In the preceding sketch I have given Mr. Slick’s account of the English
climate, and his opinion of the dulness of a country house, as nearly
as possible in his own words. It struck me at the time that they were
exaggerated views; but if the weather were unpropitious, and the company
not well selected, I can easily conceive, that the impression on his
mind would be as strong and as unfavourable, as he has described it to
have been.
The climate of England is healthy, and, as it admits of much out-door
exercise, and is not subject to any very sudden variation, or violent
extremes of heat and cold, it may be said to be good, though not
agreeable; but its great humidity is very sensibly felt by Americans and
other foreigners accustomed to a dry atmosphere and clear sky. That Mr.
Slick should find a rainy day in the country dull, is not to be wondered
at; it is probable it would be so any where, to a man who had so few
resources, within himself, as the Attache. Much of course depends on the
inmates; and the company at the Shropshire house, to which he alludes,
do not appear to have been the best calculated to make the state of the
weather a matter of indifference to him.
I cannot say, but that I have at times suffered a depression of spirits
from the frequent, and sometimes long continued rains of this country;
but I do not know that, as an ardent admirer of scenery, I would desire
less humidity, if it diminished, as I fear it would, the extraordinary
verdure and great beauty of the English landscape. With respect to my
own visits at country houses, I have generally been fortunate in the
weather, and always in the company; but I can easily conceive, that a
man situated as Mr. Slick appears to have been with respect to both,
would find the combination intolerably dull. But to return to my
narrative.
Early on the following day we accompanied our luggage to the wharf,
where a small steamer lay to convey us to the usual anchorage ground
of the packets, in the bay. We were attended by a large concourse of
people. The piety, learning, unaffected simplicity, and kind disposition
of my excellent friend, Mr. Hopewell, were well known and fully
appreciated by the people of New York, who were anxious to testify
their respect for his virtues, and their sympathy for his unmerited
persecution, by a personal escort and a cordial farewell.
“Are all those people going with us, Sam?” said he; “how pleasant it
will be to have so many old friends on board, won’t it?”
“No, Sir,” said the Attache, “they are only a goin’ to see you on
board--it is a mark of respect to you. They will go down to the “Tyler,”
to take their last farewell of you.”
“Well, that’s kind now, ain’t it?” he replied. “I suppose they thought
I would feel kinder dull and melancholy like, on leaving my native land
this way; and I must say I don’t feel jist altogether right neither.
Ever so many things rise right up in my mind, not one arter another, but
all together like, so that I can’t take ‘em one by one and reason ‘em
down, but they jist overpower me by numbers. You understand me, Sam,
don’t you?”
“Poor old critter!” said Mr. Slick to me in an under-tone, “it’s
no wonder he is sad, is it? I must try to cheer him up, if I can.
Understand you, minister!” said he, “to be sure I do. I have been that
way often and often. That was the case when I was to Lowel factories,
with the galls a taking of them off in the paintin’ line. The dear
little critters kept up such an everlastin’ almighty clatter, clatter,
clatter; jabber, jabber, jabber, all talkin’ and chatterin’ at once,
you couldn’t hear no blessed one of them; and they jist fairly stunned a
feller. For nothin’ in natur’, unless it be perpetual motion, can equal
a woman’s tongue. It’s most a pity we hadn’t some of the angeliferous
little dears with us too, for they do make the time pass quick, that’s
a fact. I want some on ‘em to tie a night-cap for me to-night; I don’t
commonly wear one, but I somehow kinder guess, I intend to have one this
time, and no mistake.”
“A night-cap, Sam!” said he; “why what on airth do you mean?”
“Why, I’ll tell you, minister,” said he, “you recollect sister Sall,
don’t you.”
“Indeed, I do,” said he, “and an excellent girl she is, a dutiful
daughter, and a kind and affectionate sister. Yes, she is a good girl is
Sally, a very good girl indeed; but what of her?”
“Well, she was a most a beautiful critter, to brew a glass of whiskey
toddy, as I ever see’d in all my travels was sister Sall, and I used to
call that tipple, when I took it late, a night-cap; apple jack and
white nose ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to it. On such an
occasion as this, minister, when a body is leavin’ the greatest nation
atween the poles, to go among benighted, ignorant, insolent foreigners,
you wouldn’t object to a night-cap, now would you?”
“Well, I don’t know as I would, Sam,” said he; “parting from friends
whether temporally or for ever, is a sad thing, and the former is
typical of the latter. No, I do not know as I would. We may use these
things, but not abuse them. Be temperate, be moderate, but it is a sorry
heart that knows no pleasure. Take your night-cap, Sam, and then commend
yourself to His safe keeping, who rules the wind and the waves to Him
who--”
“Well then, minister, what a dreadful awful looking thing a night-cap is
without a tassel, ain’t it? Oh! you must put a tassel on it, and that
is another glass. Well then, what is the use of a night-cap, if it has
a tassel on it, but has no string, it will slip off your head the very
first turn you take; and that is another glass you know. But one string
won’t tie a cap; one hand can’t shake hands along with itself: you must
have two strings to it, and that brings one glass more. Well then, what
is the use of two strings if they ain’t fastened? If you want to keep
the cap on, it must be tied, that’s sartain, and that is another go; and
then, minister, what an everlastin’ miserable stingy, ongenteel critter
a feller must be, that won’t drink to the health of the Female Brewer.
Well, that’s another glass to sweethearts and wives, and then turn in
for sleep, and that’s what I intend to do to-night. I guess I’ll tie the
night-cap this hitch, if I never do agin, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh Sam, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell, “for a man that is wide awake and
duly sober, I never saw one yet that talked such nonsense as you do. You
said, you understood me, but you don’t, one mite or morsel; but men
are made differently, some people’s narves operate on the brain
sens_itively_ and give them exquisite pain or excessive pleasure; other
folks seem as if they had no narves at all. You understand my words, but
you don’t enter into my feelings. Distressing images rise up in my mind
in such rapid succession, I can’t master them, but they master me. They
come slower to you, and the moment you see their shadows before you,
you turn round to the light, and throw these dark figures behind you.
I can’t do that; I could when I was younger, but I can’t now. Reason
is comparing two ideas, and drawing an inference. Insanity is, when you
have such a rapid succession of ideas, that you can’t compare them. How
great then must be the pain when you are almost pressed into insanity
and yet retain your reason? What is a broken heart? Is it death? I think
it must be very like it, if it is not a figure of speech, for I feel
that my heart is broken, and yet I am as sensitive to pain as ever.
Nature cannot stand this suffering long. You say these good people have
come to take their last farewell of me; most likely, Sam, it _is_ a last
farewell. I am an old man now, I am well stricken in years; shall I ever
live to see my native land again? I know not, the Lord’s will be done!
If I had a wish, I should desire to return to be laid with my kindred,
to repose in death with those that were the companions of my earthly
pilgrimage; but if it be ordered otherwise. I am ready to say with truth
and meekness, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’”
When this excellent old man said that, Mr. Slick did not enter into his
feelings--he did not do him justice. His attachment to and veneration
for his aged pastor and friend were quite filial, and such as to do
honour to his head and heart. Those persons who have made character a
study, will all agree, that the cold exterior of the New England
man arises from other causes than a coldness of feeling; much of the
rhodomontade of the attache, addressed to Mr. Hopewell, was uttered for
the kind purpose of withdrawing his attention from those griefs which
preyed so heavily upon his spirits.
“Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “come, cheer up, it makes me kinder dismal
to hear you talk so. When Captain McKenzie hanged up them three free and
enlightened citizens of ours on board of the--Somers--he gave ‘em three
cheers. We are worth half a dozen dead men yet, so cheer up. Talk to
these friends of ourn, they might think you considerable starch if
you don’t talk, and talk is cheap, it don’t cost nothin’ but breath, a
scrape of your hind leg, and a jupe of the head, that’s a fact.”
Having thus engaged him in conversation with his friends, we proceeded
on board the steamer, which, in a short time, was alongside of the great
“Liner.” The day was now spent, and Mr. Hopewell having taken leave of
his escort, retired to his cabin, very much overpowered by his feelings.
Mr. Slick insisted on his companions taking a parting glass with him,
and I was much amused with the advice given him by some of his young
friends and admirers. He was cautioned to sustain the high character
of the nation abroad; to take care that he returned as he went--a true
American; to insist upon the possession of the Oregon Territory; to
demand and enforce his right position in society; to negotiate the
national loan; and above all never to accede to the right of search
of slave-vessels; all which having been duly promised, they took an
affectionate leave of each other, and we remained on board, intending to
depart in the course of the following morning.
As soon as they had gone, Mr. Slick ordered materials for brewing,
namely: whisky, hot water, sugar and lemon; and having duly prepared in
regular succession the cap, the tassel, and the two strings, filled his
tumbler again, and said,
“Come now, Squire, before we turn in, let us _tie the night-cap_.”