“Well, that’s kind now, ain’t it?” he replied. “I suppose they thought I would feel kinder dull and melancholy like, on leaving my native land this way; and I must say I don’t feel jist altogether right neither. Ever so many things rise right up in my mind, not one arter another, but all together like, so that I can’t take ‘em one by one and reason ‘em down, but they jist overpower me by numbers. You understand me, Sam, don’t you?”
“Poor old critter!” said Mr. Slick to me in an under-tone, “it’s no wonder he is sad, is it? I must try to cheer him up, if I can. Understand you, minister!” said he, “to be sure I do. I have been that way often and often. That was the case when I was to Lowel factories, with the galls a taking of them off in the paintin’ line. The dear little critters kept up such an everlastin’ almighty clatter, clatter, clatter; jabber, jabber, jabber, all talkin’ and chatterin’ at once, you couldn’t hear no blessed one of them; and they jist fairly stunned a feller. For nothin’ in natur’, unless it be perpetual motion, can equal a woman’s tongue. It’s most a pity we hadn’t some of the angeliferous little dears with us too, for they do make the time pass quick, that’s a fact. I want some on ‘em to tie a night-cap for me to-night; I don’t commonly wear one, but I somehow kinder guess, I intend to have one this time, and no mistake.”
“A night-cap, Sam!” said he; “why what on airth do you mean?”
“Why, I’ll tell you, minister,” said he, “you recollect sister Sall, don’t you.”
“Indeed, I do,” said he, “and an excellent girl she is, a dutiful daughter, and a kind and affectionate sister. Yes, she is a good girl is Sally, a very good girl indeed; but what of her?”
“Well, she was a most a beautiful critter, to brew a glass of whiskey toddy, as I ever see’d in all my travels was sister Sall, and I used to call that tipple, when I took it late, a night-cap; apple jack and white nose ain’t the smallest part of a circumstance to it. On such an occasion as this, minister, when a body is leavin’ the greatest nation atween the poles, to go among benighted, ignorant, insolent foreigners, you wouldn’t object to a night-cap, now would you?”
“Well, I don’t know as I would, Sam,” said he; “parting from friends whether temporally or for ever, is a sad thing, and the former is typical of the latter. No, I do not know as I would. We may use these things, but not abuse them. Be temperate, be moderate, but it is a sorry heart that knows no pleasure. Take your night-cap, Sam, and then commend yourself to His safe keeping, who rules the wind and the waves to Him who—”
“Well then, minister, what a dreadful awful looking thing a night-cap is without a tassel, ain’t it? Oh! you must put a tassel on it, and that is another glass. Well then, what is the use of a night-cap, if it has a tassel on it, but has no string, it will slip off your head the very first turn you take; and that is another glass you know. But one string won’t tie a cap; one hand can’t shake hands along with itself: you must have two strings to it, and that brings one glass more. Well then, what is the use of two strings if they ain’t fastened? If you want to keep the cap on, it must be tied, that’s sartain, and that is another go; and then, minister, what an everlastin’ miserable stingy, ongenteel critter a feller must be, that won’t drink to the health of the Female Brewer. Well, that’s another glass to sweethearts and wives, and then turn in for sleep, and that’s what I intend to do to-night. I guess I’ll tie the night-cap this hitch, if I never do agin, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh Sam, Sam,” said Mr. Hopewell, “for a man that is wide awake and duly sober, I never saw one yet that talked such nonsense as you do. You said, you understood me, but you don’t, one mite or morsel; but men are made differently, some people’s narves operate on the brain sensitively and give them exquisite pain or excessive pleasure; other folks seem as if they had no narves at all. You understand my words, but you don’t enter into my feelings. Distressing images rise up in my mind in such rapid succession, I can’t master them, but they master me. They come slower to you, and the moment you see their shadows before you, you turn round to the light, and throw these dark figures behind you. I can’t do that; I could when I was younger, but I can’t now. Reason is comparing two ideas, and drawing an inference. Insanity is, when you have such a rapid succession of ideas, that you can’t compare them. How great then must be the pain when you are almost pressed into insanity and yet retain your reason? What is a broken heart? Is it death? I think it must be very like it, if it is not a figure of speech, for I feel that my heart is broken, and yet I am as sensitive to pain as ever. Nature cannot stand this suffering long. You say these good people have come to take their last farewell of me; most likely, Sam, it is a last farewell. I am an old man now, I am well stricken in years; shall I ever live to see my native land again? I know not, the Lord’s will be done! If I had a wish, I should desire to return to be laid with my kindred, to repose in death with those that were the companions of my earthly pilgrimage; but if it be ordered otherwise. I am ready to say with truth and meekness, ‘Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.’”
When this excellent old man said that, Mr. Slick did not enter into his feelings—he did not do him justice. His attachment to and veneration for his aged pastor and friend were quite filial, and such as to do honour to his head and heart. Those persons who have made character a study, will all agree, that the cold exterior of the New England man arises from other causes than a coldness of feeling; much of the rhodomontade of the attache, addressed to Mr. Hopewell, was uttered for the kind purpose of withdrawing his attention from those griefs which preyed so heavily upon his spirits.