No. XXVI The Minister’s Horn Mug
“This Country,” said Mr. Slick, “abounds in superior mill privileges, and one would naterally calculate that such a sight of water power would have led to a knowledge of machinery. I guess if a Bluenose was to go to one of our free and enlightened citizens, and tell him Nova Scotia was intersected with rivers and brooks in all directions, and nearly one quarter of it covered with water, he’d say, ‘Well, I’ll start right off and see it, I vow, for I guess I’ll larn somethin’. I allot I’ll get another wrinkle away down east there. With such splendid chances for experimentin’, what first-chop mills they must have, to a sartainty. I’ll see such new combinations, and such new applications of the force of water to motion, that I’ll make my fortin’, for we can improve on anything a’most.’ Well, he’d find his mistake out I guess, as I did once, when I took passage in the night at New York for Providence, and found myself the next mornin’ clean out to sea, steerin’ away for Cape Hatteras, in the Charleston steamer. He’d find he’d gone to the wrong place, I reckon; there ain’t a mill of any kind in the Province fit to be seen. If we had ’em, we’d sarve ’em as we do the gamblin’ houses down south, pull ’em right down, there wouldn’t be one on ’em left in eight and forty hours.
“Some domestic factories they ought to have here; it’s an essential part of the social system. Now we’ve run to the other extreme, it’s got to be too big an interest with us, and ain’t suited to the political institutions of our great country. Natur’ designed us for an agricultural people, and our government was predicated on the supposition that we would be so. Mr. Hopewell was of the same opinion. He was a great hand at gardenin’, orchadin’, farmin’, and what not. One evenin’ I was up to his house, and says he, ‘Sam, what do you say to a bottle of my old genuine cider? I guess I got some that will take the shine off of your father’s, by a long chalk, much as the old gentleman brags of his’n. I never bring it out afore him. He thinks he has the best in all Connecticut. It’s an innocent ambition that; and Sam, it would be but a poor thing for me to gratify my pride, at the expense of humblin’ his’n. So I never lets on that I have any better, but keep dark about this superfine particular article of mine, for I’d as lives he’d think so as not.’ He was a real primiTIVE good man was minister. ‘I got some,’ said he, ‘that was bottled that very year that glorious action was fought atween the Constitution and the Guerriere. Perhaps the whole world couldn’t show such a brilliant whippin’ as that was. It was a splendid deed, that’s a fact. The British can whip the whole airth, and we can whip the British. It was a bright promise for our young eagle; a noble bird that, too; great strenth, great courage, and surpassing sagacity.’
“Well, he went down to the cellar, and brought up a bottle, with a stick tied to its neck, and day and date to it, like lye-bills on the trees in Squire Hendrick’s garden. ‘I like to see them ’ere cobwebs,’ says he, as he brushed ’em off, ‘they are like grey hairs in an old man’s head; they indicate venerable old age.’ As he uncorked it, says he, ‘I guess Sam, this will warm your gizzard, my boy; I guess our great nation may be stumped to produce more eleganter liquor than this here. It’s the dandy, that’s a fact. That,’ said he, a-smackin’ his lips, and lookin’ at its sparklin’ top, and layin’ back his head, and tippin’ off a horn mug brim full of it—‘that,’ said he, and his eyes twinkled agin, for it was plaguy strong—‘that is the produce of my own orchard.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘minister,’ says I, ‘I never see you a-swiggin’ it out of that ’ere horn mug, that I don’t think of one of your texts.’ ‘What’s that, Sam?’ says he, ‘for you always had a’most a special memory when you was a boy.’ ‘Why,’ says I, that “the horn of the righteous man shall be exalted;” I guess that’s what they mean by “exaltin’ the horn,” ain’t it? Lord if ever you was to New OrLEENS, and seed a black thunder cloud rise right up and cover the whole sky in a it, you’d a thought of it if you had seed his face. It looked as dark as Egypt. ‘For shame!’ says he, ‘Sam, that’s ondecent; and let me tell you that a man that jokes on such subjects, shows both a lack of wit and sense too. I like mirth, you know I do, for it’s only the Pharisees and hypocrites that wear long faces, but then mirth must be innocent to please me; and when I see a man make merry with serious things, I set him down as a lost sheep. That comes of your speculatin’ to Lowell; and, I vow, them factorin’ towns will corrupt our youth of both sexes, and become hotbeds of iniquity. Evil communications endamnify good manners, as sure as rates; one scabby sheep will infect a whole flock—vice is as catchin’ as that nasty disease the Scotch have, it’s got by shakin’ hands, and both eend in the same way—in brimstone. I approbate domestic factories, but nothin’ further for us. It don’t suit us or our institutions. A republic is only calculated for an enlightened and vartuous people, and folks chiefly in the farmin’ line. That is an innocent and a happy vocation. Agriculture was ordained by Him as made us, for our chief occupation.’
“Thinks I, here’s a pretty how do you do; I’m in for it now, that’s a fact; he’ll jist fall to and read a regular sarmon, and he knows so many by heart he’ll never stop. It would take a Philadelphia lawyer to answer him. So, says I, ‘Minister, I ax your pardon, I feel very ugly at havin’ given you offence, but I didn’t mean it, I do assure you. It jist popped out unexpectedly, like a cork out of one of them ’ere cider bottles, I’ll do my possibles that the like don’t happen agin, you may depend; so ’spose we drink a glass to our reconciliation.’ ‘That I will,’ said he, ‘and we will have another bottle too, but I must put a little water into MY GLASS (and he dwelt on that word, and looked at me, quite feelin’, as much as to say, don’t for goodness sake make use of that ’ere word HORN agin, for it’s a joke I don’t like), ‘for my head hain’t quite the strength my cider has. Taste this, Sam,’ said he (openin’ of another bottle); ‘it’s of the same age as the last, but made of different apples, and I am fairly stumped sometimes to say which is best.’
“‘These are the pleasures,’ says he, ‘of a country life. A man’s own labour provides him with food, and an appetite to enjoy it. Let him look which way he will, and he sees the goodness and bounty of his Creator, his wisdom, his power, and his majesty. There never was anything so true, as that ’ere old sayin’, “Man made the town, but God made the country,” and both bespeak their different architects in terms too plain to be misunderstood. The one is filled with virtue and the other with vice. One is the abode of plenty, and the other of want; one is a ware-duck of nice pure water, and t’other one a cess-pool. Our towns are gettin’ so commercial and factoring, that they will soon generate mobs, Sam’ (how true that ’ere has turned out, hain’t it? He could see near about as far into a millstone, as them that picks the hole into it), ‘and mobs will introduce disobedience and defiance to laws, and that must eend in anarchy and bloodshed. No,’ said the old man, raising his voice, and giving the table a wipe with his fist that made the glasses all jingle agin, ’give me the country—that country to which he that made it said, “Bring forth grass, the herb yieldin’ seed, and the tree yieldin’ fruit,” AND WHO SAW THAT IT WAS GOOD. Let me jine with the feathered tribe in the mornin’ (I hope you get up airly now, Sam; when you was a boy there was no gittin’ you out of bed at no rate), and at sunset, in the hymns which they utter in full tide of song to their Creator. Let me pour out the thankfulness of my heart to the Giver of all good things, for the numerous blessings I enjoy, and intreat Him to bless my increase, that I may have wherewithal to relieve the wants of others, as he prevents and relieves mine. No! give me the country. It’s—’ Minister was jist like a horse that has the spavin: he sot off considerable stiff at first, but when he once got under way, he got on like a house a fire. He went like the wind, full split. He was jist beginnin’ to warm on the subject, and I knew if he did, what wonderful bottom he had; how he would hang on for ever a’most; so, says I, ‘I think so too, minister, I like the country, I always sleep better there than in towns; it ain’t so plaguy hot, nor so noisy neither, and then it’s a pleasant thing to set out on the stoop and smoke in the cool, ain’t it? I think,’ says I, ‘too, Minister, that that ’ere uncommon handsum cider of your’n desarves a pipe, what do you think?’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘I think myself a pipe wouldn’t be amiss, and I got some real good Varginny, as you e’enamost ever seed, a present from Rowland Randolph, an old college chum; and none the worse to my palate, Sam, for bringin’ bygone recollections with it. Phoebe, my dear,’ said he to his darter, ‘bring the pipes and tobacco.’ As soon as the old gentleman fairly got a pipe in his mouth, I give Phoebe a wink, as much as to say, warn’t that well done? That’s what I call a most particular handsum fix. He can talk now (and that I do like to hear him do), but he can’t make a speech, or preach a sarmon, and that I don’t like to hear him do, except on Sabbath day, or up to Town Hall, on oration times.
“Minister was an uncommon pleasant man—for there was nothin’ a’most he didn’t know—except when he got his dander up, and then he did spin out his yarns for everlastinly.
“But I’m of his opinion. If the folks here want their country to go ahead, they must honour the plough; and General Campbell ought to hammer that ’ere into their noddles, full chisel, as hard as he can drive. I could larn him somethin’, I guess, about hammerin’ he ain’t up to. It ain’t every one that knows how to beat a thing into a man’s head. How could I have sold so many thousand clocks, if I hadn’t had that knack? Why, I wouldn’t have sold half a dozen, you may depend.
“Agriculture is not only neglected but degraded here. What a number of young folks there seem to be in these parts, a-ridin’ about, titivated out real jam, in their go-to-meetin’ clothes, a-doin’ nothin’. It’s melancholy to think on it. That’s the effect of the last war. The idleness and extravagance of those times took root, and bore fruit abundantly, and now the young people are above their business. They are too high in the instep, that’s a fact.
“Old Drivvle, down here to Maccan, said to me one day, ‘For gracious sake,’ says he, ‘Mr. Slick, do tell me what I shall do with Johnny. His mother sets great store by him, and thinks he’s the makin’s of a considerable smart man; he’s growin up fast now, and I am pretty well to do in the world, and reasonable forehanded, but I don’t know what the dogs to put him to. The lawyers are like spiders—they’ve eat up all the flies, and I guess they’ll have to eat each other soon, for there’s more on ’em than causes now every court. The Doctors’ trade is a poor one, too, they don’t get barely cash enough to pay for their medicines; I never seed a country practitioner yet that made anything worth speakin’ of. Then, as for preachin’, why church and dissenters are pretty much tarred with the same stick, they live in the same pastur’ with their flocks; and, between ’em, it’s fed down pretty close I tell you. What would you advise me to do with him?’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘I’ll tell you if you won’t be miffy with me.’ ‘Miffy with you indeed,’ said he, ‘I guess I’ll be very much obliged to you; it ain’t every day one gets a chance to consult with a person of your experience; I count it quite a privilege to have the opinion of such an understandin’ man as you be.’ ‘Well,’ says I, ‘take a stick and give him a real good quiltin’; jist tantune him like blazes, and set him to work. What does the critter want? You have a good farm for him, let him go and airn his bread; and when he can raise that, let him get a wife to make butter for it; and when he has more of both than he wants, let him sell ’em and lay up his money, and he will soon have his bread buttered on both sides. Put him to, eh! why put him to the PLOUGH, the most nateral, the most happy, the most innocent, and the host healthy employment in the world.’ ‘But,’ said the old man (and he did not look over half pleased), markets are so confounded dull, labour so high, and the banks and great folks a-swallerin’ all up so, there don’t seem much encouragement for farmers; it’s hard rubbin’, nowadays, to live by the plough—he’ll be a hard workin’ poor man all his days.’ ‘Oh!’ says I, ‘if he wants to get rich by farmin’, he can do that, too. Let him sell his wheat, and eat his oatmeal and rye; send his beef, mutton and poultry to market, and eat his pork and potatoes; make his own cloth, weave his own linen, and keep out of shops, and he’ll soon grow rich—there are more fortin’s got by savin’ than by makin’, I guess, a plaguy sight—he can’t eat his cake and have it too, that’s a fact. No, make a farmer of him, and you will have the satisfaction of seeing him an honest, an independent, and a respectable member of society—more honest than traders, more independent than professional men, and more respectable than either.’
“‘Ahem!’ says Marm Drivvle, and she began to clear her throat for action; she slumped down her knittin’, and clawed off her spectacles, and looked right straight at me, so as to take good aim. I seed a regular nor’wester a-brewin’, I knew it would bust somewhere sartin, and make all smoke agin, so I cleared out and left old Drivvle to stand the squall. I conceit he must have had a tempestical time of it, for she had get her Ebenezer up, and looked like a proper sneezer. Make her Johnny a farmer, eh! I guess that was too much for the like o’ her to stomach.
“Pride, squire,” continued the Clockmaker (with such an air of concern, that, I verily believe, the man feels an interest in the welfare of a Province, in which he has spent so long a time), “Pride, Squire, and a false pride, too, is the ruin of this country, I hope I may be skinned if it ain’t.”