Nature and Human Nature Part 22

"Do get out," the dear old soul would say, "I do believe, in my heart, you are the most nimpent (impudent), idlest, good-for-nothingest boy in the world. Do get along."

But she was pleased, though, after all; for women do like to repeat little things like them, that their children say, and ask other people, who don't hear a word, or if they do, only go right off and laugh at 'em: "Ain't that proper 'cute now? Make a considerable smart man when he is out of his time, and finished his broughtens up, won't he?"

Well, arter the archery meeting was over, and the congregation dispa.r.s.ed, who should I find myself a walkin' down to the lake with but Jessie? How it was, I don't know, for I warn't a lookin' for her, nor she for me; but so it was. I suppose it is human natur, and that is the only way I can account for it. Where there is a flower, there is the bee; where the gra.s.s is sweet, there is the sheep; where the cherry is ripe, there is the bird; and where there is a gall, especially if she is pretty, there it is likely I am to be found also.

Yes, it must be natur. Well, we walked, or rather, strolled off easy.

There are different kinds of gaits, and they are curious to observe; for I consait sometimes I can read a man's character in his walk. The child trots; the boy scarcely touches the ground with his feet, and how the plague he wears his shoes out so fast I don't know. Perhaps Doctor Lardner can tell, but I'll be hanged if I can, for the little critter is so light, he don't even squash the gra.s.s. The sailor waddles like a duck, and gives his trousers a jerk to keep them from going down the masts (his legs) by the run; a sort of pull at the main-brace. The soldier steps solemn and formal, as if the dead march in Saul was a playin'. A man and his wife walk on different sides of the street; he sneaks along head down, and she struts head up, as if she never heard the old proverb, "Woe to the house where the hen crows." They leave the carriage-way between them, as if they were afraid their thoughts could be heard. When meetin' is out, a lover lags behind, as if he had nothin' above particular to do but to go home; and he is in no hurry to do that, for dinner won't be ready this hour. But, as soon as folks are dodged by a blue bonnet with pink ribbons ahead, he pulls foot like a lamplighter, and is up with the gall that wears it in no time, and she whips her arms in hisn, and they saunter off, to make the way as long as possible. She don't say, "Peeowerful sermon that, warn't it?" and he don't reply, "I heerd nothin' but the text, 'Love one another.'" Nor does he squeeze her arm with his elbow, nor she pinch his with her little blue-gloved fingers.

Watch them after that, for they go so slow, they almost crawl, they have so much to say, and they want to make the best of their time; and besides, walking fast would put them out of breath.

The articled-clerk walks the streets with an air as much like a military man as he can; and it resembles it almost as much as electrotype ware does silver. He tries to look at ease, though it is a great deal of trouble; but he imitates him to a hair in some things, for he stares impudent at the galls, has a cigar in his mouth, dresses sn.o.bbishly, and talks of making a book at Ascot. The young lawyer struts along in his seven-league boots, has a white-bound book in one hand, and a parcel of papers, tied with red tape, in the other. He is in a desperate hurry, and as sure as the world, somebody is a dying, and has sent for him to make his will. The Irish priest walks like a warder who has the keys. There is an air of authority about him. He puts his cane down on the pavement hard, as much as to say, Do you hear that, you spalpeen? He has the secrets of all the parish in his keeping; but they are other folk's secrets, and not his own, and of course, so much lighter to carry, it don't prevent him looking like a jolly fellow, as he is, arter all. The high-churchman has an M. B.

waistcoat on, is particular about his dress, and walks easy, like a gentleman, looks a little pale about the gills, like a student; but has the air of a man that wanted you to understand--I am about my work, and I would have you to know I am the boy to do it, and do it too without a fuss. If he meets a bishop, he takes his hat off, for he admits his authority. If a beggar accosts him, he slips some charity in his hands, and looks scared lest he should be seen.

The low-churchman hates the M. B. vestment, it was him who christened it. He is a dab at nick-names. He meant it to signify the Mark of the Beast. He likes the broad-brimmed beaver, it's more like a quaker, and less like a pope. It is primitive. He looks better fed than the other, and in better care. Preachin' he finds in a general way easier than practice. Watch his face as he goes along, slowly and solemncoly through the street. He looks so good, all the women that see him say, "Ain't he a dear man?" He is meekness itself. b.u.t.ter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He has no pride in him. If there is any, it ain't in his heart at any rate. Perhaps there is a little grain in his legs, but it never got any higher. Sometimes, I suspect they have been touched with the frost, for the air of a dining-room is colder under the table than above it, and his legs do march stiff and formal like a soldier's, but then, as he says, he is of the church militant. See what a curious expression of countenance he has when he meets his bishop. Read it, it says: "Now, my old Don, let us understand each other; you may ordain and confirm, but don't you go one inch beyond that. No synods, no regeneration in baptism, no control for me; I won't stand it. My idea is every clergyman is a bishop in his own parish, and his synod is composed of pious galls that work, and rich spinsters that give. If you do interfere, I will do my duty and rebuke those in high places.

Don't rile me, for I have an ugly pen, an ugly tongue, and an ugly temper, and nothing but my sanct.i.ty enables me to keep them under." If he is accosted by a beggar, he don't, like the other, give him money to squander, but he gives him instruction. He presents him with a tract. As he pa.s.ses on, the poor wretch pauses and looks after him, and mutters--"Is it a prayer? most likely, for that tract must be worth something, for it cost something to print."

Then there is the sectarian lay-brother. He has a pious walk, looks well to his ways lest he should stumble, and casting his eyes down, kills two birds with one stone. He is in deep meditation about a contract for a load of deals, and at the same time regards his steps, for the ways of the world are slippery. His digestion is not good, and he eats pickles, for the vinegar shows in his face. Like Jehu Judd, he hates "fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil," and it is lucky he has a downcast look, for here come two girls that would shock him into an ague.

Both of them have the colonial step and air, both of them too are beautiful, as Nova Scotia girls generally are. The first is young and delicate, and as blooming as a little blush-rose. She holds out with each hand a portion of her silk dress, as if she was walking a minuet, and it discloses a snow-white petticoat, and such a dear little foot and ankle--lick! Her step is short and mincing. She has a new bonnet on, just imported by the last English steamer. It has a horrid name, it is called a kiss-me-quick. It is so far back on her head, she is afraid people will think she is bare-faced, so she casts her eyes down, as much as to say, "Don't look at me, please, I am so pretty I am afraid you will stare, and if you do I shall faint, as sure as the world, and if you want to look at my bonnet, do pray go behind me, for what there is of it is all there. It's a great trial to me to walk alone, when I am so pretty." So she compresses her sweet lips with such resolution, that her dear little mouth looks so small you'd think it couldn't take in a sugar-plum. Oh, dear, here are some officers approaching, for though she looks on the pavement she can see ahead for all that. What is to be done. She half turns aside, half is enough, to turn her back would be rude, and she looks up at a print or a necklace, or something or another in a shop window, and it's a beautiful att.i.tude, and very becoming, and if they will stare, she is so intent on the show gla.s.s, she can't see them, and won't faint, and her little heart flutters as one of them says as he pa.s.ses, "Devilish pretty gall, that, Grant, who is she?" and then she resumes her walk, and minces on.

If any man was to take his Bible oath that that little delicate girl, when she gets home, and the hall-door is shut, will scream out at the tip eend of her voice, like a screetching paraquet, "Eliza Euphemia, where in creation have you stowed yourself too?" and that Eliza Euphemia would hear her away up in the third story, and in the same key answer: "I can't come down, I ain't fit to be seen, nary way, for I'm all open before, and onfastened behind, and my hair is all in paper," I wouldn't believe him; would you?

The other young lady, that follows, is a little too much of Juno, and somewhat too little of Venus. She is a tall, splendid-looking heifer, as fine a gall as you will see in any country, and she takes it for granted you don't need to inquire who she is. She ain't bold, and she ain't diffident; but she can stare as well as you can, and has as good a right too. Her look is scorny, as the sn.o.bocracy pa.s.s and do homage, by bestowing on her an admiring look. Her step is firm, but elastic; it is a decided step, but the pious lay-brother regards her not, and moves not out of his way for her. So she stops that he may see his error, and when he does look, he perceives that it would lead him into further error if he gazed long, so he moves to the other side of the path, but does it so slowly, she confronts him again. After a moment's reflection, he tries to turn her flank--a movement that is unfortunately antic.i.p.ated by her, and there is a collision on the track. The concussion dislocates his hat, and the red silk Bandannah handkerchief, which acted as travelling-bag, and pocket-book, discharges its miscellaneous contents on the pavement. That's onlucky; for he was a going to shunt off on another line and get away; but he has to stop and pick up the fragmentary freight of his beaver.

Before he can do this, he is asked by Juno how he dares to stop a lady in that indecent manner in the street; and while he is pleading not guilty to the indictment, the gentlemen that stared at the simpering beauty, come to the aid of the fair prosecutrix. She knows them, and they say, "Capital, by Jove--what a rum one he is!" Rum one; why he is a member of a temperance society, walks in procession when to home, with a white ap.r.o.n in front, and the ends of a scarf-like sash behind, and a rosette as large as a soup-plate on his breast--a rum one; what an infamous accusation!

The poor man stands aghast at this; he humbly begs pardon, and Juno is satisfied. She takes one of the beaux by the arm, and says: "Do pray see me home--I am quite nervous;" and to prove it she laughs as loud as any of them. The joke is now being carried too far, and the young sword-knots pick up, amid roars of laughter, his handkerchief, the papers, the horn-comb, the fig of tobacco, the fractured pipe, the jack-knife, and the clean s.h.i.+rt-collar, that was only worn once, and toss them into his hat, which is carefully secured on his head, so low as to cover his eyes, and so tight as nearly to shave off both his ears. The lay-brother thinks, with great truth, that he would sooner take five yoke of oxen, and tail a mast for a frigate through the solid forest to the river, than snake his way through the streets of a garrison-town. After re-adjusting his hat, he resumes his pious gait, and Juno also goes her way, and exhibits her decided step.

Now, the step of Jessie and myself was unlike any of these--it was a natural and easy one; the step of people who had no reason to hurry, and, at the same time, were not in the habit of crawling. In this manner we proceeded to the lake, and sought a point of land which commanded a full view of it on both sides, and embraced nearly its whole length. Here was a clump of trees from which the underwood had been wholly cut away, so as to form a shade for the cattle depasturing in the meadow. As we entered the grove, Jessie exclaimed:

"Oh! Mr Slick, do look! Here is a canoe--can you use a paddle?"

"As well as an oar," said I, "and perhaps a little grain better; for I haven't been down all the New Brunswick and Nova Scotia rivers in 'em for nothing, let alone Lake Michigan, George, Madawaska, and Rossignol, and I don't know how many others. Step in, and let us have at them on the water."

In a minute the canoe was launched, and away we flew like lightning.

Oh, there is nothing like one of those light, elegant, graceful barks; what is a wherry or a whale-boat, or a skull or a gig, to them? They draw no more water than an egg-sh.e.l.l; they require no strength to paddle; they go right up on the beach, and you can carry them about like a basket. With a light hand, a cool head, and a quick eye, you can make them go where a duck can. What has science, and taste, and handicraft ever made to improve on this simple contrivance of the savage? When I was for two years in John Jacob Astor Fur Company's employment, I knew the play of Jessie's tribe.

"Can you catch," said I, "Miss?"

"Can you?"

"Never fear."

And we exchanged paddles, as she sat in one end of the canoe and I in the other, by throwing them diagonally at each other as if we were pa.s.sing a shuttle-c.o.c.k. She almost screamed with delight, and in her enthusiasm addressed me in her native Indian language.

"Gaelic," said I, "give me Gaelic, dear, for I am very simple and very innocent."

"Oh, very," she said, and as she dropped her paddle into the water, managed to give me the benefit of a spoonful in the eyes.

After we had tried several evolutions with the canoe, and had proceeded homeward a short distance, we opened a miniature bay into which we leisurely paddled, until we arrived at its head, where a small waterfall of about forty feet in height poured its tributary stream into the lake. On the right-hand side, which was nearest to the house, was a narrow strip of verdant intervale, dotted here and there with vast shady beeches and elms. I never saw a more lovely spot.

Hills rose above each other beyond the waterfall, like b.u.t.tresses to support the conical one that, though not in itself a mountain (for there is not, strictly speaking, one in this province), yet loomed as large in the light mist that enveloped its lofty peak. As this high cliff rose abruptly from the lake, the light of smaller cascades was discernible through the thin shrubbery that clothed its rocky side, although their voice was drowned in the roar of that at its base.

Nothing was said by either of us for some time, for both were occupied by different thoughts. I was charmed with its extraordinary beauty, and wondered how it was possible that it should be so little known as not even to have a name. My companion, on the other hand, was engaged in sad reflections, which the similarity of the scene with her early recollections of her home in the far west suggested to her mind.

"Ain't this beautiful, Jessie?" I said, "don't this remind you of Canada, or rather your own country?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "me--me," for during the whole day there had been a sad confusion of languages and idioms, "me very happy and very sad; I want to laugh, I want to cry; I am here and there," pointing to the north-west. "Laughing, talking, sporting with my father, and Jane, and you, and am also by the side of my dear mother, far--far beyond those hills. I see your people and my people; I paddle in our canoe, shoot with our bows, speak our language; yes, I am here, and there also. The sun too is in both places. He sees us all. When I die, perhaps I shall go back, but I am not of them or of you--I am nothing," and she burst into tears and wept bitterly.

"Jessie," said I, "let us talk about something else; you have been too much excited this morning, let us enjoy what G.o.d gives us, and not be ungrateful; let your sister come also, and try the canoe once more.

This is better than a hot room, ain't it?"

"Oh yes," she replied, "this is life. This is freedom."

"Suppose we dine here," I said.

"Oh yes," she replied, "I should like it above all things. Let us dine on the gra.s.s, the table the great Spirit spreads for his children;"

and the transient cloud pa.s.sed away, and we sped back to the lawn as if the bark that carried us was a bird that bore us on its wings.

Poor Jessie, how well I understood her emotions. Home is a word, if there is one in the language, that appeals directly to the heart. Man and wife, father and mother, brothers and sisters, master and servant, with all their ties, a.s.sociations, and duties, all, all are contained in that one word. Is it any wonder, when her imagination raised them up before her, that the woman became again a child, and that she longed for the wings of the dove to fly away to the tents of her tribe in the far west? I am myself as dry, as seasoned, and as hard as the wood of which my clocks are made. I am a citizen of the world rather than of Slickville. But I too felt my heart sink within me when I reflected that mine, also, was desolate, and that I was alone in my own house, the sole surviving tenant of all that large domestic circle, whose merry voices once made its silent halls vocal with responsive echoes of happiness. We know that our fixed domicile is not here, but we feel that it is and must continue to be our home, ever dear and ever sacred, until we depart hence for another and a better world. They know but little of the agency of human feelings, who in their preaching attempt to lessen our attachment for the paternal roof, because, in common with all other earthly possessions, it is perishable in its nature, and uncertain in it's tenure. The home of life is not the less estimable because it is not the home of eternity; but the more valuable perhaps as it prepares and fits us by its joys and its sorrows, its rights and its duties, and also by what it withholds, as well as imparts, for that inheritance which awaits us hereafter. Yes, home is a great word, but its full meaning ain't understood by every one.

It ain't those who have one, or those who have none, that comprehend what it is; nor those who in the course of nature leave the old and found a new one for themselves; nor those who, when they quit, shut their eyes and squinch their faces when they think of it, as if it fetched something to their mind that warn't pleasant to recollect; nor those who suddenly rise so high in life, that their parents look too vulgar, or the old cottage too mean for them, or their former acquaintances too low. But I'll tell you who knows the meaning and feels it too; a fellow like me, who had a cheerful home, a merry and a happy home, and who when he returns from foreign lands finds it deserted and as still as the grave, and all that he loved scattered and gone, some to the tomb, and others to distant parts of the earth.

The solitude chills him, the silence appals him. At night shadows follow him like ghosts of the departed, and the walls echo back the sound of his footsteps, as if demons were laughing him to scorn. The least noise is heard over the whole house. The clock ticks so loud he has to remove it, for it affects his nerves. The stealthy mouse tries to annoy him with his mimic personification of the burglar, and the wind moans among the trees as if it lamented the general desolation.

If he strolls out in his grounds, the squirrel ascends the highest tree and chatters and scolds at the unusual intrusion, while the birds fly away screaming with affright, as if pursued by a vulture. They used to be tame once, when the family inhabited the house, and listen with wonder at notes sweeter and more musical than their own. They would even feed from the hand that protected them. His dog alone seeks his society, and strives to a.s.sure him by mute but expressive gestures that he at least will never desert him. As he paces his lonely quarter-deck (as he calls the gravel-walk in front of his house), the silver light of the moon, gleaming here and there between the stems of the aged trees, startles him with the delusion of unreal white-robed forms, that flit about the shady groves as if enjoying or pitying his condition, or perhaps warning him that in a few short years he too must join this host of disembodied spirits.

Time hangs heavily on his hands, he is tired of reading, it is too early for repose, so he throws himself on the sofa and muses, but even meditation calls for a truce. His heart laments its solitude, and his tongue its silence. Nature is weary and exhausted, and sleep at last comes to his aid. But, alas! he awakes in the morning only to resume his dull monotonous course, and at last he fully comprehends what it is to be alone. Women won't come to see him, for fear they might be talked about, and those that would come would soon make him a subject of scandal. He and the world, like two people travelling in opposite directions, soon increase at a rapid rate the distance between them.

He loses his interest in what is going on around him, and people lose their interest in him. If his name happens to be mentioned, it may occasion a listless remark, "I wonder how he spends his time?" or, "The poor devil must be lonely there."

Yes, yes, there are many folks in the world that talk of things they don't understand, and there are precious few who appreciate the meaning of that endearing term "home." He only knows it as I have said who has lived in one, amid a large family, of which he is the solitary surviving member. The change is like going from the house to the sepulchre, with this difference only, one holds a living and the other a dead body. Yes, if you have had a home you know what it is, but if you have lost it, then and not till then do you feel its value.

CHAPTER X.

A DAY ON THE LAKE.--PART I.

When we reached the grove, I left Jessie in the canoe, and went up to the house in search of her sister. Jackson and Peter were sitting on the wood-pile; the latter was smoking his pipe, and the other held his in his hand, as he was relating some story of his exploits in Spain.

When I approached, he rose up and saluted me in his usual formal manner.

"Where is the doctor," said I, "and the rest of the party?"

"Gone to see a tame moose of his, Sir," he said, "in the pasture; but they will be back directly."

"Well," sais I, lighting a cigar by Peter's pipe, and taking a seat alongside of him, "go on Jackson; don't let me interrupt you."

"I was just telling Mr McDonald, Sir," said he, "of a night I once spent on the field of battle in Spain."

"Well, go on."

"As I was a saying to him, Sir," he continued, "you could ear the wolves among the dead and the dying a owling like so many devils. I was afraid to go to sleep, as I didn't know when my turn might come; so I put my carbine across my knees, and sat up as well as I could, determined to sell my life as dearly as possible, but I was so weak from the loss of blood, that I kept dozing and starting all the time amost. Oh, what a tedious night that was, Sir, and how I longed for the dawn of day, when search should be made among us for the wounded!