A FOGGY NIGHT.
The wind, what there was of it, was off shore; it was a light
north-wester, but after we made an offing of about ten miles, it failed
us, being evidently nothing but a land breeze, and we were soon
becalmed. After tossing about for an hour or two, a light cat’s-paw
gave notice that a fresh one was springing up, but it was from the
east, and directly ahead.
“We shall make poor work of this,” said the pilot, “and I am afraid it
will bring up a fog with it, which is a dangerous thing on this coast,
I would advise therefore returning to Ship Harbour,” but the captain
said, “Business must be attended to, and as there was nothing more of
the kind to be done there, we must only have patience and beat up for
Port Liscomb, which is a great resort for fishermen.” I proposed we
should take the wind as we found it, and run for Chesencook, a French
settlement, a short distance to the westward of us, and effect our
object there, which I thought very probable, as no American vessels put
in there if they can avoid it. This proposition met the approval of all
parties, so we put the “Black Hawk” before the wind, and by sunset were
safely and securely anchored. The sails were scarcely furled before the
fog set in, or rather rose up, for it seemed not so much to come from
the sea as to ascend from it, as steam rises from heated water.
It seemed the work of magic, its appearance was so sudden. A moment
before there was a glorious sunset, now we had impenetrable darkness.
We were enveloped as it were in a cloud, the more dense perhaps because
its progress was arrested by the spruce hills, back of the village, and
it had receded upon itself. The little French settlement (for the
inhabitants were all descended from the ancient Acadians) was no longer
discernible, and heavy drops of water fell from the rigging on the
deck. The men put on their “sow-wester” hats and yellow oiled cotton
jackets. Their hair looked grey, as if there had been sleet falling.
There was a great change in the temperature—the weather appeared to
have suddenly retrograded to April, not that it was so cold, but that
it was raw and uncomfortable. We shut the companion-door to keep it
from descending there, and paced the deck and discoursed upon this
disagreeable vapour bath, its cause, its effects on the constitution,
and so on.
“It does not penetrate far into the country,” said the doctor, “and is
by no means unhealthy—as it is of a different character altogether from
the land fog. As an illustration however of its density, and of the
short distance it rises from the water, I will tell you a circumstance
to which I was an eyewitness. I was on the citadel hill at Halifax
once, and saw the points of the masts of a mail-steamer above the fog,
as she was proceeding up the harbour, and I waited there to ascertain
if she could possibly escape George’s Island, which lay directly in her
track, but which it was manifest her pilot could not discern from the
deck. In a few moments she was stationary. All this I could plainly
perceive, although the hull of the vessel was invisible. Some idea may
be formed of the obscurity occasioned by the fog, from the absurd
stories that were waggishly put abroad at the time of the accident. It
was gravely asserted that the first notice the sentinel had of her
approach, was a poke in the side from her jibboom, which knocked him
over into the moat and broke two of his ribs, and it was also
maintained with equal truth that when she came to the wharf it was
found she had brought away a small brass gun on her bowsprit, into
which she had thrust it like the long trunk of an elephant.”
“Well,” sais I, “let Halifax alone for hoaxes. There are some droll
coves in that place, that’s a fact. Many a laugh have I had there, I
tell _you._ But, Doctor,” sais I, “just listen to the noises on shore
here at Chesencook. It’s a curious thing to hear the shout of the
anxious mother to her vagrant boy to return, before night makes it too
dark to find his way home, ain’t it? and to listen to the noisy gambols
of invisible children, the man in the cloud bawling to his ox, as if
the fog had affected their hearing instead of their sight, the sharp
ring of the axe at the wood pile, and the barking of the dogs as they
defy or salute each other. One I fancy is a grumbling bark, as much as
to say, ‘No sleep for us, old boy, to-night, some of these coasters
will be making love to our sheep as they did last week, if we don’t
keep a bright look out. If you hear a fellow speak English, pitch right
into the heretic, and bite like a snapping turtle. I always do so in
the dark, for they can’t swear to you when they don’t see you. If they
don’t give me my soup soon (how like a French dog that, ain’t it?) I’ll
have a cod-fish for my supper to-night, off of old Jodry’s flakes at
the other end of the harbour, for our masters bark so loud they never
bite, so let them accuse little Paul Longille of theft.’ I wonder if
dogs do talk, Doctor?” said I.
“There is no doubt of it,” he replied. “I believe both animals and
birds have some means of communicating to each other all that is
necessary for them—I don’t go further.”
“Well, that’s reasonable,” sais I; “I go that figure, too, but not a
cent higher. Now there is a nigger,” sais I; and I would have given him
a wink if I could, and made a jupe of my head towards Cutler, to show
him I was a goin’ to get the captain’s dander up for fun; but what’s
the use of a wink in a fog? In the first place, it ain’t easy to make
one; your lids are so everlastin’ heavy; and who the plague can see you
if you do? and if he did notice it, he would only think you were tryin’
to protect your peepers, that’s all. Well, a wink is no better nor a
nod to a blind horse; so I gave him a nudge instead. “Now, there is the
nigger, Doctor,” sais I, “do you think he has a soul?1 It’s a question
I always wanted to ask Brother Eldad, for I never see him a dissectin’
of a darky. If I had, I should have known; for nature has a place for
everything, and everything in it’s place.”
1 This very singular and inconsequential rhodomontade of Mr Slick is
one of those startling pieces of levity that a stranger often hears
from a person of his class in his travels on this side of the water.
The odd mixture of strong religious feeling and repulsive looseness of
conversation on serious subjects, which may here and there be found in
his Diary, naturally results from a free association with persons of
all or no creeds. It is the most objectionable trait in his
character—to reject it altogether would be to vary the portrait he has
given us of himself—to admit it, lowers the estimate we might otherwise
be disposed to form of him; but, as he has often observed, what is the
use of a sketch if it be not faithful?
“_Mr_ Slick,” said Cutler.—he never called me Mr before, and it showed
he was mad.—“do you doubt it?”
“No,” sais I, “I don’t; my only doubt is whether they have three?”
“What in the world do you mean?” said he.
“Well,” sais I, “two souls we know they have—their great fat splaw feet
show that, and as hard as jackasses’ they are too; out the third is my
difficulty; if they have a spiritual soul, where is it? We ain’t jest
satisfied about its locality in ourselves. Is it in the heart, or the
brain, or where does it hang out? We know geese have souls, and we know
where to find them.”
“Oh, oh!” said Cutler.
“Cut off the legs and wings and breast of the goose,” sais I, “and
split him down lengthways, and right agin the back-bone is small cells,
and there is the goose’s soul, it’s black meat, pretty much nigger
colour. Oh, it’s grand! It’s the most delicate part of the bird. It’s
what I always ask for myself, when folks say, ‘Mr Slick, what part
shall I help you to—a slice of the breast, a wing, a side-bone, or the
deacon’s nose, or what?’ Everybody laughs at that last word, especially
if there is a deacon at table, for it sounds unctious, as he calls it,
and he can excuse a joke on it. So he laughs himself, in token of
approbation of the tid-bits being reserved for him. ‘Give me the soul,’
sais I; and this I will say, a most delicious thing it is, too. Now,
don’t groan, Cutler—keep that for the tooth-ache, or a campmeetin’;
it’s a waste of breath; for as we don’t exactly know where our own
souls reside, what harm is there to pursue such an interesting
investigation as to our black brethren. My private opinion is, if a
nigger has one, it is located in his heel.”
“Oh, _Mr_ Slick!” said he, “oh!” and he held up both hands.
“Well,” sais I, “Cutler, just listen to reason now, just hear me; you
have been all round the world, but never in it; now, I have been a
great deal in it, but don’t care for goin’ round it. It don’t pay. Did
you ever see a nigger who had the gout? for they feed on the best, and
drink of the best, when they are household servants down south, and
often have the gout. If you have, did you ever hear one say, ‘Get off
my toes?’ No, never, nor any other created critter. They always say,
‘Get off my heel.’ They are all like Lucy Long, ‘when her foot was in
the market-house, her heel was in Main-street.’ It is the pride and
boast of a darky. His head is as thick as a ram’s, but his heel is very
sensi_tive._ Now, does the soul reside there? Did you ever study a dead
nigger’s heel, as we do a horse’s frog. All the feeling of a horse is
there. Wound that, and he never recovers; he is foundered—his heart is
broke. Now, if a nigger has a soul, and it ain’t in his gizzard, and
can’t in natur be in his skull, why, it stands to reason it must be in
his heel.”
“Oh, Mr Slick,” said Cutler, “I never thought I should have heard this
from you. It’s downright profanity.”
“It’s no such thing,” sais I, “it’s merely a philosophical
investigation. Mr Cutler,” sais I, “let us understand each other. I
have been brought up by a minister as well as you, and I believe your
father, the clergyman at Barnstaple, was as good a man as ever lived;
but Barnstaple is a small place. My dear old master, Mr Hopewell, was
an old man who had seen a great deal in his time, and knew a great
deal, for he had ‘gone through the mill.’”
“What is that?” said he.
“Why,” sais I, “when he was a boy, he was intended, like Washington,
for a land-surveyor, and studied that branch of business, and was to go
to the woods to lay out lots. Well, a day or two arter he was
diplomatised as a surveyor, he went to bathe in a mill-pond, and the
mill was a goin’ like all statiee, and sucked him into the flume, and
he went through into the race below, and came out t’other side with
both his legs broke. It was a dreadful accident, and gave him serious
reflections, for as he lay in bed, he thought he might just as easily
have broke his neck. Well, in our country about Slickville, any man
arter that who was wise and had experience of life, was said to have
‘gone through the mill.’ Do you take?”
But he didn’t answer.
“Well, your father and my good old friend brought us both up
religiously, and I hope taught us what was right. But, _Mr_ Cutler—”
“Don’t call me _Mr_,” said he.
“Well, Cutler, then, I have been ‘through the mill,’ in that sense. I
have acquired a knowledge of the world; if I havn’t, the kicks I have
taken must have fallen on barren ground. I know the chalk line in life
won’t do always to travel by. If you go straight a-head, a bottomless
quag or a precipice will bring you up all standing as sure as fate.
Well, they don’t stop me, for I give them the go-by, and make a level
line without a tunnel, or tubular bridge, or any other scientific
folly; I get to the end my own way—and it ain’t a slow one neither. Let
me be, and put this in your pipe. I have set many a man straight before
now, but I never put one on the wrong road since I was raised. I dare
say you have heard I cheated in clocks—I never did. I have sold a
fellow one for five pounds that cost me one; skill did that. Let him
send to London, and get one of Barraud’s, as father did, for
twenty-five pounds sterling. Will it keep better time? I guess not. Is
that a case of sell? Well, my knowledge of horse-flesh ain’t to be
sneezed at. I buy one for fifty dollars and sell him for two hundred;
that’s skill again—it ain’t a cheat. A merchant, thinking a Russian war
inevitable, buys flour at four dollars a barrel, and sells it in a
month at sixteen. Is that a fraud? _There is roguery in all trades but
our own._ Let me alone therefore. There is wisdom sometimes in a fool’s
answer; the learned are simple, the ignorant wise; hear them both;
above all, hear them out; and if they don’t talk with a looseness, draw
them out. If Newman had talked as well as studied, he never would have
quitted his church. He didn’t convince himself he was wrong; he
bothered himself, so he didn’t at last know right from wrong. If other
folks had talked freely, they would have met him on the road, and told
him, ‘You have lost your way, old boy; there is a river a-head of you,
and a very civil ferryman there; he will take you over free gratis for
nothing; but the deuce a bit will he bring you back, there is an
embargo that side of the water.’ Now let me alone; I don’t talk
nonsense for nothing, and when you tack this way and that way, and beat
the ‘Black Hawk’ up agen the wind, I won’t tell you you don’t steer
right on end on a bee line, and go as straight as a loon’s leg. Do you
take?”
“I understand you,” he said, “but still I don’t see the use of saying
what you don’t mean. Perhaps it’s my ignorance or prejudice, or
whatever you choose to call it; but I dare say you know what you are
about.”
“Cutler,” sais I, “I warn’t born yesterday. The truth is, so much
nonsense is talked about niggers, I feel riled when I think of it. It
actilly makes me feel spotty on the back.1 When I was to London last, I
was asked to attend a meetin’ for foundin’ a college for our coloured
brethren. Uncle Tom had set some folks half crazy, and others half mad,
and what he couldn’t do Aunt Harriet did. ‘Well,’ sais I to myself, ‘is
this bunkum, or what in natur is it? If I go, I shall be set down as a
spooney abolitionist; if I don’t go, I shall be set down as an overseer
or nigger driver, and not a clockmaker. I can’t please nobody any way,
and, what is wus, I don’t believe I shall please Mr Slick, no how I can
fix it. Howsoever, I will go and see which way the mule kicks.’
1 This extraordinary effect of anger and fear on animals was observed
centuries before America was discovered. Statius, a writer who fully
equals Mr Slick both in his affectation and bombast, thus alludes to
it:—
“Qualis ubi audito venantum murmure tigris,
Horruit in maculas.”
“As when the tigress hears the hunter’s din,
Dark angry spots distain her glossy skin.”
“Well, Lord Blotherumskite jumps up, and makes a speech; and what do
you think he set about proving? Why, that darkies had immortal souls—as
if any created critter ever doubted it! and he pitched into us Yankees
and the poor colonists like a thousand of bricks. The fact is, the way
he painted us both out, one would think he doubted whether _we_ had any
souls. The pious galls turned up the whites of their eyes like ducks in
thunder, as if they expected drakes to fall from the skies, and the low
church folks called out, ‘Hear, hear,’ as if he had discovered the
passage at the North Pole, which I do think might be made of some use
if it warn’t blocked up with ice for everlastingly. And he talked of
that great big he-nigger, Uncle Tom Lavender, who was as large as a
bull buffalo. He said he only wished he was in the House of Peers, for
he would have astonished their lordships. Well, so far he was correct,
for if he had been in their hot room, I think Master Lavender would
have astonished their weak nerves so, not many would have waited to be
counted. There would soon have been a _dispersion_, but there never
would have been a _division_.”
“Well, what did you do?” said Cutler.
“Kept my word,” sais I, “as I always do. I seconded the motion, but I
gave them a dose of common sense, as a foundation to build upon. I told
them niggers must be prepared for liberty, and when they were
sufficiently instructed to receive and appreciate the blessing, they
must have elementary knowledge, furst in religion, and then in the
useful arts, before a college should be attempted, and so on, and then
took up my hat and walked out. Well, they almost hissed me, and the
sour virgins who bottled up all their humanity to pour out on the
niggers, actilly pointed at me, and called me a Yankee Pussyite. I had
some capital stories to excite ’em with, but I didn’t think they were
worth the powder and shot. It takes a great many strange people,
Cutler,” sais I, “to make a world. I used to like to put the leak into
folks wunst, but I have given it up in disgust now.”
“Why?” sais he.
“Because,” sais I, “if you put a leak into a cask that hain’t got much
in it, the grounds and settlin’s won’t pay for the trouble. Our people
talk a great deal of nonsense about emancipation, but they know it’s
all bunkum, and it serves to palmeteer on, and makes a pretty party
catch-word. But in England, it appears to me, they always like what
they don’t understand, as niggers do Latin and Greek quotations in
sermons. But here is Sorrow. I suppose tea is ready, as the old ladies
say. Come, old boy,” sais I to Cutler, “shake hands; we have the same
object in view, but sometimes we travel by different trains, that’s
all. Come, let us go below. Ah, Sorrow,” sais I, “something smells good
here; is it a moose steak? Take off that dish-cover.”
“Ah, Massa,” said he, as he removed it, “dat are is lubbly, dat are a
fac.”
When I looked at it, I said very gravely—
“Take it away, Sorrow, I can’t eat it; you have put the salt and pepper
on it before you broiled it, and drawn out all the juice. It’s as dry
as leather. Take it away.”
“Does you tink it would be a little more better if it was a little more
doner, Sar? People of ‘finement, like you and me, sometime differ in
tastes. But, Massa, as to de salt, now how you talks! does you railly
tink dis here niggar hab no more sense den one ob dees stupid white
fishermen has? No, Massa; dis child knows his work, and is de boy to do
it, too. When de steak is een amost done, he score him lengthway—dis
way,” passing a finger of his right hand over the palm of the left,
“and fill up de crack wid salt an pepper, den gub him one turn more,
and dat resolve it all beautiful. Oh no, Massa, moose meat is naterally
werry dry, like Yankee preacher when he got no baccy. So I makes graby
for him. Oh, here is some lubbly graby! Try dis, Massa. My old missus
in Varginy was werry ticular about her graby. She usen to say, ‘Sorrow,
it tante fine clothes makes de gentleman, but a delicate taste for
soups, and grabys, and currys. Barbacues, roast pigs, salt meat, and
such coarse tings, is only fit for Congress men.’ I kirsait my graby,
Massa, is done to de turn ob a hair, for dis child is a rambitious
niggar. Fust, Massa, I puts in a lump ob butter bout size ob peace ob
chalk, and a glass ob water, and den prinkle in flour to make it look
like milk, den put him on fire, and when he hiss, stir him wid spoon to
make him hush; den I adds inion, dat is fust biled to take off de trong
taste, eetle made mustard, and a pinch ob most elegant super-superor
yellow snuff.”
“Snuff, you rascal!” said I, “how dare you? Take it away—throw it
overboard! Oh, Lord! to think of eating snuff! Was there ever anything
half so horrid since the world began? Sorrow, I thought you had better
broughtens up.”
“Well, now, Massa,” said he, “does you tink dis niggar hab no soul?”
and he went to the locker, and brought out a small square pint bottle,
and said, “Smell dat, Massa; dat are oliriferous, dat are a fac.”
“Why, that’s curry-powder,” I said; “why don’t you call things by their
right name?”
“Massa,” said he, with a knowing wink, “_dere it more snuff den is made
of baccy, dat are an undoubtable fac_. De scent ob dat is so good, I
can smell it ashore amost. Den, Massa, when graby is all ready, and
distrained beautiful, dis child warms him up by de fire and stirs him;
but,” and he put his finger on his nose, and looked me full in the
face, and paused, “but, Massa, it must be stir all de one way, or it
iles up, and de debbil hisself won’t put him right no more.”
“Sorrow,” sais I, “you don’t know nothin’ about your business. Suppose
it did get iled up, any fool could set it right in a minute.”
“Yes, yes, Massa,” he said, “I know. I ab done it myself often—drink it
all up, and make it ober again, until all right wunst more; sometimes I
drink him up de matter ob two or tree times before he get quite right.”
“No,” sais I, “take it off the fire, add two spoonsful of cold water,
heat it again, and stir it the right way, and it is as straight as a
boot-jack.”
“Well, Massa,” said he, and showed an unusual quantity of white in his
eyes, “well, Massa, you is actilly right. My ole missus taught me dat
secret herself, and I did actilly tink no libbin’ soul but me and she
in de whole univarsal United States did know dat are, for I take my oat
on my last will and testament, I nebber tole nobody. But, Massa,” said
he, “I ab twenty different ways—ay, fifty different ways, to make
graby; but, at sea, one must do de best he can with nottin’ to do with,
and when nottin’ is simmered a week in nottin’ by de fire, it ain’t
nottin’ of a job to sarve him up. Massa, if you will scuze me, I will
tell you what dis here niggar tinks on de subject ob his perfession.
Some grand folks, like missus, and de Queen ob England and de Emperor
ob Roosia, may be fust chop cooks, and I won’t deny de fac; and no
tanks to ’em, for dere saucepans is all silber and gold; but I have
‘skivered dey don’t know nuffin’ about de right way to eat tings after
dey has gone done ’em. Me and Miss Phillesy Anne, de two confdential
sarvants, allers had de dinner sent into our room when missus done gone
feedin’. Missus was werry kind to us, and we nebber stinted her in
nuffin’. I allers gib her one bottle wine and ‘no-he-no’ (noyeau) more
den was possible for her and her company to want, and in course good
conduct is allers rewarded, cause we had what was left. Well, me and
Miss Phillis used to dress up hansum for dinner to set good sample to
niggars, and two ob de coloured waiters tended on us.
“So one day, said Miss Phillis to me: ‘What shall I ab de honor to help
yaw to, Mr Sorrow?’
“‘Aunt Phillis,’ sais I, ‘skuse me one minit, I ab made a grand
‘skivery.’
“‘What is dat, uncle,’ sais she, ‘you is so clebber! I clare you is
wort your weight in gold. What in natur would our dear missus do widout
you and me? for it was me ‘skivered how to cure de pip in chickens, and
make de eggs all hatch out, roosters or hens; and how to souse young
turkeys like young children in cold water to prevent staggers, but what
is your wention, Mr Sorrow?’
“‘Why,’ sais I, ‘aunty, skuse me one half second. What does you see out
ob dat winder, Sambo? you imperent rascal.’
“‘Nuffin’, Sar.’
“‘Well, you black niggar, if you stare bout dat way, you will see
yourself flogged next time. If you ab no manners, I must teach you for
de credit ob de plantation; hold a plate to Miss Phillis right away.
Why, aunty,’ sais I, ‘dis is de ‘skivery; _a house must have solid
foundation, but a dinner a soft one_—on count ob disgestion; so I
begins wid custard and jelly (dey tastes werry well together, and are
light on de stomac), den I takes a glass ob whisky to keep ’em from
turnin’ sour; dat is de first step. Sambo, pour me out some. Second one
is presarves, ices, fruits—strawberry and cream, or mustache churnings
(pistachio cream) and if dey is skilful stowed, den de cargo don’t
shift under de hatches—arter dat comes punkin pie, pineapple tarts, and
raspberry Charlotte.’
“‘Mr Sorrow,’ sais aunty, ‘I is actilly ashamed ob you to name a dish
arter a yaller gall dat way, and call it Charlotte; it’s ondecent,
specially afore dese niggars.’
“‘Law sakes,’ sais I, ‘Miss Phillis, does you tink I ab no sense; I
hate a yaller gall as I do pyson.’
“‘So does I,’ said she, ‘dey is neither chalk nor cheese; dey is a
disgrace to de plantation dey is on; but raspberry Charlotte is a name
I nebber heard tell ob for a dish.”
“‘Why, how you talks,’ sais I. ‘Well, den is de time for fish, such as
stewed rocks.’
“‘Now you is a funnin’,’ sais aunty, ‘isn’t you? how on airth do you
stew rocks? yah! yah! yah!’
“‘Easy as kiss my hand to you,’ sais I, ‘and if dere be no fish (and
dat white Yankee oberseer is so cussed lazy bout catchin’ of dem, I
must struct missus to discharge him). Den dere is two nice little
genteel dishes, ‘birds in de grobe,’ and ‘plover on de shore,’ and den
top off wid soup; and I ain’t particular about dat, so long as I ab de
best; and dat, Miss Phillis, makes a grand soft bed, you see, for
stantials like beef or mutton, or ham, or venson, to lay down easy on.’
“‘Well, you is a wonderful man, Mr Sorrow,’ sais Miss Phillis, ‘I do
really tink dat stands to reason and experience. When I married my fiff
husband—no, it warn’t my fiff, it was my sixth—I had lubly baby tree
month old, and my old man killed it maken speriments. He would give it
soup and minced veal to make it trong. Sais I, ‘Mr Caesar, dat ain’t
natur; fust you know it must ab milk, den pap, and so on in order.’
Sais he, ‘I allus feeds master’s young bull-dogs on raw meat.’ Well,
Caesar died dat same identical night child did (and she gub me a wink);
‘sunthen disagreed wid him also that _he_ eat.’ (‘Oh Massa,’ he
continued, ‘_bears dat ab cubs and women dat ab childern is
dangerous_.) ‘Mr Sorrow,’ said she, ‘dat is a great ‘skivery of yourn;
you’d best tell missus.’
“‘I is most afeard she is too much a slave to fashion,’ sais I.
“‘Uncle,’ said she, ‘you mustn’t say dat ob dear Miss Lunn, or I must
decline de onor to dine wid you. It ain’t spectful. Mr Sorrow, my
missus ain’t de slave ob fashion—she sets it, by golly!’ and she stood
up quite dignant.
“‘Sambo, clar out ob dis dinin’ room quick stick,’ sais I to de waiter;
‘you is so fond ob lookin’ out on de field, you shall go work dere, you
lazy hound; walk out ob de room dis minit; when I has finished my
dinner, I will make you jine de labor gang. Miss Phillis, do resume
your seat agin, you is right as you allus is; shall I ab de honour to
take glass ob wine wid you?’
“Now, Massa, try dat ‘skivery; you will be able to eat tree times as
much as you do now. Arter dat invention, I used to enjoy my sleep
grand. I went into de hottest place in de sun, laid up my face to him,
and sleep like a cedar stump, but den I allus put my veil on.”
“To keep the flies off?” said I.
“Lordy gracious! no, master, dey nebber trouble me; dey is afraid in de
dark, and when dey see me, dey tink it is night, and cut off.”
“What is the use of it, then?”
“To save my complexion, Massa; I is afraid it will fade white. Yah,
yah, yah!”
While we were engaged in eating our steak, he put some glasses on the
table and handed me a black bottle, about two-thirds full, and said,
“Massa, dis here fog ab got down my troat, and up into my head, and
most kill me, I can’t tell wedder dat is wine or rum, I is almost clean
gwine distracted. Will Massa please to tell me?”
I knew what he was at, so sais I, “If you can’t smell it, taste it.”
Well, he poured a glass so full, nobody but a nigger could have reached
his mouth with it without spilling. When he had swallowed it he looked
still more puzzled.
“Peers to me,” he said, “dat is wine, he is so mild, and den it peers
to me it’s rum, for when it gets down to de stomach he feel so good.
But dis child ab lost his taste, his smell, and his finement,
altogedder.”
He then poured out another bumper, and as soon as he had tossed it off,
said, “Dat is de clear grit; dat is oleriferous—wake de dead amost, it
is de genuine piticular old Jamaicky, and no mistake. I must put dat
bottle back and give you todder one, dat must be wine for sartain, for
it is chock full, but rum vaporates bery fast when de cork is drawn.
Missus used to say, ‘Sorrow, meat, when kept, comes bery _high_, but
rum gets bery _low_.’”
“Happy fellow and lucky fellow too, for what white man in your
situation would be treated so kindly and familiarly as you are? The
fact is, Doctor, the negroes of America, as a class, whether slaves or
free men, experience more real consideration, and are more comfortable,
than the peasants of almost any country in Europe. Their notions of the
origin of white men are very droll, when the things are removed I will
make him give you his idea on the subject.
“Sorrow,” said I, “what colour was Adam and Eve?”
“Oh, Massa,” said he, “don’t go for to ask dis child what you knows
yourself better nor what he does. I will tell you some oder time, I is
bery poorly just now, dis uncountable fog ab got into my bones. Dis is
shocking bad country for niggars; oh, dere is nuffin’ like de lubbly
sout; it’s a nateral home for blackies.
‘In Souf Carolina de niggars grow
If de white man will only plant his toe,
Den dey water de ground wid baccy smoke,
And out ob de soil dere heads will poke.
Ring de hoop, blow de horn,
I nebber see de like since I was born,
Way down in de counte-ree,
Four or five mile from de ole Peedee.’
“Oh, Massa, dis coast is only fit for seals, porpoises, and dog-fish,
but not for gentleman, nor niggars, nor ladies. Oh, I berry bad,” and
he pressed both hands on his stomach as if he was in great pain.
“Perhaps another glass of old Jamaica would set you right,” I said.
“Massa, what a most a grand doctor you would ab made,” he said. “Yah,
yah, yah—you know de wery identical medicine for de wery identical
disease, don’t you? dat is just what natur was callin’ for eber so
bad.”
“Natur,” sais I, “what’s that, spell it.”
“R-u-m,” said he, “dat is human natur, and whiskey is soft sawder, it
tickle de troat so nice and go down so slick. Dem is de names my old
missus used to gib ’em. Oh, how she would a lubb’d you, if you had
spunked up to her and tied up to our plantation; she didn’t fection
Yankees much, for dem and dead niggars is too cold to sleep with, and
cunnuchs (Canadians) she hated like pison, cause they ‘ticed off
niggars; but she’d a took to you naterally, you is such a good cook. I
always tink, Massa, when folks take to eatin’ same breakfast, same
lunch, same dinner, same tea, same supper, drinkin’ same soup, lubbin’
same graby, and fectioning same preserves and pickles, and cakes and
pies, and wine, and cordials, and ice-creams, den dey plaguy soon begin
to rambition one anodder, and when dey do dat, dey is sure to say,
‘Sorrow, does you know how to make weddin’ cake, and frost him, and set
him off partikelar jam, wid wices of all kinds, little koopids, and
cocks and hens, and bales of cotton, figs of baccy, and ears of corn,
and all sorts of pretty things done in clarfied sugar. It do seem
nateral to me, for when our young niggars go sparkin’ and spendin’
evenings, dey most commonly marries. It stand to reason. But, Massa, I
is bery bad indeed wid dis dreadful pain in my infernal parts—I is
indeed. Oh,” said he, smackin’ his lips, and drainin’ his glass, “dat
is def to a white man, but life to a niggar; dat is sublime. What a
pity it is though dey make de glasses so almighty tunderin’ small; de
man dat inwented dem couldn’t a had no remaginable nose at all, dat are
a fac.”
“But the colour of Adam?” said I.
“Oh, Massa,” he said, “you knows bery well he was a black gentleman,
and Missus Eve a most splendid Swanga black lady. Oh yes, Massa, dey
were made black to enjoy de grand warm sun. Well, Cain was a wicked
man, cause he killed his brudder. So de Lord say to him one day, ‘Cain,
where is your brudder?’ ‘I don’t know, Massa,’ said he, ‘I didn’t see
him nowhere.’ Well, de next time he asked him de sef-same question, and
he answered quite sarcy, ‘How in de world does I know,’ sais he, ‘I
ain’t my brudder’s keeper.’ Well, afore he know’d where he was, de Lord
said to him, in a voice of tunder, ‘You murdered him, you villain!’ And
Cain, he was so scared, he turned white dat very instant. He nebber
could stand heat, nor enjoy summer no more again, nor none ob his
childer arter him, but Abel’s children remain black to dis day. Fac,
Massa, fac, I does assure you. When you like supper, Massa?”
“At ten o’clock,” sais I.
“Well, den, I will go and get sunthen nice for you. Oh! my ole missus
was a lubbly cook; I don’t believe in my heart de Queen ob England
could hold a candle to her! she knowed twenty-two and a half ways to
cook Indian corn, and ten or twelve ob ’em she inwented herself dat was
de stonishment ob ebbery one.”
“Half a way,” I said, “what do you mean by that?”
“Why, Massa, de common slommachy way people ab ob boiling it on de cob;
dat she said was only half a way. Oh, Lordy gracious, one way she
wented, de corn was as white as snow, as light as puff, and so delicate
it disgested itself in de mout.”
“You can go,” said Cutler.
“Tankee, Massa,” said Sorrow, with a mingled air of submission and fun,
as much as to say, “I guess I don’t want leave for that, anyhow, but I
thank you all the same as if I did,” and making a scrape of his
hind-leg, he retired.
“Slick,” said Cutler, “it isn’t right to allow that nigger to swallow
so much rum! How can one wonder at their degradation, when a man like
you permits them to drink in that manner?”
“Exactly,” sais I, “you think and talk like all abolitionists, as my
old friend Colonel Crockett used to say, the Yankees always do. He
said, ‘When they sent them to pick their cherries, they made them
whistle all the time, so that they couldn’t eat any.’ I understand
blacks better than you do. Lock up your liquor and they will steal it,
for their moral perceptions are weak. Trust them, and teach them to
use, and not abuse it. Do that, and they will be grateful, and prove
themselves trustworthy. That fellow’s drinking is more for the fun of
the thing than the love of liquor. Negroes are not drunkards. They are
droll boys; but, Cutler, long before thrashing machines were invented,
there was a command, ‘not to muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.’
Put that in your pipe, my boy, the next time you prepare your
Kinnikennic for smoking, will you?”
“‘Kinnikennic,’” said the doctor, “what under the sun is that?”
“A composition,” sais I, “of dry leaves of certain aromatic plants and
barks of various kinds of trees, an excellent substitute for tobacco,
but when mixed with it, something super-superior. If we can get into
the woods, I will show you how to prepare it; but, Doctor,” sais I, “I
build no theories on the subject of the Africans; I leave their
construction to other and wiser men than myself. Here is a sample of
the raw material, can it be manufactured into civilization of a high
order? Q stands for query, don’t it? Well, all I shall do is to put a Q
to it, and let politicians answer it; but I can’t help thinking there
is some truth in the old saw, ‘_Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to
be wise_.’”