The Attache or Sam Slick in England Part 23

"_Bunk.u.m!_" I said, "pray, what is that?"

"Did you never hear of Bunk.u.m?"

"No, never."

"Why, you don't mean to say you don't know what that is?"

"I do not indeed."

"Not Bunk.u.m? Why, there is more of it to Nova Scotia every winter, than would paper every room in Government House, and then curl the hair of every gall in the town. Not heer of _Bunk.u.m_? why how you talk!"

"No, never."

"Well, if that don't pa.s.s! I thought every body know'd that word. I'll tell you then, what Bunk.u.m is. All over America, every place likes to hear of its members to Congress, and see their speeches, and if they don't, they send a piece to the paper, enquirin' if their member died a nateral death, or was skivered with a bowie knife, for they hante seen his speeches lately, and his friends are anxious to know his fate. Our free and enlightened citizens don't approbate silent members; it don't seem to them as if Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown was right represented, unless Squashville, or Punkinville, or Lumbertown, makes itself heard and known, ay, and feared too. So every feller in bounden duty, talks, and talks big too, and the smaller the State, the louder, bigger, and fiercer its members talk.

"Well, when a critter talks for talk sake, jist to have a speech in the paper to send to home, and not for any other airthly puppus but electioneering, our folks call it _Bunk.u.m_. Now the State o' Maine is a great place for _Bunk.u.m_--its members for years threatened to run foul of England, with all steam on, and sink her, about the boundary line, voted a million of dollars, payable in pine logs and spruce boards, up to Bangor mills--and called out a hundred thousand militia, (only they never come,) to captur' a saw mill to New Brunswick--that's _Bunk.u.m_.

All that flourish about Right o' Sarch was _Bunk.u.m_--all that brag about hangin' your Canada sheriff was _Bunk.u.m_. All the speeches about the Caroline, and Creole, and Right of Sarch, was _Bunk.u.m_, In short, almost all that's said _in Congress_ in _the colonies_, (for we set the fashions to them, as Paris galls do to our milliners,) and all over America is _Bunk.u.m_.

"Well, they talk Bunk.u.m here too, as well as there. Slavery speeches are all Bunk.u.m; so are reform speeches, too. Do you think them fellers that keep up such an everlastin' gab about representation, care one cent about the extension of franchise? Why no, not they; it's only to secure their seats to gull their const.i.tuents, to get a name. Do you think them goneys that make such a touss about the Arms' Bill, care about the Irish? No, not they; they want Irish votes, that's all--it's _Bunk.u.m_.

Do you jist go and mesmerise John Russell, and Macauley, and the other officers of the regiment of Reformers, and then take the awkward squad of recruits--fellers that were made drunk with excitement, and then enlisted with the promise of a shillin', which they never got, the sargeants having drank it all; go and mesmerise them all, from General Russell down to Private Chartist, clap 'em into a caterwaulin' or catalapsin' sleep, or whatever the word is, and make 'em tell the secrets of their hearts, as Dupotet did the Clear-voyancing gall, and jist hear what they'll tell you.

"Lord John will say--'I was sincere!' (and I believe on my soul he was.

He is wrong beyond all doubt, but he is an honest man, and a clever man, and if he had taken his _own_ way more, and given Powlet Thompson _his_ less, he would a' been a great colony secretary; and more's the pity he is in such company. He'll get off his beam ends, and right himself though, yet, I guess.) Well, he'd say--'I was sincere, I was disinterested; but I am disappointed. I have awakened a pack of hungry villains who have sharp teeth, long claws, and the appet.i.te of the devil. They have swallered all I gave 'em, and now would eat me up without salt, if they could. Oh, that I could hark back! _there is no satisfyin' a movement party_.'

"Now what do the men say, (I don't mean men of rank, but the men in the ranks),--'Where's all the fine things we were promised when Reform gained the day?' sais they, 'ay, where are they? for we are wuss off than ever, now, havin' lost all our old friends, and got bilked by our new ones tarnationly. What did all their fine speeches end in at last?

Bunk.u.m; d.a.m.n the thing but Bunk.u.m.

"But that aint the wust of it, nother. Bunk.u.m, like lyin', is plaguy apt to make a man believe his own bams at last. From telling 'em so often, he forgets whether he grow'd 'em or dreamt 'em, and so he stands'

right up on end, kisses the book, and swears to 'em, as positive as the Irishman did to the gun, which he said he know'd ever since it was a pistol. Now, _that's Bunk.u.m_.

"But to get back to what we was a talkin' of, did you ever hear such bad speakin' in your life, now tell me candid? because if you have, I never did, that's all. Both sides was bad, it aint easy to say which is wus, six of one and half a dozen of t'other, nothin to brag of nary way. That government man, that spoke in their favour, warn't his speech rich?

"Lord love you! I aint no speaker, I never made but one speech since I was raised, and that was afore a Slickville legislatur, and then I broke down. I know'd who I was a talkin' afore; they was men that had cut their eye-teeth, and that you could'nt pull the wool over their eyes, nohow you could fix it, and I was young then. Now I'm growed up, I guess, and I've got my narves in the right place, and as taught as a drum; and I _could_ speak if I was in the House o' Commons, that's a fact. If a man was to try there, that was worth any thin', he'd find he was a flute without knowin' it. They don't onderstand nothin' but Latin and Greek, and I'd buoy out them sand banks, keep the lead agoin', stick to the channel, and never take ground, I know. The way I'd cut water aint no matter. Oh Solomon! what a field for good speakin' that question was to-night, if they only had half an eye, them fellers, and what a'most a beautiful mess they made of it on both sides!

"I ain't a vain man, and never was. You know, Squire, I hante a mossel of it in my composition; no, if you was to look at me with a ship's gla.s.s you wouldn't see a grease spot of it in me. I don't think any of us Yankees is vain people; it's a thing don't grow in our diggins. We have too much sense in a giniral way for that; indeed if we wanted any, we couldn't get none for love nor money, for John Bull has a monopoly of it. He won't open the trade. It's a home market he looks to, and the best of it is, he thinks he hante none to spare.

"Oh, John Bull, John Bull, when you are full rigged, with your white cravat and white waistcoat like Young England, and have got your go-to-meetin' clothes on, if you ain't a sneezer, it's a pity, that's all. No, I ain't a vain man, I despise it, as I do a n.i.g.g.e.r; but, Squire, what a glorious field the subject to-night is for a man that knows what's what, and was up to snuff, ain't it? Airth and seas! if I was there, I could speak on either side; for like Waterloo it's a fair field; it's good ground for both parties. Heavens what a speech I could make! I'd electrify 'em and kill 'em dead like lightnin', and then galvanise 'em and fetch' em to life agin, and then give them exhiliratin' ga.s.s and set 'em a larfin', till they fairly wet themselves agin with cryin'. Wouldn't it be fun, that's all? I could sting Peel so if I liked, he'd think a galley nipper had bit him, and he'd spring right off the floor on to the table at one jump, gout or no gout, ravin'

mad with pain and say, 'I'm bit thro' the boot by Gosh;' or if I was to take his side, for I care so little about the British, all sides is alike to me, I'd make them Irish members dance like ravin', distractin'

bed bugs. I'd make 'em howl, first wicked and then dismal, I know.

"But they can't do it, to save their souls alive; some has it in 'em and can't get it out, physic 'em as you would, first with vanity, and then with office; others have got a way out, but have nothin' to drive thro'

the gate; some is so timid, they can't go ahead; and others are in such an infarnal hurry, they spend the whole time in false starts.

"No, there, is no good oratory to parliament now, and the English brag so, I doubt if it ever was so good, as they say it was in old times. At any rate, it's all got down to "Bunk.u.m" now. It's makin' a speech for newspapers and not for the House. It's to tell on voters and not on members. Then, what a row they make, don't they? Hear, hear, hear; divide, divide, divide; oh, oh, oh; haw, haw, haw. It tante much different from stump oratory in America arter all, or speakin' off a whiskey barrel, is it? It's a sort of divil me-kear-kind o' audience; independent critters, that look at a feller full in the face, as sarcy as the divil; as much as to say, 'Talk away, my old 'c.o.o.n, you won't alter me, I can tell you, it's all _Bunk.u.m_.'

"Lord, I shall never forget poor old Davy Crocket's last speech; there was no "bunk.u.m" in that. He despised it; all good shots do, they aim right straight for the mark and hit it. There's no shootin' round the ring, with them kinder men. Poor old feller, he was a great hunter; a great shot with the rifle, a great wit, and a great man. He didn't leave his _span_ behind him, when he slipt off the handle, I know.

"Well he stood for an election and lost it, just afore he left the States; so when it was over, he slings his powder horn on, over his shoulders, takes his "Betsey," which was his best rifle, onder his arm, and mounts on a barrel, to talk it into his const.i.tuents, and take leave of 'em.

"'Feller citizens,' sais he, 'we've had a fair stand-up fight for it, and I'm whipped, that are a fact; and thar is no denyin' of it. I've come now to take my leave of you. You may all go to H--l, and I'll go to Texas.'

"And he stepped right down, and went over the boundary, and jined the patriots agin Mexico, and was killed there.

"Why it will never be forgot, that speech. It struck into the bull's eye of the heart. It was n.o.ble. It said so much in a few words, and left the mind to fill the gaps up. The last words is a sayin' now, and always will be, to all etarnity. Whenever a feller wants to shew how indifferent he is, he jist sais, 'you may go to (hem, hem, you know,) and I'll go to Texas.' There is no _Bunk.u.m_ in that, Squire.

"Yes, there is no good speakin' there, speakin' is no use. Every feller is pledged and supports his party. A speech don't alter no man's opinions; yes it _may_ alter his _opinions_, but it don't alter his vote, that ain't his'n, it's his party's. Still, there is some credit in a good speech, and some fun too. No feller there has any ridicule; he has got no ginger in him, he can neither crack his whip, nor lay it on; he can neither cut the hide nor sting it. Heavens! if I was there I and I'm sure it's no great boastin' to say I'm better than such fellers, as them small fry of white bait is. If I was there, give me a good subject like that to-night, give me a good horn of lignum vitae--"

"Lignum vitae--what's that?"

"Lord-o-ma.s.sy on us! you don't know nothin', Squire. Where have you been all your born days, not to know what lignum vitae is? why lignum vitae, is hot brandy and water to be sure, pipin' hot, scald an iron pot amost, and spiced with cloves and sugar in it, stiff enough to make a tea-spoon stand up in it, as straight as a dead n.i.g.g.e.r. Wine ain't no good, it goes off as quick as the white beads off of champaign does, and then leaves a stupid head-ache behind it. But give me the subject and a horn of lignum vitae (of the wickedest kind), and then let a feller rile me, so as to get my back up like a fightin' cat's, and I'll tell you what I'd do, I'd sarve him as our Slickville boys sarve the cows to California. One on 'em lays hold of the tail, and the other skins her as she runs strait an eend. Next year, it's all growed ready for another flayin'. Fact, I a.s.sure you. Lord! I'd skin a feller so, his hide would never grow agin; I'd make a caution of him to sinners, I know.

"Only hear them fellers now talk of extendin' of the representation; why the house is a mob now, plaguy little better, I a.s.sure you. Like the house in Cromwell's time, they want "Sam Slick's" purge. But talkin'

of mobs, puts me in mind of a Swoi-ree, I told you I'd describe that to you, and I don't care if I do now, for I've jist got my talkin' tacks aboard. A Swoi-ree is--

"We'll talk of that some other time, Mr. Slick," said I; "it is now near two o'clock, I must retire."

"Well, well," said he, "I suppose it is e'en a'most time to be a movin'.

But, Squire, you are a Britisher, why the plague don't you get into the house? you know more about colony matters than the whole bilin' of" them put together, quite as much about other things, and speak like a--"

"Come, come, Mr. Slick," said I, rising and lighting my bed-room candle, "it is now high time to bid you good night, for you are beginning to talk _Bunk.u.m_."

CHAPTER IX. THROWING THE LAVENDER.

Mr. Slick's character, like that of many of his countrymen, is not so easily understood as a person might suppose. We err more often than we are aware of, when we judge of others by ourselves. English tourists have all fallen into this mistake, in their, estimate of the Americans.

They judge them by their own standard; they attribute effects to wrong causes, forgetting that a different tone of feeling, produced by a different social and political state from their own, must naturally produce dissimilar results.

Any person reading the last sketch containing the account, given by Mr.

Slick of the House of Commons, his opinion of his own abilities as a speaker, and his aspiration after a seat in that body, for the purpose of "skinning," as he calls it, impertinent or stupid members, could not avoid coming to the conclusion that he was a conceited block-head; and that if his countrymen talked in that absurd manner, they must be the weakest, and most vain-glorious people in the world.

That he is a vain man, cannot be denied--self-taught men are apt to be so every where; but those who understand the New England humour, will at once perceive, that he has spoken in his own name merely as a personification, and that the whole pa.s.sage means after all, when transposed into that phraseology which an Englishman would use, very little more than this, that the House of Commons presented a n.o.ble field for a man of abilities as a public speaker; but that in fact, it contained very few such persons. We must not judge of words or phrases, when used by foreigners, by the sense we attribute to them, but endeavour to understand the meaning they attach to them themselves.

In Mexico, if you admire any thing, the proprietor immediately says, "Pray do me the honour to consider it yours, I shall be most happy, if you will permit me, to place it upon you, (if it be an ornament), or to send it to your hotel," if it be of a different description. All this means in English, a present; in Mexican Spanish, a civil speech, purporting that the owner is gratified, that it meets the approbation of his visiter. A Frenchman, who heard this grandiloquent reply to his praises of a horse, astonished his friend, by thanking him in terms equally amplified, accepting it, and riding it home.

Mr. Slick would be no less amazed, if understood literally. He has used a peculiar style; here again, a stranger would be in error, in supposing the phraseology common to all Americans. It is peculiar only to a certain cla.s.s of persons in a certain state of life, and in a particular section of the States. Of this cla.s.s, Mr. Slick is a specimen. I do not mean to say he is not a vain man, but merely that a portion only of that, which appears so to us, is vanity, and that the rest and by far the greater portion too, is local or provincial peculiarity.

This explanation is due to the Americans, who have been grossly misrepresented, and to the English, who have been egregiously deceived, by persons attempting to delineate character, who were utterly incapable of perceiving those minute lights and shades, without which, a portrait becomes a contemptible daub, or at most a mere caricature.

"A droll scene that at the house o' represen_tatives_ last night," said Mr. Slick when we next met, "warn't it? A sort o' rookery, like that at the Shropshire Squire's, where I spent the juicy day. What a darned cau-cau-cawin' they keep, don't they? These members are jist like the rooks, too, fond of old houses, old woods, old trees, and old harnts.

And they are jist as proud, too, as they be. Cuss 'em, they won't visit a new man, or new plantation. They are too aristocratic for that. They have a circle of their own. Like the rooks, too, they are privileged to scour over the farmers' fields all round home, and play the very devil.

"And then a fellow can't hear himself speak for 'em; divide, divide, divide, question, question, question; cau, cau, cau, cau, cau, cau. Oh!

we must go there again. I want you to see Peel, Stanley, Graham, Shiel, Russell, Macauley, Old Joe, and so on. These men are all upper crust here. Fust of all, I want to hear your opinion of 'em. I take you to be a considerable of a good judge in these matters."

"No Bunk.u.m, Mr. Slick."