"Print!—Oh yaas! I guess now,—in the notice of vendue you mean. Why, there's no merchants' trade, no awful package; only a few small little notions, and such wares, though they arn't got genoowine into the ould country, I reckon. It's some Indian plunder as I cleared out when I came away."
"Is it possible, then," exclaimed Downwithit, "that the highly-favoured inhabitants of America deal in plunder! Restore that illgotten spoil of the Indians young man, or——"
"What doos he mean?" interrupted Pokehorn, in a perplexed and angry voice. "Why, doosn't he understand English? Arn't plunder travelling stuff?—And what did you think notions was?"
"Sir," said the minister, "in our language the term signifies thoughts; and I supposed that you had meant intellectual, or moral, or religious views of America; not the base wares of worldly traffic."
"Perhaps, Mr. Pokehorn," said the physician, wishing to relieve both his guests, "you interest yourself more in the politics of your country. Did you witness any of the late actions? or was your residence near the seat of war?"
"Sartain!" returned the American. "I guess that we had purty considerable tough skrimmageing about us. What with the Indians, and the riglars, and the skinners, and the cow-boys, there warn't no keeping a beef-cretur in the pen, nor sleeping ten winks at a time. You'd have thought the devil was let loose."
"And no doubt he was, as he always is in war," said Downwithit, "or rather he sent forth his legions to vex your persecuted land; for his only proper habitation on earth is this sin-devising city of London!"
"That a berry true, massa," interposed the negro, "for Massa Backwoodsley often say, 'Ivory, I whop you, sure as a devil in London;' and he always do it. But folk say, another devil in Ameriky, for all that. He know story of man what see um and talk to um. He not b'lieve it at all, dough. Good parson sometime preach about he's tempatation."
"That's a fact," added Mr. Pokehorn, "and an awful strange history it is, if true. If you want to hear the story, the nigger can fix you; for he's precious tonguey and wordy about them devildoms, and witches, and wild Indians, when he sits in the mud in the sunshine, at Rams-Babylon and High-Forks, keeping the helps from work, or at a maple-log fire in the winter."
"Then, my sable friend," said Downwithit, "with the good leave of all present, we'll have it now."