Clotel, William Wells Brown [i like reading books .txt] 📗

somewhat pleasantly. Besides Clotel, there was an elderly gentleman with his two daughters⁠—one apparently under twenty years, the other a shade above. The pale, spectacled face of another slim, tall man, with a white neckerchief, pointed him out as a minister. The rough featured, dark countenance of a stout looking man, with a white hat on one side of his head, told that he was from the sunny South. There was nothing remarkable about the other two, who might pass for ordinary American gentlemen. It was on the eve of a presidential election, when every man is thought to be a politician. Clay, Van Buren, and Harrison were the men who expected the endorsement of the Baltimore Convention. “Who does this town go for?” asked the old gent with the ladies, as the coach drove up to an inn, where groups of persons were waiting for the latest papers.

“We are divided,” cried the rough voice of one of the outsiders.

“Well, who do you think will get the majority here?” continued the old gent.

“Can’t tell very well; I go for ‘Old Tip,’ ” was the answer from without. This brought up the subject fairly before the passengers, and when the coach again started a general discussion commenced, in which all took a part except Clotel and the young ladies. Some were for Clay, some for Van Buren, and others for “Old Tip.”

The coach stopped to take in a real farmer-looking man, who no sooner entered than he was saluted with “Do you go for Clay?”

“No,” was the answer.

“Do you go for Van Buren?”

“No.”

“Well, then, of course you will go for Harrison.”

“No.”

“Why, don’t you mean to work for any of them at the election?”

“No.”

“Well, who will you work for?” asked one of the company.

“I work for Betsy and the children, and I have a hard job of it at that,” replied the farmer, without a smile.

This answer, as a matter of course, set the new corner down as one upon whom the rest of the passengers could crack their jokes with the utmost impunity. “Are you an Odd Fellow?” asked one.

“No, sir, I’ve been married more than a month.”

“I mean, do you belong to the order of Odd Fellows?”

“No, no; I belong to the order of married men.”

“Are you a mason?”

“No, I am a carpenter by trade.”

“Are you a Son of Temperance?”

“Bother you, no; I am a son of Mr. John Gosling.”

After a hearty laugh in which all joined, the subject of Temperance became the theme for discussion. In this the spectacled gent was at home. He soon showed that he was a New Englander, and went the whole length of the “Maine Law.” The minister was about having it all his own way, when the Southerner, in the white hat, took the opposite side of the question. “I don’t bet a red cent on these teetotlars,” said he, and at the same time looking round to see if he had the approbation of the rest of the company.

“Why?” asked the minister.

“Because they are a set who are afraid to spend a cent. They are a bad lot, the whole on ’em.” It was evident that the white hat gent was an uneducated man.

The minister commenced in full earnest, and gave an interesting account of the progress of temperance in Connecticut, the state from which he came, proving, that a great portion of the prosperity of the state was attributable to the disuse of intoxicating drinks.

Everyone thought the white hat had got the worst of the argument, and that he was settled for the remainder of the night. But not he; he took fresh courage and began again. “Now,” said he, “I have just been on a visit to my uncle’s in Vermont, and I guess I knows a little about these here teetotlars. You see, I went up there to make a little stay of a fortnight. I got there at night, and they seemed glad to see me, but they didn’t give me a bit of anything to drink. Well, thinks I to myself, the jig’s up: I shan’t get any more liquor till I get out of the state. We all sat up till twelve o’clock that night, and I heard nothing but talk about the ‘Juvinal Temperence Army,’ the ‘Band of Hope,’ the ‘Rising Generation,’ the ‘Female Dorcas Temperance Society,’ ‘The None Such,’ and I don’t know how many other names they didn’t have. As I had taken several pretty large ‘Cock Tails’ before I entered the state, I thought upon the whole that I would not spite for the want of liquor. The next morning, I commenced writing back to my friends, and telling them what’s what. Aunt Polly said, ‘Well, Johnny, I s’pose you are given ’em a pretty account of us all here.’ ‘Yes,’ said I; I am tellin’ ’em if they want anything to drink when they come up here, they had better bring it with ’em.’ ‘Oh,’ said aunty, ‘they would search their boxes; can’t bring any spirits in the state.’ Well, as I was saying, jist as I got my letters finished, and was going to the post office (for uncle’s house was two miles from the town), aunty says, ‘Johnny, I s’pose you’ll try to get a little somethin’ to drink in town won’t you?’ Says I, ‘I s’pose it’s no use.’ ‘No,’ said she, ‘you can’t; it ain’t to be had no how, for love nor money.’ So jist as I was puttin’ on my hat, ‘Johnny,’ cries out aunty; ‘What,’ says I. ‘Now I’ll tell you, I don’t want you to say nothin’ about it, but I keeps a little rum to rub my head with, for I am troubled with the headache; now I don’t want you to mention it for the world, but I’ll give you a little taste, the old man is such a teetotaller, that I should never hear the last of it, and I would not like for the boys to know it, they are members