“There is more in that story, Squire,” said Mr. Hopewell, “of the Patron, and Sam’s queer illustration of the Cow’s Tail, than you are aware of. The machinery of the colonies is good enough in itself, but it wants a safety valve. When the pressure within is too great, there should be something devised to let off the steam. This is a subject well worthy of your consideration; and if you have an opportunity of conversing with any of the ministry, pray draw their attention to it. By not understanding this, the English have caused one revolution at home, and another in America.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick. “It reminds me of what I once saw done by the Prince de Joinville’s horse, on the Halifax road.”
“Pardon me,” said Mr. Hopewell, “you shall have an opportunity presently of telling your story of the Prince’s horse, but suffer me to proceed.
“England, besides other outlets, has a never-failing one in the colonies, but the colonies have no outlet. Cromwell and Hampden were actually embarked on board of a vessel in the Thames, for Boston, when they were prevented from sailing by an Order in Council. What was the consequence? The sovereign was dethroned. Instead of leading a small sect of fanatical puritans, and being the first men of a village in Massachussets, they aspired to be the first men in an empire, and succeeded. So in the old colonies. Had Washington been sent abroad in command of a regiment, Adams to govern a colony, Franklin to make experiments in an observatory like that at Greenwich, and a more extended field been opened to colonial talent, the United States would still have continued to be dependencies of Great Britain.
“There is no room for men of talent in British America; and by not affording them an opportunity of distinguishing themselves, or rewarding them when they do, they are always ready to make one, by opposition. In comparing their situation with that of the inhabitants of the British Isles, they feel that they labour under disabilities; these disabilities they feel as a degradation; and as those who impose that degradation live three thousand miles off, it becomes a question whether it is better to suffer or resist.”
“The Prince de Joinville’s horse,” said Mr. Slick, “is a case in pint.”
“One moment, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell.
“The very word ‘dependencies’ shows the state of the colonies. If they are to be retained, they should be incorporated with Great Britain. The people should be made to feel, not that they are colonists, but Englishmen. They may tinker at constitutions as much as they please; the root of the evil lies deeper than statesmen are aware of. O’Connell, when he agitates for a repeal of the Union, if he really has no ulterior objects beyond that of an Irish Parliament, does not know what he is talking about. If his request were granted, Ireland would become a province, and descend from being an integral part of the empire, into a dependency. Had he ever lived in a colony, he would have known the tendencies of such a condition.
“What I desire to see, is the very reverse. Now that steam has united the two continents of Europe and America, in such a manner that you can travel from Nova Scotia to England, in as short a time as it once required to go from Dublin to London, I should hope for a united legislature. Recollect that the distance from New Orleans to the head of the River is greater than from Halifax N. S., to Liverpool. I do not want to see colonists and Englishmen arrayed against each other, as different races, but united as one people, having the same rights and privileges, each bearing a share of the public burdens, and all having a voice in the general government.
“The love of distinction is natural to man. Three millions of people cannot be shut up in a colony. They will either turn on each other, or unite against their keepers. The road that leads to retirement in the provinces, should be open to those whom the hope of distinction invites to return and contend for the honours of the empire. At present, the egress is practically closed.”
“If you was to talk for ever, Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “you couldn’t say more than the Prince de Joinville’s hoss on that subject.”
The interruption was very annoying; for no man I ever met, so thoroughly understands the subject of colonial government as Mr. Hopewell. His experience is greater than that of any man now living, and his views more enlarged and more philosophical.
“Go on, Sam,” said he with great good humour. “Let us hear what the Prince’s horse said.”
“Well,” said Mr. Slick, “I don’t jist exactly mean to say he spoke, as Balaam’s donkey did, in good English or French nother; but he did that that spoke a whole book, with a handsum wood-cut to the fore, and that’s a fact.
“About two years ago, one mortal brilin’ hot day, as I was a pokin’ along the road from Halifax to Windsor, with Old Clay in the waggon, with my coat off, a ridin’ in my shirt-sleeves, and a thinkin’ how slick a mint-julep would travel down red-lane, if I had it, I heard such a chatterin’, and laughin’, and screamin’ as I never a’most heerd afore, since I was raised.
“‘What in natur’ is this,’ sais I, as I gave Old Clay a crack of the whip, to push on. ‘There is some critters here, I guess, that have found a haw haw’s nest, with a tee hee’s egg in it. What’s in the wind now?’ Well, a sudden turn of the road brought me to where they was, and who should they be but French officers from the Prince’s ship, travellin’ incog. in plain clothes. But, Lord bless you, cook a Frenchman any way you please, and you can’t disguise him. Natur’ will out, in spite of all, and the name of a Frencher is written as plain as any thing in his whiskers, and his hair, and his skin, and his coat, and his boots, and his air, and his gait, and in everythin’, but only let him open his mouth, and the cat’s out of the bag in no time, ain’t it? They are droll boys, is the French, that’s a fact.
“Well, there was four on ‘em dismounted, a holdin’ of their hosses by the bridle, and a standin’ near a spring of nice cool water; and there was a fifth, and he was a layin’ down belly flounder on the ground, a tryin’ to drink out of the runnin’ spring.
“‘Parley vous French,’ sais I, ‘Mountsheer?’ At that, they sot to, and larfed again more than ever, I thought they would have gone into the high strikes, they hee-hawed so.
“Well, one on ‘em, that was a Duke, as I found out afterwards, said ‘O yees, Saar, we spoked English too.’
“‘Lawful heart!’ sais I, ‘what’s the joke?’
“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘look there, Sare.’ And then they larfed agin, ready to split; and sore enough, no sooner had the Leftenant layed down to drink, than the Prince’s hoss kneeled down, and put his head jist over his neck, and began to drink too. Well, the officer couldn’t get up for the hoss, and he couldn’t keep his face out of the water for the hoss, and he couldn’t drink for the hoss, and he was almost choked to death, and as black in the face as your hat. And the Prince and the officers larfed so, they couldn’t help him, if they was to die for it.
“Sais I to myself, ‘A joke is a joke, if it tante carried too far, but this critter win be strangled, as sure as a gun, if he lays here splutterin’ this way much longer.’ So I jist gives the hoss a dab in the mouth, and made him git up; and then sais I, ‘Prince,’ sais I, for I know’d him by his beard, he had one exactly like one of the old saint’s heads in an Eyetalian pictur, all dressed to a pint, so sais I, ‘Prince,’ and a plaguy handsum man he is too, and as full of fun as a kitten, so sais I, ‘Prince,’ and what’s better, all his officers seemed plaguy proud and fond of him too; so sais I, ‘Prince, voila le condition of one colonist, which,’ sais I, ‘Prince, means in English, that leftenant is jist like a colonist.’
“‘Commong,’ sais he, ‘how is dat?’
“‘Why’ sais I, ‘Prince, whenever a colonist goes for to drink at a spring of the good things in this world, (and plaguy small springs we have here too,) and fairly lays down to it, jist as he gets his lips cleverly to it, for a swig, there is some cussed neck or another, of some confounded Britisher, pops right over him, and pins him there. He can’t get up, he can’t back out, and he can’t drink, and he is blacked and blued in the face, and most choked with the weight.’
“‘What country was you man of?’ said he, for he spoke very good for a Frenchman.
“With that I straightened myself up, and looked dignified, for I know’d I had a right to be proud, and no mistake; sais I, ‘Prince, I am an American citizen.’ How them two words altered him. P’raps there beant no two words to ditto ‘em. He looked for all the world like a different man when he seed I wasn’t a mean uncircumcised colonist.
“‘Very glad to see you, Mr. Yankee,’ said he, ‘very glad indeed. Shall I have de honour to ride with you a little way in your carriage?’
“‘As for the matter of that,’ sais I, ‘Mountsheer Prince, the honour is all the other way,’ for I can be as civil as any man, if he sets out to act pretty and do the thing genteel.
“With that he jumped right in, and then he said somethin’ in French to the officers; some order or another, I suppose, about comin on and fetchin’ his hoss with them. I have hearn in my time, a good many men speak French, but I never see the man yet, that could hold a candle to him. Oh, it was like lightnin’, jist one long endurin’ streak; it seemed all one sentence and one word. It was beautiful, but I couldn’t onderstand it, it was so everlastin’ fast.
“‘Now,’ sais he, ‘set sail.’ And off we sot, at the rate of sixteen notts an hour. Old Clay pleased him, you may depend; he turned round and clapped his hands, and larfed, and waved his hat to his officers to come on; and they whipped, and spurred, and galloped, and raced for dear life; but we dropped ‘em astarn like any thing, and he larfed again, heartier than ever There is no people a’most, like to ride so fast as sailors; they crack on, like a house a fire.
“Well, arter a while, sais he, ‘Back topsails,’ and I hauled up, and he jumped down, and outs with a pocket book, and takes a beautiful gold coronation medal. (It was solid gold, no pinchback, but the rael yaller stuff, jist fresh from King’s shop to Paris, where his money is made), and sais he, ‘Mr. Yankee, will you accept that to remember the Prince de Joinville and his horse by?’ And then he took off his hat and made me a bow, and if that warn’t a bow, then I never see one, that’s all. I don’t believe mortal man, unless it was a Philadelphia nigger, could make such a bow. It was enough to sprain his ankle he curled so low. And then off he went with a hop, skip, and a jump, sailor fashion, back to meet his people.
“Now, Squire, if you see Lord Stanley, tell him that story of the Prince de Joinville’s horse; but before you get so far as that, pin him by admissions. When you want to get a man on the hip, ax him a question or two, and get his answers, and then you have him in a corner, he must stand and let you put on the bridle. He cant help it no how, he can fix it.
“Says you, ‘My Lord’—don’t forget his title—every man likes the sound of that, it’s music to his ears, it’s like our splendid national air, Yankee Doodle, you never get tired of it. ‘My Lord,’ sais you, ‘what do you suppose is the reason the French keep Algiers?’ Well, he’ll up and say, it’s an outlet for the fiery spirits of France, it gives them employment and an opportunity to distinguish themselves, and what the climate and the inimy spare, become valuable officers. It makes good soldiers out of bad subjects.
“‘Do you call that good policy?’ sais you.
“Well, he’s a trump, is Mr. Stanley, at least folks say so; and he’ll say right off the reel ‘onquestionably it is—excellent policy.’
“When he says that, you have him bagged, he may flounder and spring like a salmon jist caught; but he can’t out of the landin’ net. You’ve got him, and no mistake. Sais you ‘what outlet have you for the colonies?’
“Well, he’ll scratch his head and stare at that, for a space. He’ll hum and haw a little to get breath, for he never thought of that afore, since he grow’d up; but he’s no fool, I can tell you, and he’ll out with his mould, run an answer and be ready for you in no time. He’ll say, ‘They don’t require none. Sir. They have no redundant population. They are an outlet themselves.’
“Sais you, ‘I wasn’t talking of an outlet for population, for France or the provinces nother. I was talking of an outlet for the clever men, for the onquiet ones, for the fiery spirits.’
“‘For that. Sir,’ he will say, ‘they have the local patronage.’
“‘Oh!’ sais you, ‘I warn’t aware. I beg pardon, I have been absent some time, as long as twenty days or perhaps twenty-five, there must have been great changes, since I left.’
“‘The garrison,’ sais you.
“‘Is English,’ sais he.
“‘The armed ships in the harbour?’
“‘English.’
“‘The governor and his secretary?’
“‘English.’
“‘The principal officer of customs and principal part of his deputies?’
“‘English.’
“‘The commissariat and the staff?’
“‘English to a man.’
“‘The dockyard people?’
“‘English.’
“‘The postmaster giniral?’
“‘English.’
“‘What, English?’ sais you, and look all surprise, as if you didn’t know. ‘I thought he was a colonist, seein’ the province pays so much for the mails.’
“‘No,’ he’ll say, ‘not now; we have jist sent an English one over, for we find it’s a good thing that.’
“‘One word more,’ sais you, ‘and I have done. If your army officers out there, get leave of absence, do you stop their pay?’
“‘No.’
“‘Do you sarve native colonists the same way?’
“‘No, we stop half their salaries.’
“‘Exactly,’ sais you, ‘make them feel the difference. Always make a nigger feel he is a nigger, or he’ll get sassy, you may depend. As for patronage,’ sais you, ‘you know as well as I do, that all that’s not worth havin’, is jist left to poor colonist. He is an officer of militia, gets no pay and finds his own fit out. Like Don Quixote’s tailor, he works for nothin’ and finds thread. Any other little matters of the same kind, that nobody wants, and nobody else will take; if Blue-nose makes interest for, and has good luck, he can get as a great favour, to conciliate his countrymen. No, Minister,’ sais you, ‘you are a clever man, every body sais you are a brick; and if you ain’t, you talk more like one, than any body I have seen this while past. I don’t want no office myself, if I did p’raps, I wouldn’t talk about patronage this way; but I am a colonist, I want to see the colonists remain so. They are attached to England, that is a fact, keep them so, by making them Englishmen. Throw the door wide open; patronise them; enlist them in the imperial sarvice, allow them a chance to contend for honours and let them win them, if they can. If they don’t, it’s their own fault, and cuss ‘em they ought to be kicked, for if they ain’t too lazy, there is no mistake in ‘em, that’s a fact. The country will be proud of them, if they go ahead. Their language will change then. It will be our army, the delighted critters will say, not the English army; our navy, our church, our parliament, our aristocracy, &c., and the word English will be left out holus-bolus, and that proud, that endearin’ word “our” will be insarted. Do this, and you will shew yourself the first statesman of modern times. You’ll rise right up to the top of the pot, you’ll go clean over Peel’s head, as your folks go over ourn, not by jumpin’ over him, but by takin’ him by the neck and squeezin’ him down. You ‘mancipated the blacks, now liberate the colonists and make Englishmen of them, and see whether the goneys won’t grin from ear to ear, and shew their teeth, as well as the niggers did. Don’t let Yankee clockmakers, (you may say that if you like, if it will help your argument,) don’t let travellin’ Yankee clockmakers tell such stories, against your justice and our pride as that of the Prince de Joinville and his horse.’”
“Here,” said Mr. Sick, “is an invitation for you and me, and minister to go and visit Sir Littleeared Bighead, down to Yorkshire. You can go if you like, and for once, p’raps it’s worth goin’ to see how these chaps first kill time, and then how time kills them in turn. Eatin’, drinkin’, sleepin’, growlin’, fowlin’, and huntin’ kills time; and gout, aperplexy, dispepsy, and blue devils kills them. They are like two fightin’ dogs, one dies of the thrashin’ he gets, and t’other dies of the wounds he got a killin’ of him. Tit for tat; what’s sarce for the goose, is sarce for the gander.
“If you want to go, Minister will go with you; but hang me if I do. The only thing is, it’ll puzzle you to get him away, if he gets down there. You never see such a crotchical old critter in your life as he is. He flies right off the handle for nothin’. He goes strayin’ away off in the fields and gullies, a browsin’ about with a hammer, crackin’ up bits of stones like walnuts, or pickin’ up old weeds, faded flowers, and what not; and stands starin’ at ‘em for ever so long, through his eye-glass, and keeps a savin’ to himself, ‘Wonderful provision of natur!’ Airth and seas! what does he mean? How long would a man live on such provision, I should like to know, as them bitter yarbs.
“Well, then, he’ll jist as soon set down and jaw away by the hour together with a dirty-faced, stupid little poodle lookin’ child, as if it was a nice spry little dog he was a trainin’ of for treein’ partridges; or talk poetry with the galls, or corn-law with the patriots, or any thing. Nothin’ comes amiss to him.
“But what provokes me, is to hear him go blartin’ all over the country about home scenes, and beautiful landscape, and rich vardure. My sakes, the vardure here is so deep, it looks like mournin’; it’s actilly dismal. Then there’s no water to give light to the pictur, and no sun to cheer it; and the hedges are all square; and the lime trees are as stiff as an old gall that was once pretty, and has grow’d proud on the memory of it.
“I don’t like their landscape a bit, there ain’t no natur in it. Oh! if you go, take him along with you, for he will put you in consait of all you see, except reform, dissent, and things o’ that kind; for he is an out and out old Tory, and thinks nothin’ can be changed here for the better, except them that don’t agree with him.
“He was a warnin’ you t’other day not to take all I said for Gospel about society here; but you’ll see who’s right and who’s wrong afore you’ve done, I know. I described to you, when you returned from Germany, Dinin’ out to London. Now I’ll give you my opinion of “Life in the Country.” And fust of all, as I was a sayin’, there is no such thing as natur’ here. Every thing is artificial; every thing of its kind alike; and every thing oninterestin’ and tiresome.
“Well, if London is dull, in the way of West Eend people, the country, I guess, is a little mucher. Life in the country is different, of course, from life in town; but still life itself is alike there, exceptin’ again class difference. That is, nobility is all alike, as far as their order goes; and country gents is alike, as far as their class goes; and the last especially, when they hante travelled none, everlastin’ flat, in their own way. Take a lord, now, and visit him to his country seat, and I’ll tell you what you will find—a sort of Washington State house place. It is either a rail old castle of the genuine kind, or a gingerbread crinkum crankum imitation of a thing that only existed in fancy, but never was seen afore—a thing that’s made modern for use, and in ancient stile for shew; or else it’s a great cold, formal, slice of a London terrace, stack on a hill in a wood.
“Well, there is lawn, park, artificial pond called a lake, deer that’s fashionablized and civilized, and as little natur in ‘em as the humans have. Kennel and hounds for parsicutin’ foxes—presarves (not what we call presarves, quinces and apple sarce, and green gages done in sugar, but preserves for breedin’ tame partridges and peasants to shoot at), H’aviaries, Hive-eries, H’yew-veris, Hot Houses, and so on; for they put an H before every word do these critters, and then tell us Yankees we don’t speak English.
“Well, when you have seen an old and a new house of these folks, you have seen all. Featurs differ a little, but face of all is so alike, that though p’raps you wouldn’t mistake one for another, yet you’d say they was all of one family. The king is their father.
“Now it may seem kinder odd to you, and I do suppose it will, but what little natur there is to England is among these upper crust nobility. Extremes meet. The most elegant critter in America is an Indgian chief. The most elegant one in England is a noble. There is natur in both. You will vow that’s a crotchet of mine, but it’s a fact; and I will tell you how it is, some other time. For I opine the most charmin’, most nateral, least artificial, kindest, and condescendenest people here are rael nobles. Younger children are the devil, half rank makes ‘em proud, and entire poverty makes ‘em sour. Strap pride on an empty puss, and it puts a most beautiful edge on, it cuts like a razor. They have to assart their dignity, tother one’s dignity don’t want no assartin’. It speaks for itself.
“I won’t enter into particulars now. I want to shew you country life; because if you don’t want to hang yourself, don’t tarry there, that’s all; go and look at ‘em, but don’t stay there. If you can’t help it no how, you can fix it, do it in three days; one to come, one to see, and one to go. If you do that, and make the fust late, and the last airly, you’ll get through it; for it won’t only make a day and a half, when sumtotalized. We’ll fancy it, that’s better than the rael thing, any time.
“So lets go to a country gentleman’s house, or “landed,” as they call ‘em, cause they are so infarnally heavy. Well, his house is either an old onconvenient up and down, crooked-laned place, bad lighted, bad warmed, and shockin’ cut up in small rooms; or a spic and span formal, new one, havin’ all or most, according to his puss, of those things, about lord’s houses, only on a smaller scale.
“Well, I’ll arrive in time for dinner, I’ll titivate myself up, and down to drawin’-room, and whose the company that’s to dine there? Why, cuss ‘em, half a dozen of these gents own the country for miles round, so they have to keep some company at the house, and the rest is neighbours.
“Now for goodness gracious sake, jist let’s see who they be! Why one or two poor parsons, that have nothin’ new in ‘em, and nothin’ new on ‘em, goodish sort of people too, only they larf a leetle, jist a leetle louder at host’s jokes, than at mine, at least, I suspicion it, ‘cause I never could see nothin’ to larf at in his jokes. One or two country nobs of brother landed gents, that look as big as if the whole of the three per cent consols was in their breeches pockets; one or two damsels, that was young once, but have confessed to bein’ old maids, drop’t the word ‘Miss,’ ‘cause it sounded ridikilous, and took the title of ‘Mrs.’ to look like widders. Two or three wivewomen of the Chinese stock, a bustin’ of their stays off a’most, and as fat as show-beef; an oldest son or two, with the eend of the silver spoon he was born with, a peepin’ out o’ the corner of his mouth, and his face as vacant as a horn lantern without a candle in it; a younger son or so jist from college, who looks as if he had an idea he’d have to airn his livin’, and whose lantern face looks as if it had had a candle in it, that had e’en amost burnt the sides out, rather thin and pale, with streaks of Latin and Greek in it; one or two everlastin’ pretty young galls, so pretty as there is nothin’ to do, you can’t hardly help bein’ spooney on ‘em.
“Matchless galls, they be too, for there is no matches for ‘em. The primur-genitur boy takes all so they have no fortin. Well, a younger son won’t do for ‘em, for he has no fortin; and t’other primo geno there, couldn’t if he would, for he wants the estate next to hisn, and has to take the gall that owns it, or he won’t get it. I pity them galls, I do upon my soul. It’s a hard fate, that, as Minster sais, in his pretty talk, to bud, unfold, bloom, wither, and die on the parent stock, and have no one to pluck the rose, and put it in his bosom, aint it?
“Dinner is ready, and you lock and lock, and march off two and two, to t’other room, and feed. Well, the dinner is like town dinner, there aint much difference, there is some; there is a difference atween a country coat, and a London coat; but still they look alike, and are intended to be as near the same as they can. The appetite is better than town folks, and there is more eatin’ and less talkin’, but the talkin’, like the eatin’, is heavy and solemcoloy.
“Now do, Mr. Poker, that’s a good soul, now do, Squire, look at the sarvants. Do you hear that feller, a blowin’ and a wheesin’ like a hoss that’s got the heaves? Well he is so fat and lazy, and murders beef and beer so, he has got the assmy, and walkin’ puts him out o’ breath—aint it beautiful! Faithful old sarvant that, so attached to the family! which means the family prog. Always to home! which means he is always eatin’ and drinkin’, and hante time to go out. So respectful! which means bowin’ is an everlastin’ sight easier, and safer too, nor talkin’ is. So honest! which means, parquisites covers all he takes. Keeps every thin’ in such good order! which means he makes the women do his work. Puts every thin’ in it’s place, he is so methodical! which means, there is no young children in the house, and old aunty always puts things back where she takes ‘em from. For she is a good bit of stuff is aunty, as thin, tough, and soople as a painter’s palate knife. Oh, Lord! how I would like to lick him with a bran new cow hide whip, round and round the park, every day, an hour afore breakfast, to improve his wind, and teach him how to mend his pace. I’d repair his old bellowses for him, I know.
“Then look at the butler, how he tordles like a Terrapin; he has got the gout, that feller, and no wonder, nother. Every decanter that comes in has jist half a bottle in it, the rest goes in tastin’, to see it aint corked. His character would suffer if a bit o’ cork floated in it. Every other bottle is corked, so he drinks that bottle, and opens another, and gives master half of it. The housekeeper pets him, calls him Mr., asks him if he has heard from Sir Philip lately, hintin’ that he is of gentle blood, only the wrong side of the blanket, and that pleases him. They are both well to do in the world. Vails count up in time, and they talk big sometimes, when alone together, and hint at warnin’ off the old knight, marryin’, and settin’ up a tripe shop, some o’ these days; don’t that hint about wedlock bring him a nice little hot supper that night, and don’t that little supper bring her a tumbler of nice mulled wine, and don’t both on ‘em look as knowin’ as a boiled codfish, and a shelled oyster, that’s all.
“He once got warned himself, did old Thomas, so said he, ‘Where do you intend to go master?’ ‘Me,’ said the old man, scratchin’ his head, and lookin’ puzzled ‘nowhere.’ ‘Oh, I thought you intend to leave, said Thomas for I don’t.’ ‘Very good that, Thomas, come I like that.’ The old knight’s got an anecdote by that, and nanny-goats aint picked up every day in the country. He tells that to every stranger, every stranger larfs, and the two parsons larf, and the old ‘Sir’ larfs so, he wakes up an old sleepin’ cough that most breaks his ribs, and Thomas is set up for a character.
“Well, arter servants is gone, and women folks made themselves scarce, we haul up closer to the table, have more room for legs, and then comes the most interestin’ part. Poor rates, quarter sessions, turnpikes, corn-laws, next assizes, rail-roads and parish matters, with a touch of the horse and dog between primo and secondo genitur, for variety. If politics turn up, you can read who host is in a gineral way with half an eye. If he is an ante-corn-lawer, then he is a manufacturer that wants to grind the poor instead of grain. He is a new man and reformer. If he goes up to the bob for corn-law, then he wants to live and let live, is of an old family, and a tory. Talk of test oaths bein’ done away with. Why Lord love you, they are in full force here yet. See what a feller swears by—that’s his test, and no mistake.
“Well, you wouldn’t guess now there was so much to talk of, would you? But hear ‘em over and over every day, the same everlastin’ round, and you would think the topics not so many arter all, I can tell you. It soon runs out, and when it does, you must wait till the next rain, for another freshet to float these heavy logs on.
“Coffee comes, and then it’s up and jine the ladies. Well, then talk is tried agin, but it’s no go; they can’t come it, and one of the good-natured fat old lady-birds goes to the piany, and sits on the music stool. Oh, Hedges! how it creaks, but it’s good stuff, I guess, it will carry double this hitch; and she sings ‘I wish I was a butterfly.’ Heavens and airth! the fust time I heard one of these hugeaceous critters come out with that queer idee, I thought I should a dropt right off of the otter man on the floor, and rolled over and over a-laughin’, it tickled me so, it makes me larf now only to think of it. Well, the wings don’t come, such big butterflies have to grub it in spite of Old Nick, and after wishin’ and wishin’ ever so long in vain, one of the young galls sits down and sings in rael right down airnest, ‘I won’t be a nun.’ Poor critter! there is some sense in that, but I guess she will be bleeged to be, for all that.
“Now eatin’ is done, talkin’ is done, and singin’ is done; so here is chamber candles, and off to bed, that is if you are a-stayin’ there. If you ain’t, ‘Mr. Weather Mutton’s carriage is ready, Sir,’ and Mr. Weather Mutton and Mrs. Weather Mutton and the entire stranger get in, and when you do, you are in for it, I can tell you. You are in for a seven mile heat at least of cross country roads, axletree deep, rain pour-in’ straight up and down like Niagara, high hedges, deep ditches full of water, dark as Egypt; ain’t room to pass nothin’ if you meet it, and don’t feel jist altogether easy about them cussed alligators and navigators, critters that work on rail-roads all day, and on houses and travellers by night.
“If you come with Mr. Weather Mutton, you seed the carriage in course. It’s an old one, a family one, and as heavy as an ox cart. The hosses are old, family hosses, everlastin’ fat, almighty lazy, and the way they travel is a caution to a snail. It’s vulgar to go fast, its only butcher’s hosses trot quick, and besides, there is no hurry—there is nothin’ to do to home. Affectionate couple! happy man! he takes his wife’s hand in his—kisses it? No, not he, but he puts his head back in the corner of the carriage, and goes to sleep, and dreams—of her? Not he indeed, but of a saddle of mutton and curren’ jelly.
“Well, if you are a-stoppin’ at Sir Littleeared Bighead’s, you escape the flight by night, and go to bed and think of homeland natur’. Next mornin’, or rather next noon, down to breakfast. Oh, it’s awfully stupid! That second nap in the mornin’ always fuddles the head, and makes it as mothery as ryled cyder grounds. Nobody looks as sweet as sugar candy quite, except them two beautiful galls and their honey lips. But them is only to look at. If you want honey, there is some on a little cut glass, dug out of a dish. But you can’t eat it, for lookin’ at the genuwine, at least I can’t, and never could. I don’t know what you can do.
“P’raps you’d like to look at the picture, it will sarve to pass away time. They are family ones. And family picture, sarve as a history. Our Mexican Indgians did all their history in picture. Let’s go round the room and look. Lawful heart! what a big “Brown ox” that is. Old “Star and Garters;” father fatted him. He was a prize ox; he eat a thousand bushel of turnips, a thousand pound of oil cake, a thousand of hay, and a thousand weight of mangel wurzel, and took a thousand days to fat, and weighed ever so many thousands too. I don’t believe it, but I don’t say so, out of manners, for I’ll take my oath he was fatted on porter, because he looks exactly like the footman on all fours. He is a walking “Brown Stout,” that feller.
“There is a hunter, come, I like hosses; but this brute was painted when at grass, and is too fat to look well, guess he was a goodish hoss in his day though. He ain’t a bad cut that’s a fact.
“Hullo! what’s this pictur? Why, this is from our side of the water, as I am a livin’ sinner, this is a New-Foundlander, this dog; yes, and he is of the true genuwine breed too, look at his broad forehead—his dew-claws—his little ears; (Sir Littleeared must have been named arter him), his long hair—his beautiful eye. He is a first chop article that; but, oh Lord, he is too shockin’ fat altogether. He is like Mother Gary’s chickens, they are all fat and feathers. A wick run through ‘em makes a candle. This critter is all hair and blubber, if he goes too near the grate, he’ll catch into a blaze and set fire to the house.
“There’s our friend the host with cap and gold tassel on, ridin’ on his back, and there’s his younger brother, (that died to Cambridge from settin’ up all night for his degree, and suppin’ on dry mathematics, and swallerin’ “Newton” whole) younger brother like, walkin’ on foot, and leadin’ the dog by the head, while the heir is a scoldin’ him for not goin’ faster.
“Then, there is an old aunty that a forten come from. She looks like a bale o’ cotton, fust screwed as tight as possible, and then corded hard. Lord, if they had only a given her a pinch of snuff, when she was full dressed and trussed, and sot her a sneezin’, she’d a blowed up, and the fortin would have come twenty years sooner.
“Yes, it’s a family pictur, indeed, they are all family picture. They are all fine animals, but over fed and under worked.
“Now it’s up and take a turn in the gardens. There is some splendid flowers on that slope. You and the galls go to look at ‘em, and jist as you get there, the grass is juicy from the everlastin’ rain, and awful slippy; up go your heels, and down goes stranger on the broad of his back, slippin’ and slidin’ and coastin’ right down the bank, slap over the light mud-earth bed, and crushin’ the flowers as flat as a pancake, and you yaller ochered all over, clean away from the scruff of your neck, down to the tip eend of your heel. The galls larf, the helps larf, and the, bed-room maid larfs; and who the plague can blame them? Old Marm don’t larf though, because she is too perlite, and besides, she’s lost her flowers, and that’s no larfin’ matter; and you don’t larf, ‘cause you feel a little the nastiest you ever did, and jist as near like a fool as to be taken for one, in the dark, that’s a fact.
“Well, you renew the outer man, and try it agin, and it’s look at the stable and hosses with Sir Host, and the dogs, and the carriages, and two American trees, and a peacock, and a guinea hen, and a gold pheasant, and a silver pheasant, and all that, and then lunch. Who the plague can eat lunch, that’s only jist breakfasted?
“So away goes lunch, and off goes you and the ‘Sir,’ a trampousin’ and a trapsein’ over the wet grass agin (I should like to know what ain’t wet in this country), and ploughed fields, and wide ditches chock full of dirty water, if you slip in, to souse you most ridikelous; and over gates that’s nailed up, and stiles that’s got no steps for fear of thoroughfare, and through underwood that’s loaded with rain-drops, away off to tother eend of the estate, to see the most beautiful field of turnips that ever was seen, only the flies eat all the plants up; and then back by another path, that’s slumpier than t’other, and twice as long, that you may see an old wall with two broke-out winders, all covered with ivy, which is called a ruin. And well named it is, too, for I tore a bran new pair of trousers, most onhandsum, a scramblin’ over the fences to see it, and ruined a pair of shoes that was all squashed out of shape by the wet and mud.
“Well, arter all this day of pleasure, it is time to rig up in your go-to-meetin’ clothes for dinner; and that is the same as yesterday, only stupider, if that’s possible; and that is Life in the Country.
“How the plague can it be otherwise than dull? If there is nothin’ to see, there can’t be nothin’ to talk about. Now the town is full of things to see. There is Babbage’s machine, and Bank Governor’s machine, and the Yankee woman’s machine, and the flyin’ machine, and all sorts of machines, and galleries, and tunnels, and mesmerisers, and theatres, and flower-shows, and cattle-shows, and beast-shows, and every kind of show, and what’s better nor all, beautiful got-up women, and men turned out in fust chop style, too.
“I don’t mean to say country women ain’t handsum here, ‘cause they be. There is no sun here; and how in natur’ can it be otherways than that they have good complexions. But it tante safe to be caged with them in a house out o’ town. Fust thing you both do, is to get spooney, makin’ eyes and company-faces at each other, and then think of matin’, like a pair of doves, and that won’t answer for the like of you and me. The fact is, Squire, if you want to see women, you musn’t go to a house in the country, nor to mere good company in town for it, tho’ there be first chop articles in both; but you must go among the big bugs the top-lofty nobility, in London; for since the days of old marm Eve, down to this instant present time, I don’t think there ever was or ever will be such splendiferous galls as is there. Lord, the fust time I seed ‘em it put me in mind of what happened to me at New Brunswick once. Governor of Maine sent me over to their Governor’s, official-like, with a state letter, and the British officers axed me to dine to their mess. Well, the English brags so like niggers, I thought I’d prove ‘em, and set ‘em off on their old trade jist for fun. So, says I, stranger captain, sais I, is all these forks and spoons, and plates and covers, and urns, and what nots, rael genuwine solid silver, the clear thing, and no mistake. ‘Sartainly,’ said he, ‘we have nothin’ but silver here.’ He did, upon my soul, just as cool, as if it was all true; well you can’t tell a military what he sais ain’t credible, or you have to fight him. It’s considered ongenteel, so I jist puts my finger on my nose, and winks, as much as to say, ‘I ain’t such a cussed fool as you take me to be, I can tell you.’
“When he seed I’d found him out, he larfed like any thing. Guess he found that was no go, for I warn’t born in the woods to be scared by an owl, that’s a fact. Well, the fust time I went to lord’s party, I thought it was another brag agin; I never see nothin’ like it. Heavens and airth, I most jumpt out o’ my skin. Where onder the sun, sais I to myself, did he rake and scrape together such super-superior galls as these. This party is a kind o’ consarvitory, he has got all the raree plants and sweetest roses in England here, and must have ransacked the whole country for ‘em. Knowin’ I was a judge of woman kind, he wants me to think they are all this way; but it’s onpossible. They are only “shew frigates” arter all; it don’t stand to reason, they can’t be all clippers. He can’t put the leake into me that way, so it tante no use tryin’. Well, the next time, I seed jist such another covey of partridges, same plumage, same step, and same breed. Well done, sais I, they are intarmed to pull the wool over my eyes, that’s a fact, but they won’t find that no easy matter, I know. Guess they must be done now, they can’t show another presarve like them agin in all Britain. What trouble they do take to brag here, don’t they? Well, to make a long story short; how do you think it eventuated, Squire? Why every party I went to, had as grand a shew as them, only some on ‘em was better, fact I assure you, it’s gospel truth; there ain’t a word of a lie in it, text to the letter. I never see nothin’ like it, since I was raised, nor dreamed nothin’ like it, and what’s more, I don’t think the world has nothin’ like it nother. It beats all natur. It takes the rag off quite. If that old Turk, Mahomed, had seed these galls, he wouldn’t a bragged about his beautiful ones in paradise so for everlastinly, I know; for these English heifers would have beat ‘em all holler, that’s a fact. For my part, I call myself a judge. I have an eye there ain’t no deceivin’. I have made it a study, and know every pint about a woman, as well as I do about a hoss; therefore, if I say so, it must be so, and no mistake. I make all allowances for the gear, and the gettin’ up, and the vampin’, and all that sort o’ flash; but toggery won’t make an ugly gall handsum, nohow you can fix it. It may lower her ugliness a leetle, but it won’t raise her beauty, if she hante got none. But I warn’t a talkin’ of nobility; I was a talkin’ of Life in the Country. But the wust of it is, when galls come on the carpet, I could talk all day; for the dear little critters, I do love ‘em, that’s a fact. Lick! it sets me crazy a’most. Well, where was we? for petticoats always puts every thing out o’ my head. Whereabouts was we?”
“You were saying that there were more things to be seen in London than in the country.”
“Exactly; now I have it. I’ve got the thread agin. So there is.
“There’s England’s Queen, and England’s Prince, and Hanover’s King, and the old Swordbelt that whopped Bony; and he is better worth seem’ than any man now livin’ on the face of the univarsal airth, let t’other one be where he will, that’s a fact. He is a great man, all through the piece, and no mistake. If there was—what do you call that word, when one man’s breath pops into ‘nother man’s body, changin’ lodgins, like?”
“Do you mean transmigration?”
“Yes; if there was such a thing as that, I should say it was old Liveoak himself, Mr. Washington, that was transmigrated into him, and that’s no mean thing to say of him, I tell you.
“Well now, there’s none o’ these things to the country; and it’s so everlastin’ stupid, it’s only a Britisher and a nigger that could live in an English country-house. A nigger don’t like movin’, and it would jist suit him, if it warn’t so awful wet and cold.