I am not surprised at the views expressed by Mr. Slick in the previous
chapter. He has led too active a life, and his habits and thoughts are
too business-like to admit of his enjoying retirement, or accommodating
himself to the formal restraints of polished society. And yet, after
making this allowance for his erratic life, it is but fair to add that
his descriptions were always exaggerated; and, wearied as he no doubt
was by the uniformity of country life, yet in describing it, he has
evidently seized on the most striking features, and made them more
prominent than they really appeared, even to his fatigued and prejudiced
vision.
In other respects, they are just the sentiments we may suppose would
be naturally entertained by a man like the Attache, under such
circumstances. On the evening after that on which he had described “Life
in the Country” to me, he called with two “orders” for admission to the
House of Commons, and took me down with him to hear the debates.
“It’s a great sight,” said he. “We shall see all their uppercrust
men put their best foot out. There’s a great musterin’ of the tribes,
to-night, and the Sachems will come out with a great talk. There’ll be
some sport, I guess; some hard hittin’, scalpin’, and tomahawkin’. To
see a Britisher scalp a Britisher is equal to a bullfight, anytime. You
don’t keer whether the bull, or the horse, or the rider is killed, none
of ‘em is nothin’ to you; so you can enjoy it, and hurror for him that
wins. I don’t keer who carries the day, the valy of a treat of julep,
but I want to see the sport. It’s excitin’, them things. Come, let’s
go.”
We were shown into a small gallery, at one end of the legislative
wall (the two side ones being appropriated to members), and with some
difficulty found sitting room in a place that commanded a view of the
whole house. We were unfortunate. All the great speakers, Lord Stanley,
Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Shiel, and Lord John Russell, had
either already addressed the Chair, and were thereby precluded by the
rules of the House from coming forward again, or did not choose to
answer second-rate men. Those whom we did hear, made a most wretched
exhibition. About one o’clock, the adjournment took place, and we
returned, fatigued and disappointed.
“Did you ever see the beat of that, Squire?” said Mr. Slick. “Don’t that
take the rag off quite? Cuss them fellers that spoke, they are wuss than
assembly men, hang me if they aint; and _they_ aint fit to tend a bear
trap, for they’d be sure to catch themselves, if they did, in their own
pit-fall.
“Did you hear that Irishman a latherin’ away with both arms, as if he
was tryin’ to thrash out wheat, and see how bothered he looked, as if
he couldn’t find nothin’ but dust and chaff in the straw? Well, that
critter was agin the Bill, in course, and Irish like, used every
argument in favour of it. Like a pig swimmin’ agin stream, every time
he struck out, he was a cuttin’ of his own throat. He then blob blob
blobbered, and gog gog goggled, till he choked with words and passion,
and then sot down.
“Then that English Radical feller, that spoke with great voice, and
little sense. Aint he a beauty, without paint, that critter? He know’d
he had to vote agin the Bill, ‘cause it was a Government Bill, and be
know’d he had to speak for _Bunkum_, and therefore--”
“_Bunkum!_” I said, “pray, what is that?”
“Did you never hear of Bunkum?”
“No, never.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say you don’t know what that is?”
“I do not indeed.”
“Not Bunkum? Why, there is more of it to Nova Scotia every winter, than
would paper every room in Government House, and then curl the hair of
every gall in the town. Not heer of _Bunkum_? why how you talk!”
“No, never.”
“Well, if that don’t pass! I thought every body know’d that word. I’ll
tell you then, what Bunkum is. All over America, every place likes to
hear of its members to Congress, and see their speeches, and if they
don’t, they send a piece to the paper, enquirin’ if their member died a
nateral death, or was skivered with a bowie knife, for they hante seen
his speeches lately, and his friends are anxious to know his fate. Our
free and enlightened citizens don’t approbate silent members; it don’t
seem to them as if Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown was right
represented, unless Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown, makes
itself heard and known, ay, and feared too. So every feller in bounden
duty, talks, and talks big too, and the smaller the State, the louder,
bigger, and fiercer its members talk.
“Well, when a critter talks for talk sake, jist to have a speech in
the paper to send to home, and not for any other airthly puppus but
electioneering, our folks call it _Bunkum_. Now the State o’ Maine is a
great place for _Bunkum_--its members for years threatened to run foul
of England, with all steam on, and sink her, about the boundary line,
voted a million of dollars, payable in pine logs and spruce boards, up
to Bangor mills--and called out a hundred thousand militia, (only they
never come,) to captur’ a saw mill to New Brunswick--that’s _Bunkum_.
All that flourish about Right o’ Sarch was _Bunkum_--all that brag about
hangin’ your Canada sheriff was _Bunkum_. All the speeches about the
Caroline, and Creole, and Right of Sarch, was _Bunkum_, In short,
almost all that’s said _in Congress_ in _the colonies_, (for we set
the fashions to them, as Paris galls do to our milliners,) and all over
America is _Bunkum_.
“Well, they talk Bunkum here too, as well as there. Slavery speeches are
all Bunkum; so are reform speeches, too. Do you think them fellers that
keep up such an everlastin’ gab about representation, care one cent
about the extension of franchise? Why no, not they; it’s only to secure
their seats to gull their constituents, to get a name. Do you think
them goneys that make such a touss about the Arms’ Bill, care about the
Irish? No, not they; they want Irish votes, that’s all--it’s _Bunkum_.
Do you jist go and mesmerise John Russell, and Macauley, and the other
officers of the regiment of Reformers, and then take the awkward squad
of recruits--fellers that were made drunk with excitement, and then
enlisted with the promise of a shillin’, which they never got, the
sargeants having drank it all; go and mesmerise them all, from General
Russell down to Private Chartist, clap ‘em into a caterwaulin’ or
catalapsin’ sleep, or whatever the word is, and make ‘em tell the
secrets of their hearts, as Dupotet did the Clear-voyancing gall, and
jist hear what they’ll tell you.
“Lord John will say--‘I was sincere!’ (and I believe on my soul he was.
He is wrong beyond all doubt, but he is an honest man, and a clever man,
and if he had taken his _own_ way more, and given Powlet Thompson _his_
less, he would a’ been a great colony secretary; and more’s the pity
he is in such company. He’ll get off his beam ends, and right
himself though, yet, I guess.) Well, he’d say--‘I was sincere, I was
disinterested; but I am disappointed. I have awakened a pack of hungry
villains who have sharp teeth, long claws, and the appetite of the
devil. They have swallered all I gave ‘em, and now would eat me up
without salt, if they could. Oh, that I could hark back! _there is no
satisfyin’ a movement party_.’
“Now what do the men say, (I don’t mean men of rank, but the men in
the ranks),--‘Where’s all the fine things we were promised when Reform
gained the day?’ sais they, ‘ay, where are they? for we are wuss off
than ever, now, havin’ lost all our old friends, and got bilked by our
new ones tarnationly. What did all their fine speeches end in at last?
Bunkum; damn the thing but Bunkum.
“But that aint the wust of it, nother. Bunkum, like lyin’, is plaguy apt
to make a man believe his own bams at last. From telling ‘em so often,
he forgets whether he grow’d ‘em or dreamt ‘em, and so he stands’
right up on end, kisses the book, and swears to ‘em, as positive as the
Irishman did to the gun, which he said he know’d ever since it was a
pistol. Now, _that’s Bunkum_.
“But to get back to what we was a talkin’ of, did you ever hear such bad
speakin’ in your life, now tell me candid? because if you have, I never
did, that’s all. Both sides was bad, it aint easy to say which is wus,
six of one and half a dozen of t’other, nothin to brag of nary way. That
government man, that spoke in their favour, warn’t his speech rich?
“Lord love you! I aint no speaker, I never made but one speech since I
was raised, and that was afore a Slickville legislatur, and then I broke
down. I know’d who I was a talkin’ afore; they was men that had cut
their eye-teeth, and that you could’nt pull the wool over their eyes,
nohow you could fix it, and I was young then. Now I’m growed up, I
guess, and I’ve got my narves in the right place, and as taught as a
drum; and I _could_ speak if I was in the House o’ Commons, that’s a
fact. If a man was to try there, that was worth any thin’, he’d find he
was a flute without knowin’ it. They don’t onderstand nothin’ but Latin
and Greek, and I’d buoy out them sand banks, keep the lead agoin’, stick
to the channel, and never take ground, I know. The way I’d cut water
aint no matter. Oh Solomon! what a field for good speakin’ that question
was to-night, if they only had half an eye, them fellers, and what
a’most a beautiful mess they made of it on both sides!
“I ain’t a vain man, and never was. You know, Squire, I hante a mossel
of it in my composition; no, if you was to look at me with a ship’s
glass you wouldn’t see a grease spot of it in me. I don’t think any of
us Yankees is vain people; it’s a thing don’t grow in our diggins. We
have too much sense in a giniral way for that; indeed if we wanted any,
we couldn’t get none for love nor money, for John Bull has a monopoly
of it. He won’t open the trade. It’s a home market he looks to, and the
best of it is, he thinks he hante none to spare.
“Oh, John Bull, John Bull, when you are full rigged, with your white
cravat and white waistcoat like Young England, and have got your
go-to-meetin’ clothes on, if you ain’t a sneezer, it’s a pity, that’s
all. No, I ain’t a vain man, I despise it, as I do a nigger; but,
Squire, what a glorious field the subject to-night is for a man that
knows what’s what, and was up to snuff, ain’t it? Airth and seas! if I
was there, I could speak on either side; for like Waterloo it’s a fair
field; it’s good ground for both parties. Heavens what a speech I could
make! I’d electrify ‘em and kill ‘em dead like lightnin’, and
then galvanise ‘em and fetch’ em to life agin, and then give them
exhiliratin’ gass and set ‘em a larfin’, till they fairly wet themselves
agin with cryin’. Wouldn’t it be fun, that’s all? I could sting Peel
so if I liked, he’d think a galley nipper had bit him, and he’d spring
right off the floor on to the table at one jump, gout or no gout, ravin’
mad with pain and say, ‘I’m bit thro’ the boot by Gosh;’ or if I was
to take his side, for I care so little about the British, all sides is
alike to me, I’d make them Irish members dance like ravin’, distractin’
bed bugs. I’d make ‘em howl, first wicked and then dismal, I know.
“But they can’t do it, to save their souls alive; some has it in ‘em and
can’t get it out, physic ‘em as you would, first with vanity, and then
with office; others have got a way out, but have nothin’ to drive thro’
the gate; some is so timid, they can’t go ahead; and others are in such
an infarnal hurry, they spend the whole time in false starts.
“No, there, is no good oratory to parliament now, and the English brag
so, I doubt if it ever was so good, as they say it was in old times. At
any rate, it’s all got down to “Bunkum” now. It’s makin’ a speech for
newspapers and not for the House. It’s to tell on voters and not on
members. Then, what a row they make, don’t they? Hear, hear, hear;
divide, divide, divide; oh, oh, oh; haw, haw, haw. It tante much
different from stump oratory in America arter all, or speakin’ off a
whiskey barrel, is it? It’s a sort of divil me-kear-kind o’ audience;
independent critters, that look at a feller full in the face, as sarcy
as the divil; as much as to say, ‘Talk away, my old ‘coon, you won’t
alter me, I can tell you, it’s all _Bunkum_.’
“Lord, I shall never forget poor old Davy Crocket’s last speech; there
was no “bunkum” in that. He despised it; all good shots do, they aim
right straight for the mark and hit it. There’s no shootin’ round the
ring, with them kinder men. Poor old feller, he was a great hunter; a
great shot with the rifle, a great wit, and a great man. He didn’t leave
his _span_ behind him, when he slipt off the handle, I know.
“Well he stood for an election and lost it, just afore he left the
States; so when it was over, he slings his powder horn on, over his
shoulders, takes his “Betsey,” which was his best rifle, onder his arm,
and mounts on a barrel, to talk it into his constituents, and take leave
of ‘em.
“‘Feller citizens,’ sais he, ‘we’ve had a fair stand-up fight for it,
and I’m whipped, that are a fact; and thar is no denyin’ of it. I’ve
come now to take my leave of you. You may all go to H--l, and I’ll go to
Texas.’
“And he stepped right down, and went over the boundary, and jined the
patriots agin Mexico, and was killed there.
“Why it will never be forgot, that speech. It struck into the bull’s eye
of the heart. It was noble. It said so much in a few words, and left
the mind to fill the gaps up. The last words is a sayin’ now, and
always will be, to all etarnity. Whenever a feller wants to shew how
indifferent he is, he jist sais, ‘you may go to (hem, hem, you know,)
and I’ll go to Texas.’ There is no _Bunkum_ in that, Squire.
“Yes, there is no good speakin’ there, speakin’ is no use. Every
feller is pledged and supports his party. A speech don’t alter no man’s
opinions; yes it _may_ alter his _opinions_, but it don’t alter his
vote, that ain’t his’n, it’s his party’s. Still, there is some credit
in a good speech, and some fun too. No feller there has any ridicule; he
has got no ginger in him, he can neither crack his whip, nor lay it on;
he can neither cut the hide nor sting it. Heavens! if I was there I and
I’m sure it’s no great boastin’ to say I’m better than such fellers, as
them small fry of white bait is. If I was there, give me a good subject
like that to-night, give me a good horn of lignum vitae--”
“Lignum vitae--what’s that?”
“Lord-o-massy on us! you don’t know nothin’, Squire. Where have you been
all your born days, not to know what lignum vitae is? why lignum vitae,
is hot brandy and water to be sure, pipin’ hot, scald an iron pot amost,
and spiced with cloves and sugar in it, stiff enough to make a tea-spoon
stand up in it, as straight as a dead nigger. Wine ain’t no good, it
goes off as quick as the white beads off of champaign does, and then
leaves a stupid head-ache behind it. But give me the subject and a horn
of lignum vitae (of the wickedest kind), and then let a feller rile me,
so as to get my back up like a fightin’ cat’s, and I’ll tell you
what I’d do, I’d sarve him as our Slickville boys sarve the cows to
California. One on ‘em lays hold of the tail, and the other skins her
as she runs strait an eend. Next year, it’s all growed ready for another
flayin’. Fact, I assure you. Lord! I’d skin a feller so, his hide would
never grow agin; I’d make a caution of him to sinners, I know.
“Only hear them fellers now talk of extendin’ of the representation;
why the house is a mob now, plaguy little better, I assure you. Like the
house in Cromwell’s time, they want “Sam Slick’s” purge. But talkin’
of mobs, puts me in mind of a Swoi-ree, I told you I’d describe that to
you, and I don’t care if I do now, for I’ve jist got my talkin’ tacks
aboard. A Swoi-ree is--
“We’ll talk of that some other time, Mr. Slick,” said I; “it is now near
two o’clock, I must retire.”
“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose it is e’en a’most time to be a movin’.
But, Squire, you are a Britisher, why the plague don’t you get into the
house? you know more about colony matters than the whole bilin’ of” them
put together, quite as much about other things, and speak like a--”
“Come, come, Mr. Slick,” said I, rising and lighting my bed-room candle,
“it is now high time to bid you good night, for you are beginning to
talk _Bunkum_.”