CHAPTER XIII. NATUR'.
In the course of our journey, the conversation turned upon the severalseries of the "Clockmaker" I had published, and their relative merits.Mr. Slick appeared to think they all owed their popularity mainly to thefreshness and originality of character incidental to a new country.
"You are in the wrong pew here, Squire," said he; "you are, upon mysoul. If you think to sketch the English in a way any one will stop tolook at, you have missed a figur', that's all. You can't do it nohow;you can't fix it. There is no contrasts here, no variation of colours,no light and shade, no nothin'. What sort of a pictur' would straightlines of any thing make? Take a parcel of sodjers, officers and all, andstretch 'em out in a row, and paint 'em, and then engrave 'em, and putit into one of our annuals, and see how folks would larf, and ask, 'Whatboardin'-school gall did that? Who pulled her up out of standin' corn,and sot her up on eend for an artist? they'd say.
"There is nothin' here to take hold on. It's so plaguy smooth and highpolished, the hands slip off; you can't get a grip of it. Now, take LordFirst Chop, who is the most fashionable man in London, dress him inthe last cut coat, best trowsers, French boots, Paris gloves, andgrape-vine-root cane, don't forget his whiskers, or mous-stache, orbreast-pins, or gold chains, or any thing; and what have you got?--atailor's print-card, and nothin' else.
"Take a lady, and dress her in a'most a beautiful long habit, man's hat,stand-up collar and stock, clap a beautiful little cow-hide whip in herhand, and mount her on a'most a splendiferous white hoss, with long tailand flowin' mane, a rairin' and a cavortin' like mad, and a champin'and a chawin' of its bit, and makin' the froth fly from its mouth, aspatterin' and white-spottin' of her beautiful trailin', skirt like anything. And what have you got?--why a print like the posted hand-bills ofa circus.
"Now spit on your fingers, and rub Lord First Chop out of the slate, anddraw an Irish labourer, with his coat off, in his shirt-sleeves, withhis breeches loose and ontied at the knees, his yarn stockings and thickshoes on; a little dudeen in his mouth, as black as ink and as short asnothin'; his hat with devilish little rim and no crown to it, and a hodon his shoulders, filled with bricks, and him lookin' as if he was asingin' away as merry as a cricket:
When I was young and unmarried, my shoes they were new. But now I am old and am married, the water runs troo,'
Do that, and you have got sunthin' worth lookin' at, quitepictures-quee, as Sister Sall used to say. And because why? _You havegot sunthin' nateral_.
"Well, take the angylyferous dear a horseback, and rub her out, well, Iwon't say that nother, for I'm fond of the little critturs, dressed ornot dressed for company, or any way they like, yes, I like woman-natur',I tell _you_. But turn over the slate, and draw on t'other side on'tan old woman, with a red cloak, and a striped petticoat, and a poorpinched-up, old, squashed-in bonnet on, bendin' forrard, with a staffin her hand, a leadin' of a donkey that has a pair of yaller willowsaddle-bags on, with coloured vegetables and flowers, and red beet-tops,a goin' to market. And what have you got? Why a pictur' worth lookin'at, too. Why?--_because it's natur'_.
"Now, look here, Squire; let Copley, if he was alive, but he ain't; andit's a pity too, for it would have kinder happified the old man, to seehis son in the House of Lords, wouldn't it? Squire Copley, you know, wasa Boston man; and a credit to our great nation too. P'raps Europe neverhas dittoed him since.
"Well, if he was above ground now, alive, and stirrin', why take himand fetch him to an upper crust London party; and sais you, 'Old Tenor,'sais you, 'paint all them silver plates, and silver dishes, and silvercoverlids, and what nots; and then paint them lords with their _stars_,and them ladies' (Lord if he would paint them with their garters, folkswould buy the pictur, cause that's nateral) 'them ladies with theirjewels, and their sarvants with their liveries, as large as life, andtwice as nateral.'
"Well, he'd paint it, if you paid him for it, that's a fact; for thereis no better bait to fish for us Yankees arter all, than a dollar. Thatold boy never turned up his nose at a dollar, except when he thoughthe ought to get two. And if he painted it, it wouldn't be bad, I tell_you_.
"'Now,' sais you, 'you have done high life, do low life for me, and Iwill pay you well. I'll come down hansum, and do the thing genteel, youmay depend. Then,' sais you, 'put in for a back ground that noble, oldNoah-like lookin' wood, that's as dark as comingo. Have you done?' saisyou.
"'I guess so,' sais he.
"'Then put in a brook jist in front of it, runnin' over stones, andfoamin' and a bubblin' up like any thing.'
"'It's in,' sais he.
"'Then jab two forked sticks in the ground ten feet apart, this side ofthe brook,' sais you, 'and clap a pole across atween the forks. Is thatdown?' sais you.
"'Yes,' sais he.
"'Then,' sais you, 'hang a pot on that horizontal pole, make a clearlittle wood fire onderneath; paint two covered carts near it. Let anold hoss drink at the stream, and two donkeys make a feed off a patch ofthistles. Have-you stuck that in?'
"'Stop a bit,' says he, 'paintin' an't quite as fast done as writin'.Have a little grain of patience, will you? It's tall paintin', makin'the brush walk at that price. Now there you are,' sais he. 'What'snext? But, mind I've most filled my canvass; it will cost you a prettyconsiderable penny, if you want all them critters in, when I come tocypher all the pictur up, and sumtotalize the whole of it.'
"'Oh! cuss the cost!' sais you. 'Do you jist obey orders, and breakowners, that's all you have to do, Old Loyalist.'
"'Very well,' sais he, 'here goes.'
"'Well, then,' sais you, 'paint a party of gipsies there; mind theirdifferent coloured clothes, and different attitudes, and differentoccupations. Here a man mendin' a harness, there a woman pickin' astolen fowl, there a man skinnin' a rabbit, there a woman with herpetticoat up, a puttin' of a patch in it. Here two boys a fishin', andthere a little gall a playin' with a dog, that's a racin' and a yelpin',and a barkin' like mad.'
"'Well, when he's done,' sais you, 'which pictur do you reckon is thebest now, Squire Copely? speak candid for I want to know, and I ask younow as a countryman.'
"'Well' he'll jist up and tell you, 'Mr. Poker,' sais he, 'yourfashionable party is the devil, that's a fact. Man made the town, butGod made the country. Your company is as formal, and as stiff, and asoninterestin' as a row of poplars; but your gipsy scene is beautiful,because it's nateral. It was me painted old Chatham's death in the Houseof Lords; folks praised it a good deal; but it was no great shakes,_there was no natur' in it_. The scene was real, the likenesses wasgood, and there was spirit in it, but their damned uniform toggery,spiled the whole thing--it was artificial, and wanted life and natur.Now, suppose, such a thing in Congress, or suppose some feller skiverdthe speaker with a bowie knife as happened to Arkansaw, if I was topaint it, it would be beautiful. Our free and enlightened people is sodifferent, so characteristic and peculiar, it would give a great fieldto a painter. To sketch the different style of man of each state, sothat any citizen would sing right out; Heavens and airth if that don'tbeat all! Why, as I am a livin' sinner that's the Hoosier of Indiana, orthe Sucker of Illinois, or the Puke of Missouri, or the Bucky ofOhio, or the Red Horse of Kentucky, or the Mudhead of Tennesee, or theWolverine of Michigan or the Eel of New England, or the Corn Cracker ofVirginia! That's the thing that gives inspiration. That's the glass oftalabogus that raises your spirits. There is much of elegance, and moreof comfort in England. It is a great and a good country, Mr. Poker, butthere is no natur in it.'
"It is as true as gospel," said Mr. Slick, "I'm tellin' you no lie. It'sa fact. If you expect to paint them English, as you have the Blue-Nosesand us, you'll pull your line up without a fish, oftener than you area-thinkin' on; that's the reason all our folks have failed. 'Rush's bookis jist molasses and water, not quite so sweet as 'lasses, and not quiteso good as water; but a spilin' of both. And why? His pictur was ofpolished life, where there is no natur. Washington Irving's book is likea Dutch paintin', it is goo
d, because it is faithful; the mop has theright number of yarns, and each yarn has the right number of twists,(altho' he mistook the mop of the grandfather, for the mop of the man ofthe present day) and the pewter plates are on the kitchen dresser, andthe other little notions are all there. He has done the most that couldbe done for them, but the painter desarves more praise than the subject.
"Why is it every man's sketches of America takes? Do you suppose it isthe sketches? No. Do you reckon it is the interest we create? No. Is itour grand experiments? No. They don't care a brass button for us, or ourcountry, or experiments nother. What is it then? It is because they aresketches of natur. Natur in every grade and every variety of form; fromthe silver plate, and silver fork, to the finger and huntin' knife. Ourartificials Britishers laugh at; they are bad copies, that's a fact; Igive them up. Let them laugh, and be darned; but I stick to my natur,and I stump them to produce the like.
"Oh, Squire, if you ever sketch me, for goodness gracious sake, don'tsketch me as an Attache to our embassy, with the Legation button, on thecoat, and black Jube Japan in livery. Don't do that; but paint me in myold waggon to Nova Scotier, with old Clay before me, you by my side,a segar in my mouth, and natur all round me. And if that is tooartificial; oh, paint me in the back woods, with my huntin' coat on, myleggins, my cap, my belt, and my powder-horn. Paint me with my talkin'iron in my hand, wipin' her, chargin' her, selectin' the bullet, placin'it in the greased wad, and rammin' it down. Then draw a splendid oakopenin' so as to give a good view, paint a squirrel on the tip top ofthe highest branch, of the loftiest tree, place me off at a hundredyards, drawin' a bead on him fine, then show the smoke, and young squiresquirrel comin' tumblin' down head over heels lumpus', to see whetherthe ground was as hard as dead squirrels said it was. Paint me nateral,I besech you; for I tell you now, as I told you before, and ever shallsay, there is nothin' worth havin' or knowin', or hearin', or readin',or seein', or tastin', or smellin', or feelin' and above all and morethan all, nothin' worth affectionin' but _Natur_.
The Attaché; or, Sam Slick in England — Complete Page 13