The Attache; Or, Sam Slick In England(Fiscle Part-3) by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (english novels for beginners .txt) 📕

But What Is Still Worse,  He Overrates The Importance Of

The Opinions Of Others Regarding The States.

"He Has Been Reading That Foolish Book Of Cooper's

'Gleanings In Europe,' And Intends To Shew Fight,  He

Says. He Called My Attention,  Yesterday,  To This Absurd

Passage,  Which He Maintains Is The Most Manly And Sensible

Thing That Cooper Ever Wrote: 'This Indifference To The

Feelings Of Others,  Is A Dark Spot On The National Manners

Of England. The Only Way To Put It Down,  Is To Become

Belligerent Yourself,  By Introducing Pauperism,  Radicalism,

Ireland,  The Indies,  Or Some Other Sore Point. Like All

Who Make Butts Of Others,  They Do Not Manifest The Proper

Forbearance When The Tables Are Turned. Of This,  I Have

Had Abundance Of Proof In My Own Experience. Sometimes

Their Remarks Are Absolutely Rude,  And Personally Offensive,

As A Disregard Of One's National Character,  Is A Disrespect

To His Principles; But As Personal Quarrels On Such

Grounds Are To Be Avoided,  I Have Uniformly Retorted In

Kind,  If There Was The Smallest Opening For Such

Retaliation."

"Now,  Every Gentleman In The States Repudiates Such

Sentiments As These. My Object In Mentioning The Subject

To You,  Is To Request The Favour Of You,  To Persuade Sam

Not To Be Too Sensitive On These Topics; Not To Take

Offence,  Where It Is Not Intended; And,  Above All,  Rather

To Vindicate His Nationality By His Conduct,  Than To

Justify Those Aspersions,  By His Intemperate Behaviour.

But Here He Comes; I Shall Withdraw And Leave You Together."

Fortunately,  Mr. Slick Commenced Talking Upon A Topic,

Which Naturally Led To That To Which Mr. Hopewell Had

Wished Me To Direct His Attention.

"Well,  Squire," Said He,  "I Am Glad Too,  You Are A Goin'

To England Along With Me: We Will Take A Rise Out Of John

Bull,  Won't We?--We've Hit Blue-Nose And Brother Jonathan

Both Pretty Considerable Tarnation Hard,  And John Has

Split His Sides With Larfter. Let's Tickle Him Now,  By

Feeling His Own Short Ribs,  And See How He Will Like It;

We'll Soon See Whose Hide Is The Thickest,  Hisn Or Ourn,

Won't We? Let's See Whether He Will Say Chee,  Chee,  Chee,

When He Gets To The T'other Eend Of The Gun."

"What Is The Meaning Of That Saying?" I Asked. "I Never

Heard It Before."

"Why," Said He,  "When I Was A Considerable Of A Grown Up

Saplin Of A Boy To Slickville,  I Used To Be A Gunnin'

For Everlastinly Amost In Our Hickory Woods,  A Shootin'

Of Squirrels With A Rifle,  And I Got Amazin' Expart At

It. I Could Take The Head Off Of Them Chatterin' Little

Imps,  When I Got A Fair Shot At 'Em With A Ball,  At Any

Reasonable Distance,  A'most In Nine Cases Out Of Ten.

"Well,  One Day I Was Out As Usual,  And Our Irish Help

Paddy Burke Was Along With Me,  And Every Time He See'd

Me A Drawin' Of The Bead Fine On 'Em,  He Used To Say,

'Well,  You've An Excellent Gun Entirely,  Master Sam. Oh

By Jakers! The Squirrel Has No Chance With That Gun,

It's An Excellent One Entirely.'

"At Last I Got Tired A Hearin' Of Him A Jawin' So For

Ever And A Day About The Excellent Gun Entirely; So,  Sais

I,  'You Fool You,  Do You Think It's The Gun That Does It

_Entirely_ As You Say; Ain't There A Little Dust Of Skill

In It? Do You Think You Could Fetch One Down?'

"'Oh,  It's A Capital Gun Entirely,' Said He.

"'Well,' Said I,  'If It 'Tis,  Try It Now,  And See What

Sort Of A Fist You'll Make Of It.'

"So Paddy Takes The Rifle,  Lookin' As Knowin' All The

Time As If He Had Ever Seed One Afore. Well,  There Was

A Great Red Squirrel,  On The Tip-Top Of A Limb,  Chatterin'

Away Like Any Thing,  Chee,  Chee,  Chee,  Proper Frightened;

He Know'd It Warn't Me,  That Was A Parsecutin' Of Him,

And He Expected He'd Be Hurt. They Know'd Me,  Did The

Little Critters,  When They Seed Me,  And They Know'd I

Never Had Hurt One On 'Em,  My Balls Never Givin' 'Em A

Chance To Feel What Was The Matter Of Them; But Pat They

Didn't Know,  And They See'd He Warn't The Man To Handle

'Old Bull-Dog.' I Used To Call My Rifle Bull-Dog,  Cause

She Always Bit Afore She Barked.

"Pat Threw One Foot Out Astarn,  Like A Skullin' Oar,  And

Then Bent Forrards Like A Hoop,  And Fetched The Rifle

Slowly Up To The Line,  And Shot To The Right Eye. Chee,

Chee,  Chee,  Went The Squirrel. He See'd It Was Wrong.

'By The Powers!' Sais Pat,  'This Is A Left-Handed Boot,'

And He Brought The Gun To The Other Shoulder,  And Then

Shot To His Left Eye. 'Fegs!' Sais Pat,  'This Gun Was

Made For A Squint Eye,  For I Can't Get A Right Strait

Sight Of The Critter,  Either Side.' So I Fixt It For Him

And Told Him Which Eye To Sight By. 'An Excellent Gun

Entirely,' Sais Pat,  'But It Tante Made Like The Rifles

We Have.'

"Ain't They Strange Critters,  Them Irish,  Squire? That

Feller Never Handled A Rifle Afore In All His Born Days;

But Unless It Was To A Priest,  He Wouldn't Confess That

Much For The World. They Are As Bad As The English That

Way; They Always Pretend They Know Every Thing.

"'Come,  Pat,' Sais I,  'Blaze Away Now.' Back Goes The

Hind Leg Agin,  Up Bends The Back,  And Bull-Dog Rises

Slowly To His Shoulder; And Then He Stared,  And Stared,

Until His Arm Shook Like Palsy. Chee,  Chee,  Chee,  Went

The Squirrel Agin,  Louder Than Ever,  As Much As To Say,

'Why The Plague Don't You Fire? I'm Not A Goin' To Stand

Here All Day,  For You This Way,' And Then Throwin' His

Tail Over His Back,  He Jumped On To The Next Branch.

"'By The Piper That Played Before Moses!' Sais Pat,  'I'll

Stop Your Chee,  Chee,  Cheein' For You,  You Chatterin'

Spalpeen Of A Devil,  You'. So He Ups With The Rifle Agin,

Takes A Fair Aim At Him,  Shuts Both Eyes,  Turns His Head

Round,  And Fires; And "Bull-Dog," Findin' He Didn't Know

How To Hold Her Tight To The Shoulder,  Got Mad,  And Kicked

Him Head Over Heels,  On The Broad Of His Back. Pat Got

Up,  A Makin' Awful Wry Faces,  And Began To Limp,  To Show

How Lame His Shoulder Was,  And To Rub His Arm,  To See If

He Had One Left,  And The Squirrel Ran About The Tree

Hoppin' Mad,  Hollerin' Out As Loud As It Could Scream,

Chee,  Chee,  Chee.

"'Oh Bad Luck To You,' Sais Pat,  'If You Had A Been At

T'other Eend Of The Gun,' And He Rubbed His Shoulder

Agin,  And Cried Like A Baby,  'You Wouldn't Have Said

Chee,  Chee,  Chee,  That Way,  I Know.'

"Now When Your Gun,  Squire,  Was A Knockin' Over Blue-Nose,

And Makin' A Proper Fool Of Him,  And A Knockin' Over

Jonathan,  And A Spilin' Of His Bran-New Clothes,  The

English Sung Out Chee,  Chee,  Chee,  Till All Was Blue

Agin. You Had An Excellent Gun Entirely Then: Let's See

If They Will Sing Out Chee,  Chee,  Chee,  Now,  When We Take

A Shot At _Them_. Do You Take?" And He Laid His Thumb On

His Nose,  As If Perfectly Satisfied With The Application

Of His Story. "Do You Take,  Squire? You Have An Excellent

Gun Entirely,  As Pat Says. It's What I Call Puttin' The

Leake Into 'Em Properly. If You Had A Written This Book

Fust,  The English Would Have Said Your Gun Was No Good;

It Wouldn't Have Been Like The Rifles They Had Seen.

Lord,  I Could Tell You Stories About The English,  That

Would Make Even Them Cryin' Devils The Mississippi

Crocodiles Laugh,  If They Was To Hear 'Em."

"Pardon Me,  Mr. Slick," I Said,  "This Is Not The Temper

With Which You Should Visit England."

"What Is The Temper," He Replied With Much Warmth,  "That

They Visit Us In? Cuss 'Em! Look At Dickens; Was There

Ever A Man Made So Much Of,  Except La Fayette? And Who

Was Dickens? Not A Frenchman That Is A Friend To Us,  Not

A Native That Has A Claim On Us; Not A Colonist,  Who,

Though English By Name Is Still An American By Birth,

Six Of One And Half A Dozen Of T'other,  And Therefore A

Kind Of Half-Breed Brother. No! He Was A Cussed Britisher;

And What Is Wus,  A British Author; And Yet,  Because He

Was A Man Of Genius,  Because Genius Has The 'Tarnal Globe

For Its Theme,  And The World For Its Home,  And Mankind

For Its Readers,  And Bean't A Citizen Of This State Or

That State,  But A Native Of The Univarse,  Why We Welcomed

Him,  And Feasted Him,  And Leveed Him,  And Escorted Him,

And Cheered Him,  And Honoured Him,  Did He Honour Us? What

Did He Say Of Us When He Returned? Read His Book.

"No,  Don't Read His Book,  For It Tante Worth Readin'.

Has He Said One Word Of All That Reception In His Book?

That Book That Will Be Read,  Translated,  And Read Agin

All Over Europe--Has He Said One Word Of That Reception?

Answer Me That,  Will You? Darned The Word,  His Memory

Was Bad; He Lost It Over The Tafrail When He Was Sea-Sick.

But His Notebook Was Safe Under Lock And Key,  And The

Pigs In New York,  And The Chap The Rats Eat In Jail,  And

The Rough Man From Kentucky,  And The Entire Raft Of Galls

Emprisoned In One Night,  And The Spittin' Boxes And All

That Stuff,  Warn't Trusted To Memory,  It Was Noted Down,

And Printed.

"But It Tante No Matter. Let Any Man Give Me Any Sarce

In England,  About My Country,  Or Not Give Me The Right

_Po_-Sition In Society,  As Attache To Our Legation,  And,

As Cooper Says,  I'll Become Belligerent,  Too,  I Will,  I

Snore. I Can Snuff A Candle With A Pistol As Fast As

You Can Light It; Hang Up An Orange,  And I'll First Peel

It With Ball And Then Quarter It. Heavens! I'll Let

Daylight Dawn Through Some O' Their Jackets,  I Know.

"Jube,  You Infarnal Black Scoundrel,  You Odoriferous

Nigger You,  What's That You've Got There?"

"An Apple,  Massa."

"Take Off Your Cap And Put That Apple On Your Head,  Then

Stand Sideways By That Port-Hole,  And Hold Steady,  Or

You