“Squire,” said Mr. Slick, “it ain’t rainin’ to-day; suppose you come
along with me to Tattersall’s. I have been studyin’ that place a
considerable sum to see whether it is a safe shop to trade in or no. But
I’m dubersome; I don’t like the cut of the sportin’ folks here. If I can
see both eends of the rope, and only one man has hold of one eend, and
me of the tother, why I know what I am about; but if I can only see my
own eend, I don’t know who I am a pullin’ agin. I intend to take a rise
out o’ some o’ the knowin’ ones here, that will make ‘em scratch their
heads, and stare, I know. But here we are. Cut round this corner, into
this Lane. Here it is; this is it to the right.”
We entered a sort of coach-yard, which was filled with a motley and
mixed crowd of people. I was greatly disappointed in Tattersall’s.
Indeed, few things in London have answered my expectations. They have
either exceeded or fallen short of the description I had heard of them.
I was prepared, both from what I was told by Mr. Slick, and heard, from
others, to find that there were but very few gentlemen-like looking men
there; and that by far the greater number neither were, nor affected to
be, any thing but “knowing ones.” I was led to believe that there
would be a plentiful use of the terms _of art_, a variety of provincial
accent, and that the conversation of the jockeys and grooms would be
liberally garnished with appropriate slang.
The gentry portion of the throng, with some few exceptions, it was said,
wore a dissipated look, and had that peculiar appearance of incipient
disease, that indicates a life of late hours, of excitement, and
bodily exhaustion. Lower down in the scale of life, I was informed,
intemperance had left its indelible marks. And that still further down,
were to be found the worthless lees of this foul and polluted stream of
sporting gentlemen, spendthrifts, gamblers, bankrupts, sots, sharpers
and jockeys.
This was by no means the case. It was just what a man might have
expected to have found a great sporting exchange and auction mart, of
horses and carriages, to have been, in a great city like London, had he
been merely told that such was the object of the place, and then left
to imagine the scene. It was, as I have before said, a mixed and motley
crowd; and must necessarily be so, where agents attend to bid for their
principals, where servants are in waiting upon their masters, and above
all, where the ingress is open to every one.
It is, however, unquestionably the resort of gentlemen. In a great and
rich country like this, there must, unavoidably, be a Tattersall’s; and
the wonder is, not that it is not better, but that it is not infinitely
worse. Lake all striking pictures, it had strong lights and shades.
Those who have suffered, are apt to retaliate; and a man who has been
duped, too often thinks he has a right to make reprisals. Tattersall’s,
therefore, is not without its privateers. Many persons of rank and
character patronize sporting, from a patriotic but mistaken notion,
that it is to the turf alone the excellence of the English horse is
attributable.
One person of this description, whom I saw there for a short time, I had
the pleasure of knowing before; and from him I learned many interesting
anecdotes of individuals whom he pointed out as having been once well
known about town, but whose attachment to gambling had effected their
ruin. Personal stories of this kind are, however, not within the scope
of this work.
As soon as we entered, Mr. Slick called my attention to the carriages
which were exhibited for sale, to their elegant shape and “beautiful
fixins,” as he termed it; but ridiculed, in no measured terms, their
enormous weight. “It is no wonder,” said he, “they have to get fresh
hosses here every ten miles, and travellin’ costs so much, when the
carriage alone is enough to kill beasts. What would Old Bull say, if
I was to tell him of one pair of hosses carryin’ three or four people,
forty or fifty miles a-day, day in and day out, hand runnin’ for a
fortnight? Why, he’d either be too civil to tell me it was a lie, or
bein’ afeerd I’d jump down his throat if he did, he’d sing dumb, and let
me see by his looks, he thought so, though.
“I intend to take the consait out of these chaps, and that’s a fact. If
I don’t put the leak into ‘em afore I’ve done with them, my name ain’t
Sam Slick, that’s a fact. I’m studyin’ the ins and the outs of this
place, so as to know what I am about, afore I take hold; for I feel
kinder skittish about my men. Gentlemen are the lowest, lyinest,
bullyinest, blackguards there is, when they choose to be; ‘specially if
they have rank as well as money. A thoroughbred cheat, of good blood,
is a clipper, that’s a fact. They ain’t right up-and-down, like a cow’s
tail, in their dealin’s; and they’ve got accomplices, fellers that
will lie for ‘em like any thing, for the honour of their company; and
bettin’, onder such circumstances, ain’t safe.
“But, I’ll tell you what is, if you have got a hoss that can do it, and
no mistake: back him, hoss agin hoss, or what’s safer still, hoss agin
time, and you can’t be tricked. Now, I’ll send for Old Clay, to come in
Cunard’s steamer, and cuss ‘em they ought to bring over the old hoss and
his fixins, free, for it was me first started that line. The way old Mr.
Glenelg stared, when I told him it was thirty-six miles shorter to go
from Bristol to New York by the way of Halifax, than to go direct warn’t
slow. It stopt steam for that hitch, that’s a fact, for he thort I was
mad. He sent it down to the Admiralty to get it ciphered right, and it
took them old seagulls, the Admirals a month to find it out.
“And when they did, what did they say? Why, cuss ‘em, says they, ‘any
fool knows that.’ Says I, ‘If that’s the case you are jist the boys then
that ought to have found it out right off at oncet.’
“Yes, Old Clay ought to go free, but he won’t; and guess I am able to
pay freight for him, and no thanks to nobody. Now, I’ll tell you what,
English trottin’ is about a mile in two minutes and forty-seven seconds,
and that don’t happen oftener than oncet in fifty years, if it was ever
done at all, for the English brag so there is no telling right. Old Clay
_can_ do his mile in two minutes and thirty-eight seconds. He _has_ done
that, and I guess he _could_ do more. I have got a car, that is as light
as whalebone, and I’ll bet to do it with wheels and drive myself. I’ll
go in up to the handle, on Old Clay. I have a hundred thousand dollars
of hard cash made in the colonies, I’ll go half of it on the old hoss,
hang me if I don’t, and I’ll make him as well knowd to England as he is
to Nova Scotia.
“I’ll allow him to be beat at fust, so as to lead ‘em on, and Clay is
as cunnin’ as a coon too, if he don’t get the word g’lang (go along)
and the Indgian skelpin’ yell with it, he knows I ain’t in airnest, and
he’ll allow me to beat him and bully him like nothin’. He’ll pretend to
do his best, and sputter away like a hen scratchin’ gravel, but he won’t
go one mossel faster, for he knows I never lick a free hoss.
“Won’t it be beautiful? How they’ll all larf and crow, when they see me
a thrashin’ away at the hoss, and then him goin’ slower, the faster I
thrash, and me a threatenin’ to shoot the brute, and a talkin’ at the
tip eend of my tongue like a ravin’ distracted bed bug, and offerin’
to back him agin, if they dare, and planken down the pewter all round,
takin’ every one up that will go the figur’, till I raise the bets to
the tune of fifty thousand dollars. When I get that far, they may
stop their larfin’ till next time, I guess. That’s the turn of the
fever--that’s the crisis--that’s my time to larf then.
“I’ll mount the car then, take the bits of list up, put ‘em into right
shape, talk a little Connecticut Yankee to the old hoss, to set his
ebenezer up, and make him rise inwardly, and then give the yell,” (which
he uttered in his excitement in earnest; and a most diabolical one it
was. It pierced me through and through, and curdled my very blood, it
was the death shout of a savage.) “G’lang you skunk, and turn out your
toes pretty,” said he, and he again repeated this long protracted,
shrill, infernal yell, a second time.
Every eye was instantly turned upon us. Even Tattersall suspended his
“he is five years old--a good hack--and is to be sold,” to give time for
the general exclamation of surprise. “Who the devil is that? Is he
mad? Where did _he_ come from? Does any body know him? He is a devilish
keen-lookin’ fellow that; what an eye he has! He looks like a Yankee,
that fellow.”
“He’s been here, your honour, several days, examines every thing and
says nothing; looks like a knowing one, your honour. He handles a hoss
as if he’d seen one afore to-day, Sir.”
“Who is that gentleman with him?”
“Don’t know, your honour, never saw him before; he looks like a
furriner, too.”
“Come, Mr. Slick,” said I, “we are attracting too much attention here,
let us go.”
“Cuss ‘em,” said he, “I’ll attract more attention afore I’ve done yet,
when Old Clay comes, and then I’ll tell ‘em who I am--Sam Slick,
from Slickville, Onion County, State of Connecticut, United States of
America. But I do suppose we had as good make tracks, for I don’t want
folks to know me yet. I’m plaguy sorry I let put that countersign of Old
Clay too, but they won’t onderstand it. Critters like the English, that
know everything have generally weak eyes, from studyin’ so hard.
“Did you take notice of that critter I was a handlin’ of, Squire? that
one that’s all drawed up in the middle like a devil’s darnin’ needle;
her hair a standin’ upon eend as if she was amazed at herself, and
a look out of her eye, as if she thort the dogs would find the steak
kinder tough, when they got her for dinner. Well, that’s a great mare
that ‘are, and there ain’t nothin’ onder the sun the matter of her,
except the groom has stole her oats, forgot to give her water, and let
her make a supper sometimes off of her nasty, mouldy, filthy beddin’. I
hante see’d a hoss here equal to her a’most--short back, beautiful rake
to the shoulder, great depth of chest, elegant quarter, great stifle,
amazin’ strong arm, monstrous nice nostrils, eyes like a weasel, all
outside, game ears, first chop bone and fine flat leg, with no gum on no
part of it. She’s a sneezer that; but she’ll be knocked down for twenty
or thirty pound, because she looks as if she was used up.
“I intended to a had that mare, for I’d a made her worth twelve hundred
dollars. It was a dreadful pity, I let go, that time, for I actilly
forgot where I was. I’ll know better next hitch, for boughten wit is
the best in a general way. Yes, I’m peskily sorry about that mare. Well,
swappin’ I’ve studied, but I doubt if it’s as much the fashion here as
with us; and besides, swappin’ where you don’t know the county and its
tricks, (for every county has its own tricks, different from others), is
dangersome too. I’ve seen swaps where both sides got took in. Did ever I
tell you the story of the “Elder and the grave-digger?”
“Never,” I replied; “but here we are at our lodgings. Come in, and tell
it to me.”
“Well,” said he, “I must have a glass of mint julip fust, to wash down
that ere disappointment about the mare. It was a dreadful go that. I
jist lost a thousand dollars by it, as slick as grease. But it’s an
excitin’ thing is a trottin’ race, too. When you mount, hear the word
‘Start!’ and shout out ‘G’lang!’ and give the pass word.”
Good heavens! what a yell he perpetrated again. I put both hands to my
ears, to exclude the reverberations of it from the walls.
“Don’t be skeered, Squire; don’t be skeered. We are alone now: there is
no mare to lose. Ain’t it pretty? It makes me feel all dandery and on
wires like.”
“But the grave-digger?” said I.
“Well,” says he, “the year afore I knowed you, I was a-goin’ in the
fall, down to Clare, about sixty miles below Annapolis, to collect some
debts due to me there from the French. And as I was a-joggin’ on along
the road, who should I overtake but Elder Stephen Grab, of Beechmeadows,
a mounted on a considerable of a clever-lookin’ black mare. The Elder
was a pious man; at least he looked like one, and spoke like one too.
His face was as long as the moral law, and p’rhaps an inch longer, and
as smooth as a hone; and his voice was so soft and sweet, and his tongue
moved so ily on its hinges, you’d a thought you might a trusted him with
ontold gold, if you didn’t care whether you ever got it agin or no. He
had a bran new hat on, with a brim that was none of the smallest, to
keep the sun from makin’ his inner man wink, and his go-to-meetin’
clothes on, and a pair of silver mounted spurs, and a beautiful white
cravat, tied behind, so as to have no bows to it, and look meek. If
there was a good man on airth, you’d a said it was him. And he seemed to
feel it, and know it too, for there was a kind of look o’ triumph about
him, as if he had conquered the Evil One, and was considerable well
satisfied with himself.
“‘H’are you,’ sais I, ‘Elder, to-day? Which way are you from?”
“‘From the General Christian Assembly, sais he, ‘to Goose Creek. We had
a “_most refreshin’ time on’t_.” There was a great “_outpourin’ of the
spirit_.”’
“‘Well, that’s awful,’ says I, ‘too. The magistrates ought to see to
that; it ain’t right, when folks assemble that way to worship, to be
a-sellin’ of rum; and gin, and brandy, and spirits, is it?’
“‘I don’t mean that,’ sais he, ‘although, p’rhaps, there was too much of
that wicked traffic too, I mean the preachin’. It was very peeowerful;
there was “_many sinners saved_.”
“‘I guess there was plenty of room for it,’ sais I, ‘onless that
neighbourhood has much improved since I knowed it last.’
“‘It’s a sweet thing,’ sais he. ‘Have you ever “_made profession_,” Mr.
Slick?’
“‘Come,’ sais I to myself, ‘this is cuttin’ it rather too fat. I must
put a stop to this. This ain’t a subject for conversation with such a
cheatin’, cantin’, hippocrytical skunk as this is. Yes,’ sais I, ‘long
ago. My profession is that of a clockmaker, and I make no pretension
to nothin’ else. But come, let’s water our hosses here and liquor
ourselves.’
“And we dismounted, and gave ‘em a drop to wet their mouths.
“‘Now,’ sais I, a-takin’ out of a pocket-pistol that I generally
travelled with, ‘I think I’ll take a drop of grog;’ and arter helpin’
myself, I gives the silver cover of the flask a dip in the brook, (for
a clean rinse is better than a dirty wipe, any time), and sais I, ‘Will
you have a little of the “_outpourin’ of the spirit?_” What do you say,
Elder?’
“‘Thank you,’ sais he, ‘friend Slick. I never touch liquor, it’s agin
our rules.’
“And he stooped down and filled it with water, and took a mouthful, and
then makin’ a face like a frog afore he goes to sing, and swellin’ his
cheeks out like a Scotch bagpiper, he spit it all out. Sais he, ‘That
is so warm, it makes me sick; and as I ain’t otherwise well, from the
celestial exhaustion of a protracted meetin’, I believe I will take a
little drop, as medicine.’
“Confound him! if he’d a said he’d only leave a little drop, it would a
been more like the thing; for he e’en a’most emptied the whole into the
cup, and drank it off clean, without winkin’.
“‘It’s a “_very refreshin’ time_,”’ sais I, ‘ain’t’ it?’ But he didn’t
make no answer. Sais I, ‘that’s a likely beast of yourn, Elder,’ and I
opened her mouth, and took a look at her, and no easy matter nother, I
tell you, for she held on like a bear trap, with her jaws. “‘She won’t
suit you,’ sais he, “with a smile, ‘Mr. Slick.’
“‘I guess not,’ sais I.
“‘But she’ll jist suit the French,’ sais he.
“‘It’s lucky she don’t speak French then,’ sais I, ‘or they’d soon
find her tongue was too big for her mouth. That critter will never see
five-and-twenty, and I’m a thinkin’, she’s thirty year old, if she is a
day.’
“‘I was a thinkin’, said he, with a sly look out o’ the corner of his
eye, as if her age warn’t no secret to him. ‘I was a thinkin’ it’s time
to put her off, and she’ll jist suit the French. They hante much for
hosses to do, in a giniral way, but to ride about; and you won’t say
nothin’ about her age, will you? it might endamnify a sale.’
“‘Not I,’ sais I, ‘I skin my own foxes, and let other folks skin
their’n. I have enough to do to mind my own business, without
interferin’ with other people’s.’
“‘She’ll jist suit the French,’ sais he; ‘they don’t know nothin’ about
hosses, or any thing else. They are a simple people, and always will be,
for their priests keep ‘em in ignorance. It’s an awful thing to see them
kept in the outer porch of darkness that way, ain’t it?’
“‘I guess you’ll put a new pane o’ glass in their porch,’ sais I, ‘and
help some o’ them to see better; for whoever gets that mare, will have
his eyes opened, sooner nor he bargains for, I know.’
“Sais he, ‘she ain’t a bad mare; and if she could eat bay, might do a
good deal of work yet,’ and he gave a kinder chuckle laugh at his own
joke, that sounded like the rattles in his throat, it was so dismal and
deep, for he was one o’ them kind of fellers that’s too good to larf,
was Steve.
“Well, the horn o’ grog he took, began to onloosen his tongue; and I got
out of him, that she come near dyin’ the winter afore, her teeth was
so bad, and that he had kept her all summer in a dyke pasture up to her
fetlocks in white clover, and ginn’ her ground oats, and Indgian meal,
and nothin’ to do all summer; and in the fore part of the fall, biled
potatoes, and he’d got her as fat as a seal, and her skin as slick as an
otter’s. She fairly shined agin, in the sun.
“‘She’ll jist suit the French’, said he, ‘they are a simple people and
don’t know nothin’, and if they don’t like the mare, they must blame
their priests for not teachin’ ‘em better. I shall keep within the
strict line of truth, as becomes a Christian man. I scorn to take a man
in.’
“Well, we chatted away arter this fashion, he a openin’ of himself and
me a walk in’ into him; and we jogged along till we came to Charles
Tarrio’s to Montagon, and there was the matter of a thousand French
people gathered there, a chatterin’, and laughin’, and jawin’, and
quarrellin’, and racin’, and wrastlin’, and all a givin’ tongue, like a
pack of village dogs, when an Indgian comes to town. It was town meetin’
day.
“Well, there was a critter there, called by nickname, ‘Goodish Greevoy,’
a mounted on a white pony, one o’ the scariest little screamers, you
ever see since you was born. He was a tryin’ to get up a race, was
Goodish, and banterin’ every one that had a hoss to run with him.
“His face was a fortin’ to a painter. His forehead was high and narrer,
shewin’ only a long strip o’ tawny skin, in a line with his nose, the
rest bein’ covered with hair, as black as ink, and as iley as a seal’s
mane. His brows was thick, bushy and overhangin’, like young brush-wood
on a cliff, and onderneath, was two black peerin’ little eyes, that kept
a-movin’ about, keen, good-natured, and roguish, but sot far into his
skull, and looked like the eyes of a fox peepin’ out of his den, when
he warn’t to home to company hisself. His nose was high, sharp, and
crooked, like the back of a reapin’ hook, and gave a plaguy sight
of character to his face, while his thinnish lips, that closed on a
straight line, curlin’ up at one eend, and down at the other, shewed, if
his dander was raised, he could be a jumpin’, tarin’, rampagenous devil
if he chose. The pint of his chin projected and turned up gently, as if
it expected, when Goodish lost his teeth, to rise in the world in rank
next to the nose. When good natur’ sat on the box, and drove, it warn’t
a bad face; when Old Nick was coachman, I guess it would be as well to
give Master Frenchman the road.
“He had a red cap on his head, his beard hadn’t been cut since last
sheep shearin’, and he looked as hairy as a tarrier; his shirt collar,
‘which was of yaller flannel, fell on his shoulders loose, and a black
hankercher was tied round his neck, slack like a sailor’s. He wore a
round jacket and loose trowsers of homespun with no waistcoat, and his
trowsers was held up by a gallus of leather on one side, and of old cord
on the other. Either Goodish had growed since his clothes was made, or
his jacket and trowsers warn’t on speakin’ tarms, for they didn’t meet
by three or four inches, and the shirt shewed atween them like a yaller
militia sash round him. His feet was covered with moccasins of ontanned
moose hide, and one heel was sot off with an old spur and looked sly
and wicked. He was a sneezer that, and when he flourished his great long
withe of a whip stick, that looked like a fishin’ rod, over his head,
and yelled like all possessed, he was a caution, that’s a fact.
“A knowin’ lookin’ little hoss, it was too, that he was mounted on. Its
tail was cut close off to the stump, which squared up his rump, and made
him look awful strong in the hind quarters. His mane was “hogged” which
fulled out the swell and crest of the neck, and his ears being
cropped, the critter had a game look about him. There was a proper good
onderstandin’ between him and his rider: they looked as if they had
growed together, and made one critter--half hoss, half man with a touch
of the devil.
“Goodish was all up on eend by what he drank, and dashed in and out of
the crowd arter a fashion, that was quite cautionary, callin’ out, ‘Here
comes “the grave-digger.” Don’t be skeered, if any of you get killed,
here is the hoss that will dig his grave for nothin’. Who’ll run a lick
of a quarter of a mile, for a pint of rum. Will you run?’ said he, a
spunkin’ up to the Elder, ‘come, let’s run, and whoever wins, shall go
the treat.’
“The Elder smiled as sweet as sugar candy, but backed out; he was too
old, he said, now to run.
“‘Will you swap hosses, old broad cloth then?’ said the other, ‘because
if you will, here’s at you.’
“Steve took a squint at pony, to see whether that cat would jump or no,
but the cropt ears, the stump of a tail, the rakish look of the horse,
didn’t jist altogether convene to the taste or the sanctified habits of
the preacher. The word no, hung on his lips, like a wormy apple, jist
ready to drop the fust shake; but before it let go, the great strength,
the spryness, and the oncommon obedience of pony to the bit, seemed to
kinder balance the objections; while the sartan and ontimely eend that
hung over his own mare, during the comin’ winter, death by starvation,
turned the scale.
“‘Well,’ said he, slowly, ‘if we like each other’s beasts, friend, and
can agree as to the boot, I don’t know as I wouldn’t trade; for I don’t
care to raise colts, havin’ plenty of hoss stock on hand, and perhaps
you do.’
“‘How old is your hoss?’ said the Frenchman.
“‘I didn’t raise it,’ sais Steve, ‘Ned Wheelock, I believe, brought her
to our parts.’
“‘How old do you take her to be?’
“‘Poor critter, she’d tell you herself, if she could,’ said he, ‘for
she knows best, but she can’t speak; and I didn’t see her, when she was
foalded.’
“‘How old do you think?’
“‘Age,’ sais Steve, ‘depens on use, not on years. A hoss at five, if ill
used, is old; a hoss at eight, if well used is young.’
“‘Sacry footry!’ sais Goodish, ‘why don’t you speak out like a man? Lie
or no lie, how old is she?’
“‘Well, I don’t like to say,’ sais Steve, ‘I know she is eight for
sartain, and it may be she’s nine. If I was to say eight, and it turned
out nine, you might be thinkin’ hard of me. I didn’t raise it. You can
see what condition she is in; old hosses ain’t commonly so fat as that,
at least I never, see one that was.’
“A long banter then growed out of the ‘boot money.’ The Elder, asked
7 pounds 10s. Goodish swore he wouldn’t give that for him and his hoss
together; that if they were both put up to auction that blessed minute,
they wouldn’t bring it. The Elder hung on to it, as long as there was
any chance of the boot, and then fort the ground like a man, only givin’
an inch or so at a time, till he drawed up and made a dead stand, on one
pound.
“Goodish seemed willing to come to tarms too; but like a prudent man,
resolved to take a look at the old mare’s mouth, and make some kind of
a guess at her age; but the critter knowed how to keep her own secrets,
and it was ever so long, afore he forced her jaws open, and when he did,
he came plaguy near losin’ of a finger, for his curiosity; and as he
hopped and danced about with pain, he let fly such a string of oaths,
and sacry-cussed the Elder and his mare, in such an all-fired passion,
that Steve put both his hands up to his ears, and said, ‘Oh, my dear
friend, don’t swear, don’t swear; it’s very wicked. I’ll take your pony,
I’ll ask no boot, if you will only promise not to swear. You shall have
the mare as she stands. I’ll give up and swap even; and there shall be
no after claps, nor ruin bargains, nor recantin’, nor nother, only don’t
swear.’
“Well, the trade was made, the saddles and bridles was shifted, and
both parties mounted their new hosses. ‘Mr. Slick,’ sais Steve,’ who was
afraid he would lose the pony, if he staid any longer, ‘Mr. Slick,’
sais he, ‘the least said, is the soonest mended, let’s be a movin’, this
scene of noise and riot is shockin’ to a religious man, ain’t it?’ and
he let go a groan, as long as the embargo a’most.
“Well, we had no sooner turned to go, than the French people sot up a
cheer that made all ring again; and they sung out, “La Fossy Your,” “La
Fossy Your,” and shouted it agin and agin ever so loud.
“‘What’s that?’ sais Steve.
“Well, I didn’t know, for I never heerd the word afore; but it don’t do
to say you don’t know, it lowers you in the eyes of other folks. If you
don’t know What another man knows he is shocked at your ignorance. But
if he don’t know what you do, he can find an excuse in a minute. Never
say you don’t know.
“‘So,’ sais I, ‘they jabber so everlastin’ fast, it ain’t no easy matter
to say what they mean; but it sounds like “good bye,” you’d better
turn round and make ‘em a bow, for they are very polite people, is the
French.’
“So Steve turns and takes off his hat, and makes them a low bow, and
they larfs wus than ever, and calls out again, “La Fossy Your,” “La
Fossy Your.” He was kinder ryled, was the Elder. His honey had begun
to farment, and smell vinegery. ‘May be, next Christmas,’ sais he, ‘you
won’t larf so loud, when you find the mare is dead. Goodish and the old
mare are jist alike, they are all tongue them critters. I rather think
it’s me,’ sais he, ‘has the right to larf, for I’ve got the best of this
bargain, and no mistake. This is as smart a little hoss as ever I see.
I know where I can put him off to great advantage. I shall make a good
day’s work of this. It is about as good a hoss trade as I ever made. The
French don’t know nothin’ about hosses; they are a simple people, their
priests keep ‘em in ignorance on purpose, and they don’t know nothin’.’
“He cracked and bragged considerable, and as we progressed we came
to Montagon Bridge. The moment pony sot foot on it, he stopped short,
pricked up the latter eends of his ears, snorted, squeeled and refused
to budge an inch. The Elder got mad. He first coaxed and patted, and
soft sawdered him, and then whipt and spurred, and thrashed him like any
thing. Pony got mad too, for hosses has tempers as well as Elders; so he
turned to, and kicked right straight up on eend, like Old Scratch, and
kept on without stoppin’ till he sent the Elder right slap over his
head slantendicularly, on the broad of his back into the river, and he
floated down thro’ the bridge and scrambled out at t’other side.
“Creation! how he looked. He was so mad, he was ready to bile over; and
as it was he smoked in the sun, like a tea-kettle. His clothes stuck
close down to him, as a cat’s fur does to her skin, when she’s out in
the rain, and every step he took his boots went squish, squash, like an
old woman churnin’ butter; and his wet trowsers chafed with a noise like
a wet flappin’ sail. He was a shew, and when he got up to his hoss, and
held on to his mane, and first lifted up one leg and then the other to
let the water run out of his boots. I couldn’t hold in no longer, but
laid back and larfed till I thought on my soul I’d fall off into the
river too.
“‘Elder,’ says I, ‘I thought when a man jined your sect, ‘he could never
“_fall off agin_,” but I see you ain’t no safer than other folks arter
all.’
“‘Come,’ says he, ‘let me be, that’s a good soul, it’s bad enough,
without being larfed at, that’s a fact. I can’t account for this caper,
no how.’
“‘It’s very strange too, ain’t it! What on airth got into the hoss to
make him act so ugly. Can you tell, Mr. Slick?’
“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘he don’t know English yet, that’s all. He waited for
them beautiful French oaths that Goodish used. Stop the fust Frenchman
you meet and give him a shillin’ to teach you to swear, and he’ll go
like a lamb.’
“I see’d what was the matter of the hoss by his action as soon as we
started; but I warn’t agoin’ for to let on to him about it. I wanted to
see the sport. Well, he took his hoss by the bridle and led him over the
bridge, and he follered kindly, then he mounted, and no hoss could go
better. Arter a little, we came to another bridge agin, and the same
play was acted anew, same coaxin’, same threatenin’, and same thrashin’;
at last pony put down his head, and began to shake his tail, a gettin’
ready for another bout of kickin’; when Steve got off and led him, and
did the same to every bridge we come to.
“‘It’s no use,’ sais I, ‘you must larn them oaths, he’s used to ‘em
and misses them shocking. A sailor, a hoss, and a nigger ain’t no good
without you swear at ‘em; it comes kinder nateral to them, and they look
for it, fact I assure you. Whips wear out, and so do spurs, but a good
sneezer of a cuss hain’t no wear out to it; it’s always the same.’
“‘I’ll larn him sunthin’, sais he, ‘when I get him to home, and out o’
sight that will do him good, and that he won’t forget for one while, I
know.’
“Soon arter this we came to Everett’s public-house on the bay, and
I galloped up to the door, and went as close as I cleverly could on
purpose, and then reined up short and sudden, when whap goes the pony
right agin the side of the house, and nearly killed himself. He never
stirred for the matter of two or three minutes. I actilly did think he
had gone for it, and Steve went right thro’ the winder on to the floor,
with a holler noise, like a log o’ wood thrown on to the deck of a
vessel. ‘Eugh!’ says he, and he cut himself with the broken glass quite
ridikilous.
“‘Why,’ sais Everett, ‘as I am a livin’ sinner this is “the
Grave-digger,” he’ll kill you, man, as sure as you are born, he is the
wickedest hoss that ever was seen in these clearins here; and he is
as blind as a bat too. No man in Nova Scotia can manage that hoss but
Goodish Greevoy, and he’d manage the devil that feller, for he is man,
horse, shark, and sarpent all in one, that Frenchman. What possessed you
to buy such a varmint as that?’
“‘Grave digger!’ said doleful Steve, ‘what is that?’
“‘Why,’ sais he, ‘they went one day to bury a man, down to Clare did
the French, and when they got to the grave, who should be in it but the
pony. He couldn’t see, and as he was a feedin’ about, he tumbled in head
over heels and they called him always arterwards ‘the Grave-digger.’”
“‘Very simple people them French,’ sais I, ‘Elder; they don’t know
nothin’ about hosses, do they? Their priests keep them in ignorance on
purpose.’
“Steve winced and squinched his face properly; and said the glass in
his hands hurt him. Well, arter we sot all to rights, we began to jog
on towards Digby. The Elder didn’t say much, he was as chop fallen as
a wounded moose; at last, says he, ‘I’ll ship him to St. John, and sell
him. I’ll put him on board of Captain Ned Leonard’s vessel, as soon as I
get to Digby.’ Well, as I turned my head to answer him, and sot eyes on
him agin, it most sot me a haw, hawin’ a second time, he _did_ look so
like Old Scratch. Oh Hedges! how haggardised he was! His new hat was
smashed down like a cap on the crown of his head, his white cravat was
bloody, his face all scratched, as if he had been clapper-clawed by a
woman, and his hands was bound up with rags, where the glass cut ‘em.
The white sand of the floor of Everett’s parlour had stuck to his
damp clothes, and he looked like an old half corned miller, that was a
returnin’ to his wife, arter a spree. A leetle crest fallen for what he
had got, a leetle mean for the way he looked, and a leetle skeered
for what he’d catch, when he got to home. The way he sloped warn’t no
matter. He was a pictur, and a pictur I must say, I liked to look at.
“And now Squire, do you take him off too, ingrave him, and bind him up
in your book, and let others look at it, and put onder it ‘_the Elder
and the Grave-digger_.’”
“Well, when we got to town, the tide was high, and the vessel jist ready
to cast off, and Steve, knowin’ how skeer’d pony was of the water, got
off to lead him, but the critter guessed it warn’t a bridge, for he
smelt salt water on both sides of him, and ahead too, and budge he
wouldn’t. Well, they beat him most to death, but he beat back agin with
his heels, and it was a drawd fight. Then they goes to the fence and
gets a great strong pole, and puts it across his hams, two men at each
eend of the pole, and shoved away, and shoved away, till they progressed
a yard or so; when pony squatted right down on the pole, throwd over the
men, and most broke their legs, with his weight.
“At last, the captain fetched a rope, and fixes it round his neck, with
a slip knot, fastens it to the windlass, and dragged him in as they do
an anchor, and tied him by his bridle to the boom; and then shoved off,
and got under weigh.
“Steve and I sot down on the wharf, for it was a beautiful day, and
looked at them driftin’ out in the stream, and hystin’ sail, while the
folks was gettin’ somethin’ ready for us to the inn.
“When they had got out into the middle of the channel, took the breeze,
and was all under way, and we was about turnin’ to go back, I saw the
pony loose, he had slipped his bridle, and not likin’ the motion of the
vessel, he jist walked overboard, head fust, with a most a beautiful
splunge.
“‘_A most refreshin’ time_,’ said I, ‘Elder, that critter has of it. I
hope _that sinner will be saved_.’
“He sprung right up on eend, as if he had been stung by a galley nipper,
did Steve, ‘Let me alone,’ said he. ‘What have I done to be jobed, that
way? Didn’t I keep within the strict line o’ truth? Did I tell that
Frenchman one mossel of a lie? Answer me, that, will you? I’ve been
cheated awful; but I scorn to take the advantage of any man. You
had better look to your own dealin’s, and let me alone, you pedlin’,
cheatin’ Yankee clockmaker you.’
“‘Elder,’ sais I, ‘if you warn’t too mean to rile a man, I’d give you a
kick on your pillion, that would send you a divin’ arter your hoss; but
you ain’t worth it. Don’t call me names tho’, or I’ll settle your coffee
for you, without a fish skin, afore you are ready to swaller it I can
_tell_ you. So keep your mouth shut, my old coon, or your teeth might
get sun-burnt. You think you are angry with me; but you aint; you are
angry with yourself. You know you have showd yourself a proper fool for
to come, for to go, for to talk to a man that has seed so much of the
world as I have, bout “_refreshin’ time_,” and “_outpourin’ of spirit_,”
and “_makin’ profession_” and what not; and you know you showd yourself
an everlastin’ rogue, a meditatin’ of cheatin’ that Frenchman all
summer. It’s biter bit, and I don’t pity you one mossel; it sarves
you right. But look at the grave-digger; he looks to me as if he was a
diggin’ of his own grave in rael right down airnest.’
“The captain havin’ his boat histed, and thinkin’ the hoss would swim
ashore of hisself, kept right straight on; and the hoss swam this way,
and that way, and every way but the right road, jist as the eddies took
him. At last, he got into the ripps off of Johnston’s pint, and they
wheeled him right round and round like a whip-top. Poor pony! he got
his match at last. He struggled, and jumpt, and plunged and fort, like
a man, for dear life. Fust went up his knowin’ little head, that had no
ears; and he tried to jump up and rear out of it, as he used to did
out of a mire hole or honey pot ashore; but there was no bottom there;
nothin’ for his hind foot to spring from; so down he went agin ever so
deep: and then he tried t’other eend, and up went his broad rump, that
had no tail; but there was nothin’ for the fore feet to rest on nother;
so he made a summerset, and as he went over, he gave out a great long
end wise kick to the full stretch of his hind legs.
“Poor feller! it was the last kick he ever gave in this world; he sent
his heels straight up on eend, like a pair of kitchen tongs, and the
last I see of him was a bright dazzle, as the sun shined on his iron
shoes, afore the water closed over him for ever.
“I railly felt sorry for the poor old ‘grave-digger,’ I did upon my
soul, for hosses and ladies are two things, that a body can’t help
likin’. Indeed, a feller that hante no taste that way ain’t a man at
all, in my opinion. Yes, I felt ugly for poor ‘grave-digger,’ though I
didn’t feel one single bit so for that cantin’ cheatin’, old Elder. So
when I turns to go, sais I, ‘Elder,’ sais I, and I jist repeated his own
words--‘I guess it’s your turn to laugh now, for you have got the best
of the bargain, and no mistake. Goodish and the old mare are jist alike,
all tongue, ain’t they? But these French is a simple people, so they
be; they don’t know nothin’, that’s a fact. Their priests keep ‘em in
ignorance a puppus.
“The next time you tell your experience to the great Christian meetin’
to Goose Creek, jist up and tell ‘em, from beginnin’ to eend, the story
of the--‘_Elder and the Grave-digger_.’”