Nature and Human Nature

by Thomas Chandler Haliburton

Mother used to say, “Sam, your head is always a woolgathering.”

“I am glad of it,” says I, “marm.”

“Why, Sam,” she’d say, “why, what on earth do you mean?”

“Because, marm,” I’d reply, “a head that’s alway a gathering will get well stored at last.”

“Do get out,” the dear old soul would say, “I do believe, in my heart, you are the most nimpent (impudent), idlest, good-for-nothingest boy in the world. Do get along.”

But she was pleased, though, after all; for women do like to repeat little things like them, that their children say, and ask other people, who don’t hear a word, or if they do, only go right off and laugh at ’em: “Ain’t that proper ‘cute now? Make a considerable smart man when he is out of his time, and finished his broughtens up, won’t he?”

Well, arter the archery meeting was over, and the congregation disparsed, who should I find myself a walkin’ down to the lake with but Jessie? How it was, I don’t know, for I warn’t a lookin’ for her, nor she for me; but so it was. I suppose it is human natur, and that is the only way I can account for it. Where there is a flower, there is the bee; where the grass is sweet, there is the sheep; where the cherry is ripe, there is the bird; and where there is a gall, especially if she is pretty, there it is likely I am to be found also. Yes, it must be natur. Well, we walked, or rather, strolled off easy. There are different kinds of gaits, and they are curious to observe; for I consait sometimes I can read a man’s character in his walk. The child trots; the boy scarcely touches the ground with his feet, and how the plague he wears his shoes out so fast I don’t know. Perhaps Doctor Lardner can tell, but I’ll be hanged if I can, for the little critter is so light, he don’t even squash the grass. The sailor waddles like a duck, and gives his trousers a jerk to keep them from going down the masts (his legs) by the run; a sort of pull at the main-brace. The soldier steps solemn and formal, as if the dead march in Saul was a playin’. A man and his wife walk on different sides of the street; he sneaks along head down, and she struts head up, as if she never heard the old proverb, “Woe to the house where the hen crows.” They leave the carriage-way between them, as if they were afraid their thoughts could be heard. When meetin’ is out, a lover lags behind, as if he had nothin’ above particular to do but to go home; and he is in no hurry to do that, for dinner won’t be ready this hour. But, as soon as folks are dodged by a blue bonnet with pink ribbons ahead, he pulls foot like a lamplighter, and is up with the gall that wears it in no time, and she whips her arms in hisn, and they saunter off, to make the way as long as possible. She don’t say, “Peeowerful sermon that, warn’t it?” and he don’t reply, “I heerd nothin’ but the text, ‘Love one another.’” Nor does he squeeze her arm with his elbow, nor she pinch his with her little blue-gloved fingers. Watch them after that, for they go so slow, they almost crawl, they have so much to say, and they want to make the best of their time; and besides, walking fast would put them out of breath.

The articled-clerk walks the streets with an air as much like a military man as he can; and it resembles it almost as much as electrotype ware does silver. He tries to look at ease, though it is a great deal of trouble; but he imitates him to a hair in some things, for he stares impudent at the galls, has a cigar in his mouth, dresses snobbishly, and talks of making a book at Ascot. The young lawyer struts along in his seven-league boots, has a white-bound book in one hand, and a parcel of papers, tied with red tape, in the other. He is in a desperate hurry, and as sure as the world, somebody is a dying, and has sent for him to make his will. The Irish priest walks like a warder who has the keys. There is an air of authority about him. He puts his cane down on the pavement hard, as much as to say, Do you hear that, you spalpeen? He has the secrets of all the parish in his keeping; but they are other folk’s secrets, and not his own, and of course, so much lighter to carry, it don’t prevent him looking like a jolly fellow, as he is, arter all. The high-churchman has an M. B. waistcoat on, is particular about his dress, and walks easy, like a gentleman, looks a little pale about the gills, like a student; but has the air of a man that wanted you to understand—I am about my work, and I would have you to know I am the boy to do it, and do it too without a fuss. If he meets a bishop, he takes his hat off, for he admits his authority. If a beggar accosts him, he slips some charity in his hands, and looks scared lest he should be seen.

The low-churchman hates the M. B. vestment, it was him who christened it. He is a dab at nick-names. He meant it to signify the Mark of the Beast. He likes the broad-brimmed beaver, it’s more like a quaker, and less like a pope. It is primitive. He looks better fed than the other, and in better care. Preachin’ he finds in a general way easier than practice. Watch his face as he goes along, slowly and solemncoly through the street. He looks so good, all the women that see him say, “Ain’t he a dear man?” He is meekness itself. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He has no pride in him. If there is any, it ain’t in his heart at any rate. Perhaps there is a little grain in his legs, but it never got any higher. Sometimes, I suspect they have been touched with the frost, for the air of a dining-room is colder under the table than above it, and his legs do march stiff and formal like a soldier’s, but then, as he says, he is of the church militant. See what a curious expression of countenance he has when he meets his bishop. Read it, it says: “Now, my old Don, let us understand each other; you may ordain and confirm, but don’t you go one inch beyond that. No synods, no regeneration in baptism, no control for me; I won’t stand it. My idea is every clergyman is a bishop in his own parish, and his synod is composed of pious galls that work, and rich spinsters that give. If you do interfere, I will do my duty and rebuke those in high places. Don’t rile me, for I have an ugly pen, an ugly tongue, and an ugly temper, and nothing but my sanctity enables me to keep them under.” If he is accosted by a beggar, he don’t, like the other, give him money to squander, but he gives him instruction. He presents him with a tract. As he passes on, the poor wretch pauses and looks after him, and mutters—“Is it a prayer? most likely, for that tract must be worth something, for it cost something to print.”

Then there is the sectarian lay-brother. He has a pious walk, looks well to his ways lest he should stumble, and casting his eyes down, kills two birds with one stone. He is in deep meditation about a contract for a load of deals, and at the same time regards his steps, for the ways of the world are slippery. His digestion is not good, and he eats pickles, for the vinegar shows in his face. Like Jehu Judd, he hates “fiddling and dancing, and serving the devil,” and it is lucky he has a downcast look, for here come two girls that would shock him into an ague.