No. XXXI Gulling a Bluenose
“I allot,” said Mr. Slick, “that the Bluenoses are the most gullible folks on the face of the airth—rigular soft horns, that’s a fact. Politics and such stuff set ’em a-gapin’, like children in a chimbley corner listenin’ to tales of ghosts, Salem witches, and Nova Scotia snowstorms; and while they stand starin’ and yawpin’ all eyes and mouth, they get their pockets picked of every cent that’s in ’em. One candidate chap says ‘Feller citizens, this country is goin’ to the dogs hand over hand; look at your rivers, you have no bridges; at your wild lands, you have no roads; at your treasury, you hain’t got a cent in it; at your markets, things don’t fetch nothin’; at your fish, the Yankees ketch ’em all. There’s nothin’ behind you but sufferin’, around you but poverty, afore you but slavery and death. What’s the cause of this unheerd of awful state of things, ay, what’s the cause? Why judges, and banks, and lawyers, and great folks, have swallered all the money. They’ve got you down, and they’ll keep you down to all etarnity, you and your posteriors arter you. Rise up like men, arouse yourselves like freemen, and elect me to the legislatur’, and I’ll lead on the small but patriotic band, I’ll put the big wigs through their facins, I’ll make ’em shake in their shoes, I’ll knock off your chains and make you free.’ Well, the goneys fall tu and elect him, and he desarts right away, with balls, rifle, powder, horn and all. HE PROMISED TOO MUCH.
“Then comes a real good man, and an everlastin’ fine preacher, a most a special spiritual man; renounces the world, the flesh, and the devil, preaches and prays day and night, so kind to the poor, and so humble, he has no more pride than a babe, and so short-handed he’s no butter to his bread—all self denial, mortifyin’ the flesh. Well, as soon as he can work it, he marries the richest gal in all his flock, and then his bread is buttered on both sides. HE PROMISED TOO MUCH.
“Then comes a doctor, and a prime article he is too, ‘I’ve got,’ says he, ‘a screw auger emetic and hot crop, and if I can’t cure all sorts o’ things in natur’ my name ain’t Quack.’ Well, he turns stomach and pocket, both inside out, and leaves poor Bluenose—a dead man. HE PROMISED TOO MUCH.
“Then comes a lawyer, an honest lawyer too, a real wonder under the sun, as straight as a shingle in all his dealin’s. He’s so honest he can’t bear to hear tell of other lawyers; he writes agin ’em, raves agin ’em, votes agin ’em, they are all rogues but him. He’s jist the man to take a case in hand, ’cause HE will see justice done. Well, he wins his case, and fobs all for costs, ’cause he’s sworn to see justice done to—himself. HE PROMISED TOO MUCH.
“Then comes a Yankee Clockmaker” (and here Mr. Slick looked up and smiled), “with his ‘soft sawder,’ and ‘human natur’,’ and he sells clocks warranted to run from July to Etarnity, stoppages included, and I must say they do run as long as—as long as wooden clocks commonly do, that’s a fact. But I’ll show you presently how I put the leak into ’em, for here’s a feller a little bit ahead on us, whose flint I’ve made up my mind to fix this while past.” Here we were nearly thrown out of the wagon by the breaking down of one of those small wooden bridges, which prove so annoying and so dangerous to travellers. “Did you hear that ’ere snap?” said he; “well, as sure as fate, I’ll break my clocks over them ’ere etarnal log bridges, if Old Clay clips over them arter that fashion. Them ’ere poles are plaguy treacherous, they are jist like old Marm Patience Doesgood’s teeth, that keeps the great United Independent Democratic Hotel, at Squaw Neck Creek, in Massachusetts—one half gone, and t’other half rotten eends.”
“I thought you had disposed of your last clock,” said I, “at Colchester, to Deacon Flint.”
“So I did,” he replied, “the last one I had to sell to HIM, but I got a few left for other folks yet. Now there is a man on this road, one Zeb Allen, a real genuINE skinflint, a proper close-fisted customer as you’ll a’most see anywhere, and one that’s not altogether the straight thing in his dealin’ neither. He don’t want no one to live but himself; and he’s mighty handsum to me, sayin’ my clocks are all a cheat, and that we ruinate the country, a-drainin’ every drop of money out of it, a-callin’ me a Yankee broom and what not. But it ain’t all jist Gospel that he says. Now I’ll put a clock on him afore he knows it, I’ll go right into him as slick as a whistle, and play him to the eend of my line like a trout. I’ll have a hook in his gills, while he’s a-thinkin’ he’s only smellin’ at the bait. There he is now, I’ll be darned if he ain’t, standin’ afore his shop door, lookin’ as strong as high proof Jamaiky; I guess I’ll whip it out o’ the bung while he’s a-lookin’ arter the spicket, and p’r’aps he’ll be none o’ the wiser till he finds it out, neither.”
“Well, Squire, how do you do,” said he, “how’s all at home?”
“Reasonable well, I give you thanks, won’t you alight?”
“Can’t today,” said Mr. Slick, “I’m in a considerable of a hurry to katch the packet, have you any commands for Sou’west? I’m goin’ to the Island, and across the Bay to Windsor. Any word that way?”
“No,” says Mr. Allen, “none that I can think on, unless it be to enquire how butter’s goin’; they tell me cheese is down, and proDUCE of all kind particular dull this fall.”
“Well, I’m glad I can tell you that question,” said Slick, “for I don’t calculate to return to these parts; butter is risin’ a cent or two; I put mine off mind at tenpence.”
“Don’t return! possible? why, how you talk. Have you done with the clock trade?”
“I guess I have, it ain’t worth follerin’ now.”
“Most time,” said the other, laughing, “for by all accounts the clocks warn’t worth havin’, and most infarnal dear too, folks begin to get their eyes open.”
“It warn’t needed in your case,” said Mr. Slick, with that peculiarly composed manner, that indicates suppressed feeling, “for you were always wide awake; if all the folks had cut their eye-teeth as airly as you did, their’d be plaguy few clocks sold in these parts, I reckon; but you are right, Squire, you may say that, they actilly were NOT worth havin’, and that’s the truth. The fact is,” said he, throwing down his reins, and affecting a most confidential tone, “I felt almost ashamed of them myself; I tell you. The long and short of the matter is jist this: they don’t make no good ones nowadays, no more, for they calculate ’em for shippin’ and not for home use. I was all struck up of a heap when I seed the last lot I got from the States; I was properly bit by them, you may depend—they didn’t pay cost, for I couldn’t recommend them with a clear conscience, and I must say I do like a fair deal, for I’m strait up and down, and love to go right ahead, that’s a fact. Did you ever see them I fetched when I first came, them I sold over the Bay?”
“No,” said Mr. Allen, “I can’t say I did.”
“Well,” continued he, “they WERE a prime article, I tell you, no mistake there, fit for any market, it’s generally allowed there ain’t the beat of them to be found anywhere. If you want a clock, and can lay your hands on one of them, I advise you not to let go the chance; you’ll know ’em by the ‘Lowell’ mark, for they were all made at Judge Beler’s factory, Squire Shepody, down to Five Islands, axed me to get him one, and a special job I had of it, near about more sarch arter it than it was worth; but I did get him one, and a particular handsome one it is, copal’d and gilt superior. I guess it’s worth ary half dozen in these parts, let t’others be where they may. If I could a got supplied with the like o’ them, I could a made a grand spec out of them, for they took at once, and went off quick.”
“Have you got it with you?” said Mr. Allen, “I should like to see it.”
“Yes, I have it here, all done up in tow, as snug as a bird’s egg, to keep it from jarrin’, for it hurts ’em consumedly to jolt ’em over them ’ere etarnal wooden bridges. But it’s no use to take it out, it ain’t for sale; it’s bespoke, and I wouldn’t take the same trouble to get another for twenty dollars. The only one that I know of that there’s any chance of gettin’, is one that Increase Crane has up to Wilmot, they say he’s a-sellin’ off.”
After a good deal of persuasion, Mr. Slick unpacked the clock, but protested against his asking for it, for it was not for sale. It was then exhibited, every part explained and praised, as new in invention and perfect in workmanship. Now Mr. Allen had a very exalted opinion of Squire Shepody’s taste, judgment, and saving knowledge; and, as it was the last and only chance of getting a clock of such superior quality, he offered to take it at the price the Squire was to have it, at seven pounds ten shillings. But Mr. Slick vowed he couldn’t part with it at no rate, he didn’t know where he could get the like agin (for he warn’t quite sure about Increase Crane’s), and the Squire would be confounded disappointed; he couldn’t think of it. In proportion to the difficulties, rose the ardour of Mr. Allen; his offers advanced to eight pounds, to eight pounds ten shillings, to nine pounds.
“I vow,” said Mr. Slick, “I wish I hadn’t let on that I had it at all. I don’t like to refuse you, but where am I to get the like?” After much discussion of a similar nature, he consented to part with the clock, though with great apparent reluctance, and pocketed the money with a protest that, cost what it would, he should have to procure another, for he couldn’t think of putting the Squire’s pipe out arter that fashion, for he was a very clever man, and as fair as a boot jack.
“Now,” said Mr. Slick, as we proceeded on our way, “that ’ere feller is properly sarved, he got the most inferior article I had, and I jist doubled the price on him. It’s a pity he should be a-tellin’ of lies of the Yankees all the time; this will help him now to a little grain of truth.” Then mimicking his voice and manner, he repeated Allen’s words with a strong nasal twang, “‘Most time for you to give over the clock trade, I guess, for by all accounts they ain’t worth havin’, and most infarnel dear too; folks begin to get their eyes open.’ Better for you, if you’d a had your’n open, I reckon; a joke is a joke, but I consait you’ll find that no joke. The next time you tell stories about Yankee peddlers, put the wooden clock in with the wooden punkin seeds, and hickory hams, will you? The Bluenoses, Squire, are all like Zeb Allen; they think they know everything, but they get gulled from year’s eend to year’s eend. They expect too much from others, and do too little for themselves. They actilly expect the sun to shine, and the rain to fall, through their little House of Assembly. ‘What have you done for us?’ they keep axin’ their members. ‘Who did you spunk up to last Session?’ jist as if all legislation consisted in attackin’ some half dozen puss proud folks at Halifax, who are jist as big noodles as they be themselves. You hear nothin’ but politics, politics, politics, one everlastin’ sound of give, give, give. If I was Governor I’d give ’em the butt eend of my mind on the subject, I’d crack their pates till I let some light in ’em, if it was me, I know. I’d say to the members, don’t come down here to Halifax with your long lockrums about politics, makin’, a great touss about nothin’; but open the country, foster agricultur’, encourage trade, incorporate companies, make bridges, facilitate conveyance, and above all things make a railroad from Windsor to Halifax; and mind what I tell you now—write it down for fear you should forget it, for it’s a fact; and if you don’t believe me, I’ll lick you till you do, for there ain’t a word of a lie in it, by gum—ONE SUCH WORK AS THE WINDSOR BRIDGE IS WORTH ALL YOUR LAWS, VOTES, SPEECHES AND RESOLUTIONS, FOR THE LAST TEN YEARS, IF TIED UP AND PUT INTO A MEAL BAG TOGETHER. IF IT AIN’T, I HOPE I MAY BE SHOT!”