THE BETROTHAL.
Early the following morning, just as the first dawn of day was
streaking the eastern sky, Jackson’s bugle sounded the _reveillé,_ and
we were all soon on foot and in motion. The moose was lifted into the
cart, and the boy despatched with it to the harbour, so as to have it
in readiness for putting on board as soon as we should arrive, and a
cup of coffee was prepared for us by Betty, as she said, to keep the
cold out of our stomach while travelling. The doctor had some few
arrangements to make for his voyage, and Cutler and I set out in
advance, on foot. It was agreed that Ovey, Peter, and his daughters,
should follow, as soon as possible, in the waggons, and breakfast with
us on board of the Black Hawk.
“Mr Jackson,” said I, as I saw him standing at the door.
“Yes, Sir,” and he was at my side in a minute, and honoured me with one
of his most gracious smiles, and respectful military salutes.
There is great magic in that word “Mr,” when used to men of low degree,
and in “Squire” for those just a notch higher. Servitude, at best, is
but a hard lot. To surrender your will to another, to come and go at
his bidding, and to answer a bell as a dog does a whistle, ain’t just
the lot one would choose, if a better one offered. A master may forget
this, a servant never does. The great art, as well as one of the great
Christian duties, therefore, is not to make him feel it. Bidding is one
thing, and commanding is another. If you put him on good terms with
himself, he is on good terms with you, and affection is a stronger tie
than duty. The vanity of mankind is such, that you always have the
ingratitude of helps dinned into your ears, from one year’s end to
another, and yet these folk never heard of the ingratitude of
employers, and wouldn’t believe there was such a thing in the world, if
you were to tell them. Ungrateful, eh! Why, didn’t I pay him his wages?
wasn’t he well boarded? and didn’t I now and then let him go to a
frolic? Yes, he wouldn’t have worked without pay. He couldn’t have
lived if he hadn’t been fed, and he wouldn’t have stayed if you hadn’t
given him recreation now and then. It’s a poor heart that don’t rejoice
sometimes. So much thanks he owes you. Do you pray that it may always
rain at night or on Sundays? Do you think the Lord is the Lord of
masters only? But he has been faithful as well as diligent, and careful
as well as laborious, he has saved you more than his wages came to—are
there no thanks for this? Pooh! you remind me of my poor old mother.
Father used to say she was the most unreasonable woman in the world—for
when she hired a gall she expected perfection, for two dollars and a
half a month.
Mr Jackson! didn’t that make him feel good all over? Why shouldn’t he
be called Mr, as well as that selfish conceited M’Clure, Captain? Yes,
there is a great charm in that are word, “Mr.” It was a wrinkle I
picked up by accident, very early in life. We had to our farm to
Slickville, an Irish servant, called Paddy Monaghan—as hard-working a
critter as ever I see, but none of the boys could get him to do a
blessed thing for them. He’d do his plowin’ or reapin’, or whatever it
was, but the deuce a bit would he leave it to oblige Sally or the boys,
or any one else, but father; he had to mind him, in course, or put his
three great coats on, the way he came, one atop of the other, to cover
the holes of the inner ones, and walk. But, as for me, he’d do anythin’
I wanted. He’d drop his spade, and help me catch a horse, or he’d do my
chores for me, and let me go and attend my mink and musquash traps, or
he’d throw down his hoe and go and fetch the cows from pasture, that I
might slick up for a party—in short, he’d do anything in the world for
me.
“Well, they all wondered how under the sun Paddy had taken such a
shindy to me, when nobody else could get him to budge an inch for them.
At last, one day, mother asked me how on airth it was—for nothin’
strange goes on long, but a woman likes to get at the bottom of it.
“Well,” sais I, “mother, if you won’t whisper a syllable to anybody
about it, I’ll tell you.”
“Who, me,” sais she, “Sammy?” She always called me Sammy when she
wanted to come over me. “Me tell? A person who can keep her own secrets
can keep yours, Sammy. There are some things I never told your father.”
“Such as what?” sais I.
“A-hem,” said she. “A-hem—such as he oughtn’t to know, dear. Why, Sam,
I am as secret as the grave! How is it, dear?”
“Well,” sais I, “I will tell you. This is the way: I drop Pat and Paddy
altogether, and I call him Mr Monaghan, and never say a word about the
priest.”
“Why, Sammy,” said she, “where in the world did you pick up all your
cuteness? I do declare you are as sharp as a needle. Well, I never. How
you do take after me! _boys are mothers’ sons. It’s only galls who take
after their father.”_
It’s cheap coin, is civility, and kindness is a nice bank to fund it
in, Squire: for it comes back with compound interest. He used to call
Josiah, Jo, and brother Eldad, Dad, and then yoke ’em both together, as
“spalpeens,” or “rapscallions,” and he’d vex them by calling mother,
when he spoke to them of her, the “ould woman,” and Sally, “that young
cratur, Sal.” But he’d show the difference when he mentioned me; it was
always “the young master,” and when I was with him, it was “your
Honour.” Lord, I shall never forget wunst, when I was a practisin’ of
ball-shooting at a target, Pat brought out one of my muskits, and sais
he: “Would your Honour just let me take a crack at it. You only make a
little round hole in it, about the size of a fly’s eye; but, by the
piper that played before Moses, I’ll knock it all to smithereens.”
“Yes,” sais I, “Mr Monaghan; fire and welcome.”
Well, up he comes to the toe-line, and puts himself into attitude,
scientific like. First he throws his left leg out, and then braces back
the right one well behind him, and then he shuts his left eye to, and
makes an awful wry face, as if he was determined to keep every bit of
light out of it, and then he brought his gun up to the shoulder with a
duce of a flourish, and took a long, steady aim. All at once he lowered
the piece.
“I think I’ll do it better knalin’, your Honour,” said he, “the way I
did when I fired at Lord Blarney’s land-agent, from behind the hedge,
for lettin’ a farm to a Belfast heretic. Oh! didn’t I riddle him, your
Honour.” He paused a moment, his tongue had run away with him. “His
coat, I main,” said he. “I cut the skirts off as nait as a tailor
could. It scared him entirely, so, when he see the feathers flyin’ that
way, he took to flight, and I never sot eyes on him no more. I
shouldn’t wonder if he is runnin’ yet.”
So he put down one knee on the ground, and adjusting himself said, “I
won’t leave so much as a hair of that target, to tell where it stood.”
He took a fresh aim, and fired, and away he went, heels over head, the
matter of three or four times, and the gun flew away behind him, ever
so far.
“Oh!” sais he, “I am kilt entirely. I am a dead man, Master Sam. By the
holy poker, but my arm is broke.”
“I am afraid my gun is broke,” said I, and off I set in search of it.
“Stop, yer Honour,” said he, “for the love of Heaven, stop, or she’ll
be the death of you.”
“What?” sais I.
“There are five more shots in her yet, Sir. I put in six cartridges, so
as to make sure of that paper kite, and only one of them is gone off
yet. Oh! my shoulder is out, Master Sam. Don’t say a word of it, Sir,
to the ould cratur, and—”
“To who?” said I.
“To her ladyship, the mistress,” said he, “and I’ll sarve you by day
and by night.”
Poor Pat! you were a good-hearted creature naturally, as most of your
countrymen are, if repealers, patriots, and demagogues of all sorts and
sizes, would only let you alone. Yes, there is a great charm in that
word “Mr.”
So, sais I, “Mr Jackson!”
“Yes, Sir,” said he.
“Let me look at your bugle.”
“Here it is, your Honour.”
“What a curious lookin’ thing it is,” sais I, “and what’s all them
little button-like things on it with long shanks?”
“Keys, Sir,” said he.
“Exactly,” sais I, “they unlock the music, I suppose, don’t they, and
let it out? Let me see if I could blow it.”
“Try the pipes, Mr Slick,” said Peter. “Tat is nothin’ but a prass
cow-horn as compared to the pagpipes.”
“No, thank you,” sais I, “it’s only a Highlander can make music out of
that.”
“She never said a wiser word tan tat,” he replied, much gratified.
“Now,” sais I, “let me blow this, does it take much wind?”
“No,” said Jackson, “not much, try it, Sir.”
“Well, I put it to my lips, and played a well-known air on it. “It’s
not hard to play, after all, is it, Jackson?”
“No, Sir,” said he, looking delighted, “nothing is ard to a man as
knows how, as you do.”
“Tom,” sais Betty, “don’t that do’ee good? Oh, Sir, I ain’t eard that
since I left the hold country, it’s what the guards has used to be
played in the mail-coaches has was. Oh, Sir, when they comed to the
town, it used to sound pretty; many’s the time I have run to the window
to listen to it. Oh, the coaches was a pretty sight, Sir. But them
times is all gone,” and she wiped a tear from her eye with the corner
of her apron, a tear that the recollection of early days had called up
from the fountain of her heart.
Oh, what a volume does one stray thought of the past contain within
itself. It is like a rocket thrown up in the night. It suddenly expands
into a brilliant light, and sheds a thousand sparkling meteors, that
scatter in all directions, as if inviting attention each to its own
train. Yes, that one thought is the centre of many, and awakens them
all to painful sensibility. Perhaps it is more like a vivid flash of
lightning, it discloses with intense brightness the whole landscape,
and exhibits, in their minutest form and outline, the very leaves and
flowers that lie hid in the darkness of night.
“Jessie,” said I, “will you imitate it?”
I stopt to gaze on her for a moment—she stood in the doorway—a perfect
model for a sculptor. But oh, what chisel could do justice to that
face—it was a study for a painter. Her whole soul was filled with those
clear beautiful notes, that vibrated through the frame, and attuned
every nerve, till it was in harmony with it. She was so wrapt in
admiration, she didn’t notice what I observed, for I try in a general
way that nothing shall escape me; but as they were behind us all, I
just caught a glimpse of the doctor (as I turned my head suddenly)
withdrawing his arm from her waist. She didn’t know it, of course, she
was so absorbed in the music. It ain’t likely she felt him, and if she
had, it ain’t probable she would have objected to it. It was natural he
should like to press the heart she had given him; wasn’t it now his?
and wasn’t it reasonable he should like to know how it beat? He was a
doctor, and doctors like to feel pulses, it comes sorter habitual to
them, they can’t help it. They touch your wrist without knowing it, and
if it is a woman’s, why their hand, like brother Josiah’s cases that
went on all fours, crawls up on its fingers, till it gets to where the
best pulse of all is. Ah, Doctor, there is Highland blood in that
heart, and it will beat warmly towards you, I know. I wonder what Peter
would have said, if he had seen what I did. But then he didn’t know
nothin’ about pulses.
“Jessie,” said I, “imitate that for me, dear. It is the last exercise
of that extraordinary power I shall ever hear.”
“Play it again,” she said, “that I may catch the air.”
“Is it possible,” said I to myself, “you didn’t hear it after all? It
is the first time your little heart was ever pressed before, perhaps it
beat so loud you couldn’t distinguish the bugle notes. Was it the new
emotion or the new music that absorbed you so? Oh, Jessie, don’t ask me
again what natur is.”
Well, I played it again for her, and instantly she gave the repetition
with a clearness, sweetness, and accuracy, that was perfectly amazing.
Cutler and I then took leave for the present, and proceeded on our way
to the shore.
“Ah, Sir!” said Jackson, who accompanied us to the bars, “it’s a long
while ago since I eard that hair. Warn’t them mail-coaches pretty
things, Sir? Hon the hold King’s birthday, Sir, when they all turned
out with new arness and coaches fresh painted, and coachman and guard
in new toggery, and four as beautiful bits of blood to each on ’em as
was to be found in England, warn’t it a sight to behold, Sir? The world
could show nothin’ like it, Sir. And to think they are past and gone,
it makes one’s eart hache. They tells me the coachman now, Sir, has a
dirty black face, and rides on a fender before a large grate, and
flourishes a red ot poker instead of a whip. The guard, Sir, they tells
me, is no—”
“Good bye, Mr Jackson;” and I shook hands with him.
“Isn’t that too bad, Sir, now?” he said. “Why, here is Betty again,
Sir, with that d—d hat, and a lecture about the stroke. Good bye, your
Honour,” said he.
When we came to the bridge where the road curved into the woods, I
turned and took a last look at the place where I had spent such an
agreeable day.
I don’t envy you it, Doctor, but I wish I had such a lovely place at
Slickville as that. What do you think, Sophy, eh? I have an idea you
and I could be very happy there, don’t you?
“Oh! Mr Slick,” said Jehu Judd, who was the first person I saw at the
door of Peter’s house, “what an everlastin’ long day was yesterday! I
did nothing but renew the poultice, look in the glass, and turn into
bed again. It’s off now, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” sais I, “and we are off, too, in no time.”
“But the trade,” said he; “let’s talk that over.”
“Haven’t time,” sais I; “it must be short meter, as you say when you
are to home to Quaco, practising Sall Mody (as you call it). Mackarel
is five dollars a barrel, sains thirty—say yes or no, that’s the word.”
“How can you have the conscience?” said he.
“I never talk of conscience in trade,” sais I; “only of prices. Bargain
or no bargain, that’s the ticket.”
“I can’t,” he said.
“Well, then, there is an end of it,” says I. “Good bye, friend Judd.”
Sais he: “You have a mighty short way with you, my friend.”
“A short way is better than a long face,” said I.
“Well,” said he, “I can’t do without the sains (nets) no how I can fix
it, so I suppose I must give the price. But I hope I may be skinned
alive if you ain’t too keen.”
“Whoever takes a fancy to skin you, whether dead or alive, will have a
tough job of it, I reckon,” sais I, “it’s as tight as the bark of a
tree.”
“For two pins,” said he, “I’d tan your hide for you now.”
“Ah,” said I, “you are usin’ your _sain_ before you pay for it. That’s
not fair.”
“Why?” said he.
“Because,” sais I, “you are _insaine_ to talk that way.”
“Well, well,” said he, “you do beat the devil.”
“You can’t say that,” sais I, “for I hain’t laid a hand on _you._
Come,” sais I, “wake snakes, and push off with the Captain, and get the
fish on board. Cutler, tell the mate, mackarel is five dollars the
barrel, and nets thirty each. We shall join you presently, and so,
friend Judd, you had better put the licks in and make haste, or there
will be ‘more fiddling and dancing and serving the devil this
morning.’”
He turned round, and gave me a look of intense hatred, and shook his
fist at me. I took off my hat and made him a low bow, and said “That’s
right, save your breath to cool your broth, or to groan with when you
get home, and have a refreshing time with the Come-outers.
“My father was a preacher,
A mighty holy man;
My mother was a Methodist,
But I’m a Tunyan.”
He became as pale as a mad nigger at this. He was quite speechless with
rage, and turning from me, said nothing, and proceeded with the captain
to the boat. It was some time before the party returned from the lake,
but the two waggons were far apart, and Jessie and the doctor came
last—was it that the road was bad, and he was a poor driver? perhaps
so. A man who loves the woods don’t know or care much about roads. It
don’t follow because a feller is a good shot, he is a good whip; or was
it they had so much to say, the short distance didn’t afford time?
Well, I ain’t experienced in these matters, though perhaps you are,
Squire. Still, though Cupid is represented with bows and arrows (and
how many I have painted on my clocks, for they always sold the best), I
don’t think he was ever sketched in an old one-hoss waggon. A canoe
would have suited you both better, you would have been more at home
there. If I was a gall I would always be courted in one, for you can’t
romp there, or you would be capsized. It’s the safest place I know of.
It’s very well to be over head and ears in love, but my eyes, to be
over head and ears in the water, is no place for lovemaking, unless it
is for young whales, and even they spout and blow like all wrath when
they come up, as if you might have too much of a good thing, don’t
they?
They both looked happy—Jessie was unsophisticated, and her countenance,
when it turned on me, seemed to say, “Mr Slick, I have taken your
advice, and I am delighted I did.” And the doctor looked happy, but his
face seemed to say, “Come now, Slick, no nonsense, please, let me
alone, that’s a good fellow.”
Peter perceived something he didn’t understand. He had seen a great
deal he didn’t comprehend since he left the Highlands, and heard a
great many things he didn’t know the meaning of. It was enough for him
if he could guess it.
“Toctor,” said he, “how many kind o’ partridges are there in this
country?”
“Two,” said the simple-minded naturalist, “spruce and birch.”
“Which is the prettiest?”
“The birch.”
“And the smartest?”
“The birch.”
“Poth love to live in the woods, don’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Well there is a difference in colour. Ta spruce is red flesh, and ta
birch white, did you ever know them mix?”
“Often,” said the doctor, who began to understand this allegorical talk
of the North-West trader, and feel uncomfortable, and therefore didn’t
like to say no. “Well, then, the spruce must stay with the pirch, or
the pirch live with the spruce,” continued Peter. “The peech wood
between the two are dangerous to both, for it’s only fit for cuckoos.”
Peter looked chuffy and sulky. There was no minister at the remote post
he had belonged to in the nor-west. The governor there read a sermon of
a Sunday sometimes, but he oftener wrote letters. The marriages, when
contracted, were generally limited to the period of service of the
_employés,_ and sometimes a wife was bought, or at others, entrapped
like a beaver. It was a civil or uncivil contract, as the case might
be. Wooing was a thing he didn’t understand; for what right had a woman
to an opinion of her own? Jessie felt for her father, the doctor, and
herself, and retired crying. The doctor said:
“Peter, you know me, I am an honest man; give me your confidence, and
then I will ask the Chief for the hand of his daughter.”
“Tat is like herself,” said Peter. “And she never doubted her; and
there is her hand, which is her word. Tam the coffee! let us have a
glass of whiskey.”
And he poured out three, and we severally drank to each other’s health,
and peace was once more restored.
Thinks I to myself, now is the time to settle this affair; for the
doctor, Peter, and Jessie are all like children; it’s right to show ’em
how to act.
“Doctor,” sais I, “just see if the cart with the moose has arrived; we
must be a moving soon, for the wind is fair.”
As soon as he went on this errand, “Peter,” sais I, “the doctor wants
to marry your daughter, and she, I think, is not unwilling, though,
between you and me, you know better than she does what is good for her.
Now the doctor don’t know as much of the world as you do. He has never
seen Scotland, nor the north-west, nor travelled as you have, and
observed so much.”
“She never said a truer word in her life,” said Peter. “She has seen
the Shetlands and the Rocky Mountains—the two finest places in the
world, and crossed the sea and the Red River; pesides Canada and Nova
Scotia, and seen French, and pairs, and Indians, and wolves, and plue
noses, and puffaloes, and Yankees, and prairie dogs, and Highland
chiefs, and Indian chiefs, and other great shentlemen, pesides peavers
with their tails on. She has seen the pest part of the world, Mr
Slick.” And he lighted his pipe in his enthusiasm, when enumerating
what he had seen, and looked as if he felt good all over.
“Well,” sais I, “the doctor, like an honourable man, has asked Squire
Peter McDonald for his daughter; now, when he comes in, call Jessie and
place her hand in his, and say you consent, and let the spruce and
birch partridge go and live near the lake together.”
“Tat she will,” said he, “for ta toctor is a shentleman pred and porn,
though she hasn’t the honour to be a Highlander.”
As soon as the Bachelor Beaver returned, Peter went on this paternal
mission, for which I prepared my friend; and the betrothal was duly
performed, when he said in Gaelic:
“_Dhia Beammich sibh le choile mo chlam!_ God bless you both, my
children!”
As soon as the ceremony was over, “Now,” sais I, “we must be a movin’.
Come, Peter, let us go on board. Where are the pipes? Strike up your
merriest tune.”
And he preceded us, playing, “_Nach dambsadh am minster_,” in his best
manner—if anything can be said to be good, where bad is the best. When
we arrived at the beach, Cutler and my old friend, the black steward,
were ready to receive us. It would have been a bad omen to have had
Sorrow meet the betrothed pair so soon, but that was only a jocular
name given to a very merry negro.
“Well, Sorrow,” sais I, as we pushed off in the boat, “how are you?”
“Very bad, Massa,” he said, “I ab been used most rediculous shamful
since you left. Time was berry dull on board since you been withdrawn
from de light ob your countenance, and de crew sent on shore, and got a
consignment ob rum, for benefit ob underwriters, and all consarned as
dey said, and dey sung hymns, as dey call nigga songs, like Lucy Neal
and Lucy Long, and den dey said we must hab ablution sarmon; so dey
fust corned me, Massa.”
“In the beef or pork-barrel, Sorrow?” said I.
“Oh, Lord bless you, Massa, in needer; you knows de meaning ob dat are
word—I is sure you does—dey made me most tosicated, Massa, and dey
said, ‘Sorrow, come preach ablution sarmon.’ Oh, Massa, I was berry
sorry, it made me feel all ober like ague; but how could I insist so
many; what was I to do, dey fust made me der slave, and den said, ‘Now
tell us bout mancipation.’ Well, dey gub me glass ob rum, and I
swallowed it—berry bad rum—well, dat wouldn’t do. Well, den dey gub me
anoder glass, and dat wouldn’t do; dis here child hab trong head,
Massa, werry trong, but he hoped de rum was all out, it was so bad; den
dey rejectioned anoder in my face, and I paused and crastimated; sais
I, ‘Masters, is you done?’ for dis child was afeard, Massa, if he drank
all de bottle empty, dey would tro dat in his face too, so sais I:
“‘Masters, I preaches under protest, against owners and ship for
bandonment; but if I must put to sea, and dis niggar don’t know how to
steer by lunar compass, here goes.’ Sais I, ‘My dear bredren,’ and dey
all called out:
“‘You farnal niggar you! do you call us bredren, when you is as black
as de debbil’s hind leg?’
“‘I beg your most massiful pardon,’ sais I, ‘but as you is
ablutionists, and when you preach, calls us regraded niggars your
coloured bredren, I tought I might venture to foller in de same suit,
if I had a card ob same colour.’
“‘Well done, Uncle Tom,’ sais they. ‘Well done, Zip Coon,’ and dey made
me swallow anoder glass ob naked truth. Dis here child has a trong
head, Massa, dat are a fac. He stand so much sun, he ain’t easy
combustioned in his entails.
“‘Go on,’ sais they.
“Well, my bredren,” sais I, “I will dilate to you the valy of a niggar,
as put in one scale and white man in de oder. Now, bredren, you know a
sparrer can’t fall to de ground no how he can fix it, but de Lord knows
it—in course ob argument you do. Well, you knows twelve sparrers sell
in de market for one penny. In course ob respondence you do. How much
more den does de Lord care for a niggar like me, who is worth six
hundred dollars and fifty cents, at de least? So, gentlemen, I is done,
and now please, my bredren, I will pass round de hat wid your
recurrence.’
“Well, dey was pretty high, and dey behaved like gentlemen, I must
submit dat; dey gub me four dollars, dey did—dey is great friends to
niggar, and great mancipationists, all ob dem; and I would hab got two
dollars more, I do raily conclude, if I hadn’t a called ’em my bredren.
Dat was a slip ob de lockjaw.”
“I must inquire into this,” said Cutler, “it’s the most indecent thing
I ever beard of. It is downright profanity; it is shocking.”
“Very,” said I, “but the sermon warn’t a bad one; I never heerd a
niggar reason before; I knew they could talk, and so can Lord
Tandemberry; but as for reasoning, I never heerd either one or the
other attempt it before. There is an approach to logic in that.”
“There is a very good hit at the hypocrisy of abolitionists in it,”
said the doctor; “that appeal about my bredren is capital, and the
passing round of the hat is quite evangelical.”
“Oigh,” said Peter, “she have crossed the great sea and the great
prairies, and she haven’t heerd many sarmons, for Sunday don’t come but
once a month there, but dat is the pest she ever heerd, it is so
short.”
“Slick,” said Cutler, “I am astonished at you. Give way there, my men;
ease the bow oar.”
“Exactly,” sais I, “Cutler—give way there, my man; ease the bow
oar—that’s my maxim too—how the devil can you learn if you don’t hear?”
sais I.
“How can you learn good,” said he, “if you listen to evil?”
“Let’s split the difference,” said I, laughing, “as I say in swapping;
let’s split the difference. If you don’t study mankind how can you know
the world at all? But if you want to preach—”
“Come, behave yourself,” said he, laughing; “lower down the _man ropes_
there.”
“To help up the _women_,” said I.
“Slick,” said he, “it’s no use talking; you are incorrigible.”
The breakfast was like other breakfasts of the same kind; and, as the
wind was fair, we could not venture to offer any amusements to our
guests. So in due time we parted, the doctor alone, of the whole party,
remaining on board. Cutler made the first move by ascending the
companion-ladder, and I shook hands with Peter as a hint for him to
follow. Jessie, her sister, Ovey, and I, remained a few minutes longer
in the cabin. The former was much agitated.
“Good bye,” said she, “Mr Slick! Next to him,” pointing to the Bachelor
Beaver, “you have been the kindest and best friend I ever had. You have
made me feel what it is to be happy;” and woman-like, to prove her
happiness, burst out a crying, and threw her arms round my neck and
kissed me. “Oh! Mr Slick! do we part for ever?”
“For ever!” sais I, trying to cheer her up; “for ever is a most
thundering long word. No, not for ever, nor for long either. I expect
you and the doctor will come and visit _us_ to Slickville this fall;”
and I laid an emphasis on that word “_us_,” because it referred to what
I had told her of Sophy.
“Oh!” said she, “how kind that is!”
“Well,” sais I, “now I will do a kinder thing. Jane and I will go on
deck, and leave you and the doctor to bid each other good-bye.” As I
reached the door, I turned and said: “Jessie, teach him Gaelic the way
Flora taught me—_do bhileau boidheach_ (with your pretty lips).”
As the boat drew alongside, Peter bid me again a most affectionate, if
not a most complimentary farewell.
“She has never seen many Yankees herself,” said Peter, “but prayin’
Joe, the horse-stealer—tarn him—and a few New England pedlars, who
asked three hundred per shent for their coots, but Mr Slick is a
shentleman, every inch of him, and the pest of them she ever saw, and
she will pe glad to see her again whenever she comes this way.”
When they were all seated in the boat, Peter played a doleful ditty,
which I have no doubt expressed the grief of his heart. But I am sorry
to say it was not much appreciated on board of the “Black Hawk.” By the
time they reached the shore, the anchor was up, the sails trimmed, and
we were fairly out of Ship Harbour.