No. XXI Setting Up for Governor
“I never see one of them queer little old-fashioned teapots, like that ’ere in the cupboard of Marm Pugwash,” said the Clockmaker, “that I don’t think of Lawyer Crowningshield and his wife. When I was down to Rhode Island last, I spent an evening with them. Arter I had been there a while, the black house-help brought in a little home made dipped candle, stuck in a turnip sliced in two, to make it stand straight, and set it down on the table. ‘Why,’ says the lawyer to his wife, ‘Increase my dear, what on airth is the meanin’ o’ that? What does little Viney mean by bringin’ in such a light as this, that ain’t fit for even a log hut of one of our free and enlightened citizens away down east; where’s the lamp?’ ‘My dear,’ says she, ‘I ordered it—you know they are a-goin’ to set you up for Governor next year, and I allot we must economize or we will be ruined; the salary is only four hundred dollars a year, you know, and you’ll have to give up your practice; we can’t afford nothin’ now.’
“Well, when tea was brought in, there was a little wee china teapot, that held about the matter of half a pint or so, and cups and sarcers about the bigness of children’s toys. When he seed that, he grew most peskily riled, his under lip curled down like a peach leaf that’s got a worm in it, and he stripped his teeth, and showed his grinders, like a bull-dog. ‘What foolery is this?’ said he. ‘My dear,’ said she, ‘it’s the foolery of being Governor; if you choose to sacrifice all your comfort to being the first rung in the ladder, don’t blame me for it. I didn’t nominate you—I had not art nor part in it. It was cooked up at that ’ere Convention, at Town Hall.’ Well, he sot for some time without sayin’ a word, lookin’ as black as a thunder cloud, just ready to make all natur’ crack agin. At last he gets up, and walks round behind his wife’s chair, and takin’ her face between his two hands, he turns it up and gives her a buss that went off like a pistol; it fairly made my mouth water to see him; thinks I, Them lips ain’t a bad bank to deposit one’s spare kisses in, neither. ‘Increase, my dear,’ said he, ‘I believe you are half right; I’ll decline tomorrow, I’ll have nothin’ to do with it. I WON’T BE A GOVERNOR, ON NO ACCOUNT.’
“Well, she had to haw and gee like, both a little, afore she could get her head out of his hands; and then she said, ‘Zachariah,’ says she, ‘how you do act! Ain’t you ashamed? Do for gracious sake behave yourself!’ and she coloured up all over like a crimson piany; ‘if you havn’t foozled all my hair too, that’s a fact,’ says she; and she put her curls to rights, and looked as pleased as fun, though poutin’ all the time, and walked right out of the room. Presently in come two well dressed house-helps, one with a splendid gilt lamp, a real London touch, and another with a tea tray, with a large solid silver coffee pot, and teapot, and a cream jug, and sugar bowl, of the same genuine metal, and a most an elegant set of real gilt china. Then in came Marm Crowningshield herself, lookin’ as proud as if she would not call the President her cousin; and she gave the lawyer a look, as much as to say, I guess when Mr. Slick is gone, I’ll pay you off that ’ere kiss with interest, you dear you; I’ll answer a bill at sight for it, I will, you may depend. ‘I believe,’ said he agin, ‘you are right, Increase, my dear, it’s an expensive kind of honour that, bein’ Governor, and no great thanks neither; great cry and little wool, all talk and no cider. It’s enough I guess for a man to govern his own family, ain’t it, dear?’ ‘Sartin, my love,’ said she, ‘sartin, a man is never so much in his own proper sphere as there; and beside,’ said she, ‘his will is supreme to home, there is no danger of any one non-concurring him there;’ and she gave me a sly look, as much as to say, I let him think he is master in his own house, FOR WHEN LADIES WEAR THE BREECHES, THEIR PETTICOATS OUGHT TO BE LONG ENOUGH TO HIDE THEM; but I allot, Mr. Slick, you can see with half an eye that the ‘grey mare is the better horse’ here.
“What a pity it is,” continued the Clockmaker, “that the Bluenoses would not take a leaf out of Marm Crowninshield’s book—talk more of their own affairs and less of politics. I’m sick of the everlastin’ sound of ‘House of Assembly,’ and ‘Council,’ and ‘great folks.’ They never alleviate talking about them from July to etarnity.
“I had a curious conversation about politics once, away up to the right here. Do you see that ’ere house,” said he, “in the field, that’s got a lurch to leeward, like a north river sloop, struck with a squall, off West Point, lopsided like? It looks like Seth Pine, a tailor down to Hartford, that had one leg shorter than t’other, when he stood at ease at militia trainin’, a-restin’ on the littlest one. Well, I had a special frolic there the last time I passed this way. I lost the linch pin out of my forrard axle, and I turned up there to get it sot to rights. Just as I drove through the gate, I saw the eldest gal a-makin’ for the house for dear life—she had a short petticoat on that looked like a kilt, and her bare legs put me in mind of the long shanks of a bittern down in a rush swamp, a-drivin’ away like mad, full chisel arter a frog. I couldn’t think what on airth was the matter. Thinks I, she wants to make herself look decent like afore I get in, she don’t like to pull her stockings on afore me; so I pulls up the old horse and let her have a fair start. Well, when I came to the door, I heard a proper scuddin’; there was a regular flight into Egypt, jist such a noise as little children make when the mistress comes suddenly into school, all a-huddlin’ and scroudgin’ into their seats, as quick as wink. ‘Dear me!’ says the old woman, as she put her head out of a broken window to avail who it was, ’is it you, Mr. Slick? I sniggers, if you didn’t frighten us properly, we actilly thought it was the sheriff; do come in.
“Poor thing, she looked half starved and half savage, hunger and temper had made proper strong lines in her face, like water furrows in a ploughed field; she looked bony and thin, like a horse that has had more work than oats, and had a wicked expression, as though it warn’t over safe to come too near her heels—an everlastin’ kicker. ‘You may come out, John,’ said she to her husband, ‘it’s only Mr. Slick;’ and out came John from under the bed backwards, on all fours, like an ox out of the shoein’ frame, or a lobster skullin’ wrong eend foremost; he looked as wild as a hawk. Well, I swan, I thought I should have split, I could hardly keep from bustin’ right out with larfter; he was all covered with feathers, lint and dust, the savin’s of all the sweepin’s since the house was built, shoved under there for tidiness. He actilly sneezed for the matter of ten minutes—he seemed half choked with the flaff and stuff, that came out with him like a cloud. Lord, he looked like a goose half picked, as if all the quills were gone, but the pin-feathers and down were left, jist ready for singein’ and stuffin. He put me in mind of a sick Adjutant, a great tall hulkin’ bird, that comes from the East Indgies, a’most as high as a man, and most as knowin’ as a Bluenose. I’d a gin a hundred dollars to have had that chap as a show at a fair; tar and feathers warn’t half as nateral. You’ve seen a gal both larf and cry at the same time, hain’t you? Well, I hope I may be shot if I couldn’t have done the same. To see that critter come like a turkey out of a bag at Christmas, to be fired at for ten cents a shot, was as good as a play; but to look round and see the poverty—the half-naked children; the old pine stumps for chairs; a small bin of poor, watery, yaller potatoes in the corner; daylight through the sides and roof of the house, lookin’ like the tarred seams of a ship, all black where the smoke got out; no utensils for cookin’ or eatin’; and starvation wrote as plain as a handbill on their holler cheeks, skinney fingers, and sunk eyes—went right straight to the heart. I do declare I believe I should have cried, only they didn’t seem to mind it themselves. They had been used to it, like a man that’s married to a thunderin’ ugly wife, he gets so accustomed to the look of her everlastin’ dismal mug, that he don’t think her ugly at all.
“Well, there was another chap a-settin’ by the fire, and he DID look as if he saw it, and felt it too; he didn’t seem over half pleased, you may depend. He was the District Schoolmaster, and he told me he was takin’ a spell at boardin’ there, for it was their turn to keep him. Thinks I to myself, poor devil, you’ve brought your pigs to a pretty market, that’s a fact. I see how it is, the Bluenoses can’t cipher. The cat’s out of the bag now; it’s no wonder they don’t go ahead, for they don’t know nothin’; the ‘Schoolmaster is abroad,’ with the devil to it, for he has no home at all. Why, Squire, you might jist as well expect a horse to go right off in gear, before he is halter broke, as a Bluenose to get on in the world, when he has got no schoolin’.
“But to get back to my story. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘how’s times with you, Mrs. Spry?’ ‘Dull,’ says she, ‘very dull; there’s no markets now, things don’t fetch nothin’.’ Thinks I, some folks hadn’t ought to complain of markets, for they don’t raise nothin’ to sell, but I didn’t say so; FOR POVERTY IS KEEN ENOUGH, WITHOUT SHARPENING ITS EDGE BY POKIN’ FUN AT IT. ‘Potatoes,’ says I, ‘will fetch a good price this fall, for it’s a short crop in a general way; how’s your’n?’ ‘Grand,’ says she, ‘as complete as you ever seed; our tops were small and didn’t look well; but we have the handsomest bottoms, it’s generally allowed, in all our place; you never seed the best of them, they are actilly worth lookin’ at.’ I vow I had to take a chaw of tobaccy to keep from snortin’ right out, it sounded so queer like. Thinks I to myself, old lady, it’s a pity you couldn’t be changed eend for eend then, as some folks do their stockings; it would improve the look of your dial-plate amazin’ly then, that’s a fact.
“Now there was human natur’, Squire,” said the Clockmaker, “there was pride even in that hovel. It is found in rags as well as King’s robes, where butter is spread with the thumb as well as the silver knife, NATUR’ IS NATUR’ WHEREVER YOU FIND IT.
“Jist then, in came one or two neighbours to see the sport, for they took me for a sheriff or constable, or something of that breed, and when they saw it was me they sot down to hear the news; they fell right too at politics as keen as anything, as if it had been a dish of real Connecticut slapjacks, or hominy; or what is better still, a glass of real genuine splendid mint julep, WHE-EU-UP, it fairly makes my mouth water to think of it. ‘I wonder,’ says one, ‘what they will do for us this winter in the House of Assembly?’ ‘Nothin’,’ says the other, ‘they never do nothin’ but what the great people at Halifax tell ’em. Squire Yeoman is the man, he’ll pay up the great folks this hitch, he’ll let ’em have their own, he’s jist the boy that can do it.’ Says I, ‘I wish I could say all men were as honest then, for I am afeard there are a great many won’t pay me up this winter; I should like to trade with your friend, who is he?’ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘he is the member for Isle Sable County, and if he don’t let the great folks have it, it’s a pity.’ ‘Who do you call great folks?’ said I, ’for I vow I havn’t seed one since I came here. The only one that I know that comes near hand to one is Nicholas Overknocker, that lives all along shore, about Margaret’s Bay, and HE IS a great man—it takes a yoke of oxen to drag him. When I first seed him, says I, “What on airth is the matter o’ that man, has he the dropsy? For he is actilly the greatest man I ever seed; he must weigh the matter of five hundred weight; he’d cut three inches on the rib; he must have a proper sight of lard, that chap.” No,’ says I, ‘don’t call ’em great men, for there ain’t a great man in the country, that’s a fact; there ain’t one that desarves the name; folks will only larf at you if you talk that way. There may be some rich men, and I believe there be, and it’s a pity there warn’t more on ’em, and a still greater pity they have so little spirit or enterprise among ’em, but a country is none the worse of having rich men in it, you may depend. Great folks! Well, come, that’s a good joke, that bangs the bush. No, my friend,’ says I, ‘the meat that’s at the top of the barrel, is sometimes not so good as that that’s a little further down; the upper and lower eends are plaguy apt to have a little taint in ’em, but the middle is always good.’
“‘Well,’ says the Bluenose, ‘perhaps they bean’t great men, exactly in that sense, but they are great men compared to us poor folks; and they eat up all the revenue; there’s nothin’ left for roads and bridges; they want to ruin the country, that’s a fact.’ ‘Want to ruin your granny,’ says I (for it raised my dander to hear the critter talk such nonsense); I did hear of one chap,’ says I, ‘that sot fire to his own house once, up to Squantum, but the cunnin’ rascal insured it first; now how can your great folks ruin the country without ruinin’ themselves, unless they have insured the Province? Our folks will insure all creation for half nothin’, but I never heerd tell of a country being insured agin rich men. Now if you ever go to Wall Street to get such a policy, leave the door open behind you, that’s all; or they’ll grab right hold of you, shave your head and blister it, clap a straight jacket on you, and whip you right into a mad house, afore you can say Jack Robinson. No, your great men are nothin’ but rich men, and I can tell you for your comfort, there’s nothin’ to hinder you from bein’ rich too, if you will take the same means as they did. They were once all as poor folks as you be, or their fathers afore them; for I know their whole breed, seed and generation, and they wouldn’t thank you to tell them that you knew their fathers and grandfathers, I tell you. If ever you want the loan of a hundred pounds from any of them, keep dark about that; see as far ahead as you please, but it ain’t always pleasant to have folks see too far back. Perhaps they be a little proud or so, but that’s nateral; all folks that grow up right off, like a mushroom in one night, are apt to think no small beer of themselves. A cabbage has plaguy large leaves to the bottom, and spreads them out as wide as an old woman’s petticoats, to hide the ground it sprung from, and conceal its extraction, but what’s that to you? If they get too large salaries, dock ’em down at once, but don’t keep talkin’ about it for everlastinly. If you have too many sarvents, pay some on ’em off, or when they quit your sarvice don’t hire others in their room, that’s all; but you miss your mark when you keep firin’ away at bankers, lawyers, and public officers, the whole blessed time that way.
“‘I went out a-gunnin’ once when I was a boy, and father went along with me to teach me. Well, the first flock of plover I seed I let slip at ’em, and missed ’em. Says father, says he, “What a blockhead you be, Sam, that’s your own fault, they were too far off; you hadn’t ought to have fired so soon. At Bunker’s hill we let the British come right on till we seed the whites of their eyes, and then we let ’em have it slap bang.” Well, I felt kinder grigged at missin’ my shot, and I didn’t over half like to be scolded too; so, says I, “Yes, father; but recollect you had a mud bank to hide behind, where you were proper safe, and you had a rest for your guns too; but as soon as you seed a little more than the whites of their eyes, you run for dear life, full split; and so I don’t see much to brag on in that arter all, so come now.” “I’ll teach you to talk that way, you puppy you,” said he, “of that glorious day;” and he fetched me a wipe that I do believe if I hadn’t a dodged, would have spoiled my gunnin’ for that hitch; so I gave him a wide birth arter that all day. Well, the next time I missed, says I, “She hung fire so everlastinly, it’s no wonder;” and the next miss, says I, “The powder is no good, I vow.” Well, I missed every shot, and I had an excuse for every one on ’em—the flint was bad, or she flashed in the pan, or the shot scaled, or something or another; and when all wouldn’t do, I swore the gun was no good at all. “Now,” says father (and he edged up all the time, to pay me off for that hit at his Bunker hill story, which was the only shot I didn’t miss), you hain’t got the right reason arter all. It was your own fault, Sam.”
“‘Now that’s jist the case with you; you may blame Banks and Council, and House of Assembly, and “the great men,” till you are tired, but it’s all your own fault—YOU’VE NO SPIRIT AND NO ENTERPRISE, YOU WANT INDUSTRY AND ECONOMY; USE THEM, AND YOU’LL SOON BE AS RICH AS THE PEOPLE AT HALIFAX YOU CALL GREAT FOLKS. They didn’t grow rich by talkin’, but by workin’; instead of lookin’ after other folks’ business, they looked about the keenest arter their own. You are like the machinery of one of our boats—good enough, and strong enough, but of no airthly use till you get the steam up; you want to be set in motion, and then you’ll go ahead like anything, you may depend. Give up politics. It’s a barren field, and well watched too; when one critter jumps a fence into a good field and gets fat, more nor twenty are chased round and round, by a whole pack of yelpin’ curs, till they are fairly beat out, and eend by bein’ half-starved, and are at the liftin’ at last. Look to your farms, your water powers, your fisheries, and factories. In short,’ says I, puttin’ on my hat and startin’, ‘look to yourselves, and don’t look to others.’”