CHAPTER X. AIMING HIGH.
“What do you intend to do, Squire, with your two youngest boys?” said Mr. Slick to me to-day, as we were walking in the Park.
“I design them,” I said, “for professions. One I shall educate for a lawyer, and the other for a clergyman.”
“Where?”
“In Nova Scotia.”
“Exactly,” says he. “It shews your sense; it’s the very place for ‘em. It’s a fine field for a young man; I don’t know no better one no where in the whole univarsal world. When I was a boy larnin’ to shoot, sais father to me, one day, ‘Sam,’ sais he, ‘I’ll give you a lesson in gunnin’ that’s worth knowin’. “Aim high,” my boy; your gun naterally settles down a little takin’ sight, cause your arm gets tired, and wabbles, and the ball settles a little while it’s a travellin’, accordin’ to a law of natur, called Franklin’s law; and I obsarve you always hit below the mark. Now, make allowances for these things in gunnin’, and “aim high,” for your life, always. And, Sam,’ sais he, ‘I’ve seed a great deal of the world, all military men do. ‘I was to Bunker’s Hill durin’ the engagement, and I saw Washington the day he was made President, and in course must know more nor most men of my age; and I’ll give you another bit of advice, “Aim high” in life, and if you don’t hit the bull’s eye, you’ll hit the “fust circles,” and that ain’t a bad shot nother.’
“‘Father,’ sais I, ‘I guess I’ve seed more of the world than you have, arter all.’
“‘How so, Sam?’ sais he.
“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘father, you’ve only been to Bunker’s Hill, and that’s nothin’; no part of it ain’t too steep to plough; it’s only a sizeable hillock, arter all. But I’ve been to the Notch on the White Mountain, so high up, that the snow don’t melt there, and seed five States all to once, and half way over to England, and then I’ve seed Jim Crow dance. So there now?’ He jist up with the flat of his hand, and gave me a wipe with it on the side of my face, that knocked me over; and as I fell, he lent me a kick on my musn’t-mention-it, that sent me a rod or so afore I took ground on all fours.
“‘Take that, you young scoundrel!’ said he, ‘and larn to speak respectful next time to an old man, a military man, and your father, too.’
“It hurt me properly, you may depend. ‘Why,’ sais I, as I picked myself up, ‘didn’t you tell me to “aim high,” father? So I thought I’d do it, and beat your brag, that’s all.’
“Truth is, Squire, I never could let a joke pass all my life, without havin’ a lark with it. I was fond of one, ever since I was knee high to a goose, or could recollect any thin’ amost; I have got into a horrid sight of scrapes by ‘em, that’s a fact. I never forgot that lesson though, it was kicked into me: and lessons that are larnt on the right eend, ain’t never forgot amost. I have “aimed high” ever since, and see where I be now. Here I am an Attache, made out of a wooden clock pedlar. Tell you what, I shall be “embassador” yet, made out of nothin’ but an “Attache,” and I’ll be President of our great Republic, and almighty nation in the eend, made out of an embassador, see if I don’t. That comes of “aimin’ high.” What do you call that water near your coach-house?”
“A pond.”
“Is there any brook runnin’ in, or any stream runnin’ out?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s the difference between a lake and a pond. Now, set that down for a traveller’s fact. Now, where do you go to fish?”
“To the lakes, of course; there are no fish in the ponds.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Slick, “that is what I want to bring you to; there is no fish in a pond, there is nothin’ but frogs. Nova Scotia is only a pond, and so is New Brunswick, and such outlandish, out o’ the way, little crampt up, stagnant places. There is no ‘big fish’ there, nor never can be; there ain’t no food for ‘em. A colony frog!! Heavens and airth, what an odd fish that is? A colony pollywog! do, for gracious sake, catch one, put him into a glass bottle full of spirits, and send him to the Museum as a curiosity in natur. So you are a goin’ to make your two nice pretty little smart boys a pair of colony frogs, eh? Oh! do, by all means.
“You’ll have great comfort in ‘em, Squire. Monstrous comfort. It will do your old heart good to go down to the edge of the pond on the fust of May, or thereabouts, accordin’ to the season, jist at sun down, and hear ‘em sing. You’ll see the little fellers swell out their cheeks, and roar away like young suckin’ thunders. For the frogs beat all natur there for noise; they have no notion of it here at all. I’ve seed Englishmen that couldn’t sleep all night, for the everlastin’ noise these critters made. Their frogs have somethin’ else to do here besides singin’. Ain’t it a splendid prospect that, havin’ these young frogs settled all round you in the same mud-hole, all gathered in a nice little musical family party. All fine fun this, till some fine day we Yankee storks will come down and gobble them all up, and make clear work of it.
“No, Squire, take my advice now for once; jist go to your colony minister when he is alone. Don’t set down, but stand up as if you was in airnest, and didn’t come to gossip, and tell him, ‘Turn these ponds into a lake,’ sais you, my lord minister, give them an inlet and an outlet. Let them be kept pure, and sweet, and wholesome, by a stream, runnin’ through. Fish will live there then if you put them in, and they will breed there, and keep up the stock. At present they die; it ain’t big enough; there ain’t room. If he sais he hante time to hear you, and asks you to put it into writin’, do you jist walk over to his table, take up his lignum vitae ruler into your fist, put your back to the door, and say ‘By the ‘tarnal empire, you shall hear me; you don’t go out of this, till I give you the butt eend of my mind, I can tell you. I am an old bull frog now; the Nova Scotia pond is big enough for me; I’ll get drowned if I get into a bigger one, for I hante got no fins, nothin’ but legs and arms to swim with, and deep water wouldn’t suit me, I ain’t fit for it, and I must live and die there, that’s my fate as sure as rates.’ If he gets tired, and goes to get up or to move, do you shake the big ruler at him, as fierce as a painter, and say, ‘Don’t you stir for your life; I don’t want to lay nothin’ on your head, I only want to put somethin’ in it. I am a father and have got youngsters. I am a native, and have got countrymen. Enlarge our sphere, give us a chance in the world.’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say, ‘this minute, Sir, or I’ll put you in charge of a policeman.’ ‘Let you out is it,’ sais you. ‘Oh! you feel bein’ pent up, do you? I am glad of it. The tables are turned now, that’s what we complain of. You’ve stood at the door, and kept us in; now I’ll keep you in awhile. I want to talk to you, that’s more than you ever did to us. How do you like bein’ shut in? Does it feel good? Does it make your dander rise?’ ‘Let me out,’ he’ll say agin, ‘this moment, Sir, how dare you.’ Oh! you are in a hurry, are you?’ sais you. ‘You’ve kept me in all my life; don’t be oneasy if I keep you in five minutes.’
“‘Well, what do you want then?’ he’ll say, kinder peevish; ‘what do you want?’ ‘I don’t want nothin’ for myself,’ sais you. ‘I’ve got all I can get in that pond; and I got that from the Whigs, fellers I’ve been abusin’ all my life; and I’m glad to make amends by acknowledging this good turn they did me; for I am a tory, and no mistake. I don’t want nothin’; but I want to be an Englishman. I don’t want to be an English subject; do you understand that now? If you don’t, this is the meanin’, that there is no fun in bein’ a fag, if you are never to have a fag yourself. Give us all fair play. Don’t move now,’ sais you, ‘for I’m gettin’ warm; I’m gettin’ spotty on the back, my bristles is up, and I might hurt you with this ruler; it’s a tender pint this, for I’ve rubbed the skin off of a sore place; but I’ll tell you a gospel truth, and mind what I tell you, for nobody else has sense enough, and if they had, they hante courage enough. If you don’t make Englishmen of us, the force of circumstances will make Yankees of us, as sure as you are born.’ He’ll stare at that. He is a clever man, and aint wantin’ in gumption. He is no fool, that’s a fact. ‘Is it no compliment to you and your institutions this?’ sais you. ‘Don’t it make you feel proud that even independence won’t tempt us to dissolve the connexion? Ain’t it a noble proof of your good qualities that, instead of agitatin’ for Repeal of the Union, we want a closer union? But have we no pride too? We would be onworthy of the name of Englishmen, if we hadn’t it, and we won’t stand beggin’ for ever I tell you. Here’s our hands, give us yourn; let’s be all Englishmen together. Give us a chance, and if us, young English boys, don’t astonish you old English, my name ain’t Tom Poker, that’s all.’ ‘Sit down,’ he’ll say, ‘Mr. Poker;’ there is a great deal in that; sit down; I am interested.’
“The instant he sais that, take your ruler, lay it down on the table, pick up your hat, make a scrape with your hind leg, and say, ‘I regret I have detained you so long, Sir. I am most peskily afraid my warmth has kinder betrayed me into rudeness. I really beg pardon, I do upon my soul. I feel I have smashed down all decency, I am horrid ashamed of myself.’ Well, he won’t say you hante rode the high hoss, and done the unhandsum thing, because it wouldn’t be true if he did; but he’ll say, ‘Pray be seated. I can make allowances, Sir, even for intemperate zeal. And this is a very important subject, very indeed. There is a monstrous deal in what you say, though you have, I must say, rather a peculiar, an unusual, way of puttin’ it.’ Don’t you stay another minit though, nor say another word, for your life; but bow, beg pardon, hold in your breath, that your face may look red, as if you was blushin’, and back out, starn fust. Whenever you make an impression on a man, stop; your reasonin’ and details may ruin you. Like a feller who sais a good thing, he’d better shove off, and leave every one larfin’ at his wit, than stop and tire them out, till they say what a great screw augur that is. Well, if you find he opens the colonies, and patronises the smart folks, leave your sons there if you like, and let ‘em work up, and work out of it, if they are fit, and time and opportunity offers. But one thing is sartain, the very openin’ of the door will open their minds, as a matter of course. If he don’t do it, and I can tell you before hand he won’t—for they actilly hante got time here, to think of these things—send your boys here into the great world. Sais you to the young Lawyer, ‘Bob,’ sais you, ‘“aim high.” If you don’t get to be Lord Chancellor, I shall never die in peace. I’ve set my heart on it. It’s within your reach, if you are good for anything. Let me see the great seal—let me handle it before I die—do, that’s a dear; if not, go back to your Colony pond, and sing with your provincial frogs, and I hope to Heaven the fust long-legged bittern that comes there will make a supper of you.”
“Then sais you to the young parson, ‘Arthur,’ sais you ‘Natur jist made you for a clergyman. Now, do you jist make yourself ‘Archbishop of Canterbury.’ My death-bed scene will be an awful one, if I don’t see you ‘the Primate’; for my affections, my hopes, my heart, is fixed on it. I shall be willin’ to die then, I shall depart in peace, and leave this world happy. And, Arthur,’ sais you, ‘they talk and brag here till one is sick of the sound a’most about “Addison’s death-bed.” Good people refer to it as an example, authors as a theatrical scene and hypocrites as a grand illustration for them to turn up the whites of their cold cantin’ eyes at. Lord love you, my son,’ sais you, ‘let them brag of it; but what would it be to mine; you congratulatin’ me on goin’ to a better world, and me congratulatin’ you on bein’ “Archbishop.” Then,’ sais you, in a starn voice like a boatsan’s trumpet—for if you want things to be remembered, give ‘em effect, “Aim high,” Sir,’ sais you. Then like my old father, fetch him a kick on his western eend, that will lift him clean over the table, and say ‘that’s the way to rise in the world, you young sucking parson you. “Aim high,” Sir.’
“Neither of them will ever forget it as long as they live. The hit does that; for a kick is a very striking thing, that’s a fact. There has been no good scholars since birch rods went out o’ school, and sentiment went in.”
“But you know,” I said, “Mr. Slick, that those high prizes in the lottery of life, can, in the nature of things, be drawn but by few people, and how many blanks are there to one-prize in this world.”
“Well, what’s to prevent your boys gettin’ those prizes, if colonists was made Christians of, instead of outlawed, exiled, transported, oncarcumcised heathen Indgean niggers, as they be. If people don’t put into a lottery, how the devil can they get prizes? will you tell me that. Look at the critters here, look at the publicans, taylors, barbers, and porters’ sons, how the’ve rose here, ‘in this big lake,’ to be chancellors and archbishops; how did they get them? They ‘aimed high,’ and besides, all that, like father’s story of the gun, by ‘aiming high,’ though they may miss the mark, they will be sure to hit the upper circles. Oh, Squire, there is nothing like ‘aiming high,’ in this world.”
“I quite agree with you, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell. “I never heard you speak so sensibly before. Nothing can be better for young men than “Aiming high.” Though they may not attain to the highest honours, they may, as you say, reach to a most respectable station. But surely, Squire, you will never so far forget the respect that is due to so high an officer as a Secretary of State, or, indeed, so far forget yourself as to adopt a course, which from its eccentricity, violence, and impropriety, must leave the impression that your intellects are disordered. Surely you will never be tempted to make the experiment?”
“I should think not, indeed,” I said. “I have no desire to become an inmate of a lunatic asylum.”
“Good,” said he; “I am satisfied. I quite agree with Sam, though. Indeed, I go further. I do not think he has advised you to recommend your boys to ‘aim high enough.’”
“Creation! said Mr. Slick, “how much higher do you want provincial frogs to go, than to be ‘Chancellor’ and ‘Primate?’
“I’ll tell you, Sam; I’d advise them to ‘aim higher’ than earthly honours. I would advise them to do their duty, in any station of life in which it shall please Providence to place them; and instead of striving after unattainable objects here, to be unceasing in their endeavours to obtain that which, on certain conditions, is promised to all hereafter. In their worldly pursuits, as men, it is right for them to ‘aim high;’ but as Christians, it is also their duty to ‘aim higher.’”