“Then you think the promises were not made to be sat on, Sam?” said I, feeling much diverted with Sam’s quaint way of putting things.
Sam settled the cream-jug and sugar-bowl before he answered.
“I’ll tell ye how it is, Miss. The promises was made to be lain on by weary, heavy-laden sinners that come for rest, and want to lay down both theirsels and their burden o’ sins on the Lord’s heart o’ love: but they were ne’er made for auld Jeshurun to sit on and wax fat, and kick the puir burdened creatures as they come toiling up the hill. Last time I was in Carlisle, I went to see a kinsman o’ mine there as has set up i’ the cabinet-making trade, and he showed me a balk o’ yon bonnie new wood as they ha’e getten o’er o’ late—the auld Vicar used to ha’e his dining-table on’t; it comes frae some outlandish pairts, and they call it a queer name; I canna just mind it the noo—I reckon I’m getting too auld to tak’ in new notions.”
“Mahogany?”
“Ay, maybe that’s it: I ken it minded me o’ mud and muggins. Atweel, my cousin tauld me they’d a rare call for siccan wood, and being vara costly, they’d hit o’ late in the trade on a new way o’ making furniture, as did nae come to sae mickle—they ca’ it veneer.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said I.
“Ay, ye’ll hae seen it i’ London toun, I daur say? all that’s bad’s safe to gang there.” I believe Sam thinks all Londoners a pack of thieves. “Atweel, Miss Cary, there’s a gran’ sicht o’ veneered Christians i’ this country. They look as spic-span, and as glossy, and just the richt shade o’ colour, and bonnily grained, and a’ that—till ye get ahint ’em, and then ye see that, saving a thin bit o’ facing, they’re just common deal, like ither folk. Ay, and it’s maistly the warst bits o’ the deal as is used up ahint the veneer. It is, sae! Ye see, ’tis no meant to last, but only to sell. And there’s a monie folks ’ll gi’e the best price for sic-like, and fancy they ha’e getten the true thing. But I’m thinkin’ the King ’ll no gi’e the price. His eyes are as a flame o’ fire, and they’ll see richt through siccan rubbish, and burn it up.”
“And Mr Liversedge, I suppose, is the real mahogany?”
“He is sae: and he’s a gey awkward way of seeing ahint thae bits o’ veneered stuff, and finding out they’re no worth the money. And they dinna like him onie better for ’t.”
“But I hope he does not make a mistake the other way, Sam, and take the real thing for the veneer?”