The engine-driver of the train whose noise awoke us to the present chapter was certainly troubled with no such reflections as these; nor is it very probable that his mind was disturbed by any reflections at all. He leaned with folded arms and crossed legs against the side of the carriage, smoking; and, except when he expressed, by a grunt as short as his pipe, his approval of some particularly dexterous aim on the part of his colleague, the fireman, who beguiled his leisure by throwing logs of wood from the tender at the numerous stray cattle on the line, he preserved a composure so immovable, and an indifference so complete, that if the locomotive had been a sucking-pig, he could not have been more perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil state of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was proceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid, the jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor few.
There were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies” car, the gentlemen's car, and the car for negroes; the latter painted black, as an appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were in the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full, received other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society of ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged in earnest conversation.
“And so, Mark,” said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression, “and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mark. “I am. Precious glad.”
“Were you not “jolly” there?” asked Martin.
“On the contrairy, sir,” returned Mark. “The jolliest week as ever I spent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins's.”
“What do you think of our prospects?” inquired Martin, with an air that plainly said he had avoided the question for some time.
“Uncommon bright, sir,” returned Mark. “Impossible for a place to have a better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn't think of settling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I'm told,” added Mark, after a pause, “as there's lots of serpents there, so we shall come out, quite complete and reg'lar.”
So far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the least dismay, Mark's face grew radiant as he called it to mind; so very radiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been yearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the approaching consummation of his fondest wishes.
“Who told you that?” asked Martin, sternly.
“A military officer,” said Mark.
“Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!” cried Martin, laughing heartily in spite of himself. “What military officer? You know they spring up in every field.”
“As thick as scarecrows in England, sir,” interposed Mark, “which is a sort of milita themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick inside. Ha, ha!—Don't mind me, sir; it's my way sometimes. I can't help being jolly. Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins's, as told me. “Am I rightly informed,” he says—not exactly through his nose, but as if he'd got a stoppage in it, very high up—”that you're a-going to the Walley of Eden?” “I heard some talk on it,” I told him. “Oh!” says he, “if you should ever happen to go to bed there—you MAY, you know,” he says, “in course of time as civilisation progresses—don't forget to take a axe with you.” I looks at him tolerable hard. “Fleas?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Wampires?” says I. “And more,” says he. “Musquitoes, perhaps?” says I. “And more,” says he. “What more?” says I. “Snakes more,” says he; “rattle-snakes. You're right to a certain extent, stranger. There air some catawampous chawers in the small way too, as graze upon a human pretty strong; but don't mind THEM—they're company. It's snakes,” he says, “as you'll object to; and whenever you wake and see one in a upright poster on your bed,” he says, “like a corkscrew with the handle off a-sittin” on its bottom ring, cut him down, for he means wenom.”
“Why didn't you tell me this before!” cried Martin, with an expression of face which set off the cheerfulness of Mark's visage to great advantage.
“I never thought on it, sir,” said Mark. “It come in at one ear, and went out at the other. But Lord love us, he was one of another Company, I dare say, and only made up the story that we might go to his Eden, and not the opposition one”
“There's some probability in that,” observed Martin. “I can honestly say that I hope so, with all my heart.”
“I've not a doubt about it, sir,” returned Mark, who, full of the inspiriting influence of the anecodote upon himself, had for the moment forgotten its probable effect upon his master; “anyhow, we must live, you know, sir.”
“Live!” cried Martin. “Yes, it's easy to say live; but if we should happen not to wake when rattlesnakes are making corkscrews of themselves upon our beds, it may be not so easy to do it.”
“And that's a fact,” said a voice so close in his ear that it tickled him. “That's dreadful true.”
Martin looked round, and found that a gentleman, on the seat behind, had thrust his head between himself and Mark, and sat with his chin resting on the back rail of their little bench, entertaining himself with their conversation. He was as languid and listless in his looks as most of the gentlemen they had seen; his cheeks were so hollow that he seemed to be always sucking them in; and the sun had burnt him, not a wholesome red or brown, but dirty yellow. He had bright dark eyes, which he kept half closed; only peeping out of the corners, and even then with a glance that seemed to say, “Now you won't overreach me; you want to, but you won't.”His arms rested carelessly on his knees as he leant forward; in the palm of his left hand, as English rustics have their slice of cheese, he had a cake of tobacco; in his right a penknife. He struck into the dialogue with as little reserve as if he had been specially called in, days before, to hear the arguments on both sides, and favour them with his opinion; and he no more contemplated or cared for the possibility of their not desiring the honour of his acquaintance or interference in their private affairs than if he had been a bear or a buffalo.
“That,” he repeated, nodding condescendingly to Martin, as to an outer barbarian and foreigner, “is dreadful true. Darn all manner of vermin.”
Martin could not help frowning for a moment, as if he were disposed to insinuate that the gentleman had unconsciously “darned” himself. But remembering the wisdom of doing at Rome as Romans do, he smiled with the pleasantest expression he could assume upon so short a notice.
Their new friend said no more just then, being busily employed in cutting a quid or plug from his cake of tobacco, and whistling softly to himself the while. When he had shaped it to his liking, he took out his old plug, and deposited the same on the back of the seat between Mark and Martin, while he thrust the new one into the hollow of his cheek, where it looked like a large walnut, or tolerable pippin. Finding it quite satisfactory, he stuck the point of his knife into the old plug, and holding it out for their inspection, remarked with the air of a man who had not lived in vain, that it was “used up considerable.”Then he tossed it away; put his knife into one pocket and his tobacco into another; rested his chin upon the rail as before; and approving of the pattern on Martin's waistcoat, reached out his hand to feel the texture of that garment.
“What do you call this now?” he asked.
“Upon my word” said Martin, “I don't know what it's called.”
“It'll cost a dollar or more a yard, I reckon?”
“I really don't know.”
“In my country,” said the gentleman, “we know the cost of our own pro-duce.”
Martin not discussing the question, there was a pause.
“Well!” resumed their new friend, after staring at them intently during the whole interval of silence; “how's the unnat'ral old parent by this time?”
Mr Tapley regarding this inquiry as only another version of the impertinent English question, “How's you
r mother?” would have resented it instantly, but for Martin's prompt interposition.
“You mean the old country?” he said.
“Ah!” was the reply. “How's she? Progressing back'ards, I expect, as usual? Well! How's Queen Victoria?”
“In good health, I believe,” said Martin.
“Queen Victoria won't shake in her royal shoes at all, when she hears to-morrow named,” observed the stranger, “No.”
“Not that I am aware of. Why should she?”
“She won't be taken with a cold chill, when she realises what is being done in these diggings,” said the stranger. “No.”
“No,” said Martin. “I think I could take my oath of that.”
The strange gentleman looked at him as if in pity for his ignorance or prejudice, and said:
“Well, sir, I tell you this—there ain't a engine with its biler bust, in God A'mighty's free U-nited States, so fixed, and nipped, and frizzled to a most e-tarnal smash, as that young critter, in her luxurious location in the Tower of London will be, when she reads the next double-extra Watertoast Gazette.”
Several other gentlemen had left their seats and gathered round during the foregoing dialogue. They were highly delighted with this speech. One very lank gentleman, in a loose limp white cravat, long white waistcoat, and a black great-coat, who seemed to be in authority among them, felt called upon to acknowledge it.
“Hem! Mr La Fayette Kettle,” he said, taking off his hat.
There was a grave murmur of “Hush!”
“Mr La Fayette Kettle! Sir!”
Mr Kettle bowed.
“In the name of this company, sir, and in the name of our common country, and in the name of that righteous cause of holy sympathy in which we are engaged, I thank you. I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Sympathisers; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the Watertoast Gazette; and I thank you, sir, in the name of the star-spangled banner of the Great United States, for your eloquent and categorical exposition. And if, sir,” said the speaker, poking Martin with the handle of his umbrella to bespeak his attention, for he was listening to a whisper from Mark; “if, sir, in such a place, and at such a time, I might venture to con-clude with a sentiment, glancing—however slantin'dicularly—at the subject in hand, I would say, sir, may the British Lion have his talons eradicated by the noble bill of the American Eagle, and be taught to play upon the Irish Harp and the Scotch Fiddle that music which is breathed in every empty shell that lies upon the shores of green Co-lumbia!”
Here the lank gentleman sat down again, amidst a great sensation; and every one looked very grave.
“General Choke,” said Mr La Fayette Kettle, “you warm my heart; sir, you warm my heart. But the British Lion is not unrepresented here, sir; and I should be glad to hear his answer to those remarks.”
“Upon my word,” cried Martin, laughing, “since you do me the honour to consider me his representative, I have only to say that I never heard of Queen Victoria reading the What's-his-name Gazette and that I should scarcely think it probable.”
General Choke smiled upon the rest, and said, in patient and benignant explanation:
“It is sent to her, sir. It is sent to her. Her mail.”
“But if it is addressed to the Tower of London, it would hardly come to hand, I fear,” returned Martin; “for she don't live there.”
“The Queen of England, gentlemen,” observed Mr Tapley, affecting the greatest politeness, and regarding them with an immovable face, “usually lives in the Mint to take care of the money. She HAS lodgings, in virtue of her office, with the Lord Mayor at the Mansion House; but don't often occupy them, in consequence of the parlour chimney smoking.”
“Mark,” said Martin, “I shall be very much obliged to you if you'll have the goodness not to interfere with preposterous statements, however jocose they may appear to you. I was merely remarking gentlemen—though it's a point of very little import—that the Queen of England does not happen to live in the Tower of London.”
“General!” cried Mr La Fayette Kettle. “You hear?”
“General!” echoed several others. “General!”
“Hush! Pray, silence!” said General Choke, holding up his hand, and speaking with a patient and complacent benevolence that was quite touching. “I have always remarked it as a very extraordinary circumstance, which I impute to the natur” of British Institutions and their tendency to suppress that popular inquiry and information which air so widely diffused even in the trackless forests of this vast Continent of the Western Ocean; that the knowledge of Britishers themselves on such points is not to be compared with that possessed by our intelligent and locomotive citizens. This is interesting, and confirms my observation. When you say, sir,” he continued, addressing Martin, “that your Queen does not reside in the Tower of London, you fall into an error, not uncommon to your countrymen, even when their abilities and moral elements air such as to command respect. But, sir, you air wrong. She DOES live there—”
“When she is at the Court of Saint James's,” interposed Kettle.
“When she is at the Court of Saint James's, of course,” returned the General, in the same benignant way; “for if her location was in Windsor Pavilion it couldn't be in London at the same time. Your Tower of London, sir,” pursued the General, smiling with a mild consciousness of his knowledge, “is nat'rally your royal residence. Being located in the immediate neighbourhood of your Parks, your Drives, your Triumphant Arches, your Opera, and your Royal Almacks, it nat'rally suggests itself as the place for holding a luxurious and thoughtless court. And, consequently,” said the General, “consequently, the court is held there.”
“Have you been in England?” asked Martin.
“In print I have, sir,” said the General, “not otherwise. We air a reading people here, sir. You will meet with much information among us that will surprise you, sir.”
“I have not the least doubt of it,” returned Martin. But here he was interrupted by Mr La Fayette Kettle, who whispered in his ear:
“You know General Choke?”
“No,” returned Martin, in the same tone.
“You know what he is considered?”
“One of the most remarkable men in the country?” said Martin, at a venture.
“That's a fact,” rejoined Kettle. “I was sure you must have heard of him!”
“I think,” said Martin, addressing himself to the General again, “that I have the pleasure of being the bearer of a letter of introduction to you, sir. From Mr Bevan, of Massachusetts,” he added, giving it to him.
The General took it and read it attentively; now and then stopping to glance at the two strangers. When he had finished the note, he came over to Martin, sat down by him, and shook hands.
“Well!” he said, “and you think of settling in Eden?”
“Subject to your opinion, and the agent's advice,” replied Martin. “I am told there is nothing to be done in the old towns.”
“I can introduce you to the agent, sir,” said the General. “I know him. In fact, I am a member of the Eden Land Corporation myself.”
This was serious news to Martin, for his friend had laid great stress upon the General's having no connection, as he thought, with any land company, and therefore being likely to give him disinterested advice. The General explained that he had joined the Corporation only a few weeks ago, and that no communication had passed between himself and Mr Bevan since.
“We have very little to venture,” said Martin anxiously—'only a few pounds—but it is our all. Now, do you think that for one of my profession, this would be a speculation with any hope or chance in it?”
“Well,” observed the General, gravely, “if there wasn't any hope or chance in the speculation, it wouldn't have engaged my dollars, I opinionate.”
“I don't mean for the sellers,” said Martin. “For the buyers—for the buyers!”
“For the buyers, sir?” observed the General, in a most impressive manner. “Well! you co
me from an old country; from a country, sir, that has piled up golden calves as high as Babel, and worshipped “em for ages. We are a new country, sir; man is in a more primeval state here, sir; we have not the excuse of having lapsed in the slow course of time into degenerate practices; we have no false gods; man, sir, here, is man in all his dignity. We fought for that or nothing. Here am I, sir,” said the General, setting up his umbrella to represent himself, and a villanous-looking umbrella it was; a very bad counter to stand for the sterling coin of his benevolence, “here am I with grey hairs sir, and a moral sense. Would I, with my principles, invest capital in this speculation if I didn't think it full of hopes and chances for my brother man?”
Martin tried to look convinced, but he thought of New York, and found it difficult.
“What are the Great United States for, sir,” pursued the General “if not for the regeneration of man? But it is nat'ral in you to make such an enquerry, for you come from England, and you do not know my country.”
“Then you think,” said Martin, “that allowing for the hardships we are prepared to undergo, there is a reasonable—Heaven knows we don't expect much—a reasonable opening in this place?”
“A reasonable opening in Eden, sir! But see the agent, see the agent; see the maps and plans, sir; and conclude to go or stay, according to the natur” of the settlement. Eden hadn't need to go a-begging yet, sir,” remarked the General.
“It is an awful lovely place, sure-ly. And frightful wholesome, likewise!” said Mr Kettle, who had made himself a party to this conversation as a matter of course.
Life And Adventures Of Martin Chuzzlewit Page 43
