Gala-Days [47]
his 'am and heggs, and the very old dragon himself steps down from the banner-folds, and glares out of those irate eyes, and the ubiquitous British tourist, I have no doubt, took out his notebook, and put on his glasses and wrote down for home consumption another instance of the insufferable assurance of these Yankees.
"Where have you been?" I ask Halicarnassus, coming in late to breakfast.
"Only planning the invasion of Canada," says he, coolly, as if it were a mere pre-prandial diversion, all of which was not only rude, but quite gratuitous, since, apart from the fact that we might not be able to get Canada, I am sure we don't want it. I am disappointed. I suppose I had no right to be. Doubtless it was sheer ignorance, but I had the idea that it was a great country, rich in promise if immature in fact,--a nation to be added to a nation when the clock should strike the hour,--a golden apple to fall into our hands when the fulness of time should come. Such inspection as a few days' observation can give, such inspection as British tourists find sufficient to settle the facts and fate of nations, leads me to infer that it is not golden at all, and not much of an apple; and I cannot think what we should want of it, nor what we should do with it if we had it. The people are radically different from ours. Fancy those dark-eyed beggars and those calm-mouthed, cowy-men in this eager, self-involved republic. They might be annexed to the United States a thousand times and never be united, for I do not believe any process in the world would turn a French peasant into a Yankee farmer. Besides, I cannot see that there is anything of Canada except a broad strip along the St. Lawrence River. It makes a great show on the map, but when you ferret it out, it is nothing but show-- and snow and ice and woods and barrenness; and I, for one, hope we shall let Canada alone.
"I think we shall be obliged to leave Quebec tomorrow evening," says Halicarnassus, coming into the hotel parlor on Saturday evening.
"Not at all," I exclaim, promptly laying an embargo on that iniquity.
"Otherwise we shall be compelled to remain till Monday afternoon at four o'clock."
"Which we can very contentedly do."
"But lose a day."
"Keeping the Sabbath holy is never losing a day," replies his guide, philosopher, and friend, sententiously and severely, partly because she thinks so, and partly because she is well content to remain another day in Quebec.
"But as we shall not start till five o'clock," he lamely pleads, "we can go to church twice like saints."
"And begin at five and travel like sinners."
"It will only be clipping off the little end of Sunday."
Now that is a principle the beginning of which is as when one letteth out water, and I will no tolerate it. Short weights are an abomination to the Lord. I would rather steal outright than be mean. A highway robber has some claims upon respect; but a petty, pilfering, tricky Christian is a damning spot on our civilization. Lord Chesterfield asserts that a man's reputation for generosity does not depend so much on what he spends, as on his giving handsomely when it is proper to give at all; and the gay lord builded higher and struck deeper than he knew, or at least said. If a man thinks the Gospel does not require the Sabbath to be strictly kept, I have nothing to say; but if he pretends to keep it, let him keep the whole of it. It takes twenty-four hours to make a day, whether it be the first or the last of the week. I utterly reject the idea of setting off a little nucleus of Sunday, just a few hours of sermon, and then evaporating into any common day. I want the good of Sunday from beginning to end. I want nothing but Sunday between Saturday and Monday. Week-days filtering in spoil the whole. What is the use of having a Sabbath-day, a rest-day, if Mondays and Tuesdays are to be making continual raids upon it? What good do dinner-party Sundays and travelling Sundays and novel-reading Sundays do? You want your Sunday for a rest,--a change,--a breakwater. It
"Where have you been?" I ask Halicarnassus, coming in late to breakfast.
"Only planning the invasion of Canada," says he, coolly, as if it were a mere pre-prandial diversion, all of which was not only rude, but quite gratuitous, since, apart from the fact that we might not be able to get Canada, I am sure we don't want it. I am disappointed. I suppose I had no right to be. Doubtless it was sheer ignorance, but I had the idea that it was a great country, rich in promise if immature in fact,--a nation to be added to a nation when the clock should strike the hour,--a golden apple to fall into our hands when the fulness of time should come. Such inspection as a few days' observation can give, such inspection as British tourists find sufficient to settle the facts and fate of nations, leads me to infer that it is not golden at all, and not much of an apple; and I cannot think what we should want of it, nor what we should do with it if we had it. The people are radically different from ours. Fancy those dark-eyed beggars and those calm-mouthed, cowy-men in this eager, self-involved republic. They might be annexed to the United States a thousand times and never be united, for I do not believe any process in the world would turn a French peasant into a Yankee farmer. Besides, I cannot see that there is anything of Canada except a broad strip along the St. Lawrence River. It makes a great show on the map, but when you ferret it out, it is nothing but show-- and snow and ice and woods and barrenness; and I, for one, hope we shall let Canada alone.
"I think we shall be obliged to leave Quebec tomorrow evening," says Halicarnassus, coming into the hotel parlor on Saturday evening.
"Not at all," I exclaim, promptly laying an embargo on that iniquity.
"Otherwise we shall be compelled to remain till Monday afternoon at four o'clock."
"Which we can very contentedly do."
"But lose a day."
"Keeping the Sabbath holy is never losing a day," replies his guide, philosopher, and friend, sententiously and severely, partly because she thinks so, and partly because she is well content to remain another day in Quebec.
"But as we shall not start till five o'clock," he lamely pleads, "we can go to church twice like saints."
"And begin at five and travel like sinners."
"It will only be clipping off the little end of Sunday."
Now that is a principle the beginning of which is as when one letteth out water, and I will no tolerate it. Short weights are an abomination to the Lord. I would rather steal outright than be mean. A highway robber has some claims upon respect; but a petty, pilfering, tricky Christian is a damning spot on our civilization. Lord Chesterfield asserts that a man's reputation for generosity does not depend so much on what he spends, as on his giving handsomely when it is proper to give at all; and the gay lord builded higher and struck deeper than he knew, or at least said. If a man thinks the Gospel does not require the Sabbath to be strictly kept, I have nothing to say; but if he pretends to keep it, let him keep the whole of it. It takes twenty-four hours to make a day, whether it be the first or the last of the week. I utterly reject the idea of setting off a little nucleus of Sunday, just a few hours of sermon, and then evaporating into any common day. I want the good of Sunday from beginning to end. I want nothing but Sunday between Saturday and Monday. Week-days filtering in spoil the whole. What is the use of having a Sabbath-day, a rest-day, if Mondays and Tuesdays are to be making continual raids upon it? What good do dinner-party Sundays and travelling Sundays and novel-reading Sundays do? You want your Sunday for a rest,--a change,--a breakwater. It