The Attache or Sam Slick in England Part 6

"'I didn't, Sir.'

"'You did, Sir. Take that!' knock him down like wink, and help him up on his feet agin with a kick on his western eend. Kiss the barmaid, about the quickest and wickedest she ever heerd tell of, and then off to bed as sober as a judge. 'Chambermaid, bring a pan of coals and air my bed.'

'Yes, Sir.' Foller close at her heels, jist put a hand on each short rib, tickle her till she spills the red hot coals all over the floor, and begins to cry over 'em to put 'em out, whip the candle out of her hand, leave her to her lamentations, and then off to roost in no time.

And when I get there, won't I strike out all abroad--take up the room of three men with their clothes on--lay all over and over the bed, and feel once more I am a free man and a '_Gentleman at large_.'"

CHAPTER VIII. SEEING LIVERPOOL.

On looking back to any given period of our life, we generally find that the intervening time appears much shorter than it really is. We see at once the starting-post and the terminus, and the mind takes in at one view the entire s.p.a.ce.

But this observation is more peculiarly applicable to a short pa.s.sage across the Atlantic. Knowing how great the distance is, and accustomed to consider the voyage as the work of many weeks, we are so astonished at finding ourselves transported in a few days, from one continent to another, that we can hardly credit the evidence of our own senses.

Who is there that on landing has not asked himself the question, "Is it possible that I am in England? It seems but as yesterday that I was in America, to-day I am in Europe. Is it a dream, or a reality?"

The river and the docks--the country and the town--the people and their accent--the verdure and the climate are all new to me. I have not been prepared for this; I have not been led on imperceptibly, by travelling mile after mile by land from my own home, to accustom my senses to the gradual change of country. There has been no border to pa.s.s, where the language, the dress, the habits, and outward appearances a.s.similate.

There has been no blending of colours--no dissolving views in the retrospect--no opening or expanding ones in prospect. I have no difficulty in ascertaining the point where one terminates and the other begins.

The change is sudden and startling. The last time I slept on sh.o.r.e, was in America--to-night I sleep in England. The effect is magical--one country is withdrawn from view, and another is suddenly presented to my astonished gaze. I am bewildered; I rouse myself, and rubbing my eyes, again ask whether I am awake? Is this England? that great country, that world of itself; Old England, that place I was taught to call home _par excellence_, the home of other homes, whose flag, I called our flag?

(no, I am wrong, I have been accustomed to call our flag, the flag of England; our church, not the Church of Nova Scotia, nor the Colonial nor the Episcopal, nor the Established, but the Church of England.) Is it then that England, whose language I speak, whose subject I am, the mistress of the world, the country of Kings and Queens, and n.o.bles and prelates, and sages and heroes?

I have read of it, so have I read of old Rome; but the sight of Rome, Caesar and the senate would not astonish me more than that of London, the Queen and the Parliament. Both are yet ideal; the imagination has sketched them, but when were its sketches ever true to nature? I have a veneration for both, but, gentle reader, excuse the confessions of an old man, for I have a soft spot in the heart yet, _I love Old England_.

I love its inst.i.tutions, its literature, its people. I love its law, because, while it protects property, it ensures liberty. I love its church, not only because I believe it is the true church, but because though armed with power, it is tolerant in practice. I love its const.i.tution, because it combines the stability of a monarchy, with the most valuable peculiarities of a republic, and without violating nature by attempting to make men equal, wisely follow its dictates, by securing freedom to all.

I like the people, though not all in the same degree. They are not what they were. Dissent, reform and agitation have altered their character.

It is necessary to distinguish. A _real_ Englishman is generous, loyal and brave, manly in his conduct and gentlemanly in his feeling. When I meet such a man as this, I cannot but respect him; but when I find that in addition to these good qualities, he has the further recommendation of being a churchman in his religion and a tory in his politics, I know then that his heart is in the right place, and I love him.

The drafts of these chapters were read to Mr. Slick, at his particular request, that he might be a.s.sured they contained nothing that would injure his election as President of the United States, in the event of the Slickville ticket becoming hereafter the favourite one. This, he said, was on the cards, strange as it might seem, for making a fool of John Bull and turning the laugh on him, would be sure to take and be popular. The last paragraphs, he said, he affectioned and approbated with all his heart.

"It is rather tall talkin' that," said he; "I like its patronisin' tone.

There is sunthin' goodish in a colonist patronisin' a Britisher. It's turnin' the tables on 'em; it's sarvin' 'em out in their own way. Lord, I think I see old Bull put his eye-gla.s.s up and look at you, with a dead aim, and hear him say, 'Come, this is cuttin' it rather fat.' Or, as the feller said to his second wife, when she tapped him on the shoulder, 'Marm, my first wife was a _Pursy_, and she never presumed to take that liberty.' Yes, that's good, Squire. Go it, my shirt-tails! you'll win if you get in fust, see if you don't. Patronizin' a Britisher!!! A critter that has Lucifer's pride, Arkwright's wealth, and Bedlam's sense, ain't it rich? Oh, wake snakes and walk your chalks, will you! Give me your figgery-four Squire, I'll go in up to the handle for you. Hit or miss, rough or tumble, claw or mud-sc.r.a.per, any way, you d.a.m.n please, I'm your man."

But to return to my narrative. I was under the necessity of devoting the day next after our landing at Liverpool, to writing letters announcing my safe arrival to my anxious friends in Nova Scotia, and in different parts of England; and also some few on matters of business. Mr. Slick was very urgent in his request, that I should defer this work till the evening, and accompany him in a stroll about the town, and at last became quite peevish at my reiterated refusal.

"You remind me, Squire," said he, "of Rufus Dodge, our great ile marchant of Boston, and as you won't walk, p'raps you'll talk, so I'll jist tell you the story.

"I was once at the Cataract House to Niagara. It is jist a short distance above the Falls. Out of the winders, you have a view of the splendid white waters, or the rapids of foam, afore the river takes its everlastin' leap over the cliff.

"Well, Rufus come all the way from Boston to see the Falls: he said he didn't care much about them hisself, seein' that he warn't in the mill business; but, as he was a goin' to England, he didn't like to say he hadn't been there, especially as all the English knowed about America was, that there was a great big waterfall called Niagara, an everlastin'

Almighty big river called Mississippi, and a parfect pictur of a wappin'

big man called Kentuckian there. Both t'other ones he'd seen over and over agin, but Niagara he'd never sot eyes on.

"So as soon as he arrives, he goes into the public room, and looks at the white waters, and, sais he, 'Waiter,' sais he, 'is them the falls down there?' a-pintin' by accident in the direction where the Falls actilly was.

"'Yes, Sir,' sais the waiter.

"'Hem!' sais Rufe, 'them's the Falls of Niagara, eh! So I've seen the Falls at last, eh! Well it's pretty too: they ain't bad, that's a fact.

So them's the Falls of Niagara! How long is it afore the stage starts?'

"'An hour, Sir.'

"'Go and book me for Boston, and then bring me a paper.'

"'Yes, Sir.'

"Well he got his paper and sot there a readin' of it, and every now and then, he'd look out of the winder and say: 'So them's the Falls of Niagara, eh? Well, it's a pretty little mill privilege that too, ain't it; but it ain't just altogether worth comin' so far to see. So I've seen the Falls at last!'

"Arter a while in comes a Britisher.

"'Waiter,' says he, 'how far is it to the Falls?'

"'Little over a half a mile, Sir.'

"'Which way do you get there?'

"'Turn to the right, and then to the left, and then go a-head.'

"Rufe heard all this, and it kinder seemed dark to him; so arter cypherin' it over in his head a bit, 'Waiter,' says he, 'ain't them the Falls of Niagara, I see there?'

"'No, Sir.'

"'Well, that's tarnation all over now. Not the Falls?'

"'No, Sir.'

"'Why, you don't mean to say, that them are ain't the Falls?'

"'Yes, I do, Sir.'

"'Heaven and airth! I've come hundreds of miles a puppus to see 'em, and nothin' else; not a bit of trade, or speckelation, or any airthly thing but to see them cussed Falls, and come as near as 100 cents to a dollar, startin' off without sein' 'em arter all. If it hadn't a been for that are Britisher I was sold, that's a fact. Can I run down there and back in half an hour in time for the stage?'

"'Yes, Sir, but you will have no time to see them.'

"'See 'em, cuss 'em, I don't want to see 'em, I tell you. I want to look at 'em, I want to say I was to the Falls, that's all. Give me my hat, quick! So them ain't the Falls! I ha'n't see'd the Falls of Niagara arter all. What a devil of a take-in that is, ain't it?' And he dove down stairs like a Newfoundland dog into a pond arter a stone, and out of sight in no time.

"Now, you are as like Rufe, as two peas, Squire. You want to say, you was to Liverpool, but you don't want to see nothin'.'

"Waiter."

"Sir."

"Is this Liverpool, I see out of the Winder?"

"Yes, sir."

"Guess I have seen Liverpool then. So this is the great city of Liverpool, eh? When does the train start for London?"