A BEAUTIFUL NEW COACH.
I have already mentioned the honesty of the people in Flushing. Nothing
is more pleasant and satisfactory than to deal with persons on whom one
can rely; to feel that one gets precisely what is agreed upon--can trust
entirely to the word of the seller. To be sure, they were now and then a
little too confiding. They had a way of supplying any person in the
village with whatever he wanted, and charging it to me. If I objected,
they answered conclusively that he had given my name, and that they were
not accustomed, in the country, to doubt every man’s word who applied to
them for a keg of nails or a dozen boards; and they explained that
confidence was the foundation of business. Rather than disturb this
creditable, almost too creditable state of affairs, I submitted, and
paid for a good many articles that went to other people. I made a short
attempt to enforce a rule that any applicant who gave my name must have
a written order, and I even opened a pass-book with the leading
store-keeper; but these innovations met with so much opposition, and the
leading store-keeper had always so much to add to what appeared in the
pass-book, that I gave up the effort, and accepted country ways of
dealing.
Even the farmers were affected by this simplicity of views; they had
peculiar and somewhat unwise opinions, but they held to them
religiously. They believed in New York as the Moslem believes in Mecca;
they considered that they must make all their sales there, and that
weekly pilgrimages thither were a necessity of their success in life. No
inducement would persuade them to sell any of their produce on the road,
or short of that sacred destination. It was vain to apply to them for a
load of hay, or a dozen bags of oats; they would cart these six miles
over heavy roads rather than sell them within a few rods of their doors.
This was inconvenient, but a sure guaranty for their honesty; none but
very honest people could be so simple, and their faith in the metropolis
of the nation was actually touching.
“Sure, yer honor,” said Patrick to me one morning, “and the new Rockaway
is gone intirely.”
“Why, Patrick, you surprise me; I only bought it last spring.” I did not
say that I had obtained it second-hand, as it is well not to forget
appearances, and human nature is somehow or other ashamed of buying any
thing second-hand. The fact was that Dandy Jim had pretty much used up
my first wagon; he had run away with it so often, had dragged it over so
many fences, and smashed it so frequently and so effectually, that, when
he was sold and the new family horse was purchased, a new wagon had to
be bought for him. I said nothing to Patrick about its being
second-hand, and he said nothing to me; we neither of us pretended to be
aware of a fact which both of us knew perfectly well. True to his
instinctive Irish delicacy, not a word was breathed against the honor of
the house to which his fortunes were attached. So he replied,
“Be gorra! and it was a beautiful wagon intirely when yer honor brought
it home; you may well say that.”
“What is the trouble, then, now?”
“Sorrow a one o’ me knows, but they tell its going fast, and I thought
it was me duty to spake about it before any accident happened, which
would be a pity, indade, indade.”
“Is there any thing wrong with the axle-trees?” I inquired, anxiously,
worried at the implied risk.
“Axle-trees! whirra, and they’re as strong and sound as the day they
were put in; divil a word can be said against the axle-trees.”
“Well, then, is it the springs?”
“The springs! Now did yer honor ever see a purtier pair of springs in
yer life?”
“Perhaps it’s the wheels?”
“The wheels! divil a bit is there any thing the matter with the wheels;
better running wheels, when they’re well grased, were never put in a
wagon at all, at all.”
“Then, Patrick,” I cried in despair, “what on earth is the matter?”
“And didn’t I say it was wake all over, it was; and if it comes down
when yer honor’s out driving, you mustn’t blame me. Yer honor knows
best, but I shouldn’t like to be in it if it did break down; but perhaps
there’d be no harm done--you may be going slow, like, and the horse may
stop.”
“Patrick,” I responded, still more appalled at this picture, and not at
all confident of so fortunate a result, my experience having been rather
the reverse--“Patrick, it will never do to run any risk. What shall I do
about it?”
“Yer honor does not seem to care for it, but, as I tould yer honor
before, there’s a beautiful new coach down at the carriage-maker’s. If
you saw it once, you would be much plased; it’s lovely intirely. If you
would only get that, that would be the doin’ ov it.”
This discussion was not altogether an unusual thing between us. My
Rockaway had been growing weaker and weaker for some time past, and, as
its weakness became more striking, the “beautiful new coach” loomed up
more distinctly. At first the spring would want strengthening, then the
axles would need examining, next the tires would require resetting, and
so on, until an application to the wheelwright became an event of weekly
recurrence. On each repetition, the attractions of the “beautiful new
coach” would come under discussion, and be dilated upon, although, as I
had little faith in country work, and entire confidence in my Rockaway,
I turned a deaf ear to all such suggestions.
However, matters had been becoming more serious lately. The wagon had
certainly acquired a wobbly motion, which was neither agreeable nor
reassuring. The springs or wheels, or both, appeared to have lost their
strength; the latter did not track quite true, and, in turning a corner
or crossing a gutter, there was evidence of a defect somewhere. No
special difficulty had made itself apparent, but there was a general
giving out--a sort of grogginess all over. The whole concern “yawed
about” and “slewed round,” as the nautical gentlemen express it, after
an unpleasant and threatening fashion. It was apparent that something
must be done, and the carriage-maker, who also had the “beautiful new
coach” for sale, declared that repairing would do no more good; so to
Patrick’s last remark I responded with resignation,
“I suppose I shall have to get a new wagon of some sort. What does the
man ask for the one you speak of?”
“Only three hundred and fifty dollars, with pole and shafts. Mr. Jones
paid him four hundred for one just like it last week, but he says he
wants yer honor to give him a chance. There’s nothing but the best of
stuff gone into it. He puts on new patent clips; and the painting is the
loveliest blue and red that iver was seen.”
“Well, Patrick, you may drive me down, and I will look at it.”
“Thank yer honor; and shall I hitch up right away?”
“Yes; the sooner it’s over the better.”
“Thrue for you, and so it is; for a break-down would be a pity, with the
doctors charging so high. But ye’ll be safe enough in the new coach.”
We found the wheelwright at his shop, and ready to expatiate on the many
good points of his vehicles and the excellence of his work; the
advantages he had over city builders, and the danger there was in riding
in a broken-down affair which was made of such wretched stuff as mine,
that he only wondered had held together as long as it had. The proposed
carriage was quite gorgeous and very fine with paint and upholstery. I
thought it rather heavy for one horse, but Patrick, who had taken much
interest in the discussion, immediately, on my making the suggestion,
seized the shafts, and ran it up and down as if it were as light as a
feather. So there was nothing for it but to say that I would take the
“beautiful new coach;” and, stepping to one side with the maker, I said,
“I am informed that the price is three hundred and fifty dollars.”
“Oh,” he replied, “that is without the pole; with the pole it is three
hundred and seventy-five. Mr. Jones paid me--”
“Never mind about Mr. Jones. I understood the price was three hundred
and fifty dollars with pole and shafts; but, as I do not want the
former, I will do without that.”
“But they both go together,” replied the man. “Now I’ll tell you what,”
he added, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper, “you have been
a good customer of mine, and I want to please you; so let’s say three
hundred and sixty-five, and that will be almost throwing the pole in. It
costs a good twenty-five dollars to build one.”
I never liked haggling over trifles, so I consented and paid down the
money. I did not send for the new carriage immediately; in fact, a
change seemed to have come over the Rockaway; it gave up wobbling, the
wheels ran steadier, the springs became stronger, and its general
debility disappeared. It was altogether a changed vehicle. I heard no
more complaints from Patrick, and all danger in using it seemed to have
disappeared, for he took five of his female acquaintances to church in
it the very next Sunday morning. When we did get the new coach home it
proved to be entirely too heavy, and Patrick was the loudest in
declaring it was “no good at all, at all.” Of course, it could not have
been that an honest village wheelwright would purposely have put my
wagon out of order that he might sell me a new one, but such a sudden
recovery of health on the part of a Rockaway was extraordinary and
wonderful to the last degree.
Of course, when a man moves permanently into the country, he builds an
addition to his house. Why he does so, neither he nor any one else can
tell. He never does the like in town; no additional room is necessary,
but he does it all the same. I was attacked with the same mania, of
course. The only way of adding to my house was by putting a second story
on the main wing; there was no possible mode of extending either side,
or erecting an adjoining building, or doing any thing whatever except
moving a step nearer the heavens. This implied the removal of the roof.
Now a roof is a very necessary thing; people who have been in the habit
of living under one know little of the inconveniences of doing without
it, even for a short time. It is ornamental--may have a pretty border,
or edging, as our farmers say; but it is not only ornamental, it is
extremely useful; and if any reader doubts this, let him remove the roof
from his house, and try the effect of a change. The foundation is
necessary, the sides are advantageous, but the roof is essential.
As fate would have it, my alterations were commenced in March, which is
not altogether the best month for such things, in view of the fact,
little appreciated by citizens, that that month is the commencement of
the rainy season. So the tin was rolled up and taken off, the rafters
were pulled down, the sides of the additional story were completed--and
then it rained. I had prepared as well as I could to meet this
contingency, being the possessor of a large amount of canvas, which once
constituted the racing sails of a yacht that I owned in my younger days,
and I had spread this over the yawning gulf as well as I could. But it
did not answer; perhaps there was not peak enough, or the duck was worn
thin by age; certain it was that it leaked, and leaked badly, not in
mere drops, but in rivulets, that first covered the upper floor, and
then worked their way down through the lower ceilings, and dripped on
the furniture, and discolored the walls, and loosened the plaster.
Moreover, the rain always came at the worst times and in the most
disagreeable ways. I would go calmly to bed, leaving every thing
apparently serene, not a cloud in the sky, the stars shining brightly,
and the wind due west, and be waked up at midnight by the beating of the
storm, and the trickle of the water as it came down through one corner,
its favorite spot, in my room. Then the wind would blow, and work under
the canvas, and tug at the ends, until it succeeded in rolling it up, so
that it could expose what was beneath.
And then, of course, at the precise moment when a dozen more days’ work
would have made me
[Illustration]
safe--when the windows only were wanting, or a few more boards would
have shut out the destructive element--the carpenters and sash-makers
concluded they would enjoy a little “strike”--preferring leisure to
work, and needing a short rest from their labors. Many a time would I be
roused from my comfortable bed, and be forced, with quite a scanty
amount of clothing, to climb up the rickety, half-finished stairs at
midnight, and get drenched through putting up boards or nailing down the
canvas; for water, useful as it undoubtedly is for some purposes, can
do so extensive and unexpected an amount of damage; it gets into such
odd places, and produces such queer results. However, Patrick, true to
his Irish nature, was so delighted with my example that he determined to
follow it, and begged time enough to build himself a house. When my
troubles were about over, I met him one day, and asked how his building
was getting on?
“Thank yer honor,” he replied, joyfully, “I am doing finely; there was a
frind, begorra, and true frind he was, and a carpenter at that, and he
has built it all for nothing, because he was out of work. Sure and it’s
an ilegant house.”
“Well, then, Patrick, I suppose you’ll soon be moving into it.”
“I would that, but for wan thing.”
“And what is that?” I inquired.
“It hasn’t any roof on it.”
“You don’t say so; why, that is quite important.”
“Thrue for you, yer honor, it is that; the flure and the sides is
beautiful; it has two flures and a roof as purty as ever was.”
“Why, I thought you said it had no roof,” I responded, growing somewhat
confused, as I often did over Patrick’s explanations.
“Oh no; the roof is all there, but it lakes, it does.”
“Still, if it does leak, the upper floor would catch that, and you might
occupy the lower story, as I have been doing.”
“So I would, indade, but the flures have no boards on them; nothing at
all, at all, but jest the bare bames. But I wouldn’t mind that meself,
and me family would do well enough on the ground if it wasn’t for the
lakes, and the bad saison it is at that.”
“You ought to find out where the leaks are, and stop them,” I replied.
“Sure, and it lakes all over.”
“Now, Patrick,” I remonstrated, “how can it do that? No roof was ever
made that leaked all over; the thing can’t be.”
“Well, yer honor knows best; but when a roof hasn’t any shingles on, it
lakes purty bad.”
“Patrick,” I said, pausing and looking at him sternly, “what on earth do
you mean by saying one minute that you have a roof, and the next that
you have none?”
“Well, yer honor knows the boards for the roof is all there, and put up
beautiful, but I hadn’t any shingles, more’s the pity, and me paying
rint all the time, and me frind with nothing to do until he gets some
work, and no telling the day when he may do that. And I thought perhaps
yer honor will give me the loan of some shingles, and keep the house
yerself until I could work it out. The windies ain’t much matter, and
boards will do very well, but sure a house is good for nothing intirely
unless it has a roof on it.”
I coincided fully in Patrick’s views; there was a bond of brotherhood in
suffering between us; and although I did not keep his house for him, he
had his shingles. And so he was fairly housed, and my extra story being
completed, and the garden having at last consented to grow, and the
trees to furnish foliage and give yearly promise of fruit, and my vast
experience having been carefully stored away for the use of others, and
myself finally and peremptorily settled in the country, I think it is
time that I closed this veracious and trustworthy account of “Five Acres
more than Enough.”