On the frontier : $b or, Scenes in the WestPearson, C. H. (Charles Henry)
General
On the frontier : $b or, Scenes in the West
Pearson, C. H. (Charles Henry)
Frontier and pioneer life -- United States -- Juvenile fiction; Sunday school literature
In the middle of summer, when all Nature reposed under the united
influence of heat and dust, it was an interesting sight to witness a
drove of them sweeping past, like a whirlwind, in a cloud of their own
raising; their sharp and lengthy outlines dimly visible through the
shining haze, like a flock of antelopes crossing the deserts of the
East. Their patriotism, also, as evinced in an attachment to the land
of their birth and Irish habits, was scarcely more remarkable than
their sagacity. There was not, the distinguished author assures us,
an antiquarian among that learned and useful body, the Irish Academy,
who could boast such an intimate knowledge of the Irish language,
in all its shades of meaning and idiomatic beauty, as did this once
flourishing class of animals. Not that they were confined to the Irish
tongue, many of them understood English too; and it was said of those
that belonged to a convent, the members of which, in their intercourse
with each other, spoke only in Latin, that they were tolerable masters
of that language, and refused to leave a potato field, or plot of
cabbages, except when addressed in it. To the English tongue, however,
they had a deep-rooted antipathy; whether proceeding from the national
feeling, or the fact of its not being sufficiently guttural, is not
affirmed; be this as it may, says the writer referred to, it must be
admitted that they were excellent Irish scholars, and paid a surprising
degree of deference and obedience to whatever was addressed to them in
their own language. For a critical knowledge of their native tongue
they were unrivalled by the most learned pigs or antiquarians of their
day; none of either class possessing, at that period, such a knowledge
of Irish manners, nor so keen a sagacity in tracing out Irish "roots."
I was adjusting this description, hyperbole and all, to my case,
substituting cattle for swine, and Norwegian for Irish, when my
comparisons were brought to a pause. We had entered primitive forests,
belting a river which flowed through loftily rounded bluffs. From the
edge of the woods I could see that the road wound down among the trees
by a long, yet rapid descent, often making a curve to avoid a stump,
rock, or tree. So I took my place by the cattle, resting my whip across
their faces, to check undue speed; but soon, with an impetuous charge,
away they went, the axles frequently grazing the oaks, the heavy
vehicle imparting dangerous momentum, till, dashing through the shallow
stream, as they could not fly up the opposite bluff, I overtook them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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