Who is there that on landing has not asked himself the question, “Is it possible that I am in England? It seems but as yesterday that I was in America, to-day I am in Europe. Is it a dream, or a reality?”
The river and the docks—the country and the town—the people and their accent—the verdure and the climate are all new to me. I have not been prepared for this; I have not been led on imperceptibly, by travelling mile after mile by land from my own home, to accustom my senses to the gradual change of country. There has been no border to pass, where the language, the dress, the habits, and outward appearances assimilate. There has been no blending of colours—no dissolving views in the retrospect—no opening or expanding ones in prospect. I have no difficulty in ascertaining the point where one terminates and the other begins.
The change is sudden and startling. The last time I slept on shore, was in America—to-night I sleep in England. The effect is magical—one country is withdrawn from view, and another is suddenly presented to my astonished gaze. I am bewildered; I rouse myself, and rubbing my eyes, again ask whether I am awake? Is this England? that great country, that world of itself; Old England, that place I was taught to call home par excellence, the home of other homes, whose flag, I called our flag? (no, I am wrong, I have been accustomed to call our flag, the flag of England; our church, not the Church of Nova Scotia, nor the Colonial nor the Episcopal, nor the Established, but the Church of England.) Is it then that England, whose language I speak, whose subject I am, the mistress of the world, the country of Kings and Queens, and nobles and prelates, and sages and heroes?
I have read of it, so have I read of old Rome; but the sight of Rome, Caesar and the senate would not astonish me more than that of London, the Queen and the Parliament. Both are yet ideal; the imagination has sketched them, but when were its sketches ever true to nature? I have a veneration for both, but, gentle reader, excuse the confessions of an old man, for I have a soft spot in the heart yet, I love Old England. I love its institutions, its literature, its people. I love its law, because, while it protects property, it ensures liberty. I love its church, not only because I believe it is the true church, but because though armed with power, it is tolerant in practice. I love its constitution, because it combines the stability of a monarchy, with the most valuable peculiarities of a republic, and without violating nature by attempting to make men equal, wisely follow its dictates, by securing freedom to all.
I like the people, though not all in the same degree. They are not what they were. Dissent, reform and agitation have altered their character. It is necessary to distinguish. A real Englishman is generous, loyal and brave, manly in his conduct and gentlemanly in his feeling. When I meet such a man as this, I cannot but respect him; but when I find that in addition to these good qualities, he has the further recommendation of being a churchman in his religion and a tory in his politics, I know then that his heart is in the right place, and I love him.
The drafts of these chapters were read to Mr. Slick, at his particular request, that he might be assured they contained nothing that would injure his election as President of the United States, in the event of the Slickville ticket becoming hereafter the favourite one. This, he said, was on the cards, strange as it might seem, for making a fool of John Bull and turning the laugh on him, would be sure to take and be popular. The last paragraphs, he said, he affectioned and approbated with all his heart.
“It is rather tall talkin’ that,” said he; “I like its patronisin’ tone. There is sunthin’ goodish in a colonist patronisin’ a Britisher. It’s turnin’ the tables on ‘em; it’s sarvin’ ‘em out in their own way. Lord, I think I see old Bull put his eye-glass up and look at you, with a dead aim, and hear him say, ‘Come, this is cuttin’ it rather fat.’ Or, as the feller said to his second wife, when she tapped him on the shoulder, ‘Marm, my first wife was a Pursy, and she never presumed to take that liberty.’ Yes, that’s good, Squire. Go it, my shirt-tails! you’ll win if you get in fust, see if you don’t. Patronizin’ a Britisher!!! A critter that has Lucifer’s pride, Arkwright’s wealth, and Bedlam’s sense, ain’t it rich? Oh, wake snakes and walk your chalks, will you! Give me your figgery-four Squire, I’ll go in up to the handle for you. Hit or miss, rough or tumble, claw or mud-scraper, any way, you damn please, I’m your man.”
But to return to my narrative. I was under the necessity of devoting the day next after our landing at Liverpool, to writing letters announcing my safe arrival to my anxious friends in Nova Scotia, and in different parts of England; and also some few on matters of business. Mr. Slick was very urgent in his request, that I should defer this work till the evening, and accompany him in a stroll about the town, and at last became quite peevish at my reiterated refusal.
“You remind me, Squire,” said he, “of Rufus Dodge, our great ile marchant of Boston, and as you won’t walk, p’raps you’ll talk, so I’ll jist tell you the story.
“I was once at the Cataract House to Niagara. It is jist a short distance above the Falls. Out of the winders, you have a view of the splendid white waters, or the rapids of foam, afore the river takes its everlastin’ leap over the cliff.