The Attaché; or, Sam Slick in England — Complete. Thomas Chandler Haliburton

by the people of New York, who were anxious to testify their respect for his virtues, and their sympathy for his unmerited persecution, by a personal escort and a cordial farewell.

      “Are all those people going with us, Sam?” said he; “how pleasant it will be to have so many old friends on board, won’t it?”

      “No, Sir,” said the Attache, “they are only a goin’ to see you on board—it is a mark of respect to you. They will go down to the “Tyler,” to take their last farewell of you.”

      “Well, that’s kind now, ain’t it?” he replied. “I suppose they thought I would feel kinder dull and melancholy like, on leaving my native land this way; and I must say I don’t feel jist altogether right neither. Ever so many things rise right up in my mind, not one arter another, but all together like, so that I can’t take ’em one by one and reason ’em down, but they jist overpower me by numbers. You understand me, Sam, don’t you?”

      “Poor old critter!” said Mr. Slick to me in an under-tone, “it’s no wonder he is sad, is it? I must try to cheer him up, if I can. Understand you, minister!” said he, “to be sure I do. I have been that way often and often. That was the case when I was to Lowel factories, with the galls a taking of them off in the paintin’ line. The dear little critters kept up such an everlastin’ almighty clatter, clatter, clatter; jabber, jabber, jabber, all talkin’ and chatterin’ at once, you couldn’t hear no blessed one of them; and they jist fairly stunned a feller. For nothin’ in natur’, unless it be perpetual motion, can equal a woman’s tongue. It’s most a pity we hadn’t some of the angeliferous little dears with us too, for they do make the time pass quick, that’s a fact. I want some on ’em to tie a night-cap for me to-night; I don’t commonly wear one, but I somehow kinder guess, I intend to have one this time, and no mistake.”

      “A night-cap, Sam!” said he; “why what on airth do you mean?”

      “Why, I’ll tell you, minister,” said he, “you recollect sister Sall, don’t you.”

      “Indeed, I do,” said he, “and an excellent girl she is, a dutiful daughter, and a kind and affectionate sister. Yes, she is a good girl is Sally, a very good girl indeed; but what of her?”

      “Well, she was a most a beautiful critter, to brew a glass of whiskey toddy, as I ever see’d in all my travels was sister Sall, and I used to call that tipple, when I took it late, a night-cap; apple jack and white nose ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to it. On such an occasion as this, minister, when a body is leavin’ the greatest nation atween the poles, to go among benighted, ignorant, insolent foreigners, you wouldn’t object to a night-cap, now would you?”

      “Well, I don’t know as I would, Sam,” said he; “parting from friends whether temporally or for ever, is a sad thing, and the former is typical of the latter. No, I do not know as I would. We may use these things, but not abuse them. Be temperate, be moderate, but it is a sorry heart that knows no pleasure. Take your night-cap, Sam, and then commend yourself to His safe keeping, who rules the wind and the waves to Him who—”

      “Well then, minister, what a dreadful awful looking thing a night-cap is without a tassel, ain’t it? Oh! you must put a tassel on it, and that is another glass. Well then, what is the use of a night-cap, if it has a tassel on it, but has no string, it will slip off your head the very first turn you take; and that is another glass you know. But one string won’t tie a cap; one hand can’t shake hands along with itself: you must have two strings to it, and that brings one glass more. Well then, what is the use of two strings if they ain’t fastened? If you want to keep the cap on, it must be tied, that’s sartain, and that is another go; and then, minister, what an everlastin’ miserable stingy, ongenteel critter a feller must be, that won’t drink to the health of the Female Brewer. Well, that’s another glass to sweethearts and wives, and then turn in for sleep, and that’s what I intend to do to-night. I guess I’ll tie the night-cap this hitch, if I never do agin, and that’s a fact.”

      “Oh Sam, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell, “for a man that is wide awake and duly sober, I never saw one yet that talked such nonsense as you do. You said, you understood me, but you don’t, one mite or morsel; but men are made differently, some people’s narves operate on the brain sensitively and give them exquisite pain or excessive pleasure; other folks seem as if they had no narves at all. You understand my words, but you don’t enter into my feelings. Distressing images rise up in my mind in such rapid succession, I can’t master them, but they master me. They come slower to you, and the moment you see their shadows before you, you turn round to the light, and throw these dark figures behind you. I can’t do that; I could when I was younger, but I can’t now. Reason is comparing two ideas, and drawing an inference. Insanity is, when you have such a rapid succession of ideas, that you can’t compare them. How great then must be the pain when you are almost pressed into insanity and yet retain your reason? What is a broken heart? Is it death? I think it must be very like it, if it is not a figure of speech, for I feel that my heart is broken, and yet I am as sensitive to pain as ever. Nature cannot stand this suffering long. You say these good people have come to take their last farewell of me; most likely, Sam, it is a last farewell. I am an old man now, I am well stricken in years; shall I ever live to see my native land again? I know not, the Lord’s will be done! If I had a wish, I should desire to return to be laid with my kindred, to repose in death with those that were the companions of my earthly pilgrimage; but if it be ordered otherwise. I am ready to say with truth and meekness, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’ ”

      When this excellent old man said that, Mr. Slick did not enter into his feelings—he did not do him justice. His attachment to and veneration for his aged pastor and friend were quite filial, and such as to do honour to his head and heart. Those persons who have made character a study, will all agree, that the cold exterior of the New England man arises from other causes than a coldness of feeling; much of the rhodomontade of the attache, addressed to Mr. Hopewell, was uttered for the kind purpose of withdrawing his attention from those griefs which preyed so heavily upon his spirits.

      “Minister,” said Mr. Slick, “come, cheer up, it makes me kinder dismal to hear you talk so. When Captain McKenzie hanged up them three free and enlightened citizens of ours on board of the—Somers—he gave ’em three cheers. We are worth half a dozen dead men yet, so cheer up. Talk to these friends of ourn, they might think you considerable starch if you don’t talk, and talk is cheap, it don’t cost nothin’ but breath, a scrape of your hind leg, and a jupe of the head, that’s a fact.”

      Having thus engaged him in conversation with his friends, we proceeded on board the steamer, which, in a short time, was alongside of the great “Liner.” The day was now spent, and Mr. Hopewell having taken leave of his escort, retired to his cabin, very much overpowered by his feelings.

      Mr. Slick insisted on his companions taking a parting glass with him, and I was much amused with the advice given him by some of his young friends and admirers. He was cautioned to sustain the high character of the nation abroad; to take care that he returned as he went—a true American; to insist upon the possession of the Oregon Territory; to demand and enforce his right position in society; to negotiate the national loan; and above all never to accede to the right of search of slave-vessels; all which having been duly promised, they took an affectionate leave of each other, and we remained on board, intending to depart in the course of the following morning.

      As soon as they had gone, Mr. Slick ordered materials for brewing, namely: whisky, hot water, sugar and lemon; and having duly prepared in regular succession the cap, the tassel, and the two strings, filled his tumbler again, and said,

      “Come now, Squire, before we turn in, let us tie the night-cap.”

CHAPTER IV. HOME AND THE SEA.

       Table of Contents

      At eleven o’clock the next day the Tyler having shaken out her pinions, and spread