Название: Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands
Автор: Lever Charles James
Издательство: Public Domain
Жанр: Зарубежная классика
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“There is no cynicism in this. No one enjoys life more than I do. Music is a passion with me – in painting, I take the greatest delight, and beauty, has still her charm for me. Society, never was a greater pleasure. Scenery, can give me a sense of happiness, which none but solitary men ever feel – yet, it is less as one identified with these, than as a mere spectator. All this is selfish, and egotistical, you will say – and so it is. But then, think what chance has one like me of any other pleasure! To how many annoyances should I expose myself, if I adopted a different career: think of the thousand inquiries, of, – who is he? what is his family? where did he come from? what are his means? and all such queries, which would beset me, were I the respectable denizen of one of your cities. Without some position, some rank, some settled place in society, you give a man nothing – he can neither have friend, nor home. Now, I am a wanderer – my choice of life, happily took an humble turn. I have placed myself in a good situation for seeing the game – and I am not too fastidious, if I get somewhat crushed by the company about me. But now, to finish this long story, for I see the day is breaking, and I must leave Antwerp by ten o’clock.
“At last, then, we reached Quebec. It was on a bright, clear, frosty day in December, when all the world was astir – sledges flying here and there – men slipping along in rackets – women, wrapped up in furs, sitting snugly in chairs, and pushed along the ice some ten or twelve miles the hour – all gay, all lively, and all merry-looking – while I and my Indian friend bustled our way through the crowd towards the post-office. He was a well-known character, and many a friendly nod, and a knowing shake of the head welcomed him as he passed along. I, however, was an object of no common astonishment, even in a town where every variety of costume, from full dress to almost nakedness, was to be met with daily. Still, something remained as a novelty, and it would seem I had hit on it. Imagine, then, an old and ill-used foraging-cap, drawn down over a red night-cap, from beneath which my hair descended straight, somewhere about a foot in length – beard and moustaches to match – a red uniform coat, patched with brown seal-skin, and surmounted by a kind of blanket of buffalo hide – a pair of wampum shorts, decorated with tin and copper, after the manner of a marquetrie table – gray stockings, gartered with fish skin – and moccasins made after the fashion of high-lows, an invention of my own, which I trust are still known as ‘O’Kellies,’ among my friends the red men.
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