“What do you intend to do, Squire, with your two youngest boys?” said
Mr. Slick to me to-day, as we were walking in the Park.
“I design them,” I said, “for professions. One I shall educate for a
lawyer, and the other for a clergyman.”
“Where?”
“In Nova Scotia.”
“Exactly,” says he. “It shews your sense; it’s the very place for ‘em.
It’s a fine field for a young man; I don’t know no better one no where
in the whole univarsal world. When I was a boy larnin’ to shoot, sais
father to me, one day, ‘Sam,’ sais he, ‘I’ll give you a lesson in
gunnin’ that’s worth knowin’. “_Aim high_,” my boy; your gun naterally
settles down a little takin’ sight, cause your arm gets tired, and
wabbles, and the ball settles a little while it’s a travellin’,
accordin’ to a law of natur, called Franklin’s law; and I obsarve you
always hit below the mark. Now, make allowances for these things in
gunnin’, and “aim high,” for your life, always. And, Sam,’ sais he,
‘I’ve seed a great deal of the world, all mili_tary_ men do. ‘I was to
Bunker’s Hill durin’ the engagement, and I saw Washington the day he was
made President, and in course must know more nor most men of my age;
and I’ll give you another bit of advice, “Aim high” in life, and if you
don’t hit the bull’s eye, you’ll hit the “fust circles,” and that ain’t
a bad shot nother.’
“‘Father,’ sais I, ‘I guess I’ve seed more of the world than you have,
arter all.’
“‘How so, Sam?’ sais he.
“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘father, you’ve only been to Bunker’s Hill, and that’s
nothin’; no part of it ain’t too steep to plough; it’s only a sizeable
hillock, arter all. But I’ve been to the Notch on the White Mountain,
so high up, that the snow don’t melt there, and seed five States all to
once, and half way over to England, and then I’ve seed Jim Crow dance.
So there now?’ He jist up with the flat of his hand, and gave me a wipe
with it on the side of my face, that knocked me over; and as I fell, he
lent me a kick on my musn’t-mention-it, that sent me a rod or so afore I
took ground on all fours.
“‘Take that, you young scoundrel!’ said he, ‘and larn to speak
respectful next time to an old man, a mili_tary_ man, and your father,
too.’
“It hurt me properly, you may depend. ‘Why,’ sais I, as I picked myself
up, ‘didn’t you tell me to “aim high,” father? So I thought I’d do it,
and beat your brag, that’s all.’
“Truth is, Squire, I never could let a joke pass all my life, without
havin’ a lark with it. I was fond of one, ever since I was knee high to
a goose, or could recollect any thin’ amost; I have got into a horrid
sight of scrapes by ‘em, that’s a fact. I never forgot that lesson
though, it was kicked into me: and lessons that are larnt on the right
eend, ain’t never forgot amost. I _have_ “aimed high” ever since, and
see where I be now. Here I am an Attache, made out of a wooden clock
pedlar. Tell you what, I shall be “embassador” yet, made out of nothin’
but an “Attache,” and I’ll be President of our great Republic, and
almighty nation in the eend, made out of an embassador, see if I don’t.
That comes of “aimin’ high.” What do you call that water near your
coach-house?”
“A pond.”
“Is there any brook runnin’ in, or any stream runnin’ out?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s the difference between a lake and a pond. Now, set that
down for a traveller’s fact. Now, where do you go to fish?”
“To the lakes, of course; there are no fish in the ponds.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick, “that is what I want to bring you to; there
is no fish in a pond, there is nothin’ but frogs. Nova Scotia is only
a pond, and so is New Brunswick, and such outlandish, out o’ the way,
little crampt up, stagnant places. There is no ‘big fish’ there, nor
never can be; there ain’t no food for ‘em. A colony frog!! Heavens and
airth, what an odd fish that is? A colony pollywog! do, for gracious
sake, catch one, put him into a glass bottle full of spirits, and send
him to the Museum as a curiosity in natur. So you are a goin’ to make
your two nice pretty little smart boys a pair of colony frogs, eh? Oh!
do, by all means.
“You’ll have great comfort in ‘em, Squire. Monstrous comfort. It will
do your old heart good to go down to the edge of the pond on the fust of
May, or thereabouts, accordin’ to the season, jist at sun down, and hear
‘em sing. You’ll see the little fellers swell out their cheeks, and roar
away like young suckin’ thunders. For the frogs beat all natur there for
noise; they have no notion of it here at all. I’ve seed Englishmen that
couldn’t sleep all night, for the everlastin’ noise these critters made.
Their frogs have somethin’ else to do here besides singin’. Ain’t it a
splendid prospect that, havin’ these young frogs settled all round you
in the same mud-hole, all gathered in a nice little musical family
party. All fine fun this, till some fine day we Yankee storks will come
down and gobble them all up, and make clear work of it.
“No, Squire, take my advice now for once; jist go to your colony
minister when he is alone. Don’t set down, but stand up as if you was in
airnest, and didn’t come to gossip, and tell him, ‘Turn these ponds into
a lake,’ sais you, my lord minister, give them an inlet and an outlet.
Let them be kept pure, and sweet, and wholesome, by a stream, runnin’
through. Fish will live there then if you put them in, and they will
breed there, and keep up the stock. At present they die; it ain’t big
enough; there ain’t room. If he sais he hante time to hear you, and asks
you to put it into writin’, do you jist walk over to his table, take up
his lignum vitae ruler into your fist, put your back to the door, and
say ‘By the ‘tarnal empire, you _shall_ hear me; you don’t go out of
this, till I give you the butt eend of my mind, I can tell you. I am an
old bull frog now; the Nova Scotia pond is big enough for me; I’ll get
drowned if I get into a bigger one, for I hante got no fins, nothin’ but
legs and arms to swim with, and deep water wouldn’t suit me, I ain’t fit
for it, and I must live and die there, that’s my fate as sure as rates.’
If he gets tired, and goes to get up or to move, do you shake the big
ruler at him, as fierce as a painter, and say, ‘Don’t you stir for your
life; I don’t want to lay nothin’ _on_ your head, I only want to put
somethin’ _in_ it. I am a father and have got youngsters. I am a native,
and have got countrymen. Enlarge our sphere, give us a chance in the
world.’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say, ‘this minute, Sir, or I’ll put you in
charge of a policeman.’ ‘Let you out is it,’ sais you. ‘Oh! you feel
bein’ pent up, do you? I am glad of it. The tables are turned now,
that’s what we complain of. You’ve stood at the door, and kept us in;
now I’ll keep you in awhile. I want to talk to you, that’s more than you
ever did to us. How do you like bein’ shut in? Does it feel good? Does
it make your dander rise?’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say agin, ‘this moment,
Sir, how dare you.’ Oh! you are in a hurry, are you?’ sais you. ‘You’ve
kept me in all my life; don’t be oneasy if I keep you in five minutes.’
“‘Well, what do you want then?’ he’ll say, kinder peevish; ‘what do you
want?’ ‘I don’t want nothin’ for myself,’ sais you. ‘I’ve got all I
can get in that pond; and I got that from the Whigs, fellers I’ve been
abusin’ all my life; and I’m glad to make amends by acknowledging this
good turn they did me; for I am a tory, and no mistake. I don’t want
nothin’; but I want to be an _Englishman_. I don’t want to be an
English _subject_; do you understand that now? If you don’t, this is the
meanin’, that there is no fun in bein’ a fag, if you are never to have a
fag yourself. Give us all fair play. Don’t move now,’ sais you, ‘for I’m
gettin’ warm; I’m gettin’ spotty on the back, my bristles is up, and I
might hurt you with this ruler; it’s a tender pint this, for I’ve rubbed
the skin off of a sore place; but I’ll tell you a gospel truth, and mind
what I tell you, for nobody else has sense enough, and if they had, they
hante courage enough. If you don’t make _Englishmen of us_, the force of
circumstances will _make Yankees_ of us, as sure as you are born.’ He’ll
stare at that. He is a clever man, and aint wantin’ in gumption. He
is no fool, that’s a fact. ‘Is it no compliment to you and your
institutions this?’ sais you. ‘Don’t it make you feel proud that even
independence won’t tempt us to dissolve the connexion? Ain’t it a noble
proof of your good qualities that, instead of agitatin’ for Repeal of
the Union, we want a closer union? But have we no pride too? We would be
onworthy of the name of Englishmen, if we hadn’t it, and we won’t stand
beggin’ for ever I tell _you_. Here’s our hands, give us yourn; let’s
be all Englishmen together. Give us a chance, and if us, young English
boys, don’t astonish you old English, my name ain’t Tom Poker, that’s
all.’ ‘Sit down,’ he’ll say, ‘Mr. Poker;’ there is a great deal in that;
sit down; I am interested.’
“The instant he sais that, take your ruler, lay it down on the table,
pick up your hat, make a scrape with your hind leg, and say, ‘I regret
I have detained you so long, Sir. I am most peskily afraid my warmth
has kinder betrayed me into rudeness. I really beg pardon, I do upon
my soul. I feel I have smashed down all decency, I am horrid ashamed of
myself.’ Well, he won’t say you hante rode the high hoss, and done the
unhandsum thing, because it wouldn’t be true if he did; but he’ll say,
‘Pray be seated. I can make allowances, Sir, even for intemperate zeal.
And this is a very important subject, very indeed. There is a monstrous
deal in what you say, though you have, I must say, rather a peculiar,
an unusual, way of puttin’ it.’ Don’t you stay another minit though,
nor say another word, for your life; but bow, beg pardon, hold in your
breath, that your face may look red, as if you was blushin’, and back
out, starn fust. Whenever you make an impression on a man, stop; your
reasonin’ and details may ruin you. Like a feller who sais a good thing,
he’d better shove off, and leave every one larfin’ at his wit, than stop
and tire them out, till they say what a great screw augur that is. Well,
if you find he opens the colonies, and patronises the smart folks, leave
your sons there if you like, and let ‘em work up, and work out of it, if
they are fit, and time and opportunity offers. But one thing is sartain,
_the very openin’ of the door will open their minds_, as a matter of
course. If he don’t do it, and I can tell you before hand he won’t--for
they actilly hante got time here, to think of these things--send your
boys here into the great world. Sais you to the young Lawyer, ‘Bob,’
sais you, ‘“aim high.” If you don’t get to be Lord Chancellor, I shall
never die in peace. I’ve set my heart on it. It’s within your reach, if
you are good for anything. Let me see the great seal--let me handle it
before I die--do, that’s a dear; if not, go back to your Colony pond,
and sing with your provincial frogs, and I hope to Heaven the fust
long-legged bittern that comes there will make a supper of you.”
“Then sais you to the young parson, ‘Arthur,’ sais you ‘Natur jist
made you for a clergyman. Now, do you jist make yourself ‘Archbishop of
Canterbury.’ My death-bed scene will be an awful one, if I don’t see you
‘the Primate’; for my affections, my hopes, my heart, is fixed on it.
I shall be willin’ to die then, I shall depart in peace, and leave this
world happy. And, Arthur,’ sais you, ‘they talk and brag here till one
is sick of the sound a’most about “Addison’s death-bed.” Good people
refer to it as an example, authors as a theatrical scene and hypocrites
as a grand illustration for them to turn up the whites of their cold
cantin’ eyes at. Lord love you, my son,’ sais you, ‘let them brag of it;
but what would it be to mine; you congratulatin’ me on goin’ to a better
world, and me congratulatin’ you on bein’ “Archbishop.” Then,’ sais you,
in a starn voice like a boatsan’s trumpet--for if you want things to be
remembered, give ‘em effect, “Aim high,” Sir,’ sais you. Then like my
old father, fetch him a kick on his western eend, that will lift him
clean over the table, and say ‘that’s the way to rise in the world, you
young sucking parson you. “Aim high,” Sir.’
“Neither of them will ever forget it as long as they live. The hit does
that; for a kick is a very _striking_ thing, that’s a fact. There
has been _no good scholars since birch rods went out o’ school, and
sentiment went in_.”
“But you know,” I said, “Mr. Slick, that those high prizes in the
lottery of life, can, in the nature of things, be drawn but by few
people, and how many blanks are there to one-prize in this world.”
“Well, what’s to prevent your boys gettin’ those prizes, if colonists
was made Christians of, instead of outlawed, exiled, transported,
oncarcumcised heathen Indgean niggers, as they be. If people don’t put
into a lottery, how the devil can they get prizes? will you tell
me that. Look at the critters here, look at the publicans, taylors,
barbers, and porters’ sons, how the’ve rose here, ‘in this big lake,’
to be chancellors and archbishops; how did they get them? They ‘aimed
high,’ and besides, all that, like father’s story of the gun, by ‘aiming
high,’ though they may miss the mark, they will be sure to hit the
upper circles. Oh, Squire, there is nothing like ‘aiming high,’ in this
world.”
“I quite agree with you, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell. “I never heard you
speak so sensibly before. Nothing can be better for young men than
“Aiming high.” Though they may not attain to the highest honours,
they may, as you say, reach to a most respectable station. But surely,
Squire, you will never so far forget the respect that is due to so high
an officer as a Secretary of State, or, indeed, so far forget yourself
as to adopt a course, which from its eccentricity, violence, and
impropriety, must leave the impression that your intellects are
disordered. Surely you will never be tempted to make the experiment?”
“I should think not, indeed,” I said. “I have no desire to become an
inmate of a lunatic asylum.”
“Good,” said he; “I am satisfied. I quite agree with Sam, though.
Indeed, I go further. I do not think he has advised you to recommend
your boys to ‘aim high enough.’”
“Creation! said Mr. Slick, “how much higher do you want provincial frogs
to go, than to be ‘Chancellor’ and ‘Primate?’
“I’ll tell you, Sam; I’d advise them to ‘aim higher’ than earthly
honours. I would advise them to do their duty, in any station of life in
which it shall please Providence to place them; and instead of striving
after unattainable objects here, to be unceasing in their endeavours to
obtain that which, on certain conditions, is promised to all hereafter.
In their worldly pursuits, as men, it is right for them to ‘_aim high_;’
but as Christians, it is also their duty to ‘_aim higher_.’”