CHAPTER XI. COTTAGES.
On the tenth day after we landed at Liverpool, we arrived in London and settled ourselves very comfortably in lodgings at No. 202, Piccadilly, where every possible attention was paid to us by our landlord and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Weeks. We performed the journey in a post-chaise, fearing that the rapid motion of a rail car might have an unpleasant effect upon the health of Mr. Hope well.
Of the little incidents of travel that occurred to us, or of the various objects of attraction on the route, it is not my intention to give any account. Our journey was doubtless much like the journeys of other people, and every thing of local interest is to be found in Guide Books, or topographical works, which are within the reach of every body.
This book, however imperfect its execution may be, is altogether of another kind. I shall therefore pass over this and other subsequent journeys, with no other remark, than that they were performed, until something shall occur illustrative of the objects I have in view.
On this occasion I shall select from my diary a description of the labourer’s cottage, and the parish church; because the one shews the habits, tastes, and condition of the poor of this country, in contrast with that of America—and the other, the relative means of religious instruction, and its effect on the lower orders.
On the Saturday morning, while preparing to resume our journey, which was now nearly half completed, Mr. Hopewell expressed a desire to remain at the inn where we were, until the following Monday. As the day was fine, he said he should like to ramble about the neighbourhood, and enjoy the fresh air. His attention was soon drawn to some very beautiful new cottages.
“These,” said he, “are no doubt erected at the expense, and for the gratification of some great landed proprietor. They are not the abodes of ordinary labourers, but designed for some favoured dependant or aged servant. They are expensive toys, but still they are not without their use. They diffuse a taste among the peasantry—they present them with models, which, though they cannot imitate in costliness of material or finish, they can copy in arrangement, and in that sort of decoration, which flowers, and vines, and culture, and care can give. Let us seek one which is peculiarly the poor man’s cottage, and let us go in and see who and what they are, how they live, and above all, how they think and talk. Here is a lane, let us follow it, till we come to a habitation.”
We turned into a grass road, bounded on either side by a high straggling thorn hedge. At its termination was an irregular cottage with a thatched roof, which projected over the windows in front. The latter were latticed with diamond-shaped panes of glass, and were four in number, one on each side of the door and two just under the roof. The door was made of two transverse parts, the upper half of which was open. On one side was a basket-like cage containing a magpie, and on the other, a cat lay extended on a bench, dozing in the warmth of the sun. The blue smoke, curling upwards from a crooked chimney, afforded proof of some one being within.
We therefore opened a little gate, and proceeded through a neat garden, in which flowers and vegetables were intermixed. It had a gay appearance from the pear, apple, thorn and cherry being all in full bloom. We were received at the door by a middle-aged woman, with the ruddy glow of health on her cheeks, and dressed in coarse, plain, but remarkably neat and suitable, attire. As this was a cottage selected at random, and visited without previous intimation of our intention, I took particular notice of every thing I saw, because I regarded its appearance as a fair specimen of its constant and daily state.
Mr. Hopewell needed no introduction. His appearance told what he was. His great stature and erect bearing, his intelligent and amiable face, his noble forehead, his beautiful snow-white locks, his precise and antique dress, his simplicity of manner, every thing, in short, about him, at once attracted attention and conciliated favour.
Mrs. Hodgins, for such was her name, received us with that mixture of respect and ease, which shewed she was accustomed to converse with her superiors. She was dressed in a blue homespun gown, (the sleeves of which were drawn up to her elbows and the lower part tucked through her pocket-hole,) a black stuff petticoat, black stockings and shoes with the soles more than half an inch thick. She wore also, a large white apron, and a neat and by no means unbecoming cap. She informed us her husband was a gardener’s labourer, that supported his family by his daily work, and by the proceeds of the little garden attached to the house, and invited us to come in and sit down.
The apartment into which the door opened, was a kitchen or common room. On one side, was a large fire-place, the mantel-piece or shelf, of which was filled with brass candlesticks, large and small, some queer old-fashioned lamps, snuffers and trays, polished to a degree of brightness, that was dazzling. A dresser was carried round the wall, filled with plates and dishes, and underneath were exhibited the ordinary culinary utensils, in excellent order. A small table stood before the fire, with a cloth of spotless whiteness spread upon it, as if in preparation for a meal. A few stools completed the furniture.
Passing through this place, we were shewn into the parlour, a small room with a sanded floor. Against the sides were placed some old, dark, and highly polished chairs, of antique form and rude workmanship. The walls were decorated with several coloured prints, illustrative of the Pilgrim’s Progress and hung in small red frames of about six inches square. The fire-place was filled with moss, and its mantel-shelf had its china sheep and sheperdesses, and a small looking-glass, the whole being surmounted by a gun hung transversely. The Lord’s Prayer and the Ten Commandments worked in worsted, were suspended in a wooden frame between the windows, which had white muslin blinds, and opened on hinges, like a door. A cupboard made to fit the corner, in a manner to economise room, was filled with china mugs, cups and saucers of different sizes and patterns, some old tea-spoons and a plated tea-pot.
There was a small table opposite to the window, which Contained half a dozen books. One of these was large, handsomely bound, and decorated with gilt edged paper. Mr. Hopewell opened it, and expressed great satisfaction at finding such an edition of a bible in such a house. Mrs. Hodgins explained that this was a present from her eldest son, who had thus appropriated his first earnings to the gratification of his mother.
“Creditable to you both, dear,” said Mr. Hopewell: “to you, because it is a proof how well you have instructed him; and to him, that he so well appreciated and so faithfully remembered those lessons of duty.”
He then inquired into the state of her family, whether the boy who was training a peach-tree against the end of the house was her son, and many other matters not necessary to record with the same precision that I have enumerated the furniture.
“Oh, here is a pretty little child!” said he. “Come here, dear, and shake hands along with me. What beautiful hair she has! and she looks so clean and nice, too. Every thing and every body here is so neat, so tidy, and so appropriate. Kiss me, dear; and then talk to me; for I love little children. ‘Suffer them to come unto me,’ said our Master, ‘for of such is the kingdom of Heaven:’ that is, that we should resemble these little ones in our innocence.”
He then took her on his knee. “Can you say the Lord’s Prayer, dear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Very good. And the ten Commandments?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Who taught you?”
“My mother, Sir; and the parson taught me the Catechism.”
“Why, Sam, this child can say the Lord’s Prayer, the ten Commandments, and the Catechism. Ain’t this beautiful? Tell me the fifth, dear.”
And the child repeated it distinctly and accurately.
“Right. Now, dear, always bear that in mind, especially towards your mother. You have an excellent mother; her cares and her toils are many; and amidst them all, how well she has done her duty to you. The only way she can be repaid, is to find that you are what she desires you to be, a good girl. God commands this return to be made, and offers you the reward of length of days. Here is a piece of money for you. And now, dear,” placing her again upon her feet, “you never saw so old a man as me, and never will again; and one, too, that came from a far-off country, three thousand miles off; it would take you a long time to count three thousand; it is so far. Whenever you do what you ought not, think of the advice of the ‘old Minister.’”
Here Mr. Slick beckoned the mother to the door, and whispered something to her, of which, the only words that met my ear were “a trump,” “a brick,” “the other man like him ain’t made yet,” “do it, he’ll talk, then.”
To which she replied, “I have—oh yes, Sir—by all means.”
She then advanced to Mr. Hopewell, and asked him if he would like to smoke.
“Indeed I would, dear, but I have no pipe here.”
She said her old man smoked of an evening, after his work was done, and that she could give him a pipe and some tobacco, if he would condescend to use them; and going to the cupboard, she produced a long white clay pipe and some cut tobacco.
Having filled and lighted his pipe, Mr. Hopewell said, “What church do you go to, dear?”
“The parish church, Sir.”
“Right; you will hear Sound doctrine and good morals preached there. Oh this a fortunate country, Sam, for the state provides for the religious instruction of the poor. Where the voluntary system prevails, the poor have to give from their poverty, or go without; and their gifts are so small, that they can purchase but little. It’s a beautiful system, a charitable system, a Christian system. Who is your landlord?”
“Squire Merton, Sir; and one of the kindest masters, too, that ever was. He is so good to the poor; and the ladies. Sir, they are so kind, also. When my poor daughter Mary was so ill with the lever, I do think she would have died but for the attentions of those young ladies; and when she grew better, they sent her wine and nourishing things from their own table. They will be so glad to see you. Sir, at the Priory. Oh, I wish you could see them!”
“There it is, Sam,” he continued “That illustrates what I always told you of their social system here. We may boast of our independence, but that independence produces isolation. There is an individuality about every man and every family in America, that gives no right of inquiry, and imposes no duty of relief on any one. Sickness, and sorrow, and trouble, are not divulged; joy, success, and happiness are not imparted. If we are independent in our thoughts and actions, so are we left to sustain the burden of our own ills. How applicable to our state is that passage of Scripture, ‘The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joy.’
“Now, look at this poor family; here is a clergyman provided for them, whom they do not, and are not even expected to pay; their spiritual wants are ministered to, faithfully and zealously, as we see by the instruction of that little child. Here is a friend upon whom they can rely in their hour of trouble, as the bereaved mother did on Elisha. ‘And she went up and laid her child that was dead on the bed of the man of God, and shut the door on him, and went out.’ And when a long train of agitation, mis-government, and ill-digested changes have deranged this happy country, as has recently been the case, here is an indulgent landlord, disposed to lower his rent or give further time for payment, or if sickness invades any of these cottages, to seek out the sufferer, to afford the remedies, and by his countenance, his kindness, and advice, to alleviate their trouble. Here it is, a positive duty arising from their relative situations of landlord and tenant. The tenants support the owner, the landlord protects the tenants: the duties are reciprocal.
“With us the duties, as far as Christian duties can be said to be optional, are voluntary; and the voluntary discharge of duties, like the voluntary support of religion, we know, from sad experience, to be sometimes imperfectly performed, at others intermitted, and often wholly neglected. Oh! it is a happy country this, a great and a good country; and how base, how wicked, how diabolical it is to try to set such a family as this against their best friends, their pastor and their landlord; to instil dissatisfaction and distrust into their simple minds, and to teach them to loathe the hand, that proffers nothing but regard or relief. It is shocking, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I often say, Sir,” said Mrs. Hodgins, “to my old man, to keep away from them Chartists.”
“Chartists! dear, who are they? I never heard of them.”
“Why, Sir, they are the men that want the five pints.”
“Five pints! why you don’t say so; oh! they are bad men, have nothing to do with them. Five pints! why that is two quarts and a half; that is too much to drink if it was water; and if any thing else, it is beastly drunkenness. Have nothing to do with them.”
“Oh! no, Sir, it is five points of law.”
“Tut—tut—tut! what have you got to do with law, my dear?”
“By gosh, Aunty,” said Mr. Slick, “you had better not cut that pie: you will find it rather sour in the apple sarce, and tough in the paste, I tell you.”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied, “but they are a unsettling of his mind. What shall I do? for I don’t like these night meetings, and he always comes home from ‘em cross and sour-like.”
“Well, I am sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Hopewell, “I wish I could see him; but I can’t, for I am bound on a journey. I am sorry to hear it, dear. Sam, this country is so beautiful, so highly cultivated, so adorned by nature and art, and contains so much comfort and happiness, that it resembles almost the garden of Eden. But, Sam, the Serpent is here, the Serpent is here beyond a doubt. It changes its shape, and alters its name, and takes a new colour, but still it is the Serpent, and it ought to be crushed. Sometimes it calls itself liberal, then radical, then chartist, then agitator, then repealer, then political dissenter, then anti-corn leaguer, and so on. Sometimes it stings the clergy, and coils round them, and almost strangles them, for it knows the Church is its greatest enemy, and it is furious against it. Then it attacks the peers, and covers them with its froth and slaver, and then it bites the landlord. Then it changes form, and shoots at the Queen, or her ministers, and sets fire to buildings, and burns up corn to increase distress; and, when hunted away, it dives down into the collieries, or visits the manufactories, and maddens the people, and urges them on to plunder and destruction. It’s a melancholy thing to think of; but he is as of old, alive and active, seeing whom he can allure and deceive, and whoever listens is ruined for ever.
“Stay, dear, I’ll tell you what I will do for you. I’ll inquire about these Chartists; and when I go to London, I will write a little tract so plain that any child may read it and understand it; and call it The Chartist, and get it printed, and I will send you one for your husband, and two or three others, to give to those whom they may benefit.
“And now, dear, I must go. You and I will never meet again in this world; but I shall often think of you, and often speak of you. I shall tell my people of the comforts, of the neatness, of the beauty of an English cottage. May God bless you, and so regulate your mind as to preserve in you a reverence for his holy word, an obedience to the commands of your Spiritual Pastor, and a respect for all that are placed in authority over you!”
“Well, it is pretty, too, is this cottage,” said Mr. Slick, as we strolled back to the inn, “but the handsumestest thing is to hear that good old soul talk dictionary that way, aint it? How nateral he is! Guess they don’t often see such a ‘postle as that in these diggins. Yes, it’s pretty is this cottage; but it’s small, arter all. You feel like a squirrel in a cage, in it; you have to run round and round, and don’t go forward none. What would a man do with a rifle here? For my part, I have a taste for the wild woods; it comes on me regular in the fall, like the lake fever, and I up gun, and off for a week or two, and camp out, and get a snuff of the spruce-wood air, and a good appetite, and a bit of fresh ven’son to sup on at night.
“I shall be off to the highlands this fall; but, cuss em, they hante got no woods there; nothin’ but heather, and thats only high enough to tear your clothes. That’s the reason the Scotch don’t wear no breeches, they don’t like to get ‘em ragged up that way for everlastinly, they can’t afford it; so they let em scratch and tear their skin, for that will grow agin, and trowsers won’t.
“Yes, it’s a pretty cottage that, and a nice tidy body that too, is Mrs. Hodgins. I’ve seen the time when I would have given a good deal to have been so well housed as that. There is some little difference atween that cottage and a log hut of a poor back emigrant settler, you and I know where. Did ever I tell you of the night I spent at Lake Teal, with old Judge Sandford?”
“No, not that I recollect.”
“Well, once upon a time I was a-goin’ from Mill-bridge to Shadbrooke, on a little matter of bisness, and an awful bad and lonely road it was, too. There was scarcely no settlers in it, and the road was all made of sticks, stones, mud holes, and broken bridges. It was een amost onpassible, and who should I overtake on the way but the Judge, and his guide, on horseback, and Lawyer Traverse a-joggin’ along in his gig, at the rate of two miles an hour at the fardest.
“‘Mornin,’ sais the Judge, for he was a sociable man, and had a kind word for every body, had the Judge. Few men ‘know’d human natur’ better nor he did, and what he used to call the philosophy of life. ‘I am glad to see you on the road, Mr. Slick, sais he, ‘for it is so bad I am afraid there are places that will require our united efforts to pass ‘em.’
“Well, I felt kinder sorry for the delay too, for I know’d we should make a poor journey on’t, on account of that lawyer critter’s gig, that hadn’t no more busness on that rough track than a steam engine had. But I see’d the Judge wanted me to stay company, and help him along, and so I did. He was fond of a joke, was the old Judge, and sais he,
“‘I’m afraid we shall illustrate that passage o’ Scriptur’, Mr. Slick,’ said he, ‘“And their judges shall be overthrown in stony places.” It’s jist a road for it, ain’t it?’
“Well we chattered along the road this way a leetle, jist a leetle faster than we travelled, for we made a snail’s gallop of it, that’s a fact; and night overtook us, as I suspected it would, at Obi Rafuse’s, at the Great Lake; and as it was the only public for fourteen miles, and dark was settin’ in, we dismounted, but oh, what a house it was!
“Obi was an emigrant, and those emigrants are ginerally so fond of ownin’ the soil, that like misers, they carry as much of it about ‘em on their parsons, in a common way, as they cleverly can. Some on ‘em are awful dirty folks, that’s a fact, and Obi was one of them. He kept public, did Obi; the sign said it was a house of entertainment for man and beast. For critters that ain’t human, I do suppose it spoke the truth, for it was enough to make a hoss larf, if he could understand it, that’s a fact; but dirt, wretchedness and rags, don’t have that effect on me.
“The house was built of rough spruce logs, (the only thing spruce about it), with the bark on, and the cracks and seams was stuffed with moss. The roof was made of coarse slabs, battened and not shingled, and the chimbly peeped out like a black pot, made of sticks and mud, the way a crow’s nest is. The winders were half broke out, and stopped up with shingles and old clothes, and a great bank of mud and straw all round, reached half way up to the roof, to keep the frost out of the cellar. It looked like an old hat on a dung heap. I pitied the old Judge, because he was a man that took the world as he found it, and made no complaints. He know’d if you got the best, it was no use complainin’ that the best warn’t good.
“Well, the house stood alone in the middle of a clearin’, without an outhouse of any sort or kind about it, or any fence or enclosure, but jist rose up as a toodstool grows, all alone in the field. Close behind it was a thick short second growth of young birches, about fifteen feet high, which was the only shelter it had, and that was on the wrong side, for it was towards the south.
“Well, when we alighted, and got the baggage off, away starts the guide with the Judge’s traps, and ups a path through the woods to a settler’s, and leaves us. Away down by the edge of the lake was a little barn, filled up to the roof with grain and hay, and there was no standin’ room or shelter in it for the hosses. So the lawyer hitches his critter to a tree, and goes and fetches up some fodder for him, and leaves him for the night, to weather it as he could. As soon as he goes in, I takes Old Clay to the barn, for it’s a maxim of mine always to look out arter number one, opens the door, and pulls out sheaf arter sheaf of grain as fast as I could, and throws it out, till I got a place big enough for him to crawl in.
“‘Now,’ sais I, ‘old boy,’ as I shot to the door arter him, ‘if that hole ain’t big enough for you, eat away till it is, that’s all.’
“I had hardly got to the house afore the rain, that had threatened all day, came down like smoke, and the wind got up, and it blew like a young hurricane, and the lake roared dismal; it was an awful night, and it was hard to say which was wus, the Storm or the shelter.
“‘Of two evils,’ sais I to the lawyer, ‘choose the least. It ain’t a bad thing to be well housed in a night like this, is it?’
“The critter groaned, for both cases was so ‘bad he didn’t know which to take up to defend, so he grinned horrid and said nothin’; and it was enough to make him grin too, that’s a fact. He looked as if he had got hold on a bill o’ pains and penalties instead of a bill of costs that time, you may depend.
“Inside of the house was three rooms, the keepin’ room, where we was all half circled round the fire, and two sleepin’ rooms off of it. One of these Obi had, who was a-bed, groanin’, coughin’, and turnin’ over and over all the time on the creakin’ bedstead with pleurisy; t’other was for the judge. The loft was for the old woman, his mother, and the hearth, or any other soft place we could find, was allocated for lawyer and me.
“What a scarecrow lookin’ critter old aunty was, warn’t she? She was all in rags and tatters, and though she lived ‘longside of the lake the best part of her emigrant life, had never used water since she was christened. Her eyes were so sunk in her head, they looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. Her hair was pushed back, and tied so tight with an eel-skin behind her head, it seemed to take the hide with it. I ‘most wonder how she ever shot to her eyes to go to sleep. She had no stockins on her legs, and no heels to her shoes, so she couldn’t lift her feet up, for fear of droppin’ off her slippers; but she just shoved and slid about as if she was on ice. She had a small pipe in her mouth, with about an inch of a stem, to keep her nose warm, and her skin was so yaller and wrinkled, and hard and oily, she looked jist like a dried smoked red herrin’, she did upon my soul.
“The floor of the room was blacker nor ink, because that is pale sometimes; and the utenshils, oh, if the fire didn’t purify ‘em now and ag’in, all the scrubbin’ in the world wouldn’t, they was past that. Whenever the door was opened, in run the pigs, and the old woman hobbled round arter them, bangin’ them with a fryin’ pan, till she seemed out o’ breath. Every time she took less and less notice of ‘em, for she was ‘most beat out herself, and was busy a gettin’ of the tea-kettle to bile, and it appeared to me she was a-goin’ to give in and let ‘em sleep with me and the lawyer, near the fire.
“So I jist puts the tongs in the sparklin’ coals and heats the eends on ‘em red hot, and the next time they comes in, I watches a chance, outs with the tongs, and seizes the old sow by the tail, and holds on till I singes it beautiful. The way she let go ain’t no matter, but if she didn’t yell it’s a pity, that’s all. She made right straight for the door, dashed in atween old aunty’s legs, and carries her out on her back, ridin’ straddle-legs like a man, and tumbles her head over heels in the duck pond of dirty water outside, and then lays down along side of her, to put the fire out in its tail and cool itself.
“Aunty took up the screamin’ then, where the pig left off; but her voice warn’t so good, poor thing! she was too old for that, it sounded like a cracked bell; it was loud enough, but it warn’t jist so clear. She came in drippin’ and cryin’ and scoldin’; she hated water, and what was wus, this water made her dirtier. It ran off of her like a gutter. The way she let out agin pigs, travellers and houses of entertainment, was a caution to sinners. She vowed she’d stop public next mornin’, and bile her kettle with the sign; folks might entertain themselves and be hanged to ‘em, for all her, that they might. Then she mounted a ladder and goes up into the loft-to change.
“‘Judge’ sais I, ‘I am sorry, too, I singed that pig’s tail arter that fashion, for the smell of pork chops makes me feel kinder hungry, and if we had ‘em, no soul could eat ‘em here in such a stye as this. But, dear me,’ sais I, ‘You’d better move, Sir; that old woman is juicy, and I see it a comin’ through the cracks of the floor above, like a streak of molasses.
“‘Mr. Slick,’ sais he, ‘this is dreadful. I never saw any thing so bad before in all this country; but what can’t be cured must be endured, I do suppose. We must only be good-natured and do the best we can, that’s all. An emigrant house is no place to stop at, is it? There is a tin case,’ sais he, ‘containin’ a cold tongue and some biscuits, in my portmanter; please to get them out. You must act as butler to-night, if you please; for I can’t eat any thing that old woman touches.’
“So I spreads one of his napkins on the table, and gets out the eatables, and then he produced a pocket pistol, for he was a sensible man was the judge, and we made a small check, for there warn’t enough for a feed.
“Arter that, he takes out a night-cap, and fits it on tight, and then puts on his cloak, and wraps the hood of it close over his head, and foldin’ himself up in it, he went and laid down without ondressin’. The lawyer took a stretch for it on the bench, with his gig cushions for a pillar, and I makes up the fire, sits down on the chair, puts my legs up on the jamb, draws my hat over my eyes, and folds my arms for sleep.
“‘But fust and foremost,’ sais I, ‘aunty, take a drop of the strong waters: arter goin’ the whole hog that way, you must need some,’ and I poured her out a stiff corker into one of her mugs, put some sugar and hot water to it, and she tossed it off as if she railly did like it.
“‘Darn that pig,’ said she, ‘it is so poor, its back is as sharp as a knife. It hurt me properly, that’s a fact, and has most broke my crupper bone.’ And she put her hand behind her, and moaned piteous.
“‘Pig skin,’ sais I, ‘aunty, is well enough when made into a saddle, but it ain’t over pleasant to ride on bare back that way,’ sais I, ‘is it? And them bristles ain’t quite so soft as feathers, I do suppose.’
“I thought I should a died a holdin’ in of a haw haw that way. Stifling a larf a’most stifles oneself, that’s a fact. I felt sorry for her, too, but sorrow won’t always keep you from larfin’, unless you be sorry for yourself. So as I didn’t want to offend her I ups legs agin to the jam, and shot my eyes and tried to go to sleep.
“Well, I can snooze through most any thin’, but I couldn’t get much sleep that night. The pigs kept close to the door, a shovin’ agin it every now and then, to see all was right for a dash in, if the bears came; and the geese kept sentry too agin the foxes; and one old feller would squake out “all’s well” every five minuts, as he marched up and down and back agin on the bankin’ of the house.
“But the turkeys was the wust. They was perched upon the lee side of the roof, and sometimes an eddy of wind would take a feller right slap off his legs, and send him floppin’ and rollin’ and sprawlin’ and screamin’ down to the ground, and then he’d make most as much fuss a-gettin’ up into line agin. They are very fond of straight, lines is turkeys. I never see an old gobbler, with his gorget, that I don’t think of a kernel of a marchin’ regiment, and if you’ll listen to him and watch him, he’ll strut jist like one, and say, ‘halt! dress!’ oh, he is a military man is a turkey cock: he wears long spurs, carries a stiff neck, and charges at red cloth, like a trooper.
“Well then a little cowardly good natured cur, that lodged in an empty flour barrel, near the wood pile, gave out a long doleful howl, now and agin, to show these outside passengers, if he couldn’t fight for ‘em, he could at all events cry for ‘em, and it ain’t every goose has a mourner to her funeral, that’s a fact, unless it be the owner.
“In the mornin’ I wakes up, and looks round for lawyer, but he was gone. So I gathers up the brans, and makes up the fire, and walks out. The pigs didn’t try to come in agin, you may depend, when they see’d me; they didn’t like the curlin’ tongs, as much as some folks do, and pigs’ tails kinder curl naterally. But there was lawyer a-standin’ up by the grove, lookin’ as peeked and as forlorn, as an onmated loon.
“‘What’s the matter of you, Squire?’ sais I. ‘You look like a man that was ready to make a speech; but your witness hadn’t come, or you hadn’t got no jury.’
“‘Somebody has stole my horse,’ said he.
“Well, I know’d he was near-sighted, was lawyer, and couldn’t see a pint clear of his nose, unless it was a pint o’ law. So I looks all round and there was his hoss, a-standin’ on the bridge, with his long tail hanging down straight at one eend, and his long neck and head a banging down straight at t’other eend, so that you couldn’t tell one from t’other or which eend was towards you. It was a clear cold mornin’. The storm was over and the wind down, and there was a frost on the ground. The critter was cold I suppose, and had broke the rope and walked off to stretch his legs. It was a monstrous mean night to be out in, that’s sartain.
“‘There is your hoss,’ sais I.
“‘Where?’ sais he.
“‘Why on the bridge,’ sais I; “he has got his head down and is a-lookin’ atween his fore-legs to see where his tail is, for he is so cold, I do suppose he can’t feel it.’
“Well, as soon as we could, we started; but afore we left, sais the Judge to me, ‘Mr. Slick,’ sais he, ‘here is a plaister,’ taking out a pound note, ‘a plaister for the skin the pig rubbed off of the old woman. Give it to her, I hope it is big enough to cover it.’ And he fell back on the bed, and larfed and coughed, and coughed and larfed, till the tears ran down his cheeks.
“Yes,” said Mr. Slick, “yes, Squire, this is a pretty cottage of Marm Hodgins; but we have cottages quite as pretty as this, our side of the water, arter all. They are not all like Obi Rafuses, the immigrant. The natives have different guess places, where you might eat off the floor a’most, all’s so clean. P’raps we hante the hedges, and flowers, and vines and fixin’s, and what-nots.”
“Which, alone,” I said, “make a most important difference. No, Mr. Slick’, there is nothing to be compared to this little cottage.
“I perfectly agree with you, Squire,” said Mr. Hopewell, “it is quite unique. There is not only nothing equal to it, but nothing of its kind at all like—an English cottage.”