“Robinson!” cried Mr Steve, who was seated at the head of the table, and whose sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks told a tale that was far from difficult to read, “Robinson, the bottle is with you. What think you of the stuff? I paid thirty dollars a dozen for it at old Clintock’s sale, and I guess you’ll hardly match it in this country, if anywheres. Donald,” he continued, addressing a white-haired old Highland servant, who stood near, “heap more wood on the fire, and look active. Don’t stand and stare like the log figure on a tobacconist’s sign. Move your joints, I say.”
Donald hastened to do as he was told; but as he obeyed he muttered something in the Gaelic language, of which the following is a pretty fair translation.
“It is Donald’s own self that would like to put you on the fire. Truth told, and it is then.”
“Yes,” replied Robinson, a wealthy draper from London, “the wine is truly excellent, and if I were to speak the truth now, I’d say earnestly that I don’t think we could match it in our old country.”
“And after all, you know,” said a white-faced, meek young man, who sat near Mr Steve, “this country is vewy nearly worn out.”
“Oh! for the matter of that now,” said Steve, “America, above all countries for institooshuns, great armies, great navies—if we chose to build them—for tall mountains, broad lakes, big steamboats, and mighty rivers.”
“Heah! heah!” from several voices.
“England,” continued Steve, “is all very well to spend money in, ’cause you’re near the Continent, and can run ’most anywhere without the trouble of crossing much water. But I say America’s the country to make the money in.”
“Heah! heah!”
“And, after all, what, I ask, would England be without America?”