Shortly after our return to the inn, a carriage drove up to the door, and the cards of Mr. Merton, and the Reverend Mr. Homily, which were presented by the servant, were soon followed by the gentlemen themselves.
Mr. Merton said he had been informed by Mrs. Hodgins of our visit to her cottage, and from her account of our conversation and persons, he was convinced we could be no other than the party described in the “Sayings and Doings of Mr. Samuel Slick,” as about to visit England with the Attache. He expressed great pleasure in having the opportunity of making our acquaintance, and entreated us to spend a few days with him at the Priory. This invitation we were unfortunately compelled to decline, in consequence of urgent business in London, where our immediate presence was indispensable.
The rector then pressed Mr. Hopewell to preach for him, on the following day at the parish church, which he also declined. He said, that he had no sermons with him, and that he had very great objections to extemporaneous preaching, which he thought should never be resorted to except in cases of absolute necessity. He, however, at last consented to do so, on condition that Mrs. Hodgins and her husband attended, and upon being assured that it was their invariable custom to be present, he said, he thought it not impossible, that he might make an impression upon him, and as it was his maxim never to omit an opportunity of doing good, he would with the blessing of God, make the attempt.
The next day was remarkably fine, and as the scene was new to me, and most probably will be so to most of my colonial readers, I shall endeavour to describe it with some minuteness.
We walked to the church by a path over the hills, and heard the bells of a number of little churches, summoning the surrounding population to the House of God. The roads and the paths were crowded with the peasantry and their children, approaching the church-yard in different directions. The church and the rectory were contiguous to each other, and situated in a deep dell.
The former was a long and rather low structure, originally built of light coloured stone, which had grown grey with time. It had a large square steeple, with pointed corners, like turrets, each of which was furnished with a vane, but some of these ornaments were loose and turned round in a circle, while others stood still and appeared to be examining with true rustic curiosity, the condition of their neighbours.
The old rectory stood close to the church and was very irregularly built, one part looking as if it had stepped forward to take a peep at us, and another as if endeavouring to conceal itself from view, behind a screen of ivy. The windows which were constructed of diamond-shaped glass, were almost square, and opened on hinges. Nearly half of the house was covered by a rose-tree, from which the lattices peered very inquisitively upon the assembled congregation. Altogether it looked like the residence of a vigilant man, who could both see and be unseen if he pleased.
Near the door of the church were groups of men in their clean smock-frocks and straw hats, and of women in their tidy dark dresses and white aprons. The children all looked clean, healthy, and cheerful.
The interior of the church was so unlike that of an American one, that my attention was irresistibly drawn to its peculiarities. It was low, and divided in the centre by an arch. The floor was of stone, and from long and constant use, very uneven in places. The pews were much higher on the sides than ours, and were unpainted and roughly put together; while the pulpit was a rude square box, and was placed in the corner. Near the door stood an ancient stone font, of rough workmanship, and much worn.
The windows were long and narrow, and placed very high in the walls. On the one over the altar was a very old painting, on stained glass, of the Virgin, with a hoop and yellow petticoat, crimson vest, a fly cap, and very thick shoes. The light of this window was still further subdued by a fine old yew-tree, which stood in the yard close behind it.
There was another window of beautifully stained glass, the light of which fell on a large monument, many feet square, of white marble. In the centre of this ancient and beautiful work of art, were two principal figures, with smaller ones kneeling on each side, having the hands raised in the attitude of prayer. They were intended to represent some of the ancestors of the Merton family. The date was as old as 1575. On various parts of the wall were other and ruder monuments of slate-stone, the inscriptions and dates of which were nearly effaced by time.
The roof was of a construction now never seen in America; and the old oak rafters, which were more numerous, than was requisite, either for strength or ornament, were massive and curiously put together, giving this part of the building a heavy and gloomy appearance.
As we entered the church, Mr. Hopewell said he had selected a text suitable to the times, and that he would endeavour to save the poor people in the neighbourhood from the delusions of the chartist demagogues, who, it appeared, were endeavouring to undermine the throne and the altar, and bring universal ruin upon the country.
When he ascended the pulpit to preach, his figure, his great age, and his sensible and benevolent countenance, attracted universal attention. I had never seen him officiate till this day; but if I was struck with his venerable appearance before, I was now lost in admiration of his rich and deep-toned voice, his peculiar manner, and simple style of eloquence.
He took for his text these words: “So Absalom stole the hearts of the men of Israel.” He depicted, in a very striking manner, the arts of this intriguing and ungrateful man to ingratiate himself with the people, and render the government unpopular. He traced his whole course, from his standing at the crowded thoroughfare, and lamenting that the king had deputed no one to hear and decide upon the controversies of the people, to his untimely end, and the destruction of his ignorant followers. He made a powerful application of the seditious words of Absalom: “Oh that I were a judge in the land, that every man which hath a suit or cause might come unto me, and I would do him justice.” He showed the effect of these empty and wicked promises upon his followers, who in the holy record of this unnatural rebellion are described as “men who went out in their simplicity, and knew not anything.”
He then said that similar arts were used in all ages for similar purposes; and that these professions of disinterested patriotism were the common pretences by which wicked men availed themselves of the animal force of those “who assemble in their simplicity, and know not any thing,” to achieve their own personal aggrandisement, and warned them, to give no heed to such dishonest people. He then drew a picture of the real blessings they enjoyed in this happy country, which, though not without an admixture of evil, were as many and as great as the imperfect and unequal condition of man was capable either of imparting or receiving.
Among the first of these, he placed the provision made by the state for the instruction of the poor, by means of an established Church. He said they would doubtless hear this wise and pious deed of their forefathers attacked also by unprincipled men; and falsehood and ridicule would be invoked to aid in the assault; but that he was a witness on its behalf, from the distant wilderness of North America, where the voice of gratitude was raised to England, whose missionaries had planted a church there similar to their own, and had proclaimed the glad tidings of salvation to those who would otherwise have still continued to live without its pale.
He then pourtrayed in a rapid and most masterly manner the sin and the disastrous consequences of rebellion; pointed out the necessity that existed for vigilance and defined their respective duties to God, and to those who, by his permission, were set in authority over them; and concluded with the usual benediction, which, though I had heard it on similar occasions all my life, seemed now more efficacious, more paternal, and more touching than ever, when uttered by him, in his peculiarly patriarchal manner.
The abstract I have just given, I regret to say, cannot convey any adequate idea of this powerful, excellent, and appropriate sermon. It was listened to with intense interest by the congregation, many of whom were affected to tears. In the afternoon we attended church again, when we heard a good, plain, and practical discourse from the rector; but, unfortunately, he had neither the talent, nor the natural eloquence of our friend, and, although it satisfied the judgment, it did not affect, the heart like that of the “Old Minister.”
At the door we met, on our return, Mrs. Hodgins. “Ah! my dear,” said Mr. Hopewell, “how do you do? I am going to your cottage; but I am an old man now; take my arm—it will support me in my walk.”
It was thus that this good man, while honouring this poor woman, avoided the appearance of condescension, and received her arm as a favour to himself.
She commenced thanking him for his sermon in the morning. She said it had convinced her William of the sin of the Chartist agitation, and that he had firmly resolved never to meet them again. It had saved him from ruin, and made her a happy woman.
“Glad to hear it has done him good, my dear,” said he; “it does me good, too, to hear its effect. Now, never remind him of past errors, never allude to them: make his home cheerful, make it the pleasantest place he can find any where, and he won’t want to seek amusement elsewhere, or excitement either; for these seditious meetings intoxicate by their excitement. Oh! I am very glad I have touched him; that I have prevented these seditious men from ‘stealing his heart.’”
In this way they chatted, until they arrived at the cottage, which Hodgins had just reached by a shorter, but more rugged path.
“It is such a lovely afternoon,” said Mr. Hopewell, “I believe I will rest in this arbour here awhile, and enjoy the fresh breeze, and the perfume of your honeysuckles and flowers.”
“Wouldn’t a pipe be better, Minister?” said Mr. Slick. “For my part, I don’t think any thing equal to the flavour of rael good genewine first chop tobacco.”
“Well, it is a great refreshment, is tobacco,” said Mr. Hopewell. “I don’t care if I do take a pipe. Bring me one, Mr. Hodgins, and one for yourself also, and I will smoke and talk with you awhile, for they seem as natural to each other, as eating and drinking do.”
As soon as these were produced, Mr. Slick and I retired, and requested Mrs. Hodgins to leave the Minister and her husband together for a while, for as Mr. Slick observed, “The old man will talk it into him like a book; for if he was possessed of the spirit of a devil, instead of a Chartist, he is jist the boy to drive it out of him. Let him be awhile, and he’ll tame old uncle there, like a cossit sheep; jist see if he don’t, that’s all.”
We then walked up and down the shady lane, smoking our cigars, and Mr. Slick observed, “Well, there is a nation sight of difference, too, ain’t there, atween this country church, and a country meetin’ house our side of the water; I won’t say in your country or my country; but I say our side of the water—and then it won’t rile nobody; for your folks will say I mean the States, and our citizens will say I mean the colonies; but you and I know who the cap fits, one or t’other, or both, don’t we?
“Now here, this old-fashioned church, ain’t quite up to the notch, and is a leetle behind the enlightment of the age like, with its queer old fixin’s and what not; but still it looks solemcoly’ don’t it, and the dim light seems as if we warn’t expected to be a lookin’ about, and as if outer world was shot out, from sight and thort, and it warn’t man’s house nother.
“I don’t know whether it was that dear old man’s preachin’, and he is a brick ain’t he? or, whether it’s the place, or the place and him together; but somehow, or somehow else, I feel more serious to-day than common, that’s a fact. The people too are all so plain dressed, so decent, so devout and no show, it looks like airnest.
“The only fashionable people here was the Squire’s sarvants; and they did look genteel, and no mistake. Elegant men, and most splendid lookin’ women they was too. I thought it was some noble, or aid’s, or big bug’s family; but Mrs. Hodgins says they are the people of the Squire’s about here, the butlers and ladies’ maids; and superfine uppercrust lookin’ folks they be too.
“Then every body walks here, even Squire Merton and his splendiriferous galls walked like the poorest of the poor, there was no carriage to the door, nor no hosses hitched to the gate, or tied to the back of waggons, or people gossipin’ outside; but all come in and minded their business, as if it was worth attendin’ to; and then arter church was finished off, I liked the way the big folks talked to the little folks, and enquired arter their families. It may he actin’, but if it is, it’s plaguy good actin’, I tell you.
“I’m a thinkin’ it tante a rael gentleman that’s proud, but only a hop. You’ve seen a hop grow, hante you? It shoots up in a night, the matter of several inches right out of the ground, as stiff as a poker, straight up and down, with a spick and span new green coat and a red nose, as proud as Lucifer. Well, I call all upstarts ‘hops,’ and I believe it’s only “hops” arter all that’s scorny.
“Yes, I kinder like an English country church, only it’s a leetle, jist a leetle too old fashioned for me. Folks look a leetle too much like grandfather Slick, and the boys used to laugh at him, and call him a benighted Britisher. Perhaps that’s the cause of my prejudice, and yet I must say, British or no British, it tante bad, is it?
“The meetin’ houses ‘our side of the water,’ no matter where, but away up in the back country, how teetotally different they be! bean’t they? A great big, handsome wooden house, chock full of winders, painted so white as to put your eyes out, and so full of light within, that inside seems all out-doors, and no tree nor bush, nor nothin’ near it but the road fence, with a man to preach in it, that is so strict and straight-laced he will do any thing of a week day, and nothin’’ of a Sunday. Congregations are rigged out in their spic and span bran new clothes, silks, satins, ribbins, leghorns, palmetters, kiss-me-quicks, and all sorts of rigs, and the men in their long-tail-blues, pig-skin pads calf-skin boots and sheep-skin saddle-cloths. Here they publish a book of fashions, there they publish ‘em in meetin’; and instead of a pictur, have the rael naked truth.
“Preacher there don’t preach morals, because that’s churchy, and he don’t like neither the church nor its morals; but he preaches doctrine, which doctrine is, there’s no Christians but themselves. Well, the fences outside of the meetin’ house, for a quarter of a mile or so, each side of the house, and each side of the road, ain’t to be seen for hosses and waggons, and gigs hitched there; poor devils of hosses that have ploughed, or hauled, or harrowed, or logged, or snaked, or somethin’ or another all the week, and rest of a Sunday by alterin’ their gait, as a man rests on a journey by a alterin’ of his sturup, a hole higher or a hole lower. Women that has all their finery on can’t walk, and some things is ondecent. It’s as ondecent for a woman to be seen walkin’ to meetin’, as it is to be caught at—what shall I say?—why caught at attendin’ to her business to home.
“The women are the fust and the last to meetin’; fine clothes cost sunthin’, and if they ain’t showed, what’s the use of them? The men folk remind me of the hosses to Sable Island. It’s a long low sand-bank on Nova Scotia coast, thirty miles long and better is Sable Island, and not much higher than the water. It has awful breakers round it, and picks up a shockin’ sight of vessels does that island. Government keeps a super-intender there and twelve men to save wracked people, and there is a herd of three hundred wild hosses kept there for food for saved crews that land there, when provision is short, or for super-intender to catch and break for use, as the case may be.
“Well, if he wants a new hoss, he mounts his folks on his tame hosses, and makes a dash into the herd, and runs a wild feller down, lugs him off to the stable-yard, and breaks him in, in no time. A smart little hoss he is too, but he always has an eye to natur’’ arterwards; the change is too sudden, and he’ll off, if he gets a chance.
“Now that’s the case with these country congregations, we know where. The women and old tame men folk are, inside; the young wild boys and ontamed men folk are on the fences, outside a settin’ on the top rail, a speculatin’ on times or marriages, or markets, or what not, or a walkin’ round and studyin’ hoss flesh, or a talkin’ of a swap to be completed of a Monday, or a leadin’ off of two hosses on the sly of the old deacon’s, takin’ a lick of a half mile on a bye road, right slap a-head, and swearin’ the hosses had got loose, and they was just a fetchin’ of them back.
“‘Whose side-saddle is this?’
“‘Slim Sall Dowdie’s.’
“‘Shift it on to the deacon’s beast, and put his on to her’n and tie the two critters together by the tail. This is old Mother Pitcher’s waggon; her hoss kicks like a grasshopper. Lengthen the breechin’, and when aunty starts, he’ll make all fly agin into shavin’s, like a plane. Who is that a comin’ along full split there a horseback?’
“‘It’s old Booby’s son, Tom. Well, it’s the old man’s shaft hoss; call out whoh! and he’ll stop short, and pitch Tom right over his head on the broad of his back, whap.
“Tim Fish, and Ned Pike, come scale up here with us boys on the fence.’ The weight is too great; away goes the fence, and away goes the boys, all flyin’; legs, arms, hats, poles, stakes, withes, and all, with an awful crash and an awful shout; and away goes two or three hosses that have broke their bridles, and off home like wink.
“Out comes Elder Sourcrout. ‘Them as won’t come in had better stay to home,’ sais he. And when he hears that them as are in had better stay in when they be there, he takes the hint and goes back agin. ‘Come, boys, let’s go to Black Stump Swamp and sarch for honey. We shall be back in time to walk home with the galls from night meetin’, by airly candle-light. Let’s go.’
“Well, when they want to recruit the stock of tame ones inside meetin’, they sarcumvent some o’ these wild ones outside; make a dash on ‘em, catch ‘em, dip ‘em, and give ‘em a name; for all sects don’t always baptise ‘em as we do, when children, but let ‘em grow up wild in the herd till they are wanted. They have hard work to break ‘em in, for they are smart ones, that’s a fact, but, like the hosses of Sable Island, they have always an eye to natur’’ arterwards; the change is too sudden, you can’t trust ‘em, at least I never see one as I could, that’s all.
“Well, when they come out o’ meetin’, look at the dignity and sanctity, and pride o’ humility o’ the tame old ones. Read their faces. ‘How does the print go?’ Why this way, ‘I am a sinner, at least I was once, but thank fortin’ I ain’t like you, you onconverted, benighted, good-for-nothin’ critter you.’ Read the ontamed one’s face, what’s the print there? Why it’s this. As soon as he sees over-righteous stalk by arter that fashion, it says, ‘How good we are, ain’t we? Who wet his hay to the lake tother day, on his way to market, and made two tons weigh two tons and a half? You’d better look as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, hadn’t you, old Sugar-cane?’
“Now jist foller them two rulin’ elders, Sourcrout and Coldslaugh; they are plaguy jealous of their neighbour, elder Josh Chisel, that exhorted to-day. ‘How did you like Brother Josh, to-day?’ says Sourcrout, a utterin’ of it through his nose. Good men always speak through the nose. It’s what comes out o’ the mouth that defiles a man; but there is no mistake in the nose; it’s the porch of the temple that. ‘How did you like Brother Josh?’
“‘Well, he wasn’t very peeowerful.’
“‘Was he ever peeowerful?’
“‘Well, when a boy, they say he was considerable sum as a wrastler.’
“Sourcrout won’t larf, because it’s agin rules; but he gig goggles like a turkey-cock, and says he, ‘It’s for ever and ever the same thing with Brother Josh. He is like an over-shot mill, one everlastin’ wishy-washy stream.’
“‘When the water ain’t quite enough to turn the wheel, and only spatters, spatters, spatters,’ says Coldslaugh.
“Sourcrout gig goggles again, as if he was swallerin’ shelled corn whole. ‘That trick of wettin’ the hay,’ says he, ‘to make it weigh heavy, warn’t cleverly done; it ain’t pretty to be caught; it’s only bunglers do that.’
“‘He is so fond of temperance,’ says Coldslaugh, ‘he wanted to make his hay jine society, and drink cold water, too.’
“Sourcrout gig goggles ag’in, till he takes a fit of the asmy, sets down on a stump, claps both hands on his sides, and coughs, and coughs till he finds coughing no joke no more. Oh dear, dear convarted men, though they won’t larf themselves, make others larf the worst kind, sometimes; don’t they?
“I do believe, on my soul, if religion was altogether left to the voluntary in this world, it would die a nateral death; not that men wouldn’t support it, but because it would be supported under false pretences. Truth can’t be long upheld by falsehood. Hypocrisy would change its features, and intolerance its name; and religion would soon degenerate into a cold, intriguing, onprincipled, marciless superstition, that’s a fact.
“Yes, on the whole, I rather like these plain, decent, onpretendin’, country churches here, although t’other ones remind me of old times, when I was an ontamed one too. Yes, I like an English church; but as for Minister pretendin’ for to come for to go for to preach agin that beautiful long-haired young rebel, Squire Absalom, for ‘stealin’ the hearts of the people,’ why it’s rather takin’ the rag off the bush, ain’t it?
“Tell you what, Squire; there ain’t a man in their whole church here, from Lord Canter Berry that preaches afore the Queen, to Parson Homily that preached afore us, nor never was, nor never will be equal to Old Minister hisself for ‘stealin’ the hearts of the people.’”
In the course of our journey, the conversation turned upon the several series of the “Clockmaker” I had published, and their relative merits. Mr. Slick appeared to think they all owed their popularity mainly to the freshness and originality of character incidental to a new country.
“You are in the wrong pew here, Squire,” said he; “you are, upon my soul. If you think to sketch the English in a way any one will stop to look at, you have missed a figur’, that’s all. You can’t do it nohow; you can’t fix it. There is no contrasts here, no variation of colours, no light and shade, no nothin’. What sort of a pictur’ would straight lines of any thing make? Take a parcel of sodjers, officers and all, and stretch ‘em out in a row, and paint ‘em, and then engrave ‘em, and put it into one of our annuals, and see how folks would larf, and ask, ‘What boardin’-school gall did that? Who pulled her up out of standin’ corn, and sot her up on eend for an artist? they’d say.
“There is nothin’ here to take hold on. It’s so plaguy smooth and high polished, the hands slip off; you can’t get a grip of it. Now, take Lord First Chop, who is the most fashionable man in London, dress him in the last cut coat, best trowsers, French boots, Paris gloves, and grape-vine-root cane, don’t forget his whiskers, or mous-stache, or breast-pins, or gold chains, or any thing; and what have you got?—a tailor’s print-card, and nothin’ else.
“Take a lady, and dress her in a’most a beautiful long habit, man’s hat, stand-up collar and stock, clap a beautiful little cow-hide whip in her hand, and mount her on a’most a splendiferous white hoss, with long tail and flowin’ mane, a rairin’ and a cavortin’ like mad, and a champin’ and a chawin’ of its bit, and makin’ the froth fly from its mouth, a spatterin’ and white-spottin’ of her beautiful trailin’, skirt like any thing. And what have you got?—why a print like the posted hand-bills of a circus.
“Now spit on your fingers, and rub Lord First Chop out of the slate, and draw an Irish labourer, with his coat off, in his shirt-sleeves, with his breeches loose and ontied at the knees, his yarn stockings and thick shoes on; a little dudeen in his mouth, as black as ink and as short as nothin’; his hat with devilish little rim and no crown to it, and a hod on his shoulders, filled with bricks, and him lookin’ as if he was a singin’ away as merry as a cricket:
Do that, and you have got sunthin’ worth lookin’ at, quite pictures-quee, as Sister Sall used to say. And because why? You have got sunthin’ nateral.
“Well, take the angylyferous dear a horseback, and rub her out, well, I won’t say that nother, for I’m fond of the little critturs, dressed or not dressed for company, or any way they like, yes, I like woman-natur’, I tell you. But turn over the slate, and draw on t’other side on’t an old woman, with a red cloak, and a striped petticoat, and a poor pinched-up, old, squashed-in bonnet on, bendin’ forrard, with a staff in her hand, a leadin’ of a donkey that has a pair of yaller willow saddle-bags on, with coloured vegetables and flowers, and red beet-tops, a goin’ to market. And what have you got? Why a pictur’ worth lookin’ at, too. Why?—because it’s natur’’.
“Now, look here, Squire; let Copley, if he was alive, but he ain’t; and it’s a pity too, for it would have kinder happified the old man, to see his son in the House of Lords, wouldn’t it? Squire Copley, you know, was a Boston man; and a credit to our great nation too. P’raps Europe never has dittoed him since.
“Well, if he was above ground now, alive, and stirrin’, why take him and fetch him to an upper crust London party; and sais you, ‘Old Tenor,’ sais you, ‘paint all them silver plates, and silver dishes, and silver coverlids, and what nots; and then paint them lords with their stars, and them ladies’ (Lord if he would paint them with their garters, folks would buy the pictur, cause that’s nateral) ‘them ladies with their jewels, and their sarvants with their liveries, as large as life, and twice as nateral.’
“Well, he’d paint it, if you paid him for it, that’s a fact; for there is no better bait to fish for us Yankees arter all, than a dollar. That old boy never turned up his nose at a dollar, except when he thought he ought to get two. And if he painted it, it wouldn’t be bad, I tell you.
“‘Now,’ sais you, ‘you have done high life, do low life for me, and I will pay you well. I’ll come down hansum, and do the thing genteel, you may depend. Then,’ sais you, ‘put in for a back ground that noble, old Noah-like lookin’ wood, that’s as dark as comingo. Have you done?’ sais you.
“‘I guess so,’ sais he.
“‘Then put in a brook jist in front of it, runnin’ over stones, and foamin’ and a bubblin’ up like any thing.’
“‘It’s in,’ sais he.
“‘Then jab two forked sticks in the ground ten feet apart, this side of the brook,’ sais you, ‘and clap a pole across atween the forks. Is that down?’ sais you.
“‘Yes,’ sais he.
“‘Then,’ sais you, ‘hang a pot on that horizontal pole, make a clear little wood fire onderneath; paint two covered carts near it. Let an old hoss drink at the stream, and two donkeys make a feed off a patch of thistles. Have-you stuck that in?’
“‘Stop a bit,’ says he, ‘paintin’ an’t quite as fast done as writin’. Have a little grain of patience, will you? It’s tall paintin’, makin’ the brush walk at that price. Now there you are,’ sais he. ‘What’s next? But, mind I’ve most filled my canvass; it will cost you a pretty considerable penny, if you want all them critters in, when I come to cypher all the pictur up, and sumtotalize the whole of it.’
“‘Oh! cuss the cost!’ sais you. ‘Do you jist obey orders, and break owners, that’s all you have to do, Old Loyalist.’
“‘Very well,’ sais he, ‘here goes.’
“‘Well, then,’ sais you, ‘paint a party of gipsies there; mind their different coloured clothes, and different attitudes, and different occupations. Here a man mendin’ a harness, there a woman pickin’ a stolen fowl, there a man skinnin’ a rabbit, there a woman with her petticoat up, a puttin’ of a patch in it. Here two boys a fishin’, and there a little gall a playin’ with a dog, that’s a racin’ and a yelpin’, and a barkin’ like mad.’
“‘Well, when he’s done,’ sais you, ‘which pictur do you reckon is the best now, Squire Copely? speak candid for I want to know, and I ask you now as a countryman.’
“‘Well’ he’ll jist up and tell you, ‘Mr. Poker,’ sais he, ‘your fashionable party is the devil, that’s a fact. Man made the town, but God made the country. Your company is as formal, and as stiff, and as oninterestin’ as a row of poplars; but your gipsy scene is beautiful, because it’s nateral. It was me painted old Chatham’s death in the House of Lords; folks praised it a good deal; but it was no great shakes, there was no natur’ in it. The scene was real, the likenesses was good, and there was spirit in it, but their damned uniform toggery, spiled the whole thing—it was artificial, and wanted life and natur. Now, suppose, such a thing in Congress, or suppose some feller skiverd the speaker with a bowie knife as happened to Arkansaw, if I was to paint it, it would be beautiful. Our free and enlightened people is so different, so characteristic and peculiar, it would give a great field to a painter. To sketch the different style of man of each state, so that any citizen would sing right out; Heavens and airth if that don’t beat all! Why, as I am a livin’ sinner that’s the Hoosier of Indiana, or the Sucker of Illinois, or the Puke of Missouri, or the Bucky of Ohio, or the Red Horse of Kentucky, or the Mudhead of Tennesee, or the Wolverine of Michigan or the Eel of New England, or the Corn Cracker of Virginia! That’s the thing that gives inspiration. That’s the glass of talabogus that raises your spirits. There is much of elegance, and more of comfort in England. It is a great and a good country, Mr. Poker, but there is no natur in it.’
“It is as true as gospel,” said Mr. Slick, “I’m tellin’ you no lie. It’s a fact. If you expect to paint them English, as you have the Blue-Noses and us, you’ll pull your line up without a fish, oftener than you are a-thinkin’ on; that’s the reason all our folks have failed. ‘Rush’s book is jist molasses and water, not quite so sweet as ‘lasses, and not quite so good as water; but a spilin’ of both. And why? His pictur was of polished life, where there is no natur. Washington Irving’s book is like a Dutch paintin’, it is good, because it is faithful; the mop has the right number of yarns, and each yarn has the right number of twists, (altho’ he mistook the mop of the grandfather, for the mop of the man of the present day) and the pewter plates are on the kitchen dresser, and the other little notions are all there. He has done the most that could be done for them, but the painter desarves more praise than the subject.
“Why is it every man’s sketches of America takes? Do you suppose it is the sketches? No. Do you reckon it is the interest we create? No. Is it our grand experiments? No. They don’t care a brass button for us, or our country, or experiments nother. What is it then? It is because they are sketches of natur. Natur in every grade and every variety of form; from the silver plate, and silver fork, to the finger and huntin’ knife. Our artificials Britishers laugh at; they are bad copies, that’s a fact; I give them up. Let them laugh, and be darned; but I stick to my natur, and I stump them to produce the like.
“Oh, Squire, if you ever sketch me, for goodness gracious sake, don’t sketch me as an Attache to our embassy, with the Legation button, on the coat, and black Jube Japan in livery. Don’t do that; but paint me in my old waggon to Nova Scotier, with old Clay before me, you by my side, a segar in my mouth, and natur all round me. And if that is too artificial; oh, paint me in the back woods, with my huntin’ coat on, my leggins, my cap, my belt, and my powder-horn. Paint me with my talkin’ iron in my hand, wipin’ her, chargin’ her, selectin’ the bullet, placin’ it in the greased wad, and rammin’ it down. Then draw a splendid oak openin’ so as to give a good view, paint a squirrel on the tip top of the highest branch, of the loftiest tree, place me off at a hundred yards, drawin’ a bead on him fine, then show the smoke, and young squire squirrel comin’ tumblin’ down head over heels lumpus’, to see whether the ground was as hard as dead squirrels said it was. Paint me nateral, I besech you; for I tell you now, as I told you before, and ever shall say, there is nothin’ worth havin’ or knowin’, or hearin’, or readin’, or seein’, or tastin’, or smellin’, or feelin’ and above all and more than all, nothin’ worth affectionin’ but Natur.
As soon as I found my friend Mr. Hopewell comfortably settled in his lodgings, I went to the office of the Belgian Consul and other persons to obtain the necessary passports for visiting Germany, where I had a son at school. Mr. Slick proceeded at the same time to the residence of his Excellency Abednego Layman, who had been sent to this country by the United States on a special mission, relative to the Tariff.
On my return from the city in the afternoon, he told me he had presented his credentials to “the Socdolager,” and was most graciously and cordially received; but still, I could not fail to observe that there was an evident air of disappointment about him.
“Pray, what is the meaning of the Socdolager?” I asked. “I never heard of the term before.”
“Possible!” said he, “never heerd tell of ‘the Socdolager,’ why you don’t say so! The Socdolager is the President of the lakes—he is the whale of the intarnal seas—the Indgians worshipped him once on a time, as the king of fishes. He lives in great state in the deep waters, does the old boy, and he don’t often shew himself. I never see’d him myself, nor any one that ever had sot eyes on him; but the old Indgians have see’d him and know him well. He won’t take no bait, will the Socdolager; he can’t be caught, no how you can fix, he is so ‘tarnal knowin’, and he can’t be speared nother, for the moment he sees aim taken, he ryles the water and is out of sight in no tune. He can take in whole shoals of others hisself, tho’ at a mouthful. He’s a whapper, that’s a fact. I call our Minister here ‘the Socdolager,’ for our diplomaters were never known to be hooked once yet, and actilly beat all natur’ for knowin’ the soundin’s, smellin’ the bait, givin’ the dodge, or rylin’ the water; so no soul can see thro’ it but themselves. Yes, he is ‘a Socdolager,’ or a whale among diplomaters.
“Well, I rigs up this morning, full fig, calls a cab, and proceeds in state to our embassy, gives what Cooper calls a lord’s beat of six thund’rin’ raps of the knocker, presents the legation ticket, and was admitted to where ambassador was. He is a very pretty man all up his shirt, and he talks pretty, and smiles pretty, and bows pretty, and he has got the whitest hand you ever see, it looks as white, as a new bread and milk poultice. It does indeed.
“‘Sam Slick,’ sais he, ‘as I’m alive. Well, how do you do, Mr. Slick? I am ‘nation glad to see you, I affection you as a member of our legation. I feel kinder proud to have the first literary man of our great nation as my Attache.’
“‘Your knowledge of human natur, (added to your’n of soft sawder,’ sais I,) ‘will raise our great nation, I guess, in the scale o’ European estimation.’
“He is as sensitive as a skinned eel, is Layman, and he winced at that poke at his soft sawder like any thing, and puckered a little about the mouth, but he didn’t say nothin’, he only bowed. He was a Unitarian preacher once, was Abednego, but he swapt preachin’ for politics, and a good trade he made of it too; that’s a fact.
“‘A great change,’ sais I, ‘Abednego, since you was a preachin’ to Connecticut and I was a vendin’ of clocks to Nova Scotia, ain’t it? Who’d a thought then, you’d a been “a Socdolager,” and me your “pilot fish,” eh!’
“It was a raw spot, that, and I always touched him on it for fun.
“‘Sam,’ said he, and his face fell like an empty puss, when it gets a few cents put into each eend on it, the weight makes it grow twice as long in a minute. ‘Sam,’ said he, ‘don’t call me that are, except when we are alone here, that’s a good soul; not that I am proud, for I am a true Republican;’ and he put his hand on his heart, bowed and smiled hansum, ‘but these people will make a nickname of it, and we shall never hear the last of it; that’s a fact. We must respect ourselves, afore others will respect us. You onderstand, don’t you?’
“‘Oh, don’t I,’ sais I, ‘that’s all? It’s only here I talks this way, because we are at home now; but I can’t help a thinkin’ how strange things do turn up sometimes. Do you recollect, when I heard you a-preachin’ about Hope a-pitchin’ of her tent on a hill? By gosh, it struck me then, you’d pitch, your tent high some day; you did it beautiful.’
“He know’d I didn’t like this change, that Mr. Hopewell had kinder inoculated me with other guess views on these matters, so he began to throw up bankments and to picket in the ground, all round for defence like.
“‘Hope,’ sais he, ‘is the attribute of a Christian, Slick, for he hopes beyond this world; but I changed on principle.’
“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘I changed on interest; now if our great nation is backed by principal and interest here, I guess its credit is kinder well built. And atween you and me, Abednego, that’s more than the soft-horned British will ever see from all our States. Some on ‘em are intarmined to pay neither debt nor interest, and give nothin’ but lip in retarn.’
“‘Now,’ sais he, a pretendin’ to take no notice of this,’ you know we have the Voluntary with us, Mr. Slick.’ He said “Mister” that time, for he began to get formal on puppus to stop jokes; but, dear me, where all men are equal what’s the use of one man tryin’ to look big? He must take to growin’ agin I guess to do that. ‘You know we have the Voluntary with us, Mr. Slick,’ sais he.
“‘Jist so,’ sais I.
“‘Well, what’s the meanin’ of that?’
“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘that you support religion or let it alone, as you like; that you can take it up as a pedlar does his pack, carry it till you are tired, then lay it down, set on it, and let it support you.”
“‘Exactly,’ sais he; ‘it is voluntary on the hearer, and it’s jist so with the minister, too; for his preachin’ is voluntary also. He can preach or lot it alone, as he likes. It’s voluntary all through. It’s a bad rule that won’t work both ways.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘there is a good deal in that, too.’ I said that just to lead him on.
“‘A good deal!’ sais he, ‘why it’s every thing. But I didn’t rest on that alone; I propounded this maxim to myself. Every man, sais I, is bound to sarve his fellow citizens to his utmost. That’s true; ain’t it, Mr. Slick?’
“‘Guess so,’ sais I.
“‘Well then, I asked myself this here question: Can I sarve my fellow citizens best by bein’ minister to Peach settlement, ‘tendin’ on a little village of two thousand souls, and preachin’ my throat sore, or bein’ special minister to Saint Jimses, and sarvin’ our great Republic and its thirteen millions? Why, no reasonable man can doubt; so I give up preachin’.’
“‘Well,’ sais I, ‘Abednego, you are a Socdolager, that’s a fact; you are a great man, and a great scholard. Now a great scholard, when he can’t do a sum the way it’s stated, jist states it so—he can do it. Now the right way to state that sum is arter this fashion: “Which is best, to endeavour to save the souls of two thousand people under my spiritual charge, or let them go to Old Nick and save a piece of wild land in Maine, get pay for an old steamer burnt to Canada, and uphold the slave trade for the interest of the States.’
“‘That’s specious, but not true,’ said he; ‘but it’s a matter rather for my consideration than your’n,’ and he looked as a feller does when he buttons his trowsers’ pocket, as much as to say, you have no right to be a puttin’ of your pickers and stealers in there, that’s mine. ‘We will do better to be less selfish,’ said he, ‘and talk of our great nation.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘how do we stand here in Europe? Do we maintain the high pitch we had, or do we sing a note lower than we did?’
“Well, he walked up and down the room, with his hands onder his coat-tails, for ever so long, without a sayin’ of a word. At last, sais he, with a beautiful smile that was jist skin deep, for it played on his face as a cat’s-paw does on the calm waters, ‘What was you a sayin.’ of, Mr. Slick?’ saw he.
“‘What’s our position to Europe?’ sais I, ‘jist now; is it letter A, No. 1?’
“‘Oh!’ sais he, and he walked up and down agin, cypherin’ like to himself; and then says he, ‘I’ll tell you; that word Socdolager, and the trade of preachin’, and clockmakin’, it would be as well to sink here; neither on ‘em convene with dignity. Don’t you think so?’
“‘Sartainly,’ sais I; ‘it’s only fit for talk over a cigar, alone. It don’t always answer a good, purpose to blart every thing out. But our position,’ says I, among the nations of the airth, is it what our everlastin’ Union is entitled to?’
“‘Because,’ sais he, ‘some day when I am asked out to dinner, some wag or another of a lord will call me parson, and ask me to crave a blessin’, jist to raise the larf agin me for havin’ been a preacher.’
“‘If he does,’ sais I,’ jist say, my Attache does that, and I’ll jist up first and give it to him atween the two eyes; and when that’s done, sais you, my Lord, that’s your grace afore meat; pr’aps your lordship will return thanks arter dinner. Let him try it, that’s all. But our great nation,’ sais I, ‘tell me, hante that noble stand we made on the right of sarch, raised us about the toploftiest?’
“‘Oh,’ says he ‘right of sarch! right of sarch! I’ve been tryin’ to sarch my memory, but can’t find it. I don’t recollect that sarmont about Hope pitchin’ her tent on the hill. When was it?’
“‘It was afore the juvenile-united-democratic-republican association to Funnel Hall,’ sais I.
“‘Oh,’ says he, ‘that was an oration—it was an oration that.’
“Oh!” sais I, “we won’t say no more about that; I only meant it as a joke, and nothin’ more. But railly now, Abednego, what is the state of our legation?”
“‘I don’t see nothin’ ridikilous,’ sais he, ‘in that are expression, of Hope pitchin’ her tent on a hill. It’s figurativ’ and poetic, but it’s within the line that divides taste from bombast. Hope pitchin’ her tent on a hill! What is there to reprehend in that?’
“Good airth and seas,’ sais I, ‘let’s pitch Hope, and her tent, and the hill, all to Old Nick in a heap together, and talk of somethin’ else. You needn’t be so perkily ashamed of havin’ preached, man. Cromwell was a great preacher all his life, but it didn’t spile him as a Socdolager one bit, but rather helped him, that’s a fact. How ‘av we held our footin’ here?’
“‘Not well, I am grieved to say,’ sais he; ‘not well. The failure of the United States’ Bank, the repudiation of debts by several of our States, the foolish opposition we made to the suppression of the slave-trade, and above all, the bad faith in the business of the boundary question has lowered us down, down, e’en a’most to the bottom of the shaft.’
“‘Abednego,’ sais I, ‘we want somethin’ besides boastin’ and talkin’ big; we want a dash—a great stroke of policy. Washington hanging Andre that time, gained more than a battle. Jackson by hanging Arbuthnot and Anbristher, gained his election. M’Kennie for havin’ hanged them three citizens will be made an admiral of yet, see if he don’t. Now if Captain Tyler had said, in his message to Congress, ‘Any State that repudiates its foreign debts, we will first fine it in the whole amount, and then cut it off from our great, free, enlightened, moral and intellectual republic, he would have gained by the dash his next election, and run up our flag to the mast-head in Europe. He would have been popular to home, and respected abroad, that’s as clear as mud,’
“‘He would have done right, Sir, if he had done that,’ said Abednego, ‘and the right thing is always approved of in the eend, and always esteemed all through the piece. A dash, as a stroke of policy,’ said he, ‘has sometimes a good effect. General Jackson threatening France with a war, if they didn’t pay the indemnity, when he knew the King would make ‘em pay it whether or no, was a masterpiece; and General Cass tellin’ France if she signed the right of sarch treaty, we would fight both her and England together single-handed, was the best move on the political chess-board, this century. All these, Sir, are very well in their way, to produce an effect; but there’s a better policy nor all that, a far better policy, and one, too, that some of our States and legislators, and presidents, and Socdolagers, as you call ‘em, in my mind have got to larn yet, Sam.’
“‘What’s that?’ sais I. “For I don’t believe in my soul there is nothin’ a’most our diplomaters don’t know. They are a body o’ men that does honour to our great nation. What policy are you a indicatin’ of?’
“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘that honesty is the best policy.’
“When I heerd him say that, I springs right up on eend, like a rope dancer. ‘Give me your hand, Abednego,’ sais I; ‘you are a man, every inch of you,’ and I squeezed it so hard, it made his eyes water. ‘I always knowed you had an excellent head-piece,’ sais I, ‘and now I see the heart is in the right place too. If you have thrown preachin’ overboard, you have kept your morals for ballast, any how. I feel kinder proud of you; you are jist a fit representative for our great nation. You are a Socdolager, that’s a fact. I approbate your notion; it’s as correct as a bootjack. For nations or individuals, it’s all the same, honesty is the best policy, and no mistake. That,’ sais I, ‘is the hill, Abednego, for Hope to pitch her tent on, and no mistake,’ and I put my finger to my nose, and winked.
“‘Well,’ sais he, ‘it is; but you are a droll feller, Slick, there is no standin’ your jokes. I’ll give you leave to larf if you like, but you must give me leave to win if I can. Good bye. But mind, Sam, our dignity is at stake. Let’s have no more of Socdolagers, or Preachin’, or Clockmakin’, or Hope pitchin’ her tent. A word to the wise. Good bye.’
“Yes,” said Mr. Slick, “I rather like Abednego’s talk myself. I kinder think that it will be respectable to be Attache to such a man as that. But he is goin’ out of town for some time, is the Socdolager. There is an agricultural dinner, where he has to make a conciliation speech; and a scientific association, where there is a piece of delicate brag and a bit of soft sawder to do, and then there are visits to the nobility, peep at manufactures, and all that sort of work, so he won’t be in town for a good spell, and until then, I can’t go to Court, for he is to introduce me himself. Pity that, but then it’ll give me lots o’ time to study human natur, that is, if there is any of it left here, for I have some doubts about that. Yes, he is an able lead horse, is Abednego; he is a’most a grand preacher, a good poet, a first chop orator, a great diplomater, and a top sawyer of a man, in short—he is a Socdolager.”