"Yes, we managed to finish up a pretty fair revolution here some twelve
years ago; but that revolution was caused by a disagreement about the R.
of B. Now----"
"Pardon me," I said "but what was the 'R. of B?'"
"Oh, excuse me," he answered. "The R. of B. was the Relic of Barbarism,
human slavery--the only relic the United States has ever had, too."
I prided myself that the material for my book was piling up at a great
rate; and I determined to persevere.
"How about the feeling of dislike of Americans for the English, of which
we have heard so much in England?" I asked. "Not that I have had any
evidence of such a feeling."
"That is a plant which has finally withered away in spite of some
careful artificial cultivation. The politician who shall attempt to
build on any such feeling against England (a statesman will never desire
to make the attempt) will soon learn his mistake. Oh, I suppose it
pleases some Americans to think we got the best of our mother in
1783--such a big, strong, wealthy mother, too. A little bit of talk
doesn't hurt her any, and it does some of us a heap of good. When a boy
runs away from home, half the glory and fun is in being missed; and if
the folks at home won't say they miss him, why, he must say all the
louder that they are mourning over the loss. But I will say to you--and
I say it with the fullest conviction of its truth--that the people of
the United States could not in any way be induced to take up arms
against Great Britain, save in their own undivided interest.
Individually, as you already know, I love England--not England's fops,
but her people; I love the literature of England, I love her memories, I
esteem and admire her well-executed laws. The literature of England has
been my mental food from boyhood--aye, almost from infancy; and her
memories, her memories! I think of London as Macaulay must have thought
of Athens. Decent Americans--that is, a majority--don't listen to jingo
politicians; and new arrivals with a grievance against England are left
to the _vis medicatrix naturæ_. There'll never be another war between
England and the United States. Our Anglo-Saxon element think normally;
and the vast majority of our German citizens have always been on the
sensible and morally right side of national questions--there's nothing
long-haired or cranky about them. I like the Germans because they don't
hanker after the unknown. I believe that most reading Americans--that is
to say three-fourths of all--feel toward England as Irving and Hawthorne
did.--But, from your description, that must be the home of Peters, just
ahead of us."
He was right; and we stopped in front of the old sailor's house. An aged
man, apparently a coal miner, came to the door as our buggy stopped. We
called him to us and inquired concerning Peters, who he told us was
quietly sleeping. Then we asked with regard to stabling accommodations,
and learned that Peters had an old unused stable, the last old horse
that he had owned having preceded its master into the beyond. The old
miner offered to care for our horse; so we gathered up our supplies, and
entered the little log house that contained so much of interest for us.
We found Peters asleep.
Making ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would permit, we
awaited developments. At about midnight Peters awoke. He asked for a
drink of water, which was given to him. His voice was feeble, and I saw
that Bainbridge felt doubtful as to the length of time that Peters might
remain alive and be able to talk intelligently. But after we had given
him a little diluted port, and followed it with a cup of prepared beef
extract, his actions betokened less weakness, his voice in particular
gaining in strength. The poor old fellow had been of necessity much
neglected, and our efforts to arouse him met with decidedly good
results. All through the night we gratified every want which he
expressed, and attended to every need of his that our own minds could
suggest. No attempt was made to draw from him any information concerning
his strange voyage; but, on the advice of Bainbridge, we occasionally
spoke aloud to each other, and now and then to Peters himself--always on
indifferent topics. This was done to familiarize the old sailor with our
voices; and as far as we could do so without any possible injury to him,
we kept a light in the room, that he should become accustomed to our
appearance. From time to time Bainbridge would step to the bedside, and
place his hand on the old man's forehead; and later he would every now
and then put an arm about the invalid's body, and raise him up to take a
swallow of nourishment or wine.
Before morning, Bainbridge had reached a stage of familiarity that
permitted him to sit on the edge of Peters' bed and talk to the old
fellow briefly and quietly about his farm, and of Doctor Castleton's
goodness and ability, and on other subjects presumably interesting to
the invalid. Bainbridge would gently pat the poor old man on a shoulder,
and smooth his head--somewhat as one does in making the acquaintance of
a big dog. By morning Peters was thoroughly accustomed to our presence;
and he seemed to take our watchfulness as a matter of course, and even
to look for our attentions as a kind of right. He had slept several
hours through the night, and at five o'clock was awake and seemingly
much improved. Not the slightest delirium, even of the passive form--in
fact, nothing of a nature that could alarm or disconcert us, had
occurred. Bainbridge had mentioned eight o'clock as about the time he
would broach the subject of subjects to Peters, intending, as a matter
of course, to lead up to it by very tactful gradations, passing from
journeys in the abstract to the journeys in the concrete, thence to sea
voyages, and thence, perhaps, to some mention of recent arctic (not
antarctic) explorations; and then, asking no questions yet, to proceed
to a mention of Nantucket, from which vantage ground the propriety of
risking a mention of the name Barnard would be considered. If up to this
point all went well, a more pointed question or allusion might well be
risked--the brig Grampus, for instance, might be named; and then,
without more delay than should be necessary for Peters' rest, we might
hope to elicit the whole story of that wonderful voyage of discovery,
the evidence of the completion of which certainly appeared to be before
our eyes in the form of Dirk Peters, the returned voyager to the South
Pole, in person.
At six o'clock we prepared our own breakfast, and enjoyed it, sweetened
as it was by a night in the pure country air, and seasoned with the
anticipation of marvellous discoveries, involving the mysteries of a
strange land, no doubt teeming with amazing surprises, and, as we felt
that we had reason to believe, peopled by a race of beings with customs
and attributes extremely wonderful.
We had just arisen from our breakfast when a buggy drove rapidly up to
the house, and stopped; and we heard the voice of Doctor Castleton,
shouting something to the old miner, who had gone forth a moment before
to care for Bainbridge's horse.