The Clockmaker: Or the Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick E-Book

Thomas Chandler Haliburton

• Herausgeber: Nonsuch Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 1191

Beschreibung

Sam Slick, a clock-peddler who accompanies a visiting English gentleman on an unforgettable tour of Nova Scotia, first appeared in the 'Novascotian' in 1835. His shrewd observations and witty commentaries addressed important contemporary issues, such as race, slavery and colonialism.

Leseprobe

THE CLOCKMAKER

OR THE SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF SAMUEL SLICK

First published 1843This edition 2005

Nonsuch Publishing Limited is an imprint of The History Press

The History Press,The Mill, Brimscombe PortStroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QGwww.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2011

All rights reserved Copyright © in this edition 2005 Nonsuch Publishing Limited, 2011

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 7168 6MOBI ISBN 978 0 7524 7167 9

Original typesetting by The History Press

NON SUCH CLASSICS

THE CLOCKMAKER

OR THE SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF SAMUEL SLICK

Thomas Chandler Haliburton

Volume One

Garrit aniles ex re fabellasHORACE

The cheerful sage, when solemn dictates fail, Conceals the moral counsel in a tale.

CONTENTS

Introduction to the Modern edition

Slick’s Letter

I

The Trotting Horse

II

The Clockmaker

III

The Silent Girls

IV

Conversations at the River Philip

V

Justice Pettifog

VI

Anecdotes

VII

Go Ahead

VIII

The Preacher that Wandered from his Text

IX

Yankee eating and Horse Feeding

X

The Road to a Woman’s Heart—The Broken Heart

XI

Cumberland Oysters produce melancholy forebodings

XII

The American eagle

XIII

The Clockmaker’s Opinion of Halifax

XIV

Sayings and Doings in Cumberland

XV

The Dancing Master Abroad

XVI

Mr Slick’s Opinion of the British

XVII

A Yankee Handle for a Halifax Blade

XVIII

The Grahamite and the Irish Plot

XIX

The Clockmaker quilts a Blue-Nose

XX

Sister Sall’s Courtship

XXI

Setting up for a Governor

XXII

A Cure for a Conceit

XXIII

The Blowin Time

XXIV.

Father John O’Shaughnessy

XXV

Taming a Shrew

XXVI

The Minister’s Horn Mug

XXVII

The White Nigger

XXVIII

Fire in the Dairy

XXIX

A Body without a Head

XXX

A Tale of Bunker’s Hill

XXXI

Gulling a Blue-Nose

XXXII

Too many Irons in the Fire

XXXIII

Windsor and the Far West

INTRODUCTION TO THE MODERN EDITION

Thomas Chandler Haliburton’s celebrated novel The Clockmaker, or the Sayings and Doings of Sam Slick, of Slickville was first published in London in 1837. An immediate popular success, this comic satire of the New England character saw both the author and his fictional hero fêted across the world. The first writer from British North America to win sustained recognition, Haliburton has been variously regarded as a natural successor to Lawrence Sterne, and as a forerunner to the post-colonial writing of V.S. Naipaul.

Born on 17 December 1797 in Windsor, Nova Scotia, Haliburton’s family was both prominent and upper-class, and of a decidedly loyalist disposition. His lineage also seemed more legal than literary; his father was a judge, as was his grandfather. Following the completion of his BA, at King’s College, Windsor, in 1815, he duly followed them to the bar. By 1820 he had established a thriving private practice in Annapolis Royal, the administrative centre of the province.

In 1826, however, he left this practice to take up a seat in the provincial House of the Assembly. This was a fascinating and turbulent time in the colony’s politics, lashed as it was by the wake of the French and American Revolutions. Canada was itself to witness violent rebellion in 1837 and 1838, by which time Haliburton had become a judge in the Court of Common Pleas.

It was against this unlikely and fractious backdrop that Haliburton’s literary success blossomed. His first book, A General Description of Nova Scotia (1823) was a serious history, as was A Historical and Statistical Account of Nova Scotia (1829). The shift to humorous writing, however, was to mark the point of his ascent into the literary elite. In 1835, a serialisation of the adventures of Samuel Slick appeared in The Novascotian. The audience for this ‘cheerful sage’ quickly burgeoned, the bemused editor Joseph Howe noting that his author’s tales were being republished in newspapers from Yarmouth to Boston.

The homespun wisdom of the fast-talking Sam Slick struck an instant chord with this ever-widening audience. The various incidents and episodes into which the character was thrown had undeniable social relevance, addressing as they did issues of race and abolition, colonialism and the character of a people. Haliburton addressed these issues, however, with a light and satirical touch, cloaking Slick’s wisdom with an infectious wit.

Testimony to the strength of the dialogue is the wealth of phrases which were coined by the author. It was Sam Slick who first noticed that ‘the early bird gets the worm’; that it is quite a task to ‘get blood out of a stone’; and that, perhaps as a result of his frustrated efforts with the stone, ‘he drank like a fish’. The phrase ‘it’s raining cats and dogs’ also comes from Haliburton, as does ‘six of one and half a dozen of the other’, and ‘as quick as a wink’.

Although the mercury-related problems of hatmakers were thought to have been known and in common parlance, Haliburton and Sam Slick are also credited with being the first to describe someone in print as being ‘mad as a hatter’.

‘As quick as a wink’, The Novascotian’s editor Joseph Howe realised that a book was overdue, and collected the sketches together, with some new material, to produce The Clockmaker (1837). It was actually published in the end by Richard Bentley of London, who took advantage of rather relaxed copyright laws to produce the book which had been causing such a stir. Haliburton reacted rather pragmatically to what essentially amounted to the theft of his creation – he received, in lieu of royalties, a silver plate, which was in itself an afterthought – he promptly travelled to London and offered Bentley a second and third volume.

Arriving in London, Haliburton became the literary toast of the town. Lauded from on high, this young colonist became ‘the greatest Lion in London,’ sought after by governors and Mrs Trollope alike. Swept up in this whirlwind of acclaim, Haliburton quickly produced two more volumes of Slick’s exploits in 1838, and 1840. He went on to bring the character to join him in London with The Attaché; or Sam Slick in England (1843).

Haliburton remained politically involved, and was appointed to the Supreme Court in 1842. He produced several political works, including The Bubbles of Canada (1839), A Reply to the Report of the Earl of Durham (1839), and Rule and Misrule in English America (1851). Rule and Misrule in English America, together with An Historical Description of Nova Scotia (1829), are thought to be the first historical works to employ the Romantic or Parkmanian method.

Haliburton retired in 1856 on grounds of failing health and moved to Great Britain, where he married his second wife, Sarah Harriet Williams. Here he received an honorary degree from Oxford, and took a seat in Parliament as a Tory for Launceston until 1865. On 27 June 1865, he died at his home, Gordon House, on the banks of the Thames, and is buried in Isleworth Churchyard.

Haliburton’s crowning achievement was undoubtedly the creation of Sam Slick, and The Clockmaker. Hugely popular at the time, it remains virtually a constant feature of Canadian literary anthologies, an achievement made all the more poignant by his death only two years before Canada’s birth.

SLICK’S LETTER

[After these Sketches had gone through the press and were ready for Publication, we sent Mr. Slick a copy; and shortly afterwards received from him the following letter, which characteristic communication we give entire.]

—EDITOR.

To Mr. Howe.

Sir,—I received your letter, and note its contents.—I aint over half pleased I tell you; I think I have been used scandalous, that’s a fact. It warn’t the part of a gentleman for to go and pump me arter that fashion, and then go right off and blart it out in print. It was a nasty, dirty, mean, action, and I don’t thank you nor the Squire a bit for it. It will be more nor a thousand dollars out of my pocket. There’s an eend to the Clock trade now, and a pretty kettle of fish I’ve made on it, havn’t I? I shall never hear the last on it, and what am I to say when I go back to the States? I’ll take my oath I never said one half the stuff he has sot down there; and as for that long lockrum about Mr. Everett, and the Hon. Alden Gobble, and Minister, there aint a word of truth in it from beginnin to end. If ever I come near hand him agin, I’ll larn him——but never mind, I say nothin. Now there’s one thing I don’t cleverly onderstand. If this here book is my ‘Sayins and Doins,’ how comes it yourn or the Squire’s either? If my thoughts and notions are my own, how can they be any other folks’s? According to my idee you have no more right to take them, than you have to take my clocks without payin for ’em. A man that would be guilty of such an action is no gentleman, that’s flat, and if you don’t like it you may lump it—for I don’t valy him, nor you neither, nor are a blue-nose that ever stept in shoe-leather, the matter of a pin’s head. I don’t know as ever I felt so ugly afore since I was raised: why didn’t he put his name to it as well as mine? When an article han’t the maker’s name and factory on it, it shows it’s a cheat, and he’s ashamed to own it. If I’m to have the name, I’ll have the game, or I’ll know the cause why, that’s a fact? Now folks say you are a considerable of a candid man, and right up and down in your dealins, and do things above board, handsum—at least so I’ve hearn tell. That’s what I like; I love to deal with such folks. Now ’spose you make me an offer? You’ll find me not very difficult to trade with, and I don’t know but I might put off more than half the books myself, tu. I’ll tell you how I’d work it? I’d say, ‘Here’s a book they’ve namesaked arter me, Sam Slick, the Clockmaker, but it tante mine, and I can’t altogether jist say rightly whose it is. Some says it’s the Gineral’s and some say it’s the Bishop’s, and some says it’s Howe himself; but I aint availed who it is. It’s a wise child that knows its own father. It wipes up the blue-noses considerable hard, and don’t let off the Yankees so very easy neither, but its generally allowed to be about the prettiest book ever writ in this country; and although it aint altogether jist gospel what’s in it, there’s some pretty home truths in it, that’s a fact. Whoever wrote it must be a funny feller, too, that’s sartin; for there are some queer stories in it that no soul could help larfin at, that’s a fact. It’s about the wittiest book I ever see’d. It’s nearly all sold off, jist a few copies I’ve kept for my old customers. The price is jist 5s. 6d., but I’ll let you have it for 5s., because you’ll not get another chance to have one.’ Always ax a sixpence more than the price, and then bate it, and when blue-nose hears that, he thinks he’s got a bargain, and bites directly. I never see’d one on ’em yet that didn’t fall right into the trap.

Yes, make me an offer, and you and I will trade, I think. But fair play’s a jewel, and I must say I feel ryled and kinder sore. I han’t been used handsum atween you two, and it don’t seem to me that I had ought to be made a fool on in that book, arter that fashion, for folks to laugh at, and then be sheered out of the spec. If I am, somebody had better look out for squalls, I tell you. I’m as easy as an old glove, but a glove aint an old shoe to be trod on, and I think a sartain person will find that out afore he is six months older, or else I’m mistakened, that’s all. Hopin to hear from you soon, I remain yours to command,

SAMUEL SLICK

Pugnose’s Inn, River Philip, Dec. 25, 1836.

P. S.—I see in the last page it is writ, that the Squire is to take another journey round the Shore, and back to Halifax with me next Spring. Well, I did agree with him, to drive him round the coast, but don’t you mind— we’ll understand each other, I guess, afore we start. I concait he’ll rise considerably airly in the mornin, afore he catches me asleep agin. I’ll be wide awake for him next hitch, that’s a fact. I’d a ginn a thousand dollars if he had only used Campbell’s name instead of mine; for he was a most an almighty villain, and cheated a proper raft of folks and then shipped himself off to Botany Bay, for fear folks would transport him there; you couldn’t rub out Slick, and put in Campbell, could you? that’s a good feller; if you would I’d make it worth your while, you may depend.

I

THE TROTTING HORSE

I WAS always well mounted. I am fond of a horse, and always piqued myself on having the fastest trotter in the Province. I have made no great progress in the world, I feel doubly, therefore, the pleasure of not being surpassed on the road. I never feel so well or so cheerful as on horseback, for there is something exhilarating in quick motion; and, old as I am, I feel a pleasure in making any person whom I meet on the way put his horse to the full gallop, to keep pace with my trotter. Poor Ethiope! you recollect him, how he was wont to lay back his ears on his arched neck, and push away from all competition. He is done, poor fellow! the spavin spoiled his speed, and he now roams at large upon ‘my farm at Truro.’ Mohawk never failed me till this summer.

I pride myself, (you may laugh at such childish weakness in a man of my age,) but still, I pride myself in taking the conceit out of coxcombs I meet on the road, and on the ease with which I can leave a fool behind, whose nonsense disturbs my solitary musings.

On my last journey to Fort Lawrence, as the beautiful view of Colchester had just opened upon me, and as I was contemplating its richness and exquisite scenery, a tall thin man, with hollow cheeks and bright twinkling black eyes, on a good bay horse, somewhat out of condition, overtook me; and drawing up, said, I say, stranger, I guess you started early this morning, didn’t you? I did, sir, I replied. You did not come from Halifax, I presume, sir, did you? in a dialect too rich to be mistaken as genuine Yankee. And which way may you be travelling? asked my inquisitive companion. To Fort Lawrence. Ah! said he, so am I, it is in my circuit. The word circuit sounded so professional, I looked again at him to ascertain whether I had ever seen him before, or whether I had met with one of those nameless, but innumerable limbs of the law, who now flourish in every district of the Province. There was a keenness about his eye, and an acuteness of expression, much in favour of the law; but the dress, and general bearing of the man, made against the supposition. His was not the coat of a man who can afford to wear an old coat, nor was it one of ‘Tempest and More’s,’ that distinguish country lawyers from country boobies. His clothes were well made and of good materials, but looked as if their owner had shrunk a little since they were made for him; they hung somewhat loose on him. A large brooch, and some superfluous seals and gold keys, which ornamented his outward man, looked ‘New England’ like. A visit to the States had, perhaps, I thought, turned this Colchester beau into a Yankee fop. Of what consequence was it to me who he was—in either case I had nothing to do with him, and I desired neither his acquaintance nor his company—still I could not but ask myself who can this man be? I am not aware, said I, that there is a court sitting at this time at Cumberland? Nor am I, said my friend. What then could he have to do with the circuit? It occurred to me he must be a Methodist preacher. I looked again, but his appearance again puzzled me. His attire might do—the colour might be suitable—the broad brim not out of place; but there was a want of that staidness of look, that seriousness of countenance, that expression, in short, so characteristic of the clergy.

I could not acount for my idle curiosity—a curiosity which, in him, I had the moment before viewed both with suspicion and disgust; but so it was—I felt a desire to know who he could be who was neither lawyer nor preacher, and yet talked of his circuit with the gravity of both. How ridiculous, I thought to myself, is this;I will leave him. Turning towards him, I said, I feared I should be late for breakfast, and must, therefore, bid him good morning. Mohawk felt the pressure of my knees, and away we went at a slapping pace. I congratulated myself on conquering my own curiosity, and on avoiding that of my travelling companion. This, I said to myself, this is the value of a good horse; I patted his neck—I felt proud of him. Presently I heard the steps of the unknown’s horse—the clatter increased. Ah, my friend, thought I, it won’t do; you should be well mounted if you desire my company; I pushed Mohawk faster, faster, faster,—to his best. He outdid himself; he had never trotted so handsomely—so easily—so well.

I guess that is a pretty considerable smart horse, said the stranger, as he came beside me, and apparently reined in, to prevent his horse passing me; there is not, I reckon, so spry a one on my circuit.

Circuit, or no circuit, one thing was settled in my mind; he was a Yankee, and a very impertinent Yankee too. I felt humbled, my pride was hurt, and Mohawk was beaten. To continue this trotting contest was humiliating; I yielded, therefore, before the victory was palpable, and pulled up.

Yes, continued he, a horse of pretty considerable good action, and a pretty fair trotter, too, I guess. Pride must have a fall—I confess mine was prostrate in the dust. These words cut me to the heart. What! is it come to this, poor Mohawk, that you, the admiration of all but the envious, the great Mohawk, the standard by which all other horses are measured—trots next to Mohawk, only yields to Mohawk, looks like Mohawk—that you are, after all, only a counterfeit pronounced by a straggling Yankee to be merely a ‘pretty fair trotter!’

If he was trained, I guess that he might be made to do a little more. Excuse me, but if you divide your weight between the knee and the stirrup, rather most on the knee, and rise forward on the saddle, so as to leave a little daylight between you and it, I hope I may never ride this circuit again, if you don’t get a mile more an hour out of him.

What! not enough, I mentally groaned, to have my horse beaten, but I must betold that I don’t know how to ride him; and that, too, by a Yankee. Aye, there’s the rub—a Yankee what? Perhaps a half-bred puppy, half yankee, half blue-nose. As there is no escape, I’ll try to make out my riding master. Your circuit, said I, my looks expressing all the surprise they were capable of—your circuit, pray what may that be? Oh, said he, the eastern circuit—I am on the eastern circuit, sir. I have heard, said I, feeling that I now had a lawyer to deal with, that there is a great deal of business on this circuit—pray, are there many cases of importance? There is a pretty fair business to be done, at least there has been, said he, but the cases are of no great value—we don’t make much out of them, we get them up very easy, but they don’t bring much profit. What a beast, thought I, is this; and what a curse to a country, to have such an unfeeling pettifogging rascal practising in it—a horse jockey, too, what a finished character! I’ll try him on that branch of his business.

That is a superior animal you are mounted on, said I—I seldom meet one that can keep pace with mine. Yes, said he coolly, a considerable fair traveller, and most particular good bottom. I hesitated: this man who talks with such unblushing effrontery of getting up cases, and making profit out of them, cannot be offended at the question—yes, I will put it to him. Do you feel an inclination to part with him? I never part with a horse, sir, that suits me, said he—I am fond of a horse—I don’t like to ride in the dust after every one I meet, and I allow no man to pass me but when I choose. Is it possible, I thought, that he can know me? that he has heard of my foible, and is quizzing me, or have I this feeling in common with him. But, continued I, you might supply yourself again. Not on this circuit, I guess, said he, nor yet in Campbell’s circuit. Campbell’s circuit—pray, sir, what is that? That, said he, is the western—and Lampton rides the shore circuit; and as for the people on the shore, they know so little of horses, that Lampton tells me, a man from Aylesford once sold a hornless ox there, whose tail he had cut and nicked, for a horse of the Goliath breed. I should think, said I, that Mr. Lampton must have no lack of cases among such enlightened clients. Clients, sir! said my friend, Mr. Lampton is not a lawyer. I beg pardon, I thought you said he rode the circuit. We call it a circuit, said the stranger, who seemed by no means flattered by the mistake—we divide the Province, as in the Almanack, into circuits, in each of which we separately carry on our business of manufacturing and selling clocks. There are few I guess, said the Clockmaker, who go upon tick as much as we do, who have so little use for lawyers; if attornies could wind a man up again, after he has been fairly run down, I guess they’d be a pretty harmless sort of folks.

This explanation restored my good humour, and as I could not quit my companion, and he did not feel disposed to leave me, I made up my mind to travel with him to Port Lawrence, the limit of his circuit.

II

THE CLOCKMAKER

I HAD heard of Yankee clock pedlars, tin pedlars, and bible pedlars, especially of him who sold Polyglot Bibles (all in English) to the amount of sixteen thousand pounds. The house of every substantial farmer had three substantial ornaments, a wooden clock, a tin reflector, and a Polyglot Bible. How is it that an American can sell his wares, at whatever price he pleases, where a blue-nose would fail to make a sale at all? I will inquire of the Clockmaker the secret of his success.

What a pity it is, Mr. Slick, (for such was his name) what a pity it is, said I, that you, who are so successful in teaching these people the value of clocks, could not also teach them the value of time. I guess, said he, they have got that ring to grow on their horns yet, which every four year old has in our country. We reckon hours and minutes to be dollars and cents. They do nothin in these parts, but eat, drink, smoke, sleep, ride about, lounge at taverns, make speeches at temperance meetings, and talk about “House of Assembly.” If a man don’t hoe his corn, he don’t get a crop, he says it is all owin to the Bank; and if he runs into debt and is sued, why he says lawyers are a cuss to the country. They are a most idle set of folks, I tell you.

But how is it, said I, that you manage to sell such an immense number of clocks, (which certainly cannot be called necessary articles) among a people with whom there seems to be so great a scarcity of money?

Mr. Slick paused, as if considering the propriety of answering the question, and looking me in the face, said, in a confidential tone, Why, I don’t care if I do tell you, for the market is glutted, and I shall quit this circuit. It is done by a knowledge of soft sawder and human natur. But here is Deacon Flint’s, said he, I have but one clock left, and I guess I will sell it to him.

At the gate of a most comfortable looking farm house stood Deacon Flint, a respectable old man, who had understood the value of time better than most of his neighbours, if one might judge from the appearance of every thing about him. After the usual salutation, an invitation to “alight” was accepted by Mr. Slick, who said, he wished to take leave of Mrs. Flint before he left Colchester.

We hardly entered the house, before the Clockmaker pointed to the view from the window, and addressing himself to me, said, if I was to tell them in Connecticut, there was such a farm as this away down east here in Nova Scotia, they wouldn’t believe me—why there aint such a location, in all New England. The deacon has a hundred acres of dyke.—Seventy, said the Deacon, only seventy. Well, seventy; but then there is your fine deep bottom, why I could run a ramrod into it.—Interval, we call it, said the Deacon, who, though evidently pleased at this eulogium, seemed to wish the experiment of the ramrod to be tried in the right place.—Well, interval if you please, (though Professor Eleazer Cumstick, in his work on Ohio, calls them bottoms,) is just as good as dyke. Then there is that water privilege, worth 3,000 or 4,000 dollars, twice as good as what Governor Cass paid 15,000 dollars for. I wonder, Deacon, you don’t put up a carding mill on it: the same works would carry a turning lathe, a shingle machine, a circular saw, grind bark, and—Too old, said the Deacon, too old for all those speculations.—Old, repeated the Clockmaker, not you; why you are worth half a dozen of the young men we see, now a-days, you are young enough to have—here he said something in a lower tone of voice, which I did not distinctly hear; but whatever it was, the Deacon was pleased, he smiled, and said he did not think of such things now.

But your beasts, dear me, your beasts must be put in and have a feed; saying which, he went out to order them to be taken to the stable.

As the old gentleman closed the door after him, Mr. Slick drew near to me, and said in an under tone, Now that is what I call “soft sawder.” An Englishman would pass that man as a sheep passes a hog in a pastur, without lookin at him; or, said he, looking rather archly, if he was mounted on a pretty smart horse, I guess he’d trot away, if he could. Now I find— Here his lecture on “soft sawder” was cut short by the entrance of Mrs. Flint. Jist come to say good bye, Mrs. Flint.—What, have you sold all your clocks?—Yes, and very low, too, for money is scarce, and I wished to close the concarn; no, I am wrong in saying all, for I have jist one left. Neighbour Steel’s wife asked to have the refusal of it, but I guess I won’t sell it; I had but two of them, this one and the feller of it that I sold Governor Lincoln. General Green, the Secretary of State for Maine, said he’d give me 50 dollars for this here one—it has composition wheels and patent axles, it is a beautiful article—a real first chop—no mistake, genuine superfine, but I guess I’ll take it back; and beside, Squire Hawk might think kinder harder that I didn’t give him the offer. Dear me, said Mrs. Flint, I should like to see it; where is it? It is in a chist of mine over the way, at Tom Tape’s store. I guess he can ship it on to Eastport. That’s a good man, said Mrs. Flint, jist let’s look at it.

Mr. Slick, willing to oblige, yielded to these entreaties, and soon produced the clock—a gawdy, highly varnished, trumpery looking, affair. He placed it on the chimney-piece, where its beauties were pointed out and duly appreciated by Mrs. Flint, whose admiration was about ending in a proposal, when Mr. Flint returned from giving his directions about the care of the horses. The Deacon praised the clock, he too thought it a handsome one; but the Deacon was a prudent man, he had a watch—he was sorry, but he had no occasion for a clock. I guess you’re in the wrong furrow this time, Deacon, it an’t for sale, said Mr. Slick; and if it was, I reckon neighbour Steel’s wife would have it, for she gives me no peace about it. Mrs. Flint said, that Mr. Steel had enough to do, poor man, to pay his interest, without buying clocks for his wife. It’s no consarn of mine, said Mr. Slick, so long as he pays me, what he has to do, but I guess I don’t want to sell it, and besides it comes too high; that clock can’t be made at Rhode Island under 40 dollars. Why it an’t possible, said the Clockmaker, in apparent surprise, looking at his watch, why as I’m alive, it is 4 o’clock, and if I hav’nt been two blessed hours here—how on airth shall I reach River Philip to-night? I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Flint, I’ll leave the clock in your care till I return on my way to the States—I’ll set it a goin’, and put it to the right time.

As soon as this operation was performed, he delivered the key to the Deacon with a sort of serio-comic injunction to wind up the clock every Saturday night, which Mrs. Flint said she would take care should be done, and promised to remind her husband of it, in case he should chance to forget it.

That, said the Clockmaker, as soon as we were mounted, that I call ‘human natur!’ Now that clock is sold for 40 dollars—it cost me jist 6 dollars and 50 cents. Mrs. Flint will never let Mrs. Steel have the refusal—nor will the Deacon larn, until I call for the clock, that having once indulged in the use of a superfluity, how difficult it is to give it up. We can do without any article of luxury we have never had, but when once obtained, it isn’t ‘in human natur’ to surrender it voluntarily. Of fifteen thousand sold by myself and partners in this Province, twelve thousand were left in this manner, and only ten clocks were ever returned—when we called for them, they invariably bought them. We trust to ‘soft sawder’ to get them into the house, and to ‘human natur’ that they never come out of it.

III

THE SILENT GIRLS

Do you see them are swallers, said the Clockmaker, how low they fly? Well, I presume, we shall have rain right away, and them noisy critturs, them gulls, how close they keep to the water down there in the Shubenacadie; well, that’s a sure sign. If we study natur, we don’t want no thermometer. But I guess we shall be in time to get under cover in a shingle-maker’s shed, about three miles ahead on us.

We had just reached the deserted hovel, when the rain fell in torrents.

I reckon, said the Clockmaker, as he sat himself down on a bundle of shingles, I reckon they are bad off for inns in this country. When a feller is too lazy to work here, he paints his name over his door, and calls it a tavern, and as like as not, he makes the whole neighbourhood as lazy as himself— it is about as easy to find a good inn in Halifax, as it is to find wool on a goat’s back. An inn, to be a good concarn, must be built a purpose, you can no more make a good tavern out of a common dwelling-house, I expect, than a good coat out of an old pair of trowsers. They are etarnal lazy, you may depend—now there might be a grand spec made there, in building a good Inn and a good Church. What a sacrilegious and unnatural union, said I, with most unaffected surprise. Not at all, said Mr. Slick, we build both on spekilation in the States, and make a good deal of profit out of ’em too, I tell you. We look out a good sightly place, in a town like Halifax, that is pretty considerably well peopled with folks that are good marks; and if there is no rael right down good preacher among them, we build a handsome Church, touched off like a New-York liner, a rael takin, lookin thing—and then we look out for a preacher, a crack man, a regilar ten-horse-power chap—well, we hire him, and we ha to give pretty high wages, too, say twelve hundred or sixteen hundred dollars a year. We take him at first on trial for a Sabbath or two, to try his paces, and if he takes with the folks, if he goes down well, we clinch the bargain, and let and sell the pews; and I tell you it pays well and makes a rael good investment. There were few better specs among us than Inns and Churches, until the Railroads came on the carpet—as soon as the novelty of the new preacher wears off, we hire another, and that keeps up the steam. I trust it will be long, very long, my friend, said I, ere the rage for speculation introduces “the money-changers into the temple,” with us.

Mr. Slick looked at me with a most ineffable expression of pity and surprise. Depend on it, sir, said he, with a most philosophical air, this Province is much behind the intelligence of the age. But if it is behind us in that respect, it is a long chalk ahead on us in others. I never seed or heard tell of a country that had so many nateral privileges as this. Why there are twice as many harbours and water powers here, as we have all the way from Eastport to New Orleens. They have all they can ax, and more than they desarve. They have iron, coal, slate, grindstone, lime, fire-stone, gypsum, freestone, and a list as long as an auctioneer’s catalogue. But they are either asleep or stone blind to them. Their shores are crowded with fish, and their lands covered with wood. A government that lays as light on ’em as a down counterpin, and no taxes. Then look at their dykes. The Lord seems to have made ’em on purpose for such lazy folks. If you were to tell the citizens of our country that these dykes had been cropped for a hundred years without manure, they’d say, they guessed you had seen Col. Crockett, the greatest hand at a flam in our nation. You have heerd tell of a man who couldn’t see London for the houses, I tell you, if we had this country, you couldn’t see the harbours for the shippin. There’d be a rush of folks to it, as there is in one of our inns, to the dinner table, when they sometimes get jammed together in the door-way, and a man has to take a running leap over their heads, afore he can get in. A little nigger boy in New York found a diamond worth, 2,000 dollars; well, he sold it to a watchmaker for 50 cents—the little critter didn’t know no better. Your people are just like the nigger boy, they don’t know the valy of their diamond.

Do you know the reason monkeys are no good? because they chatter all day long—so do the niggers—and so do the blue-noses of Nova Scotia— it’s all talk and no work; now, with us it’s all work and no talk—in our shipyards, our factories, our mills, and even in our vessels, there’s no talk—a man can’t work and talk too. I guess if you were to the factories to Lowel we’d show you a wonder—five hundred galls at work together all in silence. I don’t think our great country has such a rael nateral curiosity as that—I expect the world don’t contain the beat of that; for a woman’s tongue goes so slick of itself, without water power or steam, and moves so easy on its hinges, that it’s no easy matter to put a spring stop on it, I tell you—it comes as natural as drinkin mint julip.

I don’t pretend to say the galls don’t nullify the rule, sometimes at intermission and arter hours, but when they do, if they don’t let go, then its a pity. You have heerd a school come out of little boys, Lord its no touch to it; or a flock of geese at it, they are no more a match for ’em than a pony is for a coach-horse. But when they are to work, all’s as still as sleep and no snoring. I guess we have a right to brag o’ that invention—we trained the dear critters, so they don’t think of striking the minutes and seconds no longer.

Now the folks to Halifax take it all out in talkin—they talk of steamboats, whalers, and railroads—but they all eend where they begin—in talk. I don’t think I’d be out in my latitude, if I was to say they beat the women kind at that. One feller says, I talk of goin to England—another says, I talk of goin to the country—while a third says, I talk of goin to sleep. If we happen to speak of such things, we say, ‘I’m right off down East; or I’m away off South,’ and away we go, jist like a streak of lightnin.

When we want folks to talk, we pay ’em for it, such as ministers, lawyers, and members of congress; but then we expect the use of their tongues, and not their hands; and when we pay folks to work, we expect the use of their hands, and not their tongues. I guess work don’t come kind o’nateral to the people of this province, no more than it does to a full bred horse, I expect they think they have a little too much blood in ’em for work, for they are near about as proud as they are lazy.

Now the bees know how to serve out such chaps, for they have their drones too. Well, they reckon it’s no fun, a making of honey all summer, for these idle critters to eat all winter—so they give ’em Lynch Law. They have a regilar built mob of citizens, and string up the drones like the Vixburg gamblers. Their maxim is, and not a bad one neither, I guess, ‘no work, no honey.’

IV

CONVERSATIONS AT THE RIVER PHILIP

IT was late before we arrived at Pugnose’s Inn—the evening was cool, and a fire was cheering and comfortable. Mr. Slick declined any share in the bottle of wine, he said he was dyspeptic; and a glass or two soon convinced me that it was likely to produce in me something worse than dyspepsy. It was speedily removed, and we drew up to the fire.

Taking a small penknife from his pocket, he began to whittle a thin piece of dry wood, which lay on the hearth, and, after musing some time, said, I guess you’ve never been to the States. I replied that I had not, but that before I returned to England, I proposed visiting that country. There, said he, you’ll see the great Danel Webster—he’s a great man, I tell you; King William, number 4, I guess, would be no match for him as an orator—he’d talk him out of sight in half an hour. If he was in your House of Commons, I reckon he’d make some of your great folks look pretty streaked—he’s a true patriot and statesman, the first in our country, and a most partikilar cute Lawyer. There was a Quaker chap too cute for him once, tho’. This Quaker, a pretty knowin’ old shaver, had a case down to Rhode Island; so he went to Danel to hire him to go down and plead his case for him; so says he, Lawyer Webster, what’s your fee? Why, says Danel, let me see, I have to go down south to Washington, to plead the great insurance case of the Hartford Company—and I’ve got to be at Cincinnati to attend the Convention, and I don’t see how I can go to Rhode Island without great loss and great fatigue; it would cost you, may be, more than you’d be willin to give.

Well the Quaker looked pretty white about the gills, I tell you, when he heard this, for he could not do without him, no how, and he did not like this preliminary talk of his at all—at last he made bold to ask him the worst of it, what he would take? Why, says Danel, I always liked the Quakers, they are a quiet peaceable people who never go to law if they can help it, and it would be better for our great country if there were more such people in it. I never seed or heerd tell of any harm in ’em, except goin the whole figur for Gineral Jackson, and that everlastin’ almighty villain, Van Buren; yes, I love the Quakers, I hope they’ll go the Webster ticket yet—and I’ll go for you as low as I can any way afford, say 1,000 dollars.

The Quaker well nigh fainted when he heerd this; but he was pretty deep too; so, says he, Lawyer, that’s a great deal of money, but I have more cases there, if I give you the 1,000 dollars will you plead the other cases I shall have to give you? Yes, says Danel, I will to the best of my humble abilities. So down they went to Rhode Island, and Danel tried the case and carried it for the Quaker. Well, the Quaker he goes round to all the folks that had suits in court, and says he, what will you give me if I get the great Danel to plead for you? It cost me 1,000 dollars for a fee, but now he and I are pretty thick, and as he is on the spot, I’d get him to plead cheap for you—so he got three hundred dollars from one, and two from another, and so on, until he got eleven hundred dollars, jist one hundred dollars more than he gave. Danel was in a great rage when he heerd this; what, said he, do you think I would agree to your lettin me out like a horse to hire? Friend Danel, said the Quaker, didst thou not undertake to plead all such cases as I should have to give thee? If thou wilt not stand to thy agreement, neither will I stand to mine. Danel laughed out ready to split his sides at this. Well, says he, I guess I might as well stand still for you to put the bridle on this time, for you have fairly pinned me up in a corner of the fence anyhow—so he went good humouredly to work and pleaded them all.

This lazy feller, Pugnose, continued the Clockmaker, that keeps this inn, is goin to sell off and go to the States; he says he has to work too hard here; that the markets are dull, and the winters too long; and he guesses he can live easier there; I guess he’ll find his mistake afore he has been there long. Why our country aint to be compared to this, on no account whatever: our country never made us to be the great nation we are, but we made the country. How on airth could we, if we were all like old Pugnose, as lazy, as ugly, make that cold thin soil of New England produce what it does? Why, sir, the land between Boston and Salem would starve a flock of geese; and yet look at Salem, it has more cash than would buy Nova Scotia from the King. We rise airly, live frugally, and work late: what we get we take care of. To all this we add enterprise and intelligence—a feller who finds work too hard here, had better not go to the States; I met an Irishman, one Pat Lannigan, last week, who had just returned from the States; why, says I, Pat, what on airth brought you back? Bad luck to ’em, says Pat, if I warn’t properly bit. What do you get a day in Nova Scotia? says Judge Beler to me. Four shillings, your Lordship, says I. There are no Lords here, says he, we are all free. Well, says he, I’ll give you as much in one day as you can airn there in two; I’ll give you eight shillings. Long life to your Lordship, says I. So next day to it I went with a party of men a-digging of a piece of canal, and if it wasn’t a hot day my name is not Pat Lannigan. Presently I looked up and straightened my back, says I to a comrade of mine, Mick, says I, I’m very dry; with that, says the overseer, we don’t allow gentlemen to talk at their work in this country. Faith, I soon found out for my two days’ pay in one, I had to do two days’ work in one, and pay two weeks’ board in one, and at the end of a month, I found myself no better off in pocket than in Nova Scotia; while the devil a bone in my body that didn’t ache with pain, and as for my nose it took to bleedin, and bled day and night entirely. Upon my soul, Mr. Slick, said he, the poor labourer does not last long in your country; what with new rum, hard labour, and hot weather, you’ll see the graves of the Irish each side of the canals, for all the world like two rows of potatoes in a field that have forgot to come up.

It is a land, sir, continued the Clockmaker, of hard work. We have two kinds of slaves, the niggers and the white slaves. All European labourers and blacks who come out to us, do our hard bodily work, while we direct it to a profitable end; neither rich nor poor, high nor low, with us eat the bread of idleness. Our whole capital is in active operation, and our whole population is in active employment. An idle feller, like Pugnose who runs away to us, is clapt into harness afore he knows where he bees, and is made to work; like a horse that refuses to draw, he is put into the Team-boat; he finds some afore him, and others behind him, he must either draw, or be dragged to death.

V

JUSTICE PETTIFOG

IN the morning the Clockmaker informed me that a Justice’s Court was to be held that day at Pugnose’s Inn, and he guessed he could do a little business among the country folks that would be assembled there. Some of them, he said, owed him for clocks, and it would save him a world of travellin, to have the Justice and Constable to drive them up together. If you want a fat wether, there’s nothin like penning up the whole flock in a corner. I guess, said he, if General Campbell knew what sort of a man that are magistrate was, he’d disband him pretty quick: he’s a regular suckegg—a disgrace to the country. I guess if he acted that way in Kentucky, he’d get a breakfast of cold lead some mornin, out of the small eend of a rifle, he’d find pretty difficult to disgest. They tell me he issues three hundred writs a year, the cost of which, includin that tarnation Constable’s fee, can’t amount to nothin less than 3,000 dollars per annum. If the Hon. Daniel Webster had him before a jury, I reckon he’d turn him inside out, and slip him back again, as quick as an old stocking. He’d paint him to the life, as plain to be known as the head of Gineral Jackson. He’s jist a fit feller for Lynch law, to be tried, hanged, and damned, all at once—there’s more nor him in the country—there’s some of the breed in every county in the province, jist one or two to do the dirty work, as we keep niggers for jobs that would give a white man the cholera. They ought to pay his passage, as we do with such critters, tell him his place is taken in the Mail Coach, and if he is found here after twenty-four hours, they’d make a carpenter’s plum-bob of him, and hang him outside the church steeple to try if it was perpendikilar. He almost always gives judgment for plaintiff, and if the poor defendant has an off-set, he makes him sue it, so that it grinds a grist both ways for him, like the upper and lower millstone.

People soon began to assemble, some on foot, and others on horseback and in waggons—Pugnose’s tavern was all bustle and confusion—Plaintiffs, Defendants, and witnesses, all talking, quarrelling, explaining, and drinking. Here comes the Squire, said one; I’m thinking his horse carries more roguery than law, said another; they must have been in proper want of timber to make a justice of, said a third, when they took such a crooked stick as that; sap-headed enough too for refuse, said a stout looking farmer; may be so, said another, but as hard at the heart as a log of elm; howsomever, said a third, I hope it wont be long afore he has the wainy edge scored off of him, any how. Many more such remarks were made, all drawn from familiar objects, but all expressive of bitterness and contempt.

He carried one or two large books with him in his gig, and a considerable roll of papers. As soon as the obsequious Mr. Pugnose saw him at the door, he assisted him to alight, ushered him into the “best room,” and desired the constable to attend “the Squire.” The crowd immediately entered, and the constable opened the court in due form, and commanded silence.

Taking out a long list of causes, Mr. Pettifog commenced reading the names—James Sharp versus John Slug—call John Slug; John Slug being duly called, and not answering, was defaulted. In this manner he proceeded to default 20 or 30 persons; at last he came to a cause, William Hare versus Dennis O’Brien—call Dennis O’Brien; here I am, said a voice from the other room—here I am, who has anything to say to Dennis O’Brien? Make less noise, sir, said the Justice, or I’ll commit you. Commit me, is it, said Dennis, take care then, Squire, you don’t commit yourself. You are sued by William Hare for three pounds for a month’s board and lodging, what have you to say to it? Say to it, said Dennis, did you ever hear what Tim Doyle said when he was goin to be hanged for stealing a pig? says he, if the pig hadn’t squeeled in the bag, I’d never have been found out, so I wouldn’t—so I’ll take warnin by Tim Doyle’s fate; I say nothin, let him prove it. Here Mr. Hare was called upon for his proof, but taking it for granted that the board would be admitted, and the defence opened, he was not prepared with the proof. I demand, said Dennis, I demand an unsuit. Here there was a consultation between the Justice and the Plaintiff, when the Justice said, I shall not nonsuit him, I shall continue the cause. What, hang it up till next Court—you had better hang me up then at once— how can a poor man come here so often—this may be the entertainment Pugnose advertises for horses, but by Jacquers, it is no entertainment for me—I admit, then, sooner than come again, I admit it. You admit you owe him three pounds then for a month’s board? I admit no such thing, I say I boarded with him a month, and was like Pat Moran’s cow at the end of it, at the lifting, bad luck to him. A neighbour was here called, who proved that the three pounds might be the usual price. And do you know I taught his children to write at the school, said Dennis.—You might, answered the witness.—And what is that worth? I don’t know.—You don’t know, faith, I believe you’re right, said Dennis, for if the children are half as big rogues as the father, they might leave writing alone, or they’d be like to be hanged for forgery. Here Dennis produced his account for teaching five children, two quarters, at 9 shillings a quarter each, £4 10s. I am sorry, Mr. O’Brien, said the Justice, very sorry, but your defence will not avail you, your account is too large for one Justice, any sum over three pounds must be sued before two magistrates.—But I only want to offset as much as will pay the board.—It can’t be done in this shape, said the magistrate; I will consult Justice Doolittle, my neighbour, and if Mr. Hare won’t settle with you, I will sue it for you. Well, said Dennis, all I have to say is, that there is not so big a rogue as Hare on the whole river, save and except one scoundrel who shall be nameless, making a significant and humble bow to the Justice. Here there was a general laugh throughout the Court—Dennis retired to the next room to indemnify himself by another glass of grog, and venting his abuse against Hare and the Magistrate. Disgusted at the gross partiality of the Justice, I also quitted the Court, fully concurring in the opinion, though not in the language, that Dennis was giving utterance to in the bar room.

Pettifog owed his elevation to his interest at an election. It is to be hoped that his subsequent merits will be as promptly rewarded, by his dismissal from a bench which he disgraces and defiles by his presence.

VI

ANECDOTES

AS we mounted our horses to proceed to Amherst, groups of country people were to be seen standing about Pugnose’s inn, talking over the events of the morning, while others were dispersing to their several homes.

A pretty prime superfine, scoundrel, that Pettifog, said the Clockmaker; he and his constable are well mated, and they’ve travelled in the same gear so long together, that they make about as nice a yoke of rascals, as you’ll meet in a day’s ride. They pull together like one rope reeved through two blocks. That are constable was seen almost strangled t’other day; and if he hadn’t had a little grain more wit than his master, I guess he’d had his wind-pipe stopped as tight as a bladder. There is an outlaw of a feller here, for all the world like one of our Kentucky Squatters, one Bill Smith—a critter that neither fears man nor devil. Sheriff and Constable can’t make no hand of him—they can’t catch him no how; and if they do come up with him, he slips through their fingers like an eel; and then, he goes armed, and he can knock out the eye of a squirrel with a ball, at fifty yards hand runnin—a rigilar ugly customer.

Well, Nabb, the constable, had a writ agin him, and he was cyphering a good while how he should catch him; at last he hit on a plan that he thought was pretty clever, and he scheemed for a chance to try it. So one day he heard that Bill was up to Pugnose’s Inn, a settlin some business, and was likely to be there all night. Nabb waits till it was considerable late in the evenin, and then he takes his horse and rides down to the Inn, and hitches his beast behind the hay stack. Then he crawls up to the winder and peeps in, and watches there till Bill should go to bed, thinkin the best way to catch them are sort of animals is to catch ’em asleep. Well, he kept Nabb a waitin outside so long, with his talkin and singin, that he well nigh fell asleep first himself; at last Bill began to strip for bed. First he takes out a long pocket pistol, examines the priming, and lays it down on the table, near the head of the bed.