“It does not penetrate far into the country,” said the doctor, “and is by no means unhealthy—as it is of a different character altogether from the land fog. As an illustration however of its density, and of the short distance it rises from the water, I will tell you a circumstance to which I was an eyewitness. I was on the citadel hill at Halifax once, and saw the points of the masts of a mail-steamer above the fog, as she was proceeding up the harbour, and I waited there to ascertain if she could possibly escape George’s Island, which lay directly in her track, but which it was manifest her pilot could not discern from the deck. In a few moments she was stationary. All this I could plainly perceive, although the hull of the vessel was invisible. Some idea may be formed of the obscurity occasioned by the fog, from the absurd stories that were waggishly put abroad at the time of the accident. It was gravely asserted that the first notice the sentinel had of her approach, was a poke in the side from her jibboom, which knocked him over into the moat and broke two of his ribs, and it was also maintained with equal truth that when she came to the wharf it was found she had brought away a small brass gun on her bowsprit, into which she had thrust it like the long trunk of an elephant.”
“Well,” sais I, “let Halifax alone for hoaxes. There are some droll coves in that place, that’s a fact. Many a laugh have I had there, I tell you. But, Doctor,” sais I, “just listen to the noises on shore here at Chesencook. It’s a curious thing to hear the shout of the anxious mother to her vagrant boy to return, before night makes it too dark to find his way home, ain’t it? and to listen to the noisy gambols of invisible children, the man in the cloud bawling to his ox, as if the fog had affected their hearing instead of their sight, the sharp ring of the axe at the wood pile, and the barking of the dogs as they defy or salute each other. One I fancy is a grumbling bark, as much as to say, ‘No sleep for us, old boy, to-night, some of these coasters will be making love to our sheep as they did last week, if we don’t keep a bright look out. If you hear a fellow speak English, pitch right into the heretic, and bite like a snapping turtle. I always do so in the dark, for they can’t swear to you when they don’t see you. If they don’t give me my soup soon (how like a French dog that, ain’t it?) I’ll have a cod-fish for my supper to-night, off of old Jodry’s flakes at the other end of the harbour, for our masters bark so loud they never bite, so let them accuse little Paul Longille of theft.’ I wonder if dogs do talk, Doctor?” said I.
“There is no doubt of it,” he replied. “I believe both animals and birds have some means of communicating to each other all that is necessary for them—I don’t go further.”
“Well, that’s reasonable,” sais I; “I go that figure, too, but not a cent higher. Now there is a nigger,” sais I; and I would have given him a wink if I could, and made a jupe of my head towards Cutler, to show him I was a goin’ to get the captain’s dander up for fun; but what’s the use of a wink in a fog? In the first place, it ain’t easy to make one; your lids are so everlastin’ heavy; and who the plague can see you if you do? and if he did notice it, he would only think you were tryin’ to protect your peepers, that’s all. Well, a wink is no better nor a nod to a blind horse; so I gave him a nudge instead. “Now, there is the nigger, Doctor,” sais I, “do you think he has a soul?1 It’s a question I always wanted to ask Brother Eldad, for I never see him a dissectin’ of a darky. If I had, I should have known; for nature has a place for everything, and everything in it’s place.”
1 This very singular and inconsequential rhodomontade of Mr Slick is one of those startling pieces of levity that a stranger often hears from a person of his class in his travels on this side of the water. The odd mixture of strong religious feeling and repulsive looseness of conversation on serious subjects, which may here and there be found in his Diary, naturally results from a free association with persons of all or no creeds. It is the most objectionable trait in his character—to reject it altogether would be to vary the portrait he has given us of himself—to admit it, lowers the estimate we might otherwise be disposed to form of him; but, as he has often observed, what is the use of a sketch if it be not faithful?
“Mr Slick,” said Cutler.—he never called me Mr before, and it showed he was mad.—“do you doubt it?”
“No,” sais I, “I don’t; my only doubt is whether they have three?”
“What in the world do you mean?” said he.
“Well,” sais I, “two souls we know they have—their great fat splaw feet show that, and as hard as jackasses’ they are too; out the third is my difficulty; if they have a spiritual soul, where is it? We ain’t jest satisfied about its locality in ourselves. Is it in the heart, or the brain, or where does it hang out? We know geese have souls, and we know where to find them.”
“Oh, oh!” said Cutler.