“Ter teer is not so plenty as in tee old war, Pumppo,” said the Major, who had been an attentive listener, amid clouds of smoke; “put ter lant is not mate as for ter teer to live on, put for Christians.”
“Why, Major, I believe you’re a friend to justice and the right, though you go so often to the grand house; but it’s a hard case to a man to have his honest calling for a livelihood stopped by laws, and that, too, when, if right was done, he mought hunt or fish on any day in the week, or on the best flat in the Patent, if he was so minded.”
“I unterstant you, Letter-Stockint,” returned the Major, fixing his black eyes, with a look of peculiar meaning, on the hunter: “put you didn’t use to be so prutent as to look ahet mit so much care.”
“Maybe there wasn’t so much occasion,” said the hunter, a little sulkily; when he sank into a silence from which he was not roused for some time.
“The Judge was saying so’thin’ about the French,” Hiram observed when the pause in the conversation had continued a decent time.
“Yes, sir,” returned Marmaduke, “the Jacobins of France seem rushing from one act of licentiousness to an other, They continue those murders which are dignified by the name of executions.
You have heard that they have added the death of their queen to the long list of their crimes.”
“Les monstres!” again murmured Monsieur Le Quoi, turning himself suddenly in his chair, with a convulsive start.
“The province of La Vendee is laid waste by the troops of the republic, and hundreds of its inhabitants, who are royalists in their sentiments, are shot at a time.
La Vendee is a district in the southwest of France, that continues yet much attached to the family of the Bourbons; doubtless Monsieur Le Quoi is acquainted with it, and can describe it more faithfully.”
“Non, non, non, mon cher ami,” returned the Frenchman in a suppressed voice, but speaking rapidly, and gesticulating with his right hand, as if for mercy, while with his left he concealed his eyes.
“There have been many battles fought lately,” continued Marmaduke, “and the infuriated republicans are too often victorious.
I cannot say, however, that I am sorry that they have captured Toulon from the English, for it is a place to which they have a just right.”
“Ah—ha!” exclaimed Monsieur Le Quoi, springing on his feet and flourishing both arms with great animation; “ces Anglais!”
The Frenchman continued to move about the room with great alacrity for a few minutes, repeating his exclamations to himself; when overcome by the contrary nature of his emotions, he suddenly burst out of the house, and was seen wading through the snow toward his little shop, waving his arms on high, as if to pluck down honor from the moon.
His departure excited but little surprise, for the villagers were used to his manner; but Major Hartmann laughed outright, for the first during his visit, as he lifted the mug, and observed:
“Ter Frenchman is mat—put he is goot as for noting to trink: he is trunk mit joy.”
“The French are good soldiers,” said Captain Hollis ter; “they stood us in hand a good turn at Yorktown; nor do I think, although I am an ignorant man about the great movements of the army, that his excellency would have been able to march against Cornwallis without their reinforcements.”
“Ye spake the trot’, sargeant,” interrupted his wife, “and I would iver have ye be doing the same.
It’s varry pratty men is the French; and jist when I stopt the cart, the time when ye was pushing on in front it was, to kape the riglers in, a rigiment of the jontlemen marched by, and so I dealt them out to their liking.
Was it pay I got?
Sure did I, and in good solid crowns; the divil a bit of continental could they muster among them all, for love nor money.
Och! the Lord forgive me for swearing and spakeing of such vanities; but this I will say for the French, that they paid in good silver; and one glass would go a great way wid ‘em, for they gin’rally handed it back wid a drop in the cup; and that’s a brisk trade, Joodge, where the pay is good, and the men not over-partic’lar.”
“A thriving trade, Mrs. Hollister,” said Marmaduke.
“But what has become of Richard? he jumped up as soon as seated, and has been absent so long that I am really fearful he has frozen.”
“No fear of that, Cousin ‘Duke,” cried the gentleman himself; “business will sometimes keep a man warm the coldest night that ever snapt in the mountains.
Betty, your husband told me, as we came out of church, that your hogs were getting mangy, and so I have been out to take a look at them, and found it true.
I stepped across, doctor, and got your boy to weigh me out a pound of salts, and have been mixing it with their swill.
I’ll bet a saddle of venison against a gray squirrel that they are better in a week.
And now, Mrs. Hollister, I’m ready for a hissing mug of flip.”
“Sure I know’d ye’d be wanting that same,” said the landlady; “it’s fixt and ready to the boiling.
Sargeant, dear, be handing up the iron, will ye?—no, the one on the far fire, it’s black, ye will see.
Ah! you’ve the thing now; look if it’s not as red as a cherry.”
The beverage was heated, and Richard took that kind of draught which men are apt to indulge in who think that they have just executed a clever thing, especially when they like the liquor.
“Oh! you have a hand. Betty, that was formed to mix flip,” cried Richard, when he paused for breath.
“The very iron has a flavor in it.
Here, John, drink, man, drink!
I and you and Dr. Todd have done a good thing with the shoulder of that lad this very night.
‘Duke, I made a song while you were gone—one day when I had nothing to do; so I’ll sing you a verse or two, though I haven’t really determined on the tune yet.
“What is life but a scene of care, Where each one must toil in his way? Then let us be jolly, and prove that we are A set of good fellows, who seem very rare, And can laugh and sing all the day.
Then let us be jolly And cast away folly, For grief turns a black head to gray.”
“There, ‘Duke, what do you think of that?
There is another verse of it, all but the last line.
I haven’t got a rhyme for the last line yet.
Well, old John, what do you think of the music? as good as one of your war-songs, ha?”
“Good!” said Mohegan, who had been sharing deeply in the potations of the landlady, besides paying a proper respect to the passing mugs of the Major and Marmaduke.
“Bravo! pravo! Richart,” cried the Major, whose black eyes were beginning to swim in moisture; “pravisimo his a goot song; put Natty Pumppo has a petter.
Letter-Stockint, vilt sing? say, olt poy, vilt sing ter song as apout ter wools?”
“No, no, Major,” returned the hunter, with a melancholy shake of the head,
“I have lived to see what I thought eyes could never behold in these hills, and I have no heart left for singing.