The Road to a Woman's Heart--The Broken Heart.
As we approached the inn at Amherst, the Clockmaker grew uneasy.
"It's pretty well on in the evening, I guess," said he, "and Marm
Pugwash is as onsartain in her temper as a mornin' in April; it's all
sunshine or all clouds with her, and if she's in one of her tantrums,
she'll stretch out her neck and hiss, like a goose with a flock of
goslins. I wonder what on airth Pugwash was a-thinkin' on, when he
signed articles of partnership with that 'ere woman; she's not a
bad-lookin' piece of furniture neither, and it's a proper pity sich
a clever woman should carry such a stiff upper lip--she reminds me
of our old minister Joshua Hopewell's apple trees.
"The old minister had an orchard of most particular good fruit, for
he was a great hand at buddin', graftin', and what not, and the
orchard (it was on the south side of the house) stretched right up to
the road. Well, there were some trees hung over the fence, I never
seed such bearers, the apples hung in ropes, for all the world like
strings of onions, and the fruit was beautiful. Nobody touched the
minister's apples, and when other folks lost their'n from the boys,
his'n always hung there like bait to a hook, but there never was so
much as a nibble at 'em. So I said to him one day, 'Minister,' said
I, 'how on airth do you manage to keep your fruit that's so exposed,
when no one else can do it no how?' 'Why,' says he, 'they are
dreadful pretty fruit, ain't they?' 'I guess,' said I, 'there ain't
the like on 'em in all Connecticut.' 'Well,' says he, 'I'll tell you
the secret, but you needn't let on to no one about it. That 'ere row
next the fence, I grafted it myself, I took great pains to get the
right kind, I sent clean up to Roxberry, and away down to Squaw-neck
Creek for ---.' 'I know that, Minister,' said I (for I was afeared
he was a-goin' to give me day and date for every graft, being a
terrible long-winded man in his stories), 'I know that,' said I,
'but how do you preserve them?' 'Why, I was a-goin' to tell you,'
said he, 'when you stopped me. That 'ere outward row I grafted myself
with the choicest kind I could find, and I succeeded. They are
beautiful, but so etarnal sour, no human soul can eat them. Well,
the boys think the old minister's graftin' has all succeeded about
as well as that row, and they sarch no farther. They snicker at my
graftin', and I laugh in my sleeve, I guess, at their penetration.'
"Now, Marm Pugwash is like the minister's apples--very temptin' fruit
to look at, but desperate sour. If Pugwash had a watery mouth when he
married, I guess it's pretty puckery by this time. However, if she
goes to act ugly, I'll give her a dose of 'soft sawder,' that will
take the frown out of her frontispiece, and make her dial-plate as
smooth as a lick of copal varnish. It's a pity she's such a kickin'
devil, too, for she has good points: good eye--good foot--neat
pastern--fine chest--a clean set of limbs, and carries a good ---.
But here we are; now you'll see what 'soft sawder' will do."
When we entered the house, the traveller's room was all in darkness,
and on opening the opposite door into the sitting-room, we found the
female part of the family extinguishing the fire for the night. Mrs.
Pugwash had a broom in her hand, and was in the act (the last act of
female housewifery) of sweeping the hearth. The strong flickering
light of the fire, as it fell upon her tall fine figure and beautiful
face, revealed a creature worthy of the Clockmaker's comments.
"Good evening, Marm," said Mr. Slick, "how do you do, and how's Mr.
Pugwash?"
"He," said she, "why he's been abed this hour, you don't expect to
disturb him this time of night I hope?"
"Oh no," said Mr. Stick, "certainly not, and I am sorry to have
disturbed you, but we got detained longer than we expected; I am
sorry that--"
"So am I," said she, "but if Mr. Pugwash will keep an inn when he has
no occasion to, his family can't expect no rest."
Here the Clockmaker, seeing the storm gathering, stooped down
suddenly, and staring intently, held out his hand and exclaimed,
"Well if that ain't a beautiful child! Come here, my little man and
shake hands along with me; well, I declare if that 'ere little feller
ain't the finest child I ever seed! What, not abed yet? Ah, you
rogue, where did you get them 'ere pretty rosy cheeks; stole 'em
from mamma, eh? Well, I wish my old mother could see that child,
it is such a treat. In our country," said he, turning to me, "the
children are all as pale as chalk, or as yeller as an orange. Lord,
that 'ere little feller would be a show in our country--come to me my
man." Here the "soft sawder" began to operate. Mrs. Pugwash said in a
milder tone than we had yet heard, "Go, my dear to the gentleman; go,
dear." Mr. Slick kissed him, asked him if he would go to the States
along with him, told him all the little girls there would fall in
love with him, for they didn't see such a beautiful face once in a
month of Sundays. "Black eyes--let me see--ah mamma's eyes too, and
black hair also; as I am alive, why you are mamma's own boy--the very
image of mamma."
"Do be seated, gentlemen," said Mrs. Pugwash. "Sally make a fire in
the next room."
"She ought to be proud of you," he continued. "Well, if I live to
return here, I must paint your face, and have it put on my clocks,
and our folks will buy the clocks for the sake of the face. Did you
ever see," said he, again addressing me, "such a likeness between
one human and another, as between this beautiful little boy and his
mother?"
"I am sure you have had no supper," said Mrs. Pugwash to me; "you
must be hungry and weary, too--I will get you a cup of tea."
"I am sorry to give you so much trouble," said I.
"Not the least trouble in the world," she replied, "on the contrary
a pleasure."
We were then shown into the next room, where the fire was now blazing
up, but Mr. Slick protested he could not proceed without the little
boy, and lingered behind me to ascertain his age, and concluded by
asking the child if he had any aunts that looked like mamma.
As the door closed, Mr. Slick said, "It's a pity she don't go well
in gear. The difficulty with those critters is to get them to start,
arter that there is no trouble with them if you don't check 'em too
short. If you do, they'll stop again, run back and kick like mad, and
then Old Nick himself wouldn't start 'em. Pugwash, I guess, don't
understand the natur' of the critter; she'll never go kind in harness
for him. When I see a child," said the Clockmaker, "I always feel
safe with these women folk; for I have always found that the road to
a woman's heart lies through her child."
"You seem," said I, "to understand the female heart so well, I make
no doubt you are a general favourite among the fair sex."
"Any man," he replied, "that understands horses, has a pretty
considerable fair knowledge of women too, for they are jist alike in
temper, and require the very identical same treatment. Encourage the
timid ones, be gentle and steady with the fractious, but lather the
sulky ones like blazes.
"People talk an everlastin' sight of nonsense about wine, women and
horses. I've bought and sold 'em all, I've traded in all of them, and
I tell you, there ain't one in a thousand that knows a grain about
either on 'em. You hear folks say, oh, such a man is an ugly-grained
critter--he'll break his wife's heart; jist as if a woman's heart was
as brittle as a pipe stalk. The female heart, as far as my experience
goes, is jist like a new India rubber shoe; you may pull and pull at
it, till it stretches out a yard long, and then let go, and it will
fly right back to its old shape. Their hearts are made of stout
leather, I tell you; there's a plaguy sight of wear in 'em.
"I never knowed but one case of a broken heart, and that was in
t'other sex, one Washington Banks. He was a sneezer. He was tall
enough to spit down on the heads of your grenadiers, and near about
high enough to wade across Charlestown River, and as strong as a
towboat. I guess he was somewhat less than a foot longer than the
moral law and catechism too. He was a perfect pictur' of a man; you
couldn't falt him in no particular; he was so just a made critter;
folks used to run to the winder when he passed, and say 'There goes
Washington Banks, bean't he lovely?' I do believe there wasn't a gal
in the Lowell factories, that warn't in love with him. Sometimes, at
intermission, on Sabbath day, when they all came out together (an
amazin' hansom sight too, near about a whole congregation of young
gals), Banks used to say, 'I vow, young ladies, I wish I had five
hundred arms to reciprocate one with each of you; but I reckon I have
a heart big enough for you all; it's a whapper, you may depend, and
every mite and morsel of it at your service.' Well, how you do act,
Mr. Banks, half a thousand little clipper-clapper tongues would say,
all at the same time, and their dear little eyes sparklin', like so
many stars twinklin' of a frosty night.
"Well, when I last seed him, he was all skin and bone, like a horse
turned out to die. He was teetotally defleshed, a mere walkin'
skeleton. 'I am dreadful sorry,' says I, 'to see you, Banks, lookin'
so peecked; why you look like a sick turkey hen, all legs; what on
airth ails you?' 'I'm dyin',' says he, 'of a broken heart.' 'What,'
says I, 'have the gals been jiltin' you?' 'No, no,' says he, 'I
bean't such a fool as that neither.' 'Well,' says I, 'have you made a
bad speculation?' 'No,' says he, shakin' his head, 'I hope I have too
much clear grit in me to take on so bad for that.' 'What under the
sun, is it, then?' said I. 'Why,' says he, 'I made a bet the fore
part of summer with Leftenant Oby Knowles, that I could shoulder the
best bower of the Constitution frigate. I won my bet, but the Anchor
was so eternal heavy it broke my heart.' Sure enough he did die that
very fall, and he was the only instance I ever heerd tell of a broken
heart."