All our preparations for the voyage having been completed, we spent
the last day at our disposal, in visiting Brooklyn. The weather was
uncommonly fine, the sky being perfectly clear and unclouded; and though
the sun shone out brilliantly, the heat was tempered by a cool, bracing,
westwardly wind. Its influence was perceptible on the spirits of every
body on board the ferry-boat that transported us across the harbour.
“Squire,” said Mr. Slick, aint this as pretty a day as you’ll see atween
this and Nova Scotia?--You can’t beat American weather, when it chooses,
in no part of the world I’ve ever been in yet. This day is a tip-topper,
and it’s the last we’ll see of the kind till we get back agin, _I_ know.
Take a fool’s advice, for once, and stick to it, as long as there is any
of it left, for you’ll see the difference when you get to England. There
never was so rainy a place in the univarse, as that, I don’t think,
unless it’s Ireland, and the only difference atween them two is that it
rains every day amost in England, and in Ireland it rains every day and
every night too. It’s awful, and you must keep out of a country-house in
such weather, or you’ll go for it; it will kill you, that’s sartain. I
shall never forget a juicy day I once spent in one of them dismal old
places. I’ll tell you how I came to be there.
“The last time I was to England, I was a dinin’ with our consul
to Liverpool, and a very gentleman-like old man he was too; he was
appointed by Washington, and had been there ever since our glorious
revolution. Folks gave him a great name, they said he was a credit to
us. Well, I met at his table one day an old country squire, that lived
somewhere down in Shropshire, close on to Wales, and says he to me,
arter cloth was off and cigars on, ‘Mr. Slick,’ says he, ‘I’ll be very
glad to see you to Norman Manor,’ (that was the place where he staid,
when he was to home). ‘If you will return with me I shall be glad
to shew you the country in my neighbourhood, which is said to be
considerable pretty.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘as I have nothin’ above particular to see to, I don’t
care if I do go.’
“So off we started; and this I will say, he was as kind as he cleverly
knew how to be, and that is sayin’ a great deal for a man that didn’t
know nothin’ out of sight of his own clearin’ hardly.
“Now, when we got there, the house was chock full of company, and
considerin’ it warn’t an overly large one, and that Britishers won’t
stay in a house, unless every feller gets a separate bed, it’s a wonder
to me, how he stowed away as many as he did. Says he, ‘Excuse your
quarters, Mr. Slick, but I find more company nor I expected here. In
a day or two, some on ‘em will be off, and then you shall be better
provided.’
“With that I was showed up a great staircase, and out o’ that by a
door-way into a narrer entry and from that into an old T like looking
building, that stuck out behind the house. It warn’t the common company
sleepin’ room, I expect, but kinder make shifts, tho’ they was good
enough too for the matter o’ that; at all events I don’t want no better.
“Well, I had hardly got well housed a’most, afore it came on to rain, as
if it was in rael right down airnest. It warn’t just a roarin’, racin’,
sneezin’ rain like a thunder shower, but it kept a steady travellin’
gait, up hill and down dale, and no breathin’ time nor batin’ spell.
It didn’t look as if it would stop till it was done, that’s a fact. But
still as it was too late to go out agin that arternoon, I didn’t think
much about it then. I hadn’t no notion what was in store for me next
day, no more nor a child; if I had, I’d a double deal sooner hanged
myself, than gone brousing in such place as that, in sticky weather.
“A wet day is considerable tiresome, any where or any way you can fix
it; but it’s wus at an English country house than any where else, cause
you are among strangers, formal, cold, gallus polite, and as thick in
the head-piece as a puncheon. You hante nothin’ to do yourself and they
never have nothin’ to do; they don’t know nothin’ about America, and
don’t want to. Your talk don’t interest them, and they can’t talk to
interest nobody but themselves; all you’ve got to do, is to pull out
your watch and see how time goes; how much of the day is left, and then
go to the winder and see how the sky looks, and whether there is any
chance of holdin’ up or no. Well, that time I went to bed a little
airlier than common, for I felt considerable sleepy, and considerable
strange too; so as soon as I cleverly could, I off and turned in.
“Well I am an airly riser myself. I always was from a boy, so I waked up
jist about the time when day ought to break, and was a thinkin’ to get
up; but the shutters was too, and it was as dark as ink in the room, and
I heer’d it rainin’ away for dear life. ‘So,’ sais I to myself, ‘what
the dogs is the use of gittin’ up so airly? I can’t get out and get a
smoke, and I can’t do nothin’ here; so here goes for a second nap.’ Well
I was soon off agin in a most a beautiful of a snore, when all at once
I heard thump-thump agin the shutter--and the most horrid noise I ever
heerd since I was raised; it was sunthin’ quite onairthly.
“‘Hallo!’ says I to myself, ‘what in natur is all this hubbub about?
Can this here confounded old house be harnted? Is them spirits that’s
jabbering gibberish there, or is I wide awake or no?’ So I sets right
up on my hind legs in bed, rubs my eyes, opens my ears and listens
agin, when whop went every shutter agin, with a dead heavy sound, like
somethin’ or another thrown agin ‘em, or fallin’ agin ‘em, and then
comes the unknown tongues in discord chorus like. Sais I, ‘I know now,
it’s them cussed navigators. They’ve besot the house, and are a givin’
lip to frighten folks. It’s regular banditti.’
“So I jist hops out of bed, and feels for my trunk, and outs with
my talkin’ irons, that was all ready loaded, pokes my way to the
winder--shoves the sash up and outs with the shutter, ready to let slip
among ‘em. And what do you think it was?--Hundreds and hundreds of them
nasty, dirty, filthy, ugly, black devils of rooks, located in the trees
at the back eend of the house. Old Nick couldn’t have slept near ‘em;
caw caw, caw, all mixt up together in one jumble of a sound, like
“jawe.”
“You black, evil-lookin’, foul-mouthed villains,’ sais I, ‘I’d like
no better sport than jist to sit here, all this blessed day with these
pistols, and drop you one arter another, _I_ know.’ But they was pets,
was them rooks, and of course like all pets, everlastin’ nuisances to
every body else.
“Well, when a man’s in a feeze, there’s no more sleep that hitch; so I
dresses and sits up; but what was I to do? It was jist half past four,
and as it was a rainin’ like every thing, I know’d breakfast wouldn’t be
ready till eleven o’clock, for nobody wouldn’t get up if they could help
it--they wouldn’t be such fools; so there was jail for six hours and a
half.
“Well, I walked up and down the room, as easy as I could, not to waken
folks; but three steps and a round turn makes you kinder dizzy, so I
sits down again to chaw the cud of vexation.
“‘Ain’t this a handsum fix?’ sais I, ‘but it sarves you right, what
busniss had you here at all? you always was a fool, and always will be
to the eend of the chapter.--‘What in natur are you a scoldin’ for?’
sais I: ‘that won’t mend the matter; how’s time? They must soon be a
stirrin’ now, I guess.’ Well, as I am a livin’ sinner, it was only five
o’clock; ‘oh dear,’ sais I, ‘time is like women and pigs the more you
want it to go, the more it won’t. What on airth shall I do?--guess, I’ll
strap my rasor.’
“Well, I strapped and strapped away, until it would cut a single hair
pulled strait up on eend out o’ your head, without bendin’ it--take it
off slick. ‘Now,’ sais I, ‘I’ll mend my trowsers I tore, a goin’ to
see the ruin on the road yesterday; so I takes out Sister Sall’s little
needle-case, and sows away till I got them to look considerable jam
agin; ‘and then,’ sais I, ‘here’s a gallus button off, I’ll jist fix
that,’ and when that was done, there was a hole to my yarn sock, so I
turned too and darned that.
“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘how goes it? I’m considerable sharp set. It must be
gettin’ tolerable late now.’ It wanted a quarter to six. ‘My! sakes,’
sais I, ‘five hours and a quarter yet afore feedin’ time; well if that
don’t pass. What shall I do next?’ ‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ sais I,
‘smoke, that will take the edge of your appetite off, and if they don’t
like it, they may lump it; what business have they to keep them horrid
screetchin’ infarnal, sleepless rooks to disturb people that way?’ Well,
I takes a lucifer, and lights a cigar, and I puts my head up the chimbly
to let the smoke off, and it felt good, I promise _you_. I don’t know as
I ever enjoyed one half so much afore. It had a rael first chop flavour
had that cigar.
“‘When that was done,’ sais I, ‘What do you say to another?’ ‘Well, I
don’t know,’ sais I, ‘I should like it, that’s a fact; but holdin’ of
my head crooked up chimbly that way, has a’ most broke my neck; I’ve got
the cramp in it like.’
“So I sot, and shook my head first a one side and then the other, and
then turned it on its hinges as far as it would go, till it felt about
right, and then I lights another, and puts my head in the flue again.
“Well, smokin’ makes, a feller feel kinder good-natured, and I began to
think it warn’t quite so bad arter all, when whop went my cigar right
out of my mouth into my bosom, atween the shirt and the skin, and burnt
me like a gally nipper. Both my eyes was fill’d at the same time, and
I got a crack on the pate from some critter or another that clawed and
scratched my head like any thing, and then seemed to empty a bushel of
sut on me, and I looked like a chimbly sweep, and felt like old Scratch
himself. My smoke had brought down a chimbly swaller, or a martin, or
some such varmint, for it up and off agin’ afore I could catch it, to
wring its infarnal neck off, that’s a fact.
“Well, here was somethin’ to do, and no mistake: here was to clean and
groom up agin’ till all was in its right shape; and a pretty job it was,
I tell you. I thought I never should get the sut out of my hair, and
then never get it out of my brush again, and my eyes smarted so, they
did nothing but water, and wink, and make faces. But I did; I worked on
and worked on, till all was sot right once more.
“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘how’s time?’ ‘half past seven,’ sais I, ‘and three
hours and a half more yet to breakfast. Well,’ sais I, ‘I can’t stand
this--and what’s more I won’t: I begin to get my Ebenezer up, and feel
wolfish. I’ll ring up the handsum chamber-maid, and just fall to, and
chaw her right up--I’m savagerous.’* ‘That’s cowardly,’ sais I, ‘call
the footman, pick a quarrel with him and kick him down stairs, speak but
one word to him, and let that be strong enough to skin the coon arter it
has killed him, the noise will wake up folks _I_ know, and then we shall
have sunthin’ to eat.’
[* Footnote: The word “savagerous” is not of “Yankee” but of “Western
origin.”--Its use in this place is best explained by the following
extract from the Third Series of the Clockmaker. “In order that the
sketch which I am now about to give may be fully understood, it may
be necessary to request the reader to recollect that Mr. Slick is a
_Yankee_, a designation the origin of which is now not very obvious,
but it has been assumed by, and conceded by common consent to, the
inhabitants of New England. It is a name, though sometimes satirically
used, of which they have great reason to be proud, as it is descriptive
of a most cultivated, intelligent, enterprising, frugal, and industrious
population, who may well challenge a comparison with the inhabitants of
any other country in the world; but it has only a local application.
“The United States cover an immense extent of territory, and the
inhabitants of different parts of the Union differ as widely in
character, feelings, and even in appearance, as the people of different
countries usually do. These sections differ also in dialect and in
humour, as much as in other things, and to as great, if not a greater
extent, than the natives of different parts of Great Britain vary from
each other. It is customary in Europe to call all Americans, Yankees;
but it is as much a misnomer as it would be to call all Europeans
Frenchmen. Throughout these works it will be observed, that Mr. Slick’s
pronunciation is that of the Yankee, or an inhabitant of the _rural
districts_ of New England. His conversation is generally purely so; but
in some instances he uses, as his countrymen frequently do from choice,
phrases which, though Americanisms, are not of Eastern origin. Wholly
to exclude these would be to violate the usages of American life; to
introduce them oftener would be to confound two dissimilar dialects,
and to make an equal departure from the truth. Every section has its own
characteristic dialect, a very small portion of which it has imparted
to its neighbours. The dry, quaint humour of New England is occasionally
found in the west, and the rich gasconade and exaggerative language of
the west migrates not unfrequently to the east. This idiomatic
exchange is perceptibly on the increase. It arises from the travelling
propensities of the Americans, and the constant intercourse mutually
maintained by the inhabitants of the different States. A droll or
an original expression is thus imported and adopted, and, though not
indigenous, soon becomes engrafted on the general stock of the language
of the country.”--3rd Series, p. 142.]
“I was ready to bile right over, when as luck would have it, the rain
stopt all of a sudden, the sun broke out o’ prison, and I thought I
never seed any thing look so green and so beautiful as the country
did. ‘Come,’ sais I, ‘now for a walk down the avenue, and a comfortable
smoke, and if the man at the gate is up and stirrin’, I will just pop in
and breakfast with him and his wife. There is some natur there, but here
it’s all cussed rooks and chimbly swallers, and heavy men and fat
women, and lazy helps, and Sunday every day in the week.’ So I fills my
cigar-case and outs into the passage.
“But here was a fix! One of the doors opened into the great staircase,
and which was it? ‘Ay,’ sais I, ‘which is it, do you know?’ ‘Upon my
soul, I don’t know,’ sais I; ‘but try, it’s no use to be caged up here
like a painter, and out I will, that’s a fact.’
“So I stops and studies, ‘that’s it,’ sais I, and I opens a door: it was
a bedroom--it was the likely chambermaid’s.
“‘Softly, Sir,’ sais she, a puttin’ of her finger on her lip, ‘don’t
make no noise; Missus will hear you.’
“‘Yes,’ sais I, ‘I won’t make no noise;’ and I outs and shuts the door
too arter me gently.
“‘What next?’ sais I; ‘why you fool, you,’ sais I, ‘why didn’t you ax
the sarvant maid, which door it was?’ ‘Why I was so conflastrigated,’
sais I, ‘I didn’t think of it. Try that door,’ well I opened another, it
belonged to one o’ the horrid hansum stranger galls that dined at table
yesterday. When she seed me, she gave a scream, popt her head onder the
clothes, like a terrapin, and vanished--well I vanished too.
“‘Ain’t this too bad?’ sais I; ‘I wish I could open a man’s door, I’d
lick him out of spite; I hope I may be shot if I don’t, and I doubled
up my fist, for I didn’t like it a spec, and opened another door--it was
the housekeeper’s. ‘Come,’ sais I, ‘I won’t be balked no more.’ She sot
up and fixed her cap. A woman never forgets the becomins.
“‘Anything I can do for you, Sir?’ sais she, and she raelly did look
pretty; all good natur’d people, it appears to me, do look so.
“‘Will you be so good as to tell me, which door leads to the staircase,
Marm?’ sais I.
“‘Oh, is that all?’ sais she, (I suppose, she thort I wanted her to
get up and get breakfast for me,) ‘it’s the first on the right, and she
fixed her cap agin’ and laid down, and I took the first on the right and
off like a blowed out candle. There was the staircase. I walked down,
took my hat, onbolted the outer door, and what a beautiful day was
there. I lit my cigar, I breathed freely, and I strolled down the
avenue.
“The bushes glistened, and the grass glistened, and the air was sweet,
and the birds sung, and there was natur’ once more. I walked to the
lodge; they had breakfasted had the old folks, so I chatted away with
them for a considerable of a spell about matters and things in general,
and then turned towards the house agin’. ‘Hallo!’ sais I, ‘what’s this?
warn’t that a drop of rain?’ I looks up, it was another shower by Gosh.
I pulls foot for dear life: it was tall walking you may depend, but the
shower wins, (comprehens_ive_ as my legs be), and down it comes, as hard
as all possest. ‘Take it easy, Sam,’ sais I, ‘your flint is fixed; you
are wet thro’--runnin’ won’t dry you,’ and I settled down to a careless
walk, quite desperate.
“‘Nothin’ in natur’, unless it is an Ingin, is so treacherous as the
climate here. It jist clears up on purpose I do believe, to tempt you
out without your umbreller, and jist as sure as you trust it and leave
it to home, it clouds right up, and sarves you out for it--it does
indeed. What a sight of new clothes I’ve spilte here, for the rain has a
sort of dye in it. It stains so, it alters the colour of the cloth, for
the smoke is filled with gas and all sorts of chemicals. Well, back I
goes to my room agin’ to the rooks, chimbly swallers, and all, leavin’
a great endurin’ streak of wet arter me all the way, like a cracked
pitcher that leaks; onriggs, and puts on dry clothes from head to foot.
“By this time breakfast is ready; but the English don’t do nothin’ like
other folks; I don’t know whether it’s affectation, or bein’ wrong in
the head--a little of both I guess. Now where do you suppose the solid
part of breakfast is, Squire? Why, it’s on the side-board--I hope I may
be shot if it ain’t--well, the tea and coffee are on the table, to make
it as onconvenient as possible.
“Says I, to the lady of the house, as I got up to help myself, for I was
hungry enough to make beef ache I know. ‘Aunty,’ sais I, ‘you’ll excuse
me, but why don’t you put the eatables on the table, or else put the
tea on the side-board? They’re like man and wife, they don’t ought to be
separated, them two.’
“She looked at me, oh what a look of pity it was”, as much as to
say, ‘Where have you been all your born days, not to know better nor
that?--but I guess you don’t know better in the States--how could you
know any thing there?’ But she only said it was the custom here, for she
was a very purlite old woman, was Aunty.
“Well sense is sense, let it grow where it will, and I guess we raise
about the best kind, which is common sense, and I warn’t to be put down
with short metre, arter that fashion. So I tried the old man; sais I,
‘Uncle,’ sais I, ‘if you will divorce the eatables from the drinkables
that way, why not let the servants come and tend. It’s monstrous
onconvenient and ridikilous to be a jumpin’ up for everlastinly that
way; you can’t sit still one blessed minit.’
“‘We think it pleasant,’ said he, ‘sometimes to dispense with their
attendance.’
“‘Exactly,’ sais I, ‘then dispense with sarvants at dinner, for when
the wine is in, the wit is out.’ (I said that to compliment him, for the
critter had no wit in at no time,) ‘and they hear all the talk. But at
breakfast every one is only half awake, (especially when you rise so
airly as you do in this country,’ sais I, but the old critter couldn’t
see a joke, even if he felt it, and he didn’t know I was a funnin’.)
‘Folks are considerably sharp set at breakfast,’ sais I, ‘and not very
talkat_ive_. That’s the right time to have sarvants to tend on you.’
“‘What an idea!’ said he, and he puckered up his pictur, and the way he
stared was a caution to an owl.
“Well, we sot and sot till I was tired, so thinks I, ‘what’s next?’ for
it’s rainin’ agin as hard as ever.’ So I took a turn in the study
to sarch for a book, but there was nothin’ there, but a Guide to the
Sessions, Burn’s Justice, and a book of London club rules, and two or
three novels. He said he got books from the sarkilatin’ library.
“‘Lunch is ready.’
“‘What, eatin’ agin? My goody!’ thinks I, ‘if you are so fond of it, why
the plague don’t you begin airly? If you’d a had it at five o’clock this
morning, I’d a done justice to it; now I couldn’t touch it if I was to
die.’
“There it was, though. Help yourself, and no thanks, for there is no
sarvants agin. The rule here is, no talk no sarvants--and when it’s all
talk, it’s all sarvants.
“Thinks I to myself, ‘now, what shall I do till dinner-time, for it
rains so there is no stirrin’ out?--Waiter, where is eldest son?--he and
I will have a game of billiards, I guess.’
“‘He is laying down, sir.’
“‘Shows his sense,’ sais I, ‘I see, he is not the fool I took him to be.
If I could sleep in the day, I’de turn in too. Where is second son?’
“‘Left this mornin’ in the close carriage, sir.’
“‘Oh cuss him, it was him then was it?’
“‘What, Sir?’
“‘That woke them confounded rooks up, out o’ their fust nap, and kick’t
up such a bobbery. Where is the Parson?’
“‘Which one, Sir?’
“‘The one that’s so fond of fishing.’
“‘Ain’t up yet, Sir.’
“‘Well, the old boy, that wore breeches.’
“Out on a sick visit to one of the cottages, Sir.’
“When he comes in, send him to me, I’m shockin’ sick.’
“With that I goes to look arter the two pretty galls in the drawin’
room; and there was the ladies a chatterin’ away like any thing. The
moment I came in it was as dumb as a quaker’s meetin’. They all hauled
up at once, like a stage-coach to an inn-door, from a hand-gallop to a
stock still stand. I seed men warn’t wanted there, it warn’t the custom
so airly, so I polled out o’ that creek, starn first. They don’t like
men in the mornin’, in England, do the ladies; they think ‘em in the
way.
“‘What on airth, shall I do?’ says I, ‘it’s nothin’ but rain, rain,
rain--here in this awful dismal country. Nobody smokes, nobody talks,
nobody plays cards, nobody fires at a mark, and nobody trades; only
let me get thro’ this juicy day, and I am done: let me get out of this
scrape, and if I am caught agin, I’ll give you leave to tell me of
it, in meetin’. It tante pretty, I do suppose to be a jawin’ with
the butler, but I’ll make an excuse for a talk, for talk comes kinder
nateral to me, like suction to a snipe.’
“‘Waiter?’
“‘Sir.’
“‘Galls don’t like to be tree’d here of a mornin’ do they?’
“‘Sir.’
“‘It’s usual for the ladies,’ sais I, ‘to be together in the airly part
of the forenoon here, ain’t it, afore the gentlemen jine them?’
“‘Yes, Sir.’
“‘It puts me in mind,’ sais I, ‘of the old seals down to Sable
Island--you know where Sable Isle is, don’t you?’
“‘Yes, Sir, it’s in the cathedral down here.’
“‘No, no, not that, it’s an island on the coast of Nova Scotia. You know
where that is sartainly.’
“‘I never heard of it, Sir.’
“‘Well, Lord love you! you know what an old seal is?’
“‘Oh, yes, sir, I’ll get you my master’s in a moment.’
And off he sot full chisel.
“Cus him! he is as stupid as a rook, that crittur, it’s no use to tell
him a story, and now I think of it, I will go and smoke them black imps
of darkness,--the rooks.’
“So I goes up stairs, as slowly as I cleverly could, jist liftin’ one
foot arter another as if it had a fifty-six tied to it, on pupus to
spend time; lit a cigar, opened the window nearest the rooks, and
smoked, but oh the rain killed all the smoke in a minite; it didn’t even
make one on ‘em sneeze. ‘Dull musick this, Sam,’ sais I, ‘ain’t it? Tell
you what: I’ll put on my ile-skin, take an umbreller and go and talk to
the stable helps, for I feel as lonely as a catamount, and as dull as a
bachelor beaver. So I trampousses off to the stable, and says I to the
head man, ‘A smart little hoss that,’ sais I, ‘you are a cleaning of: he
looks like a first chop article that.’
“‘Y mae’,’ sais he.
“‘Hullo,’ sais I, ‘what in natur’ is this? Is it him that can’t speak
English, or me that can’t onderstand? for one on us is a fool, that’s
sartain. I’ll try him agin.
“So I sais to him, ‘He looks,’ sais I, ‘as if he’d trot a considerable
good stick, that horse,’ sais I, ‘I guess he is a goer.’
“Y’ mae, ye un trotter da,’ sais he.
“‘Creation!’ sais I, ‘if this don’t beat gineral trainin’. I have heerd
in my time, broken French, broken Scotch, broken Irish, broken Yankee,
broken Nigger, and broken Indgin; but I have hearn two pure gene_wine_
languages to-day, and no mistake, rael rook, and rael Britton, and I
don’t exactly know which I like wus. It’s no use to stand talkin’ to
this critter. Good-bye,’ sais I.
“Now what do you think he said? Why, you would suppose he’d say good-bye
too, wouldn’t you? Well, he didn’t, nor nothin’ like it, but he jist
ups, and sais, ‘Forwelloaugh,’ he did, upon my soul. I never felt so
stumpt afore in all my life. Sais I, ‘Friend, here is half a dollar for
you; it arn’t often I’m brought to a dead stare, and when I am, I am
willin’ to pay for it.’
“There’s two languages, Squire, that’s univarsal: the language of love,
and the language of money; the galls onderstand the one, and the men
onderstand the other, all the wide world over, from Canton to Niagara. I
no sooner showed him the half dollar, than it walked into his pocket, a
plaguy sight quicker than it will walk out, I guess.
“Sais I, ‘Friend, you’ve taken the consait out of me properly. Captain
Hall said there warn’t a man, woman, or child, in the whole of the
thirteen united univarsal worlds of our great Republic, that could speak
pure English, and I was a goin’ to kick him for it; but he is right,
arter all. There ain’t one livin’ soul on us can; I don’t believe they
ever as much as heerd it, for I never did, till this blessed day, and
there are few things I haven’t either see’d, or heern tell of. Yes,
we can’t speak English, do you take?’ ‘Dim comrag,’ sais he, which in
Yankee, means, “that’s no English,” and he stood, looked puzzled, and
scratched his head, rael hansum, ‘Dim comrag,’ sais he.
“Well, it made me larf spiteful. I felt kinder wicked, and as _I_ had
a hat on, and I couldn’t scratch my head, I stood jist like him, clown
fashion, with my eyes wanderin’ and my mouth wide open, and put my hand
behind me, and scratched there; and I stared, and looked puzzled too,
and made the same identical vacant face he did, and repeated arter him
slowly, with another scratch, mocking him like, ‘Dim comrag.’
“Such a pair o’ fools you never saw, Squire, since the last time you
shaved afore a lookin’ glass; and the stable boys larfed, and he larfed,
and I larfed, and it was the only larf I had all that juicy day.
“Well, I turns agin to the door; but it’s the old story over
again--rain, rain, rain; spatter, spatter, spatter,--‘I can’t stop
here with these true Brittons,’ sais I, ‘guess I’ll go and see the old
Squire: he is in his study.’
“So I goes there: ‘Squire,’ sais I, ‘let me offer you a rael gene_wine_
Havana cigar; I can recommend it to you.’ He thanks me, he don’t smoke,
but plague take him, he don’t say, ‘If you are fond of smokin’, pray
smoke yourself.’ And he is writing I won’t interrupt him.
“‘Waiter, order me a post-chaise, to be here in the mornin’, when the
rooks wake.’
“‘Yes, Sir.’
“Come, I’ll try the women folk in the drawin’-room, agin’. Ladies don’t
mind the rain here; they are used to it. It’s like the musk plant, arter
you put it to your nose once, you can’t smell it a second time. Oh what
beautiful galls they be! What a shame it is to bar a feller out such a
day as this. One on ‘em blushes like a red cabbage, when she speaks to
me, that’s the one, I reckon, I disturbed this mornin’. Cuss the rooks!
I’ll pyson them, and that won’t make no noise.
“She shows me the consarvitery. ‘Take care, Sir, your coat has caught
this geranium,’ and she onhitches it. ‘Stop, Sir, you’ll break this
jilly flower,’ and she lifts off the coat tail agin; in fact, it’s so
crowded, you can’t squeeze along, scarcely, without a doin’ of mischief
somewhere or another.
“Next time, she goes first, and then it’s my turn, ‘Stop, Miss,’ sais
I, ‘your frock has this rose tree over,’ and I loosens it; once
more, ‘Miss, this rose has got tangled,’ and I ontangles it from her
furbeloes.
“I wonder what makes my hand shake so, and my heart it bumps so, it has
bust a button off. If I stay in this consarvitery, I shan’t consarve
myself long, that’s a fact, for this gall has put her whole team on, and
is a runnin’ me off the road. ‘Hullo! what’s that? Bell for dressin’
for dinner.’ Thank Heavens! I shall escape from myself, and from this
beautiful critter, too, for I’m gettin’ spoony, and shall talk silly
presently.
“I don’t like to be left alone with a gall, it’s plaguy apt to set me a
soft sawderin’ and a courtin’. There’s a sort of nateral attraction like
in this world. Two ships in a calm, are sure to get up alongside of each
other, if there is no wind, and they have nothin’ to do, but look at
each other; natur’ does it. “Well, even, the tongs and the shovel, won’t
stand alone long; they’re sure to get on the same side of the fire,
and be sociable; one on ‘em has a loadstone and draws ‘tother, that’s
sartain. If that’s the case with hard-hearted things, like oak and
iron, what is it with tender hearted things like humans? Shut me up in
a ‘sarvatory with a hansum gall of a rainy day, and see if I don’t think
she is the sweetest flower in it. Yes, I am glad it is the dinner-bell,
for I ain’t ready to marry yet, and when I am, I guess I must get a gall
where I got my hoss, in Old Connecticut, and that state takes the shine
off of all creation for geese, galls and onions, that’s a fact.
“Well dinner won’t wait, so I ups agin once more near the rooks, to
brush up a bit; but there it is agin the same old tune, the whole
blessed day, rain, rain, rain. It’s rained all day and don’t talk of
stoppin’ nother. How I hate the sound, and how streaked I feel. I don’t
mind its huskin’ my voice, for there is no one to talk to, but cuss it,
it has softened my bones.
“Dinner is ready; the rain has damped every body’s spirits, and
squenched ‘em out; even champaign won’t raise ‘em agin; feedin’ is
heavy, talk is heavy, time is heavy, tea is heavy, and there ain’t
musick; the only thing that’s light is a bed room candle--heavens and
airth how glad I am this ‘_juicy day_’ is over!”