Nature and Human Nature

by Thomas Chandler Haliburton

“Doctor,” sais I, as we ascended the deck the following morning, “I can’t tell you how I have enjoyed these incidental runs on shore I have had during my cruise in the ‘Black Hawk.’ I am amazin’ fond of the country, and bein’ an early riser, I manage to lose none of its charms. I like to see the early streak in the east, and look on the glorious sky when the sun rises. I like everything about the country, and the people that live in it. The town is artificial, the country is natural. Whoever sees the peep of the morning in the city but a drowsy watchman, who waits for it to go to his bed? a nurse, that is counting the heavy hours, and longs to put out the unsnuffed candles, and take a cup of strong tea to keep her peepers open; or some houseless wretch, that is woke up from his nap on a door-step, by a punch in the ribs from the staff of a policeman, who begrudges the misfortunate critter a luxury he is deprived of himself, and asks him what he is a doin’ of there, as if he didn’t know he had nothin’ to do nowhere, and tells him to mizzle off home, as if he took pleasure in reminding him he had none. Duty petrifies these critters’ hearts harder than the grand marble porch stone that served for a couch, or the doorstep that was used for a pillow. Even the dogs turn in then, for they don’t think it’s necessary to mount guard any longer. Blinds and curtains are all down, and every livin’ critter is asleep, breathing the nasty, hot, confined, unwholesome air of their bed-rooms, instead of inhaling the cool dewy breeze of heaven.

“Is it any wonder that the galls are thin, and pale, and delicate, and are so languid, they look as if they were givin’ themselves airs, when all they want is air? or that the men complain of dyspepsy, and look hollow and unhealthy, having neither cheeks, stomach, nor thighs, and have to take bitters to get an appetite for their food, and pickles and red pepper to digest it? The sun is up, and has performed the first stage of his journey before the maid turns out, opens the front door, and takes a look up and down street, to see who is a stirrin’. Early risin’ must be cheerfulsome, for she is very chipper, and throws some orange-peel at the shopman of their next neighbour, as a hint if he was to chase her, he would catch her behind the hall-door, as he did yesterday, after which she would show him into the supper-room, where the liquors and cakes are still standing as they were left last night.

“Yes, she is right to hide, for it is decent, if it ain’t modest, seein’ the way she has jumped into her clothes, and the danger there is of jumping out of them again. How can it be otherwise, when she has to get up so horrid early? It’s all the fault of the vile milkman, who will come for fear his milk will get sour; and that beast, the iceman, who won’t wait, for fear his ice will melt; and that stupid nigger who will brush the shoes then, he has so many to clean elsewhere.

“As she stands there, a woman ascends the step, and produces a basket from under her cloak, into which she looks carefully, examines its contents (some lace frills, tippets, and collars of her mistress, which she wore a few nights ago at a ball), and returns with something heavy in it, for the arm is extended in carrying it, and the stranger disappears. She still lingers, she is expecting some one. It is the postman, he gives her three or four letters, one of which is for herself. She reads it approvingly, and then carefully puts it into her bosom, but that won’t retain it no how she can fix it, so she shifts it to her pocket. It is manifest Posty carries a verbal answer, for she talks very earnestly to him, and shakes hands with him at parting most cordially.

“It must be her turn for a ball to-night I reckon, for a carriage drives very rapidly to within three or four hundred yards of the house, and then crawls to the door so as not to disturb the family. A very fashionably-dressed maid is there (her mistress must be very kind to lend her such expensive head-gear, splendid jewelry, and costly and elegant toggery), and her beau is there with such a handsome moustache and becoming beard, and an exquisitely-worked chain that winds six or seven times round him, and hangs loose over his waistcoat, like a coil of golden cord. At a given signal, from the boss of the hack, who stands door in hand, the young lady gathers her clothes well up her drumsticks, and would you believe, two steps or springs only, like those of a kangaroo, take her into the house? It’s a streak of light, and nothing more. It’s lucky she is thin, for fat tames every critter that is foolish enough to wear it, and spoils agility.

“The beau takes it more leisurely. There are two epochs in a critter’s life of intense happiness, first when he doffs the petticoats, pantellets, the hermaphrodite rig of a child, and mounts the jacket and trowsers of a boy; and the other is when that gives way to a ‘long tail blue,’ and a beard. He is then a man.

“The beau has reached this enviable age, and as he is full of admiration of himself, is generous enough to allow time to others to feast their eyes on him. So he takes it leisurely, his character, like that charming girl’s, won’t suffer if it is known they return with the cats in the morning; on the contrary, women, as they always do, the little fools, will think more of him. They make no allowance for one of their own sex, but they are very indulgent, indeed they are both blind and deaf, to the errors of the other. The fact is, if I didn’t know it was only vindicating the honour of their sex, I vow I should think it was all envy of the gall who was so lucky, as to be unlucky; but I know better than that. If the owner of the house should be foolish enough to be up so early, or entirely take leave of his senses, and ask him why he was mousing about there, he flatters himself he is just the child to kick him. Indeed he feels inclined to flap his wings and crow. He is very proud. Celestina is in love with him, and tells him (but he knew that before) he is very handsome. He is a man, he has a beard as black as the ace of spades, is full dressed, and the world is before him. He thrashed a watchman last night, and now he has a drop in his eye, would fight the devil. He has succeeded in deceiving that gall, he has no more idea of marrying her than I have. It shows his power. He would give a dollar to crow, but suffers himself to be gently pushed out of the hall, and the door fastened behind him, amid such endearing expressions, that they would turn a fellow’s head, even after his hair had grown gray. He then lights a cigar, gets up with the driver, and looks round with an air of triumph, as much as to say—‘What would you give to be admired and as successful as I am?’ and when he turns the next corner, he does actilly crow.

“Yes, yes, when the cat’s away, the mice will play. Things ain’t in a mess, and that house a hurrah’s nest, is it? Time wears on, and the alternate gall must be a movin’ now, for the other who was at the ball has gone to bed, and intends to have her by-daily head-ache if inquired for. To-night it will be her turn to dance, and to-morrow to sleep, so she cuts round considerable smart. Poor thing, the time is not far off when you will go to bed and not sleep, but it’s only the child that burns its fingers that dreads the fire. In the mean time, set things to rights.

“The curtains are looped up, and the shutters folded back into the wall, and the rooms are sprinkled with tea-leaves, which are lightly swept up, and the dust left behind, where it ought to be, on the carpet,—that’s all the use there is of a carpet, except you have got corns. And then the Venetians are let down to darken the rooms, and the windows are kept closed to keep out the flies, the dust, and the heat, and the flowers brought in and placed in the stands. And there is a beautiful temperature in the parlour, for it is the same air that was there a fortnight before. It is so hot, when the young ladies come down to breakfast, they can’t eat, so they take nothing but a plate of buck-wheat cakes, and another of hot buttered rolls, a dozen of oysters, a pot of preserves, a cup of honey, and a few ears of Indian corn. They can’t abide meat, it’s too solid and heavy. It’s so horrid warm it’s impossible they can have an appetite, and even that little trifle makes them feel dyspeptic. They’ll starve soon; what can be the matter? A glass of cool ginger pop, with ice, would be refreshing, and soda water is still better, it is too early for wine, and at any rate it’s heating, besides being unscriptural.

“Well, the men look at their watches, and say they are in a hurry, and must be off for their counting-houses like wink, so they bolt. What a wonder it is the English common people call the stomach a bread-basket, for it has no meanin’ there. They should have called it a meat-tray, for they are the boys for beef and mutton. But with us it’s the identical thing. They clear the table in no time, it’s a grand thing, for it saves the servants trouble. And a steak, and a dish of chops, added to what the ladies had, is grand. The best way to make a pie is to make it in the stomach. But flour fixins piping hot is the best, and as their disgestion ain’t good, it is better to try a little of everything on table to see which best agrees with them. So down goes the Johnny cakes, Indian flappers, Lucy Neals, Hoe cakes—with toast, fine cookies, rice batter, Indian batter, Kentucky batter, flannel cakes, and clam fritters. Super-superior fine flour is the wholesomest thing in the world, and you can’t have too much of it. It’s grand for pastry, and that is as light and as flakey as snow when well made. How can it make paste inside of you and be wholesome? If you would believe some Yankee doctors you’d think it would make the stomach a regular glue pot. They pretend to tell you pap made of it will kill a baby as dead as a herring. But doctors must have some hidden thing to lay the blame of their ignorance on. Once when they didn’t know what was the matter of a child, they said it was water in the brain, and now when it dies—oh, they say, the poor thing was killed by that pastry flour. But they be hanged. How can the best of anything that is good be bad? The only thing is to be sure a thing is best, and then go a-head with it.