CHAPTER X. AIMING HIGH.

“What do you intend to do, Squire, with your two youngest boys?” said Mr. Slick to me to-day, as we were walking in the Park.

“I design them,” I said, “for professions. One I shall educate for a lawyer, and the other for a clergyman.”

“Where?”

“In Nova Scotia.”

“Exactly,” says he. “It shews your sense; it’s the very place for ‘em. It’s a fine field for a young man; I don’t know no better one no where in the whole univarsal world. When I was a boy larnin’ to shoot, sais father to me, one day, ‘Sam,’ sais he, ‘I’ll give you a lesson in gunnin’ that’s worth knowin’. “Aim high,” my boy; your gun naterally settles down a little takin’ sight, cause your arm gets tired, and wabbles, and the ball settles a little while it’s a travellin’, accordin’ to a law of natur, called Franklin’s law; and I obsarve you always hit below the mark. Now, make allowances for these things in gunnin’, and “aim high,” for your life, always. And, Sam,’ sais he, ‘I’ve seed a great deal of the world, all military men do. ‘I was to Bunker’s Hill durin’ the engagement, and I saw Washington the day he was made President, and in course must know more nor most men of my age; and I’ll give you another bit of advice, “Aim high” in life, and if you don’t hit the bull’s eye, you’ll hit the “fust circles,” and that ain’t a bad shot nother.’

“‘Father,’ sais I, ‘I guess I’ve seed more of the world than you have, arter all.’

“‘How so, Sam?’ sais he.

“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘father, you’ve only been to Bunker’s Hill, and that’s nothin’; no part of it ain’t too steep to plough; it’s only a sizeable hillock, arter all. But I’ve been to the Notch on the White Mountain, so high up, that the snow don’t melt there, and seed five States all to once, and half way over to England, and then I’ve seed Jim Crow dance. So there now?’ He jist up with the flat of his hand, and gave me a wipe with it on the side of my face, that knocked me over; and as I fell, he lent me a kick on my musn’t-mention-it, that sent me a rod or so afore I took ground on all fours.

“‘Take that, you young scoundrel!’ said he, ‘and larn to speak respectful next time to an old man, a military man, and your father, too.’

“It hurt me properly, you may depend. ‘Why,’ sais I, as I picked myself up, ‘didn’t you tell me to “aim high,” father? So I thought I’d do it, and beat your brag, that’s all.’

“Truth is, Squire, I never could let a joke pass all my life, without havin’ a lark with it. I was fond of one, ever since I was knee high to a goose, or could recollect any thin’ amost; I have got into a horrid sight of scrapes by ‘em, that’s a fact. I never forgot that lesson though, it was kicked into me: and lessons that are larnt on the right eend, ain’t never forgot amost. I have “aimed high” ever since, and see where I be now. Here I am an Attache, made out of a wooden clock pedlar. Tell you what, I shall be “embassador” yet, made out of nothin’ but an “Attache,” and I’ll be President of our great Republic, and almighty nation in the eend, made out of an embassador, see if I don’t. That comes of “aimin’ high.” What do you call that water near your coach-house?”

“A pond.”

“Is there any brook runnin’ in, or any stream runnin’ out?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s the difference between a lake and a pond. Now, set that down for a traveller’s fact. Now, where do you go to fish?”

“To the lakes, of course; there are no fish in the ponds.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick, “that is what I want to bring you to; there is no fish in a pond, there is nothin’ but frogs. Nova Scotia is only a pond, and so is New Brunswick, and such outlandish, out o’ the way, little crampt up, stagnant places. There is no ‘big fish’ there, nor never can be; there ain’t no food for ‘em. A colony frog!! Heavens and airth, what an odd fish that is? A colony pollywog! do, for gracious sake, catch one, put him into a glass bottle full of spirits, and send him to the Museum as a curiosity in natur. So you are a goin’ to make your two nice pretty little smart boys a pair of colony frogs, eh? Oh! do, by all means.

“You’ll have great comfort in ‘em, Squire. Monstrous comfort. It will do your old heart good to go down to the edge of the pond on the fust of May, or thereabouts, accordin’ to the season, jist at sun down, and hear ‘em sing. You’ll see the little fellers swell out their cheeks, and roar away like young suckin’ thunders. For the frogs beat all natur there for noise; they have no notion of it here at all. I’ve seed Englishmen that couldn’t sleep all night, for the everlastin’ noise these critters made. Their frogs have somethin’ else to do here besides singin’. Ain’t it a splendid prospect that, havin’ these young frogs settled all round you in the same mud-hole, all gathered in a nice little musical family party. All fine fun this, till some fine day we Yankee storks will come down and gobble them all up, and make clear work of it.

“No, Squire, take my advice now for once; jist go to your colony minister when he is alone. Don’t set down, but stand up as if you was in airnest, and didn’t come to gossip, and tell him, ‘Turn these ponds into a lake,’ sais you, my lord minister, give them an inlet and an outlet. Let them be kept pure, and sweet, and wholesome, by a stream, runnin’ through. Fish will live there then if you put them in, and they will breed there, and keep up the stock. At present they die; it ain’t big enough; there ain’t room. If he sais he hante time to hear you, and asks you to put it into writin’, do you jist walk over to his table, take up his lignum vitae ruler into your fist, put your back to the door, and say ‘By the ‘tarnal empire, you shall hear me; you don’t go out of this, till I give you the butt eend of my mind, I can tell you. I am an old bull frog now; the Nova Scotia pond is big enough for me; I’ll get drowned if I get into a bigger one, for I hante got no fins, nothin’ but legs and arms to swim with, and deep water wouldn’t suit me, I ain’t fit for it, and I must live and die there, that’s my fate as sure as rates.’ If he gets tired, and goes to get up or to move, do you shake the big ruler at him, as fierce as a painter, and say, ‘Don’t you stir for your life; I don’t want to lay nothin’ on your head, I only want to put somethin’ in it. I am a father and have got youngsters. I am a native, and have got countrymen. Enlarge our sphere, give us a chance in the world.’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say, ‘this minute, Sir, or I’ll put you in charge of a policeman.’ ‘Let you out is it,’ sais you. ‘Oh! you feel bein’ pent up, do you? I am glad of it. The tables are turned now, that’s what we complain of. You’ve stood at the door, and kept us in; now I’ll keep you in awhile. I want to talk to you, that’s more than you ever did to us. How do you like bein’ shut in? Does it feel good? Does it make your dander rise?’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say agin, ‘this moment, Sir, how dare you.’ Oh! you are in a hurry, are you?’ sais you. ‘You’ve kept me in all my life; don’t be oneasy if I keep you in five minutes.’

“‘Well, what do you want then?’ he’ll say, kinder peevish; ‘what do you want?’ ‘I don’t want nothin’ for myself,’ sais you. ‘I’ve got all I can get in that pond; and I got that from the Whigs, fellers I’ve been abusin’ all my life; and I’m glad to make amends by acknowledging this good turn they did me; for I am a tory, and no mistake. I don’t want nothin’; but I want to be an Englishman. I don’t want to be an English subject; do you understand that now? If you don’t, this is the meanin’, that there is no fun in bein’ a fag, if you are never to have a fag yourself. Give us all fair play. Don’t move now,’ sais you, ‘for I’m gettin’ warm; I’m gettin’ spotty on the back, my bristles is up, and I might hurt you with this ruler; it’s a tender pint this, for I’ve rubbed the skin off of a sore place; but I’ll tell you a gospel truth, and mind what I tell you, for nobody else has sense enough, and if they had, they hante courage enough. If you don’t make Englishmen of us, the force of circumstances will make Yankees of us, as sure as you are born.’ He’ll stare at that. He is a clever man, and aint wantin’ in gumption. He is no fool, that’s a fact. ‘Is it no compliment to you and your institutions this?’ sais you. ‘Don’t it make you feel proud that even independence won’t tempt us to dissolve the connexion? Ain’t it a noble proof of your good qualities that, instead of agitatin’ for Repeal of the Union, we want a closer union? But have we no pride too? We would be onworthy of the name of Englishmen, if we hadn’t it, and we won’t stand beggin’ for ever I tell you. Here’s our hands, give us yourn; let’s be all Englishmen together. Give us a chance, and if us, young English boys, don’t astonish you old English, my name ain’t Tom Poker, that’s all.’ ‘Sit down,’ he’ll say, ‘Mr. Poker;’ there is a great deal in that; sit down; I am interested.’

“The instant he sais that, take your ruler, lay it down on the table, pick up your hat, make a scrape with your hind leg, and say, ‘I regret I have detained you so long, Sir. I am most peskily afraid my warmth has kinder betrayed me into rudeness. I really beg pardon, I do upon my soul. I feel I have smashed down all decency, I am horrid ashamed of myself.’ Well, he won’t say you hante rode the high hoss, and done the unhandsum thing, because it wouldn’t be true if he did; but he’ll say, ‘Pray be seated. I can make allowances, Sir, even for intemperate zeal. And this is a very important subject, very indeed. There is a monstrous deal in what you say, though you have, I must say, rather a peculiar, an unusual, way of puttin’ it.’ Don’t you stay another minit though, nor say another word, for your life; but bow, beg pardon, hold in your breath, that your face may look red, as if you was blushin’, and back out, starn fust. Whenever you make an impression on a man, stop; your reasonin’ and details may ruin you. Like a feller who sais a good thing, he’d better shove off, and leave every one larfin’ at his wit, than stop and tire them out, till they say what a great screw augur that is. Well, if you find he opens the colonies, and patronises the smart folks, leave your sons there if you like, and let ‘em work up, and work out of it, if they are fit, and time and opportunity offers. But one thing is sartain, the very openin’ of the door will open their minds, as a matter of course. If he don’t do it, and I can tell you before hand he won’t—for they actilly hante got time here, to think of these things—send your boys here into the great world. Sais you to the young Lawyer, ‘Bob,’ sais you, ‘“aim high.” If you don’t get to be Lord Chancellor, I shall never die in peace. I’ve set my heart on it. It’s within your reach, if you are good for anything. Let me see the great seal—let me handle it before I die—do, that’s a dear; if not, go back to your Colony pond, and sing with your provincial frogs, and I hope to Heaven the fust long-legged bittern that comes there will make a supper of you.”

“Then sais you to the young parson, ‘Arthur,’ sais you ‘Natur jist made you for a clergyman. Now, do you jist make yourself ‘Archbishop of Canterbury.’ My death-bed scene will be an awful one, if I don’t see you ‘the Primate’; for my affections, my hopes, my heart, is fixed on it. I shall be willin’ to die then, I shall depart in peace, and leave this world happy. And, Arthur,’ sais you, ‘they talk and brag here till one is sick of the sound a’most about “Addison’s death-bed.” Good people refer to it as an example, authors as a theatrical scene and hypocrites as a grand illustration for them to turn up the whites of their cold cantin’ eyes at. Lord love you, my son,’ sais you, ‘let them brag of it; but what would it be to mine; you congratulatin’ me on goin’ to a better world, and me congratulatin’ you on bein’ “Archbishop.” Then,’ sais you, in a starn voice like a boatsan’s trumpet—for if you want things to be remembered, give ‘em effect, “Aim high,” Sir,’ sais you. Then like my old father, fetch him a kick on his western eend, that will lift him clean over the table, and say ‘that’s the way to rise in the world, you young sucking parson you. “Aim high,” Sir.’

“Neither of them will ever forget it as long as they live. The hit does that; for a kick is a very striking thing, that’s a fact. There has been no good scholars since birch rods went out o’ school, and sentiment went in.”

“But you know,” I said, “Mr. Slick, that those high prizes in the lottery of life, can, in the nature of things, be drawn but by few people, and how many blanks are there to one-prize in this world.”

“Well, what’s to prevent your boys gettin’ those prizes, if colonists was made Christians of, instead of outlawed, exiled, transported, oncarcumcised heathen Indgean niggers, as they be. If people don’t put into a lottery, how the devil can they get prizes? will you tell me that. Look at the critters here, look at the publicans, taylors, barbers, and porters’ sons, how the’ve rose here, ‘in this big lake,’ to be chancellors and archbishops; how did they get them? They ‘aimed high,’ and besides, all that, like father’s story of the gun, by ‘aiming high,’ though they may miss the mark, they will be sure to hit the upper circles. Oh, Squire, there is nothing like ‘aiming high,’ in this world.”

“I quite agree with you, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell. “I never heard you speak so sensibly before. Nothing can be better for young men than “Aiming high.” Though they may not attain to the highest honours, they may, as you say, reach to a most respectable station. But surely, Squire, you will never so far forget the respect that is due to so high an officer as a Secretary of State, or, indeed, so far forget yourself as to adopt a course, which from its eccentricity, violence, and impropriety, must leave the impression that your intellects are disordered. Surely you will never be tempted to make the experiment?”

“I should think not, indeed,” I said. “I have no desire to become an inmate of a lunatic asylum.”

“Good,” said he; “I am satisfied. I quite agree with Sam, though. Indeed, I go further. I do not think he has advised you to recommend your boys to ‘aim high enough.’”

“Creation! said Mr. Slick, “how much higher do you want provincial frogs to go, than to be ‘Chancellor’ and ‘Primate?’

“I’ll tell you, Sam; I’d advise them to ‘aim higher’ than earthly honours. I would advise them to do their duty, in any station of life in which it shall please Providence to place them; and instead of striving after unattainable objects here, to be unceasing in their endeavours to obtain that which, on certain conditions, is promised to all hereafter. In their worldly pursuits, as men, it is right for them to ‘aim high;’ but as Christians, it is also their duty to ‘aim higher.’”