University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

This is the only historical notice which I have
been able to discover of the connection or rapport
between pork and ague, but here they are evidently
“in a concatenation accordingly;” and this one
instance is amply sufficient to satisfy the unprejudiced
mind that human nature, high and low, is
every where the same. The Wolverine in his log-hut
need not blush for a penchant which has been
sanctioned and rendered classical by the heroic
example of Richard the lion-hearted. It is true
the king's ague was the consequence of being exposed
to the burning heats of Palestine, enclosed
in iron, like a waffle;—ours, the effect of as hot
a sun, boiling the moist meadows and cooking man
by steam, like a potato. The result is the same.
Ague is “one and indivisible” in whatever station
or clime it may be found. There is no possibility
of confounding it with any of the other varieties
of life; as little of changing its nature or evading
its persecutions by the best use of the best gifts
of fortune. The utter self-abandonment—the

wretched good-for-nothing-ness,—the invincible
conviction that gradually gets possession of the
mind, that life is destined to be one long shake,
with occasional varieties of fever and headache,—
these, we venture to assert, will be found inseparable
concomitants of ague, whether the silken
hangings of the palace or the pendent cobwebs of
the log-cottage, quiver under the influence of the
malignant fiend. I quote Armstrong, who knew
all about it, and who would not, I dare say, have
characterized “Quartana” as a “fiend” if he could
have found any thing worse to call her.

And the appetite for pork—nay, this is a cold
term,—the affection for pork, so far as my observation
in this Western world extends, is a natural
consequent upon ague, as shadow follows substance
or flattery power. In our neighborhood, where
every body has, or has had, or expects to have
ague,—where indeed ague begins to be looked
upon as a condition of humanity,—pork, the beau
ideal of good cheer every where in this region,
bears also the highest reputation as an abracadabra.
Those who are already shaking will often ascribe
their low estate to a lack of this indispensable
luxury, and expect certain relief to be the consequence
of a fresh supply. “If I only had some
pork!” they exclaim pathetically. And when the
fates are propitious and the necessary sacrifices are
completed, they do not take the remedy on the
homœopathic plan. They have no faith in infinitesimal

doses. As much as can be swallowed, three
times per diem, is the usual prescription; whether
intended as preventive or as cure;—as a relief for
present ills or a talisman against those which may
come. And many of the stout old settlers adhere
to this regimen with a religious strictness which
implies full faith. To them “sweetnin” is nothing;
nor “garden-saase;”—nor even whisky
itself, unless pork crown the good cheer, or at least
play the part of pièce de résistance, be the occasion
what it may. To them “killing-time,” so dreaded
by travellers in America, affords a sort of Saturnalia.
They do not approve the saying that “one may
have too much of a good thing.” Of “fresh,”—
which term includes every description of unsalted
meat,—they soon tire; with respect to pork they
are insatiable. They are certainly practical believers
in extreme unction.

This exalted estimate is often exhibited incidentally.
Is it desirable to awaken your compassion
and relax your purse strings? You are told, with
a pensive sigh, that the complainant has not had a
bit of meat in a month—meat having but one
signification with us. Is the rising prosperity or
overflowing abundance of a family to be typified?
“They have as much pork as they can eat.” In
short, if we should set about contriving a Western
emblem of happiness and plenty—something that
should mean all that the ancients associated with
Amalthea's horn and a little more,—I believe

nothing could be found so closely significant as a
magnificent porker,—six inches on the ribs, and
weighing from three to six hundred pounds.

From all this it follows, as a matter of course,
that we take excellent care of these greasy treasures.
Their privileges among us are unlimited—indeed
they are generally preferred to their human dependants,
in all ordinances devised for the public well-being.
Not the sacred cow of Isis was the subject
of more reverential attention. They form the
theme of much anxious consultation at our town-meetings,
and the result has hitherto been to make
them free commoners; i. e., to give them unbounded
range of the fields and gardens of the neighborhood,
since few fences can be found in a new country
which will hold good against so enterprising a
forager when sent out to get his own living. This
arrangement is, to be sure, rather trying to those who
attempt to keep gardens; but who ever thought of
putting “garding-saase” in comparison with pork?

This high stand in public estimation has the
effect that might be expected, in changing and
exalting the characteristic propensities of these
darlings of fortune. Far from being content with
the grovelling habits and coarse fare which satisfy
their brethren, in those countries where man, under
the benighted prejudices of civilization, denies
them their true place in society, our porkers will
leap a garden fence with the agility, if not with the
grace of an antelope. Once in, they show their

refined taste by banqueting upon tidbits selected
here and there from your tomatoes and cauliflowers,
your bulbs and your grape-vines; resembling the
butterfly in one respect at least, inasmuch as they
never complete their feast upon one or two varieties,
but rather choose to try every thing in the garden.
In fact, I have sometimes thought we ought scarcely
here to call man the lord of the creation, since he
is in so many respects at the mercy of these very
imperious masters.

Some people have professed to find a connection
between national character and national food.
They have imagined the waveless calm of the
German to have some mysterious affinity with the
cool and heavy nature of his beloved cabbage; the
mercurial agility of the Frenchman with the saltatory
propensities of the frog; the remarkable modesty
of the Englishman with the blushing red of
the half-cooked beef in which he is said to delight;
and the tameless wildness of our own Indians
with that of their venison which must be chased
before it can be eaten. But we protest against such
illiberal pseudo-philosophers and their doctrine.
We are not greater gormandizers than our neighbors.
We do not, to be sure, like to be penned up,
but we are slow in jumping fences. Our proclivity
to pork is not fairly to be considered so much typical
of the characteristics of the inhabitants, as of
the exuberant fatness of their soil. And we are

not at all prone to cut our own throats as we swim
in “the tide of commercial prosperity.”

But there is one trait in the character I have
attempted merely to sketch, which we need not
blush to own as a national one. The bristly citizen,—(I
speak of him whose nature has been
exalted by his privileges,)—when he once fixes
his keen eye upon a desirable object,—be it corn,
be it cabbage,—is indomitable in perseverance.
“Go ahead” is his motto, whatever be the obstacles
in the way. He may get dozens of knocks over
the pate, but none the less forces his nose into the
pail. So his biped compatriot, if he be full-blooded,
whether the general term Yankee, or the more
especial and local Wolverine, Buckeye or Hoosier
be his designation, when he has a point in view,
never stops, come weal come woe, until he has
accomplished the desired end.

We had once the pleasure of spending a short
time on the British side of Niagara where a “broad”
Scotchman, in the literal as well as the figurative
sense of the term, was sojourning with his family.
This worthy was a merciless talker; no voice but
his could be heard, whether at table or elsewhere;
under the very brow of the Falls his self-satisfied
tones were audible above the ceaseless roar of the
mighty cataract; and the one, only, darling theme
of his conversation was contemptuous abuse of the
Americans, or “Yenkees,” as he called them. We

were told he had written a book of some sort which
carried the same burden.

On the day we left, as he concluded his wine
and his tirade together, he made one sweeping and
significant observation:

“After all, it is ra'ally asto-nishin' to see how
these Yenkees get on! They DO a thing while
we're talkin' aboot it!”

And as a postscript is often found to contain the
pith of a letter, so we thought we had discovered,
in this concluding exclamation, the real source of
all Mr. F.'s cherished enmity to our pork-eating
nation.

“Nous n'aimons pas toujours ceux que nous admirons.”