“Why it will never be forgot, that speech. It struck into the bull’s eye of the heart. It was noble. It said so much in a few words, and left the mind to fill the gaps up. The last words is a sayin’ now, and always will be, to all etarnity. Whenever a feller wants to shew how indifferent he is, he jist sais, ‘you may go to (hem, hem, you know,) and I’ll go to Texas.’ There is no Bunkum in that, Squire.
“Yes, there is no good speakin’ there, speakin’ is no use. Every feller is pledged and supports his party. A speech don’t alter no man’s opinions; yes it may alter his opinions, but it don’t alter his vote, that ain’t his’n, it’s his party’s. Still, there is some credit in a good speech, and some fun too. No feller there has any ridicule; he has got no ginger in him, he can neither crack his whip, nor lay it on; he can neither cut the hide nor sting it. Heavens! if I was there I and I’m sure it’s no great boastin’ to say I’m better than such fellers, as them small fry of white bait is. If I was there, give me a good subject like that to-night, give me a good horn of lignum vitae—”
“Lignum vitae—what’s that?”
“Lord-o-massy on us! you don’t know nothin’, Squire. Where have you been all your born days, not to know what lignum vitae is? why lignum vitae, is hot brandy and water to be sure, pipin’ hot, scald an iron pot amost, and spiced with cloves and sugar in it, stiff enough to make a tea-spoon stand up in it, as straight as a dead nigger. Wine ain’t no good, it goes off as quick as the white beads off of champaign does, and then leaves a stupid head-ache behind it. But give me the subject and a horn of lignum vitae (of the wickedest kind), and then let a feller rile me, so as to get my back up like a fightin’ cat’s, and I’ll tell you what I’d do, I’d sarve him as our Slickville boys sarve the cows to California. One on ‘em lays hold of the tail, and the other skins her as she runs strait an eend. Next year, it’s all growed ready for another flayin’. Fact, I assure you. Lord! I’d skin a feller so, his hide would never grow agin; I’d make a caution of him to sinners, I know.
“Only hear them fellers now talk of extendin’ of the representation; why the house is a mob now, plaguy little better, I assure you. Like the house in Cromwell’s time, they want “Sam Slick’s” purge. But talkin’ of mobs, puts me in mind of a Swoi-ree, I told you I’d describe that to you, and I don’t care if I do now, for I’ve jist got my talkin’ tacks aboard. A Swoi-ree is—
“We’ll talk of that some other time, Mr. Slick,” said I; “it is now near two o’clock, I must retire.”
“Well, well,” said he, “I suppose it is e’en a’most time to be a movin’. But, Squire, you are a Britisher, why the plague don’t you get into the house? you know more about colony matters than the whole bilin’ of” them put together, quite as much about other things, and speak like a—”
“Come, come, Mr. Slick,” said I, rising and lighting my bed-room candle, “it is now high time to bid you good night, for you are beginning to talk Bunkum.”