"Well," said he, "why is an author the laziest man in the world? Do you give that up? Because he is most of his time in sheets."

"Well, that is better than being two sheets in the wind," I replied.

"But why is he the greatest coward in creation in hot weather? Because he is afraid somebody will quilt him."

"Oh, oh," said he, "that is an awful bad one. Oh, oh, that is like lead, it sinks to the bottom, boots, spurs, and all. Oh, come, that will do, you may take my hat. What a droll fellow you be. You are the old sixpence, and nothin' will ever change you. I never see a feller have such spirits in my life; do you know what pain is?"

"Oh," sais I, "Dad," and I put on a very sad look, "Daddy," sais I, "my heart is most broke, though I don't say anythin' about it. There is no one I can confide in, and I can't sleep at all. I was thinkin'

of consultin' you, for I know I can trust you, and I am sure your kind and affectionate heart will feel for me, and that your sound, excellent judgment will advise me what is best to be done under the peculiar circ.u.mstances."

"Sam," said he, "my good fellow, you do me no more than justice," and he took my hand very kindly, and sat down beside me. "Sam, I am very sorry for you. Confide in me; I will be as secret as the grave. Have you consulted dear old Minister?"

"Oh, no," said I, "Minister is a mere child."

"True, true, my brother," said he, "he is a good worthy man, but a mere child, as you say. Is it an affair of the heart, Sam?"

"Oh, no," sais I, "I wish it was, for I don't think I shall ever die of a broken heart for any one, it don't pay."

"Is it a pecuniary affair?"

"No, no, if it was it might be borne, an artful dodge, a good spekelation, or a regular burst would soon cure that."

"I hope it ain't an affair of law," said he, lookin' frightened to death, as if I had done something dreadful bad.

"No, I wish it was, for a misnomer, an alibi, a nonjoinder, a demurrer, a nonsuit, a freemason or a know-nothin' sign to a juror, a temperance wink, or an orange nod to a partisan judge, or some cussed quirk or quibble or another, would carry me through it. No, it ain't that."

"What is it then?"

"Why," sais I, a bustin' out a larfin, "I am most dead sometimes with the jumpin' toothache."

"Well, well," said he, "I never was sold so before, I vow; I cave in, I holler, and will stand treat."

That's the way we ended our controversy about wounds.

But he may say what he likes. I consider myself rather a dab at healing bodily ones. As to those of the heart, I haven't had the experience, for I am not a father confessor to galls, and of course ain't consulted. But it appears to me clergymen don't know much about the right way to treat them. The heart is a great word. In itself it's nothin' but a thing that swells and contracts, and keeps the blood a movin; a sort of central post-office that communicates with all the great lines and has way stations to all remote parts. Like that, there is no sleep in it day or night. Love, hope, fear, despair, disappointment, ambition, pride, supplication, craft, cant, fraud, piety, speculation, secrets, tenderness, bitterness, duty, disobedience, truth, falsehood, grat.i.tude, humbug, and all sorts of such things, pa.s.s through it or wait till called for; they "are thar."

All these are dispersed by railways, expresses, fast and slow coaches, and carriers. By a figure of speech all these things are sumtotalized, and if put on paper, the depository is called the post-office, and the place where they are conceived and hatched and matured, the heart.

Well, neither the one nor the other has any feeling. They are merely the edifices respectively designed for these operations. The thing and its contents are in one case called the heart; but the contents only of the other are called the mail. Literally therefore the heart is a muscle, or some such an affair, and nothing more; but figuratively it is a general term that includes, expresses, and stands for all these things together. We talk of it therefore as a living, animated, responsible being that thinks for itself, and acts through its agents.

It is either our spiritual part, or something spiritual within us.

Subordinate or independent of us--guiding or obeying us--influencing or influenced by us. We speak of it, and others treat it, as separate, for they and we say our heart. We give it, a colour and a character; it may be a black heart or a base heart; it may be a brave or a cowardly one; it may be a sound or a weak heart also, and a true or a false one; generous or ungrateful; kind or malignant, and so on.

It strikes me natur would have been a more suitable word; but poets got hold of it, and they bedevil everything they touch. Instead of speaking of a critter's heart therefore, it would to my mind have been far better to have spoke of the natur of the animal, for I go the whole hog for human natur. But I suppose n.o.body would understand me if I did, and would say I had no heart to say so. I'll take it therefore, as I find it--a thing having a body or substance that can be hurt, and a spirit that can be grieved.

Well, as such, I don't somehow think ministers in a general way know how to treat it. The heart, in its common acceptation, is very sensitive and must be handled gently; if grief is there, it must be soothed and consoled, and hope called in to open views of better things. If disappointment has left a sting, the right way is to show a sufferer it might have been wuss, or that if his wishes had been fulfilled, they might have led to something more disastrous. If pride has been wounded, the patient must be humoured by agreeing with him, in the first instance, that he has been shamefully used (for that admits his right to feel hurt, which is a great thing); and then he may be convinced he ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it, for he is superior to his enemy, and in reality so far above him it would only gratify him to think he was of consequence enough to be hated. If he has met with a severe pecuniary loss in business, he ought to be told it's the fortune of trade; how lucky he is he ain't ruined, he can afford and must expect losses occasionally. If he frets over it, it will hurt his mercantile credit, and after all, he will never miss it, except in a figure in the bottom of his balance-sheet, and besides, riches ain't happiness, and how little a man can get out of them at best; and a minister ought to be able to have a good story to tell him, with some point in it, for there is a great deal of sound philosophy in a good anecdote.

He might say, for instance: "Did you ever hear of John Jacob Astor?"

"No, never."

"What not of John Jacob Astor, the richest man in all the unevarsal United States of America? The man that owns all the brown and white bears, silver-gray and jet-black foxes, sables, otters, stone martins, ground squirrels, and every created critter that has a fur jacket, away up about the North Pole, and lets them wear them, for furs don't keep well, moths are death on 'em, and too many at a time glut the market; so he lets them run till he wants them, and then sends and skins them alive in spring when it ain't too cold, and waits till it grows again?"

"No, never," sais the man with the loss.

"Well, if you had been stript stark naked and turned loose that way, you might have complained. Oh! you are a lucky man, I can tell you."

"Well," sais old Minus, "how in the world does he own all them animals?"

"If he don't," sais preacher, "perhaps you can tell me who does; and if n.o.body else does, I think his claim won't be disputed in no court under heaven. Don't you know him? Go and see him. He will make your fortune as he has done for many others. He is the richest man you ever heard of. He owns the Astor House Hotel to New York, which is bigger than some whole towns on the Nova Scotia coast." And he could say that with great truth, for I know a town that's on the chart, that has only a court-house, a groggery, a jail, a blacksmith's shop, and the wreck of a Quebec vessel on the beach.

"Well, a man went to him lately, and sais he: 'Are you the great John Jacob?'

"'I am John Jacob,' said he, 'but I ain't great. The sun is so almighty hot here in New York, no man is large; he is roasted down like a race-horse.'

"'I don't mean that,' said the poor man, bowin' and beggin' pardon.

"'Oh,' sais he, 'you mean great-grandfather,' laughing. 'No, I hante come that yet; but Astoria Ann Oregon, my grand-daughter, says I am to be about the fore part of next June.'

"Well, the man see he was getting rigged, so he came to the pint at once. Sais he, 'Do you want a clerk?'

"'I guess I do,' said he. 'Are you a good accountant?'

"'Have been accountant-book-keeper and agent for twenty-five years,'

sais stranger.

"Well, John Jacob see the critter wouldn't suit him, but he thought he would carry out the joke. Sais he, 'How would you like to take charge of my almighty everlastin' property?'

"'Delighted!' says the goney.

"'Well,' said Mr Astor, 'I am tired to death looking after it; if you will relieve me and do my work, I'll give you what I get out of it myself.'

"'Done!' said the man, takin' off his hat, and bowin' down to the ground. 'I am under a great obligation to you; depend upon it you will get a good account of it.'

"'I have no doubt of it,' said John Jacob. 'Do your part faithfully'

('Never fear me,' said the clerk) 'and honestly, and I will fulfil mine. All I get out of it myself is my board and clothing, and you shall have the same."

"Ah! my friend," the preacher might say, "how much wisdom there is in John Jacob Astor's remark. What more has the Queen of England, or the richest peer in the land, out of all their riches than their board and clothing. 'So don't repine, my friend. Cheer up! I will come and fast on canvas-back duck with you to-morrow, for it's Friday; and whatever lives on aquatic food is fishy--a duck is twice-laid fish. A few gla.s.ses of champaine at dinner, and a cool bottle or two of claret after, will set you all right again in a jiffy."

If a man's wife races off and leaves him, which ain't the highest compliment he can receive, he should visit him; but it's most prudent not to introduce the subject himself. If broken-heart talks of it, minister shouldn't make light of it, for wounded pride is mighty tender, but say it's a dreadful thing to leave so good, so kind, so indulgent, so liberal, so confidin' a man as you, if the case will bear it (in a general way it's a man's own fault); and if it won't bear it, why then there really is a guilty man, on whom he can indulge himself, to expend a few flowers of speech. And arter restin' here awhile, he should hint at the consolation that is always offered, "of the sea having better fish than ever was pulled out of it," and so on.

Well, the whole catalogue offers similar topics, and if a man will, while kindly, conscientiously, and strictly sticking to the truth, offer such consolation as a good man may, taking care to remember that manner is everything, and all these arguments are not only no good, but do harm if the misfortunate critter is rubbed agin the grain; he will then prepare the sufferer to receive the only true consolation he has to offer--the consolation of religion. At least, that's my idea.

Now, instead of that, if he gets hold of a sinner, he first offends his delicacy, and then scares him to death. He tells him to confess all the nasty particulars of the how, the where, the when, and the who with. He can't do nothing till his curiosity is satisfied, general terms won't do. He must have all the dirty details. And then he talks to him of the devil, an unp.r.o.nouncible place, fire and brimstone, and endless punishment. And a.s.sures him, if ever he hopes to be happy hereafter, he must be wretched for the rest of his life; for the evangelical rule is, that a man is never forgiven up to the last minute when it can't be helped. Well, every man to his own trade.

Perhaps they are right and I am wrong. But my idea is you can coax, but can't bully folks. You can win sinners, but you can't force them.

The door of the heart must be opened softly, and to do that you must be the hinge and the lock.

Well, to get back to my story, and I hardly know where I left off, I think the poor gall was speakin' of Indians in a way that indicated she felt mortified at her descent, or that somehow or somehow else, there was a sore spot there. Well, having my own thoughts about the wounds of the heart and so on, as I have stated, I made up my mind I must get at the secret by degrees, and see whether my theory of treatment was right or not.

Sais I, "Miss, you say these sort of things are bartered at the north-west for others of more use. There is one thing though I must remark, they never were exchanged for anything half so beautiful."

"I am glad you like it," she said, "but look here;" and she took out of her basket a pair of moca.s.sins, the soles of which were of moose leather, tanned and dressed like felt, and the upper part black velvet, on which various patterns were worked with beads. I think I never saw anything of the kind so exquisite, for those nick-nacks the Nova Scotia Indians make are rough in material, coa.r.s.e in workmanship, and ineligant in design.