“Yes,” said he, “it is, and it is situated not far from Moore’s favourite tree, under whose shade he used to recline while writing his poetry, at a time when his deputy was equally idle, and instead of keeping his accounts, kept his money. Bermuda is a fatal place to poets. Moore lost his purse there, and Waller his favourite ring; the latter has been recently found, the former was never recovered. In one thing these two celebrated authors greatly resembled each other, they both fawned and flattered on the great.”
“Yes,” said Cutler, “and both have met their reward. Everybody regrets that anything was known of either, but his poetry—”
“Well,” sais I, “I am glad I am not an Englishman, or as true as the world, a chap like Lord John Russell would ruin me for ever. I am not a poet, and can’t write poetry, but I am a Clockmaker, and write common sense. Now a biographer like that man, that knows as little of one as he does of the other, would ruin me for everlastingly. It ain’t pleasant to have such a burr as that stick on to your tail, especially if you have no comb to get it off, is it? A politician is like a bee; he travels a zig-zag course every way, turnin’ first to the right and then to the left, now makin’ a dive at the wild honeysuckle, and then at the sweet briar; now at the buck-wheat blossom, and then at the rose; he is here and there and everywhere; you don’t know where the plague to find him; he courts all and is constant to none. But when his point is gained and he has wooed and deceived all, attained his object, and his bag is filled, he then shows plain enough what he was after all the time. He returns as straight as a chalk line, or as we say, as the crow flies to his home, and neither looks to the right or to the left, or knows or cares for any of them who contributed to his success. His object is to enrich himself and make a family name. A politician therefore is the last man in the world to write a biography. Having a kind of sneakin’ regard for a winding, wavy way himself, he sees more beauty in the in and out line of a Varginny fence, than the stiff straight formal post and rail one of New England. As long as a partizan critter is a thorn in the flesh of the adverse party, he don’t care whether he is Jew or Gentile. He overlooks little peccadilloes, as he calls the worst stories, and thinks everybody else will be just as indulgent as himself. He uses romanists, dissenters, republicans, and evangelicals at his own great log-rolling1 frollicks, and rolls for them in return.
1 Log-rolling.—In the lumber regions of Maine, it is customary for men of different logging camps to appoint days for helping each other in rolling the logs to the river after they are felled and trimmed, this rolling being about the hardest work incident to the business. Thus the men of three or four different camps will unite, say on Monday, to roll for camp No. 1, on Tuesday, for camp No. 2, on Wednesday, for camp No. 3, and so on through the whole number of camps within convenient distance of each other. The term has been adopted in legislation to signify a little system of mutual co-operation. For instance, a member from St Lawrence has a pet bill for a plank-road which he wants pushed through. He accordingly makes a bargain with a member from Onondaga, who is coaxing along a charter for a bank, by which St Lawrence agrees to vote for Onondaga’s bank if Onondaga will vote St Lawrence’s plank-road. This is legislative log-rolling, and there is abundance of it carried on at Albany every winter. Generally speaking, the subject of the log-rolling is some merely local project, interesting only to the people of a certain district; but sometimes there is party log-rolling, where the Whigs, for instance, will come to an understanding with the Democrats that the former shall not oppose a certain democratic measure merely on party grounds, provided the Democrats will be equally tender to some Whig measure in return.—J. INMAN.
“Who the plague hain’t done something, said something, or thought something he is sorry for, and prays may be forgot and forgiven; big brag as I am, I know I can’t say I haven’t over and over again offended. Well, if it’s the part of a friend to go and rake all these things up, and expose ’em to the public, and if it’s agreeable to my wife, sposin’ I had one, to have ’em published because the stained paper will sell, all I can sais is, I wish he had shown his regard for me by running away with my wife and letting me alone. It’s astonishing how many friends Moore’s disloyalty made him. A seditious song or a treasonable speech finds more favour with some people in the old country than building a church, that’s a fact. Howsomever, I think I am safe from him, for first, I am a Yankee, secondly, I ain’t married, thirdly, I am a Clockmaker, and fourthly, my biography is written by myself in my book, fifthly, I write no letters I can help, and never answer one except on business.”
“This is a hint father gave me: ‘Sam,’ said he, ‘never talk to a woman, for others may hear you; only whisper to her, and never write to her, or your own letters may rise up in judgment against you some day or another. Many a man afore now has had reason to wish he had never seen a pen in his life;’ so I ain’t afeard therefore that he can write himself up or me down, and make me look skuywoniky, no how he can fix it. If he does, we will declare war again England, and blow the little darned thing out of the map of Europe; for it ain’t much bigger than the little island Cronstadt is built on after all, is it? It’s just a little dot and nothin’ more, dad fetch my buttons if it is.
“But to go back to the grupers and the devil’s hole; I have been there myself and seen it, Doctor,” sais I, “but there is other fish besides these in it; there is the parrot-fish, and they are like the feminine gender too; if the grupers are fond of being tickled, parrots are fond of hearing their own voices. Then there is the angel-fish, they have fins like wings of a pale blue colour; but they must be fallen angels to be in such a place as that hole too, musn’t they? and yet they are handsome even now. Gracious! what must they have been before the fall! and how many humans has beauty caused to fall, Doctor, hasn’t it? and how many there are that the sound of that old song, ‘My face is my fortune, Sir, she said,’ would make their hearts swell till they would almost burst.
“Well, then there is another fish there, and those Mudians sartainly must have a good deal of fun in them, to make such a capital and comical assortment of queer ones for that pond. There is the lawyer-fish—can anything under the sun be more appropriate than the devil’s hole for a lawyer? What a nice place for him to hang out his shingle in, ain’t it? it’s no wonder his old friend the landlord finds him an office in it—rent free, is it? What mischief he must brood there; bringing actions of slander against the foolish parrot-fish that will let their tongues run, ticklin’ the grupers, and while they are smirking and smiling, devour their food, and prosecute the fallen angels for violating the Maine law and disturbing the peace. The devil’s hole, like Westminster Hall, is a dangerous place for a fellow of substance to get into, I can tell you; the way they fleece him is a caution to sinners.
“My dog fell into that fish-pond, and they nearly fixed his flint before I got him out, I tell you; his coat was almost stripped off when I rescued him.”
“Why, Mr Slick,” said the doctor, “what in the world took you to Bermuda?”