Читать книгу Judge Haliburton's Yankee Stories (Part 2 of 2) - Thomas Chandler Haliburton - Страница 7

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We left Gaspereaux early in the morning, intending to breakfast at Kentville. The air was cool and bracing, and the sun, which had just risen, shed a lustre over the scenery of this beautiful and fertile valley, which gave it a fresh and glowing appearance. A splendid country this, squire, said the Clockmaker; that’s a fact; the Lord never made the beat of it. I wouldn’t ax no better location in the farmin’ line than any of these allotments; grand grazin’ grounds and superfine tillage lands. A man that know’d what he was about might live like a fightin’ cock here, and no great scratchin’ for it neither. Do you see that are house on that risin’ hummock to the right there? Well, gist look at it, that’s what I call about right. Flanked on both sides by an orchard of best-grafted fruit, a tidy little clever flower-garden in front, that the galls see to, and a’most a grand sarce garden over the road there sheltered by them are willows. At the back side see them everlastin’ big barns; and, by gosh! there goes the dairy cows; a pretty sight too, that fourteen of ’em marchin’ Indgian file arter milkin’, down to that are medder. Whenever you see a place all snugged up and lookin’ like that are, depend on it the folks are of the right kind. Them flowers too, and that are honeysuckle, and rose-bushes show the family are brought up right; somethin’ to do at home, instead of racin’ about to quiltin’ parties, huskin’ frolics, gossipin’, talkin’ scandal, and neglectin’ their business. Them little matters are like throwin’ up straws, they show which way the wind is. When galls attend to them are things, it shows that they are what our minister used to call “right-minded.” It keeps them busy, and when folks are busy, they ha’n’t time to get into mischief; and it amuses them too, and it keeps the dear little critters healthy and cheerful. I believe I’ll alight and breakfast there, if you’ve no objection. I should like to see that citizen’s improvements, and he’s a plaguy nice man too, and will be proud to see you, you may depend.

We accordingly drove up to the door, where we were met by Squire James Horton, a respectable, intelligent, cheerful-looking man, apparently of about fifty years of age. He received me with all the ease and warmth of a man to whom hospitality was habitual and agreeable,—thanked Mr. Slick for bringing me to see him, and observed that he was a plain farmer, and lived without any pretensions to be other than he was, and that he always felt pleased and gratified to see any stranger who would do him the favour to call upon him, and would accommodate himself to the plain fare of a plain countryman. He said he lived out of the world, and the conversation of strangers was often instructive, and always acceptable to him. He then conducted us into the house, and introduced us to his wife and daughters, two very handsome and extremely interesting girls, who had just returned from superintending the operations of the dairy. I was particularly struck with the extreme neatness and propriety of their attire, plain and suitable to their morning occupations, but scrupulously nice in its appearance.

As the clock struck seven, (a wooden clock, to which Mr. Slick looked with evident satisfaction as a proof of his previous acquaintance,) the family were summoned, and Mr. Horton addressed a short but very appropriate prayer to the Throne of Grace, rendering the tribute of a grateful heart for the numerous blessings with which he was surrounded, and supplicating a continuance of divine favour. There was something touching in the simplicity and fervour of his manner and in the unpretending style of his devotion, while there was a total absence of that familiar tone of address so common in America, which, often bordering on profanity, shocks and disgusts those who have been accustomed to the more decorous and respectful language of our beautiful liturgy.

Breakfast was soon announced, and we sat down to an excellent and substantial repast, every thing abundant and good of its kind, and the whole prepared with a neatness that bespoke a well-regulated and orderly family. We were then conducted round the farm, and admired the method, regularity, and good order of the establishment. I guess this might compare with any of your English farms, said the Clockmaker; it looks pretty considerable slick this—don’t it? We have great advantages in this country, said Mr. Horton; our soil is naturally good, and we have such an abundance of salt sludge on the banks of the rivers, that we are enabled to put our uplands in the highest state of cultivation. Industry and economy can accomplish any thing here. We have not only good markets, but we enjoy an almost total exemption from taxation. We have a mild and paternal government, our laws are well and impartially administered, and we enjoy as much personal freedom as is consistent with the peace and good order of society. God grant that it may long continue so! and that we may render ourselves worthy of these blessings, by yielding the homage of grateful hearts to the Great Author and Giver of all good things. A bell ringing at the house at this time, reminded us that we were probably interfering with some of his arrangements, and we took leave of our kind host, and proceeded on our journey, strongly impressed with those feelings which a scene of domestic happiness and rural felicity like this never fails to inspire.

We had not driven more than two or three miles before Mr. Slick suddenly checked his horse, and pointing to a farm on the right-hand side of the road, said, Now there is a contrast for you, with a vengeance. That critter, said he, when he built that wrack of a house, (they call ’em a half-house here,) intended to add as much more to it some of these days, and accordingly put his chimbley outside, to sarve the new part as well as the old. He has been too lazy, you see, to remove the bankin’ put there the first fall, to keep the frost out o’ the cellar, and it has rotted the sills off, and the house has fell away from the chimbley, and he has had to prop it up with that great stick of timber, to keep it from comin’ down on its knees altogether. All the winders are boarded up but one, and that has all the glass broke out. Look at the barn!—the roof has fell in in the middle, and the two gables stand starin’ each other in the face, as if they would like to come closer together if they could, and consult what was best to be done. Them old geese and vetren fowls, that are so poor the foxes won’t steal ’em for fear of hurtin’ their teeth,—that little yaller, lantern-jawed, long-legged, rabbit-eared, runt of a pig, that’s so weak it can’t turn its tail up,—that old frame of a cow, astandin’ there with its eyes shot-to, acontemplatin’ of its latter eend,—and that varmint-lookin’ horse, with his hocks swell’d bigger than his belly, that looks as if he had come to her funeral,—is all his stock, I guess. The goney has showed his sense in one thing, however, he has burnt all his fence up; for there is no danger of other folks’ cattle breakin’ into his field to starve, and gives his Old Mooley a chance o’ sneakin’ into his neighbours’ fields o’ nights if she find an open gate, or a pair of bars down, to get a treat of clover now and then. O dear, if you was to get up airly of a mornin’, afore the dew was off the ground, and mow that are field with a razor, and rake it with a fine-tooth comb, you wouldn’t get stuff enough to keep one grasshopper through the winter, if you was to be hang’d for it. ’Spose we drive up to the door to light a cigar; if Nick Bradshaw is to home, I should like to have a little chat with him. It’s worth knowing how he can farm with so little labour; for any thing that saves labour in this country, where help is so plaguy dear, is worth larnin’, you may depend.

Observing us pause and point towards his domain, Nicholas lifted off the door and laid it on its side, and, emerging from his den of dirt and smoke, stood awhile reconnoitering us. He was a tall, well-built, athletic-looking man, possessed of great personal strength and surprising activity, but looked like a good-natured, careless fellow, who loved talking and smoking better than work, and preferred the pleasures of the tap-room to the labours of the field. He thinks we want his vote, said the Clockmaker. He’s looking as big as all outdoors gist now, and waitin’ for us to come to him. He wouldn’t condescend to call the king his cousin gist at this present time. It’s independent-day with him, I calculate; happy-lookin’ criter, too, ain’t he, with that are little, short, black pipe in his mouth? The fact is, squire, the moment a man takes to a pipe he becomes a philosifer;—it’s the poor man’s friend; it calms the mind, soothes the temper, and makes a man patient under trouble. It has made more good men, good husbands, kind masters, indulgent fathers, and honest fellers, than any other blessed thing in this univarsal world. The Indgians always buried a pipe and a skin of tobacco with their folks, in case smokin’ should be the fashion in the next world, that they mightn’t go unprovided. Gist look at him: his hat has got no crown in it, and the rim hangs loose by the side, like the bale of a bucket. His trousers and jacket are all flying in tatters of different colour’d patches. He has one old shoe on one foot, and an ontanned mocasin on t’other. He ain’t had his beard cut since last sheep-sheerin’, and he looks as shaggy as a yearlin’ colt. And yet you see the critter has a rakish look too. That are old hat is cocked on one side quite knowin’, he has both hands in his trousers pockets, as if he had somethin’ worth feelin’ there, while one eye, shot-to on account of the smoke, and the other standin’ out of the way of it as far as it can, makes him look like a bit of a wag. A man that didn’t smoke, couldn’t do that now, squire. You may talk about fortitude, and patience, and Christian resignation, and all that sort of thing, till you’re tired; I’ve seen it and heerd tell of it too, but I never knew an instance yet, where it didn’t come a little grain-heavy or sour out of the oven. Philosophy is like most other guests I’ve seed, it likes to visit them as keeps good tables, and though it has some poor acquaintances, it ain’t more nor half pleased to be seen walkin’ lock and lock with ’em. But smokin’——Here he comes, tho’, I swan; he knows Old Clay, I reckon: he sees it ain’t the candidate chap.

This discovery dispelled the important airs of Nicholas, and taking the pipe out of his mouth, he retreated a pace or two, and took a running leap of ten or twelve feet across a stagnant pool of green water that graced his lawn, and served the double purpose of rearing goslings and breeding musquitoes, and by repeating these feats of agility on the grass several times, (as if to keep himself in practice,) was by the side of the wagon in a few minutes.

’Mornin’, Mr. Bradshaw, said the Clockmaker; how’s all to home to-day? Reasonable well, I give you thanks:—won’t you alight? Thank you, I gist stopt to light a cigar.—I’ll bring you a bit o’ fire, said Nick, in the twinklin’ of an eye; and bounding off to the house with similar gigantic strides, he was out of sight in a moment. Happy, good-natured citizen, that you see, squire, said Mr. Slick, he hain’t been fool enough to stiffen himself by hard work neither; for you see he is as supple as an eel. The critter can jump like a catamount, and run like a deer; he’d catch a fox a’most, that chap.

Presently out bounded Nick in the same antelope style, waving over his head a lighted brand of three or four feet long. Here it is, said he, but you must be quick, for this soft green wood won’t hold fire in no time—it goes right out. It’s like my old house there, and that’s so rotten it won’t hold a nail now; after you drive one in you can pull it out with your finger. How are you off for tobacoo? said Mr. Slick. Grand, said he, got half a fig left yet. Get it for you in a minit, and the old lady’s pipe too, and without waiting for a reply, was curvetting again off to the house. That goney, said the Clockmaker, is like a gun that goes off at half cock—there’s no doin’ nothin’ with him. I didn’t want his backey, I only wanted an excuse to give him some; but it’s a strange thing that, squire, but it’s as sure as rates, the poor are every where more liberal, more obligin’, and more hospitable, according to their means, than the rich are: they beat them all hollar,—it’s a fact, I assure you.

When he returned, Mr. Slick told him that he was so spry, that he was out of hearing before he could stop him; that he didn’t require any himself, but was going to offer him a fig of first chop genuine stuff he had. Thank you, said he, as he took it, and put it to his nose;—it has the right flavour that—rather weak for me, tho’. I’m thinking it’ll gist suit the old lady. She smokes a good deal now for the cramp in her leg. She’s troubled with the cramp sometimes, away down some where about the calf, and smokin’, they say, is good for it.

He then took the tobacco very scientifically between the forefinger and thumb of his left hand, and cut it into small shreds that fell into the palm. Then holding both knife and fig between his teeth, he rolled, untwisted, and pulverised the cut tobacco by rubbing and grinding it between his two hands, and refilled and lighted his pipe, and pronouncing the tobacco a prime article, looked the very picture of happiness. How’s crops in a general way this year? said Mr. Slick. Well, they are just about middlin’, said he; the seasons ha’n’t been very good lately, and somehow the land don’t bear as it used to when I was a boy; but I’m in great hopes times are goin’ to be better now. They say things look brighter; I feel a good deal encouraged myself. They tell me the governor’s agoin’ to appoint a new council; I guess, they’ll do sun’thin’ for the country. Ah, said the Clockmaker, that indeed, that would be sun’thin’ like,—it would make times quite brisk agin—farmers could afford to live then. It would raise markets considerable. So I see in the papers, said Nick: the fact o’ the matter is the assemblymen must do sun’thin’ for the country, or it will go to the dogs, that’s sartain. They tell me too that the council doors are to be opened, so that we can hear the debates;—that will be a great privilege, won’t it? Very, said the Clockmaker; it will help the farmers amazin’ly that; I should count that a great matter: they must be worth hearin’, them counsellors. It’s quite a treat to hear the members in the house, particularly when they talk about bankin’, currency, constitution, bounties, and such tough knotty things;—they go so deep into these matters, and know so much about ’em, it’s quite edifyin’. I’ve larnt more new things, and more things I niver knew afore, in half an hour in the assembly, than ever I heerd afore in my life, and I expect t’other house will be quite as wise. Well, I’m glad to hear you say so, said Nicholas; I feel somehow quite encouraged myself: if we had a bounty of about a shilling a bushel for raisin’ potatoes, two-and-six-pence a bushel for wheat, and fifteen pence for oats, I think a body might have a chance to make out to scratch along to live here; and I’m told when the council doors are opened, we shall actually get them. I must say, I feel quite encouraged myself. But stop, said he, laying his hand on Mr. Slick, do you see that are varmint alookin’ arter the old lady’s chickins over there by the barn? I had a crack at him yesterday, but he was too far off—wait abit; and he scampered off to the house, brought out his gun, which had been previously loaded, and throwing himself on all fours, proceeded towards the barn as rapidly as a quadruped. Stop, stop, daddy, said a little half-naked imp of a boy, stop till I get my cock-shy. Well, bear a hand then, said he, or he’ll be off: I wont wait a minit.

The boy darted into the house, and returned in an instant with a short round hard wood club in his hand, and throwing himself in the same posture, thrust his head under the skirts of his father’s coat, and crawled after him, between his legs, the two appearing like one long monstrous reptile. The hawk, observing this unusual motion, rose higher into the air, as he slowly sailed round the building; but Nicholas, not liking to be balked of his shot, fired at a venture, and fortunately broke his wing. Stop, daddy, said the boy, recovering his feet, stop, daddy, it’s my turn now; and following the bird, that flew with inconceivable rapidity, like an ostrich, half running, half flying, threw his cock-shy at him with unerring aim, and killed him. Ain’t he a whopper, daddy? said he. See! and he stretched out his wings to their full extent—he’s a sneezer, ain’t he? I’ll show him to mammy, I guess, and off he ran to the house to exhibit his prize.—Make a smart man that, said Nick, regarding his boy, as he carried off the bird, with looks of entire satisfaction: make a considerable of a smart man that, if the assembly men would only give us a chance; but I feel quite encouraged now. I think we shall have a good brood of chickens this year, now that thievin’ rascal has got his flint fixt; and if them three regiments come to Halifax that’s talked of this winter, poultry will fetch a’most a grand price, that’s sartain. It appears to me there’s a hawk, or a wild cat, or a fox, or a lawyer, or a constable, or a somethin’ or another for everlastin’ly a botherin’ of a poor man; but I feel quite encouraged now.

I never seed that critter yet, said the Clockmaker, that he didn’t say he felt “quite encouraged;” he’s always lookin’ for the Assembly to do great things for him, and every year feels “quite encouraged” that they will do sun’thin’ at the next session that will make his fortin. I wonder if folks will ever larn that politics are the seed mentioned in Scriptur’ that fell by the road-side, and the fowls came and pick’d them up. They don’t benefit the farmer, but they feed them hungry birds,—the party leaders.

The bane of this country, squire, and indeed of all America, is havin’ too much land; they run over more ground than they can cultivate, and crop the land so severely that they run it out. A very large portion of land in America has been run out by repeated grain crops, and when you add that to land naterally too poor to bear grain, or too broken for cultivation, you will find this great country in a fair way to be ruined.

The State of Varmont has nothin’ like the exports it used to have, and a plaguy sight of the young folks come down to Boston to hire out as helps. The two Carolinas and Varginia are covered with places that have been given up as ruined, and many other States. We hav’n’t the surplus of wheat and grain we used to have in the U-nited States, and it never will be so plenty agin. That’s the reason you hear of folks clearin’ land, makin’ a farm, and sellin’ off agin and goin’ farther into the bush. They’ve exhausted it, and find it easier to clear new lands than to restore the old.

A great deal of Nova Scotia is run out, and if it war’n’t for the lime, marsh-mud, sea-weed, salt-sand, and what not, they’ve got here in such quantities, there’d be no cure for it. It takes good farmin’ to keep an upland location in order, I tell you, and make it sustain itself. It takes more to fetch a farm to that’s had the gizzard taken out of it, than it’s worth. It actilly frightens me, when I think your agriculture in Britain is progressin’, and the land better tilled every day, while thousands upon thousands of acres with us, are turned into barrens. No traveller as I’ve seed has noticed this, and our folks are not aware of it themselves to the extent of the evil. Squire, you and I won’t live to see it, but if this awful robbin’ of posterity goes on for another century as it has progressed for the last hundred years, we’ll be a nation of paupers. Very little land in America, even of the best, will carry more than one crop of wheat arter it’s clear’d afore it wants manure; and where it’s clear’d so fast, where’s the manure to come from?—it puzzles me (and I won’t turn my back on any man in the farmin’ line)—the Lord knows, for I don’t; but if there’s a thing that scares me, it’s this.

Hullo! hullo!—said a voice behind us, and when we turned to look from whence it came, we saw Nicholas running and leaping over the fences of his neighbours like a greyhound. Stop a minit, said he, I want to speak to you. I feel quite encouraged since I seen you; there’s one question I forgot to ask you, Mr. Slick, for I should like amazin’ly to have your opinion. Who do you go for? I go for the Squire, said he: I’m agoin’ for to go round the sea-coast with him. I don’t mean that at all, said he;—who do you go for in the election? There’s to be a poll a Monday to Kentville; and Aylesford and Gasperaux are up; who do you go for? I don’t go for either of ’em; I wouldn’t give a chaw of tobakey for both on em: what is it to me who goes? Well, I don’t suppose it is, but it’s a great matter to us: who would you advise me to vote for? Who is agoin’ for to do the most good for you? Aylesford. Who promises you the most? Aylesford. Vote for t’other one then, for I never seed or heerd tell of a feller yet, that was very ready with his promises, that warn’t quite as ready to break them, when it suited his purpose; and if Aylesford comes abotherin’ you, call our little Nick with his “cock-shy,” and let him take a shot at him. Any critter that finds out that all the world are rogues, and tells of the great things that he’s agoin’ for to do, ginerally overlooks the biggest rogue of all, and that’s himself. Oh! Gaspereaux for ever! he’s the man for your money, and no mistake. Well, said Nicholas, I believe you’re half right. Aylesford did promise a shillin’ a bushel bounty on potatoes tho’, but I believe he lied arter all. I’ll take your advice,—I feel quite encouraged now. If you’d like a coal to light your cigar by, said he, I’ll step in here and get you one. Thank you, said Mr. Slick; I have no occasion for one gist now. Well, I believe I’ll drop in and light a pipe there myself then, anyhow. Good-b’ye—I feel quite encouraged now.

Oh dear! said the clockmaker, what a good-natered, good-for-nothin’ simple toad that is. I suppose when the sheriff takes the vote of such critters, he flatters himself he takes the sense of the county. What a difference atween him and Horton! The one is a lazy, idle critter, wanderin’ about talkin’ politics, or snarin’ rabbits, catchin’ eels, or shootin’ hawks, and neglectin’ his work, and a pretty kettle of fish he’s made of it. The other, a careful, steady-goin’, industrious man, that leaves politics to them as likes dabblin’ in troubled waters, and attends steadily to his business, and he’s a credit to his country.

Yes, too much land is the ruin of us all this side o’ the water. Afore I went to England I used to think that the onequal divisions of property there, and the system of landlord and tenant, was a curse to the country, and that there was more dignity and freedom to the individual, and more benefit to the nation, for every man to own the land he cultivated, as with us. But I’ve changed my mind; I see it’s the cause of the high state of cultivation in England, and the prosperity of its agriculture. If the great men had the land in their own hands there, every now and then an improvident one would skin the soil, and run it out; bein’ let to others he can’t do it himself, and he takes plaguy good care by his lease his tenant shan’t do it neither. Well then, there he is, with his capital to make great improvements, substantial repairs, and so on, and things are pushed up to perfection.

In Nova Scotia there are hundreds and thousands that would be better off as tenants, if they would but only think so. When a chap spends all his money in buying lands, and mortgages them to pay the rest of the price, he ain’t able to stock his farm, and work it properly; and he labours like a nigger all his life, and dies poor at last, while the land gets run out in his hands, and is no good for ever after. Now if he was to hire the farm, the money that he paid for the purchase would stock it complete, enable him to hire labour,—to wait for markets,—to buy up cattle cheap, and to sell them to advantage. He’d make money hand over hand, while he’d throw the cost of all repairs and improvements on the owner. But you might talk till you were grey-headed, and you wouldn’t persuade folks of that in this country. The glorious privilege of having a vote, to give to some goney of a member, carries the day. Well may they call it a dear privilege that, for it keeps them poor to their dyin’ day. No, squire, your system of landlord and tenant is the best for the farmer, and the best for the nation. There never can be a high state of general cultivation without it. Agriculture wants the labour of the farmer and the money of the capitalist,—both must go hand in hand. When it is left to the farmer alone, it must dwindle for want of means—and the country must dwindle too. A nation, even if it is as big as our great one, if it has no general system of landlord and tenant adopted in it, must run out. We are undergoin’ that process now. I’m most plaguy afeerd we shall run out; that’s a fact. A country is but a large estate at best;—and if it is badly tilled and hard cropped, it must, in the eend, present the melancholy spectacle of a great exhausted farm. That’s quite encouragin’ now, as Nick Bradshaw says,—ain’t it?