A DISH OF CLAMS.
Eating is the chief occupation at sea. It’s the great topic as well as
the great business of the day, especially in small sailing vessels like
the “Black Hawk;” although anything is good enough for me when I can’t
get nothin’ better, which is the true philosophy of life. If there is a
good dish and a bad one set before me, I am something of a rat, I
always choose the best.
There are few animals, as there are few men, that we can’t learn
something from. Now a rat, although I hate him like pyson, is a
travelling gentleman, and accommodates himself to circumstances. He
likes to visit people that are well off, and has a free and easy way
about him, and don’t require an introduction. He does not wait to be
pressed to eat, but helps himself, and does justice to his host and his
viands. When hungry, he will walk into the larder and take a lunch or a
supper without requiring any waiting on. He is abstemious, or rather
temperate in his drinking. Molasses and syrup he prefers to strong
liquors, and he is a connoisseur in all things pertaining to the
dessert. He is fond of ripe fruit, and dry or liquid preserves, the
latter of which he eats with cream, for which purpose he forms a
passage to the dairy. He prides himself on his knowledge of cheese, and
will tell you in the twinkling of an eye which is the best in point of
flavour or richness. Still he is not proud—he visits the poor when
there is no gentlemen in the neighbourhood, and can accommodate himself
to coarse fare and poor cookery. To see him in one of these hovels, you
would think he never knew anything better, for he has a capital
appetite, and can content himself with mere bread and water. He is a
wise traveller, too. He is up to the ways of the world, and is aware of
the disposition there is everywhere to entrap strangers. He knows now
to take care of himself. If he is ever deceived, it is by treachery. He
is seized sometimes at the hospitable board, and assassinated, or
perhaps cruelly poisoned. But what skill can ensure safety, where
confidence is so shamefully abused? He is a capital sailor, even
bilge-water don’t make him squeamish, and he is so good a judge of the
sea-worthiness of a ship, that he leaves her at the first port if he
finds she is leaky or weak. Few architects, on the other hand, have
such a knowledge of the stability of a house as he has. He examines its
foundations thoroughly, and if he perceives any, the slightest chance
of its falling, he retreats in season, and leaves it to its fate. In
short, he is a model traveller, and much may be learned from him.
But, then, who is perfect? He has some serious faults, from which we
may also take instructive lessons, so as to avoid them. He runs all
over a house, sits up late at night, and makes a devil of a noise. He
is a nasty, cross-grained critter, and treacherous even to those who
feed him best. He is very dirty in his habits, and spoils as much food
as he eats. If a door ain’t left open for him, he cuts right through
it, and if by accident he is locked in, he won’t wait to be let out,
but hacks a passage ship through the floor. Not content with being
entertained himself, he brings a whole retinue with him, and actilly
eats a feller out of house and home, and gets as sassy as a free
nigger. He gets into the servant-gall’s bed-room sometimes at night,
and nearly scares her to death under pretence he wants her candle; and
sometimes jumps right on to the bed, and says she is handsome enough to
eat, gives her a nip on the nose, sneezes on her with great contempt,
and tells her she takes snuff. The fact is, he is hated everywhere he
travels for his ugly behaviour as much as an Englishman, and that is a
great deal more than sin is by half the world.
Now, being fond of natur, I try to take lessons from all created
critters. I copy the rat’s travelling knowledge and good points as near
as possible, and strive to avoid the bad. I confine myself to the
company apartments, and them that’s allotted to me! Havin’ no family, I
take nobody with me a-visitin’, keep good hours, and give as little
trouble as possible; and as for goin’ to the servant-gall’s room, under
pretence of wanting a candle, I’d scorn such an action. Now, as there
is lots of good things in this vessel, rat like, I intend to have a
good dinner.
“Sorrow, what have you got for us to-day?”
“There is the moose-meat, Massa.”
“Let that hang over the stern, we shall get tired of it.”
“Den, Massa, dar is de Jesuit-priest; by golly, Massa, dat is a funny
name. Yah, yah, yah! dis here niggar was took in dat time. Dat ar a
fac.”
“Well, the turkey had better hang over too.”
“Sposin’ I git you fish dinner to-day, Massa?”
“What have you got?”
“Some tobacco-pipes, Massa, and some miller’s thumbs.” The rascal
expected to take a rise out of me, but I was too wide awake for him.
Cutler and the doctor, strange to say, fell into the trap, and required
an explanation, which delighted Sorrow amazingly. Cutler, though an old
fisherman on the coast, didn’t know these fish at all. And the doctor
had some difficulty in recognising them, under names he had never heard
of before.
“Let us have them.”
“Well, there is a fresh salmon, Massa?”
“Let us have steaks off of it. Do them as I told you, and take care the
paper don’t catch fire, and don’t let the coals smoke ’em. Serve some
lobster sauce with them, but use no butter, it spoils salmon. Let us
have some hoss-radish with it.”
“Hoss-radish! yah, yah, yah! Why, Massa, whar under the sun does you
suppose now I could git hoss-radish, on board ob dis ‘Black Hawk?’ De
sea broke into my garden de oder night, and kill ebery created ting in
it. Lord a massy, Massa, you know dis is notin’ but a fishin’-craft,
salt pork and taters one day, and salt beef and taters next day, den
twice laid for third day, and den begin agin. Why, dere neber has been
no cooking on board of dis here fore-and-after till you yourself comed
on board. Dey don’t know nuffin’. Dey is as stupid and ignorant as
coots.”
Here his eye rested on the captain, when with the greatest coolness he
gave me a wink, and went on without stopping.
“Scept massa captain,” said he, “and he do know what is good, dat ar a
fact, but he don’t like to be ticular, so he takes same fare as men,
and dey isn’t jealous. ‘Sorrow,’ sais he, ‘make no stinction for me. I
is used to better tings, but I’ll put up wid same fare as men.’”
“Sorrow,” said the captain, “how can you tell such a barefaced
falsehood. What an impudent liar you are, to talk so before my face. I
never said anything of the kind to you.”
“Why, Massa, now,” said Sorrow, “dis here child is wide awake, that are
a fac, and no mistake, and it’s onpossible he is a dreamin’. What is it
you did say den, when you ordered dinner?”
“I gave my orders and said nothing more.”
“Exactly, Massa, I knowed I was right; dat is de identical ting I said.
You was used to better tings; you made no stinctions, and ordered all
the same for boaf of you. Hoss-radish, Massa Slick,” said he, “I wish I
had some, or could get some ashore for you, but hoss-radish ain’t
French, and dese folks nebber hear tell ob him.”
“Make some.”
“Oh, Massa, now you is makin’ fun ob dis poor niggar.”
“I am not. Take a turnip, scrape it the same as the radish, into fine
shaving, mix it with fresh mustard, and a little pepper and vinegar,
and you can’t tell it from t’other.”
“By golly, Massa, but dat are a wrinkle. Oh, how missus would a lubbed
you. It was loud all down sout dere was a great deal ob ’finement in
her. Nobody was good nuff for her dere; dey had no taste for cookin’.
She was mighty high ‘mong de ladies, in de instep, but not a mossel of
pride to de niggars. Oh, you would a walked right into de cockles ob
her heart. If you had tredded up to her, she would a married you, and
gub you her tree plantations, and eight hundred niggar, and ebery ting,
and order dinner for you herself. Oh, wouldn’t she been done, gone
stracted, when you showed her how she had shot her grandmother?1
wouldn’t she? I’ll be dad fetched if she wouldn’t.”
1 Shooting one’s granny, or grandmother, means fancying you have
discovered what was well known before.
“Have you any other fish?” I said.
“Oh yes, Massa; some grand fresh clams.”
“Do you know how to cook them?”
“Massa,” said he, putting his hands under his white apron, and,
sailor-like, giving a hitch up to his trousers, preparatory to
stretching himself straight; “Massa, dis here niggar is a rambitious
niggar, and he kersaits he can take de shine out ob any niggar that
ever played de juice harp in cookin’ clams. Missus structed me husself.
Massa, I shall nebber forget dat time, de longest day I live. She sent
for me, she did, and I went in, and she was lyin’ on de sofa, lookin’
pale as de inside of parsimmon seed, for de wedder was brilin’ hot.
“‘Sorrow,’ said she.
“‘Yes, Missus,’ said I.
“‘Put the pillar under my head. Dat is right,’ said she; ‘tank you,
Sorrow.’
“Oh, Massa, how different she was from abulitinists to Boston. She
always said Tankee, for ebery ting. Now ablutinists say, ‘Hand me dat
piller, you darned rascal, and den make yourself skase, you is as black
as de debbil’s hind leg.’ And den she say—
“‘Trow dat scarf over my ankles, to keep de bominable flies off.
Tankee, Sorrow; you is far more handier dan Aunt Dolly is. Dat are
niggar is so rumbustious, she jerks my close so, sometimes I tink in my
soul she will pull ’em off.’ Den she shut her eye, and she gabe a cold
shiver all ober.
“‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘I am goin’ to take a long, bery long journey, to
de far off counteree.’
“‘Oh dear me! Missus,’ says I; ‘Oh Lord; Missus, you ain’t a goin’ to
die, is you?’ and I fell down on my knees, and kissed her hand, and
said, ‘Oh, Missus; don’t die, please Missus. What will become oh dis
niggar if you do? If de Lord in his goodness take you away, let me go
wid you, Missus;’ and I was so sorry I boohooed right out, and groaned
and wipy eye like courtin’ amost.
“‘Why, Uncle Sorrow,’ said she, ‘I isn’t a goin’ to die; what makes you
tink dat? Stand up: I do railly believe you do lub your missus. Go to
dat closet, and pour yourself out a glass of whiskey;’ and I goes to de
closet—just dis way—and dere stood de bottle and a glass, as dis here
one do, and I helpt myself dis fashen.
“‘What made you tink I was a goin’ for to die?’ said she, ‘do I look so
ill?’
“‘No, Missus; but dat is de way de Boston preacher dat staid here last
week spoke to me,—de long-legged, sour face, Yankee villain. He is
uglier and yallerer dan Aunt Phillissy Anne’s crooked-necked squashes.
I don’t want to see no more ob such fellers pysonin’ de minds ob de
niggars here.’
“Says he, ‘My man.’
“‘I isn’t a man,’ sais I, ‘I is only a niggar.’
“‘Poor, ignorant wretch,’ said he.
“‘Massa,’ sais I, ‘you has waked up de wrong passenger dis present
time. I isn’t poor, I ab plenty to eat, and plenty to drink, and two
great trong wenches to help me cook, and plenty of fine frill shirt,
longin’ to my old massa, and bran new hat, and when I wants money I
asks missus, and she gives it to me, and I ab white oberseer to shoot
game for me. When I wants wild ducks or wenson, all I got to do is to
say to dat Yankee oberseer, ‘Missus and I want some deer or some
canvasback, I spect you had better go look for some, Massa Buccra.’ No,
no, Massa, I ain’t so ignorant as to let any man come over me to make
seed-corn out of me. If you want to see wretches, go to James Town, and
see de poor white critters dat ab to do all dere own work deyselves,
cause dey is so poor, dey ab no niggars to do it for ’em.’
“Sais he, ‘Hab you ebber tort ob dat long journey dat is afore you? to
dat far off counteree where you will be mancipated and free, where de
weary hab no rest, and de wicked hab no labor?’
“‘Down to Boston I spose, Massa,’ sais I, ‘mong dem pententionists and
ablutionists, Massa; ablution is a mean, nasty, dirty ting, and don’t
suit niggars what hab good missus like me, and I won’t take dat
journey, and I hate dat cold counteree, and I want nottin’ to do wid
mansipationists.’
“‘It ain’t dat, said he, ‘it’s up above.’
“‘What,’ sais I, ‘up dere in de mountains? What onder de sun should I
go dere for to be froze to defth, or to be voured by wild beasts?
Massa, I won’t go nowhere widout dear missus goes.’
“‘I mean Heaben,’ he said, ‘where all are free and all equal; where
_joy_ is, and _sorrow_ enters not.’
“‘What,’ sais I, ‘Joy in Heaben? I don’t believe one word of it. Joy
was de greatest tief on all dese tree plantations of missus; he stole
more chicken, and corn, and backey, dan his great bull neck was worth,
and when he ran off, missus wouldn’t let no one look for him. Joy in
Heaben, eh; and Sorrow nebber go dere! Well, I clare now! Yah, yah,
yah, Massa, you is foolin’ dis here niggar now, I know you is when you
say Joy is dead, and gone to Heaben, and dis child is shot out for
ebber. Massa,’ sais I, ‘me and missus don’t low ablution talk here, on
no account whatsomever, de only larnin’ we lows of is whippin’ fellows
who tice niggars to rections, and de slaves of dis plantation will larn
you as sure as you is bawn, for dey lub missus dearly. You had better
kummence de long journey usself. Sallust, bring out dis gentleman hoss;
and Plutarch, go fetch de saddle-bag down.’
“I led his hoss by where de dogs was, and, sais I, ‘Massa, I can’t help
larfin’ no how I can fix it, at dat ar story you told me about dat
young rascal Joy. Dat story do smell rader tall, dat are a fac; yah,
yah, yah,’ and I fell down and rolled ober and ober on de grass, and
it’s lucky I did, for as I dodged he fetched a back-handed blow at me
wid his huntin’ whip, that would a cut my head off if it had tooked me
round my neck.
“My missus larfed right out like any ting, tho’ it was so hot, and when
missus larf I always know she is good-natured.
“‘Sorrow,’ said missus, ‘I am afraid you is more rogue dan fool.’
“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘I nebber stole the vally of a pin’s head off ob dis
plantation, I scorn to do such a nasty, dirty, mean action, and you so
kind as to gib me more nor I want, and you knows dat, Missus; you knows
it, oderwise you wouldn’t send me to de bank, instead ob white
oberseer, Mr Succatash, for six, seben, or eight hundred dollars at a
time. But, dere is too much stealin’ going on here, and you and I,
Missus, must be more ticklar. You is too dulgent altogether.’
“‘I didn’t mean that, Sorrow,’ she said, ‘I don’t mean stealin’.
“‘Well, Missus, I’s glad to hear dat, if you will let me ab permission
den, I will drink you good helf.’
“‘Why didn’t you do it half an hour ago?’ she said.
“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘I was so busy talkin’, and so scared about your
helf, and dere was no hurry,’ and I stept near to her side, where she
could see me, and I turned de bottle up, and advanced dis way, for it
hadn’t no more dan what old Cloe’s thimble would hold, jist like dis
bottle.
“‘Why,’ said she (and she smiled, and I knowed she was good-natured),
‘dere is nottin’ dere, see if dere isn’t some in de oder bottle,’ and I
went back and set it down, and took it up to her, and poured it out dis
way.”
“Slick,” said Cutler, “I am astonished at you, you are encouraging that
black rascal in drinking, and allowing him to make a beast of himself,”
and he went on deck to attend to his duty, saying as he shut the door,
“That fellow will prate all day if you allow him.” Sorrow followed him
with a very peculiar expression of eye as he retired.
“Massa Captain,” said he, “as sure as de world, is an ablutionist, dat
is just de way dey talk. Dey call us coloured breddren when they tice
us off from home, and den dey call us black rascals and beasts. I wish
I was to home agin, Yankees treat dere coloured breddren like dogs, dat
is a fact; but he is excellent man, Massa Captain, bery good man, and
though I don’t believe it’s a possible ting Joy is in heaben, I is
certain de captain, when de Lord be good nuff to take him, will go
dere.”
“The captain is right,” said I, “Sorrow, put down that bottle; you have
had more than enough already—put it down;” but he had no idea of
obeying, and held on to it.
“If you don’t put that down, Sorrow,” I said, “I will break it over
your head.”
“Oh! Massa,” said he, “dat would be a sin to waste dis oloriferous rum
dat way; just let me drink it first, and den I will stand, and you may
break de bottle on my head; it can’t hurt niggar’s head, only cut a
little wool.”
“Come, no more of this nonsense,” I said, “put it down;” and seeing me
in earnest, he did so.
“Now,” sais I, “tell us how you are going to cook the clams.”
“Oh! Massa,” said he, “do let me finish de story about de way I larned
it.
“‘Sorrow,’ said missus, ‘I am going to take a long journey all de way
to Boston, and de wedder is so cold, and what is wus, de people is so
cold, it makes me shudder,’ and she shivered like cold ague fit, and I
was afraid she would unjoint de sofa.
“‘Don’t lay too close to them, Missus,’ sais I.
“‘What,’ said she, and she raised herself up off ob de pillar, and she
larfed, and rolled ober and ober, and tosticated about almost in a
conniption fit, ‘you old goose,’ said she, ‘you onaccountable fool,’
and den she larfed and rolled ober agin, I tought she would a tumbled
off on de floor, ‘do go way; you is too foolish to talk to, but turn my
pillar again. Sorrow,’ said she, ‘is I showin’ of my ankles,’ said she,
‘rollin’ about so like mad?’
“‘Little bit,’ sais I, ‘Missus.’
“‘Den put dat scarf ober my feet agin. What on earth does you mean,
Sorrow, bout not sleepin’ too close to de Yankees?’
“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘does you recollect de day when Zeno was drownded
off de raft? Well, dat day Plutarch was lowed to visit next plantation,
and dey bring him home mazin’ drunk—stupid as owl, his mout open and he
couldn’t speak, and his eye open and he couldn’t see. Well, as you
don’t low niggar to be flogged, Aunt Phillissy Ann and I lay our heads
together, and we tought we’d punish him; so we ondressed him, and put
him into same bed wid poor Zeno, and when he woke up in de mornin’ he
was most frighten to def, and had de cold chills on him, and his eye
stared out ob his head, and his teeth chattered like monkeys. He was so
frighten, we had to burn lights for a week—he tought after dat he saw
Zeno in bed wid him all de time. It’s werry dangerous, Missus, to sleep
near cold people like Yankees and dead niggars.’
“‘Sorrow, you is a knave I believe,’ she said.
“‘Knave, knave, Missus,’ I sais, ‘I don’t know dat word.’
“‘Sorrow,’ said she, ‘I is a goin’ to take you wid me.’
“‘Tank you, Missus,’ said I, ‘oh! bless your heart, Missus.’”
“Sorrow,” said I, sternly, “do you ever intend to tell us how you are
going to cook them clams, or do you mean to chat all day?”
“Jist in one minute, Massa, I is jist comin’ to it,” said he.
“‘Now,’ sais missus, ‘Sorrow, it’s werry genteel to travel wid one’s
own cook; but it is werry ongenteel when de cook can’t do nuffin’
super-superior; for bad cooks is plenty eberywhere widout travellin’
wid ’em. It brings disgrace.’
“‘Exactly, Missus,’ sais I, ‘when you and me was up to de president’s
plantation, his cook was makin’ plum pudden, he was. Now how in natur
does you rimagine he did it? why, Missus, he actilly made it wid flour,
de stupid tick-headed fool, instead ob de crumbs ob a six cent stale
loaf, he did; and he nebber ‘pared de gredients de day afore, as he had
aughten to do. It was nuffin’ but stick jaw—jist fit to feed turkeys
and little niggeroons wid. Did you ebber hear de likes ob dat in all
your bawn days, Missus; but den, Marm, de general was a berry poor cook
hisself you know, and it stand to argument ob reason, where massa or
missus don’t know nuffin’, de sarvant can’t neither. Dat is what all de
gentlemen and ladies says dat wisit here, Marm: ‘What a lubly beautiful
woman Miss Lunn is,’ dey say, ‘dere is so much ‘finement in her, and
her table is de best in all Meriky.’
“‘What a fool you is, Uncle Sorrow,’ she say, and den she larf again;
and when missus larf den I know she was pleased. ‘Well,’ sais she, ‘now
mind you keep all your secrets to yourself when travellin’, and keep
your eyes open wide, and see eberyting and say nuffin’.’
“‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘I will be wide awake; you may pend on me—eyes as
big as two dog-wood blossoms, and ears open like mackarel.’
“‘What you got for dinner to-day?’ she say—jist as you say, Massa.
Well, I tell her all ober, as I tells you, numeratin’ all I had. Den
she picked out what she wanted, and mong dem I recklect was clams.’”
“Now tell us how you cooked the clams,” I said; “what’s the use of
standing chattering all day there like a monkey?”
“Dat, Massa, now is jist what I is goin’ to do dis blessid minit.
‘Missus,’ sais I, ‘talkin’ of clams, minds me of chickens.’
“‘What on airth do you mean,’ sais she, ‘you blockhead; it might as
well mind you of tunder.’
“‘Well, Missus,’ sais I, ‘now sometimes one ting does mind me of anoder
ting dat way; I nebber sees you, Missus, but what you mind me ob de
beautiful white lily, and dat agin ob de white rose dat hab de lubly
color on his cheek.’
“‘Do go away, and don’t talk nonsense,’ she said, larfing; and when she
larfed den I know she was pleased.
“‘So clams mind me of chickens.’
“‘And whiskey,’ she said.
“‘Well, it do, Missus; dat are a fac;’ and I helped myself agin dis
way.”
“Sorrow,” said I, “this is too bad; go forward now and cut this foolery
short. You will be too drunk to cook the dinner if you go on that way.”
“Massa,” said he, “dis child nebber was drunk in his life; but he is
frose most to deaf wid de wretched fogs (dat give people here ‘blue
noses’), an de field ice, and raw winds: I is as cold as if I slept wid
a dead niggar or a Yankee. Yah, yah, yah.
“‘Well, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dem clams do mind me ob chickens. Now,
Missus, will you skuse me if I git you the receipt Miss Phillis and I
ab cyphered out, how to presarve chickens?’
“‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I will. Let me hear it. Dat is sumthen new.’
“‘Well, Missus, you know how you and I is robbed by our niggars like so
many minks. Now, Missus, sposin’ you and I pass a law dat all fat
poultry is to be brought to me to buy, and den we keep our fat poultry
locked up; and if dey steal de lean fowls, and we buy ’em, we saves de
fattenin’ of ’em, and gibs no more arter all dan de vally of food and
tendin’, which is all dey gits now, for dere fowls is always de best
fed in course; and when we ab more nor we wants for you and me, den I
take ’em to market and sell ’em; and if dey will steal ’em arter dat,
Missus, we must try ticklin’; dere is nuffin’ like it. It makes de down
fly like a feather-bed. It makes niggars wery sarcy to see white tief
punished tree times as much as dey is; dat are a fac, Missus. A poor
white man can’t work, and in course he steal. Well, his time bein’ no
airthly use, dey gib him six month pensiontary; and niggar, who can
airn a dollar or may be 100 cents a day, only one month. I spise a poor
white man as I do a skunk. Dey is a cuss to de country; and it’s berry
hard for you and me to pay rates to support ’em: our rates last year
was bominable. Let us pass dis law, Missus, and fowl stealin’ is
done—de ting is dead.’
“‘Well, you may try it for six months,’ she say, ‘only no whippin’. We
must find some oder punishment,’ she said.
“‘I ab it,’ sais I, ‘Missus! Oh Lord a massy, Missus! oh dear missus! I
got an inwention as bright as bran new pewter button. I’ll shave de
head of a tief close and smooth. Dat will keep his head warm in de sun,
and cool at night; do him good. He can’t go courtin’ den, when he ab
‘no wool whar de wool ought to grow,’ and spile his ‘frolicken, and all
de niggaroons make game ob him. It do more good praps to tickle fancy
ob niggars dan to tickle dere hide. I make him go to church reglar den
to show hisself and his bald pate. Yah, yah, yah!’”
“Come, Sorrow,” I said, “I am tired of all this foolery; either tell me
how you propose to cook the clams, or substitute something else in
their place.”
“Well, Massa,” he said, “I will; but railly now when I gits talkin’
bout my dear ole missus, pears to me as if my tongue would run for
ebber. Dis is de last voyage I ebber make in a fishin’ craft. I is used
to de first society, and always moved round wid ladies and gentlemen
what had ‘finement in ’em. Well, Massa, now I comes to de clams. First
of all, you must dig de clams. Now dere is great art in diggin’ clams.
“Where you see little hole like worm hole dere is de clam. He breathe
up tru dat, and suck in his drink like sherry-cobbler through a straw.
Whar dere is no little air holes, dere is no clam, dat are a fac. Now,
Massa, can you tell who is de most knowin’ clam-digger in de worl? De
gull is, Massa; and he eat his clam raw, as some folks who don’t know
nuffin’ bout cookin’ eat oysters. He take up de clam ebber so far in de
air, and let him fall right on de rock, which break shell for him, and
down he goes and pounces on him like a duck on a June bug. Sometimes
clam catch him by de toe though, and hold on like grim death to a dead
niggar, and away goes bird screamin’ and yellin’, and clam sticking to
him like burr to a hosses tail. Oh, geehillikin, what fun it is. And
all de oder gulls larf at him like any ting; dat comes o’ seezin’ him
by de mout instead ob de scruff ob de neck.
“Well, when you git clam nuff, den you must wash ’em, and dat is more
trouble dan dey is worth; for dey is werry gritty naturally, like
buckwheat dat is trashed in de field—takes two or tree waters, and salt
is better dan fresh, cause you see fresh water make him sick. Well,
now, Massa, de question is, what will you ab; clam soup, clam
sweetbread, clam pie, clam fritter, or bake clam?”
“Which do you tink best, Sorrow?” sais I.
“Well, Massa, dey is all good in dere way; missus used to fection baked
clams mighty well, but we can’t do dem so tip-top at sea; clam
sweetbread, she said, was better den what is made ob oyster; and as to
clam soup, dat pends on de cook. Now, Massa, when missus and me went to
wisit de president’s plantation, I see his cook, Mr Sallust, didn’t
know nuffin’ bout parin’ de soup. What you tink he did, Massa? stead ob
poundin’ de clams in a mortar fust, he jist cut ’em in quarters and
puts ’em in dat way. I nebber see such ignorance since I was raised. He
made de soup ob water, and actilly put some salt in it; when it was
sarved up—it was rediculous disgraceful—he left dem pieces in de
tureen, and dey was like leather. Missus said to me:
“‘Sorrow,’ sais she, ‘I shall starve here; dem military men know
nuffin’ but bout hosses, dogs, and wine; but dey ain’t delicate no way
in dere tastes, and yet to hear ’em talk you’d be most afeered to offer
’em anyting, you’d tink dey was de debbel and all.’”
“Did she use those words, Sorrow?”
“Well, not zactly,” he said, scratching his head, “dey was dicksionary
words and werry fine, for she had great ‘finement bout her; but dat was
de meanin’ ob ’em.
“‘Now, Sorrow,’ she said, ‘tell me de trut, wasn’t dat soup now made of
water?’
“‘Yes, Missus, it was,’ said I, ‘I seed it wid my own eyes.’
“‘I taut so,’ she said, ‘why dat cook ain’t fit to tend a bear trap,
and bait it wid sheep’s innerds.’”
“Did she use those words?”
“Why laws a massy, Massa! I can’t swear to de identical words; how can
I? but as I was a sayin’, dere was ‘finement in ’em, werry long, werry
crooked, and werry pretty, but dat was all de sense ob ’em.
“‘Now, Sorrow,’ said she, ‘he ought to ab used milk; all fish soups
ought to be made o’ milk, and den tickened wid flour.’
“‘Why in course, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dat is de way you and me always
likes it.’
“‘It has made me quite ill,’ said she.
“‘So it ab nearly killed me, Missus,’ sais I, puttin’ my hand on my
stomach, ‘I ab such a pain down here, I tink sometimes I shall die.’
“‘Well, you look ill, Uncle Sorrow,’ she said, and she went to her
dressin’-case, and took a little small bottle (covered ober wid printed
words), ‘Take some o’ dis,’ said she, and she poured me out bout dis
much (filling his glass again), ‘take dat, it will do you good.’
“‘Is it berry bad to swaller,’ sais I, ‘Missus? I is most afeard it
will spile the ‘finement of my taste.’
“‘Try it,’ sais she, and I shut to my eyes, and made awful long face,
and swallowed it jist dis way.
“‘By golly,’ sais I, ‘Missus, but dat is grand. What is dat?’
“‘Clove, water,’ said she.
“‘Oh, Missus,’ sais I, ‘dat is plaguy trong water, dat are a fac, and
bery nice flavoured. I wish in my heart we had a nice spring ob it to
home. Wouldn’t it be grand, for dis is a bery thirsty niggar, dat are a
fac. Clam pie, Massa, is first chop, my missus ambitioned it some
punkins.’
“Well, how do you make it?”
“Dere is seberal ways, Massa. Sometime we used one way and sometime
anoder. I do believe missus could do it fifty ways.”
“Fifty ways!” said I, “now Sorrow, how can you lie that way? I shall
begin to think at last you never had a mistress at all.”
“Fifty ways! Well, Massa, goodness gracious me! You isn’t goin’ to tie
me down to swear to figures now, any more nor identical words, is you?
I ab no manner o’ doubt she could fifty ways, but she only used eight
or ten ways which she said was de best. First dere is de clam bake.”
“Well, I know that,” sais I, “go on to the clam pie.”
“What is it?” said the doctor, “for I should like to know how they are
prepared.”
“This,” said I, “is the most approved mode. A cavity is dug in the
earth, about eighteen inches deep, which is lined with round stones. On
this a fire is made; and when the stones are sufficiently heated, a
bushel or more of clams (according to the number of persons who are to
partake of the feast) is thrown upon them. On this is put a layer of
rock-weed, gathered from the beach, and over this a second layer of
sea-weed. This prevents the escape of the steam, and preserves the
sweetness of the fish. Clams baked in this manner are preferred to
those cooked in the usual way in the kitchen. On one occasion, that of
a grand political mass-meeting in favour of General Harrison on the 4th
of July, 1840, nearly 10,000 persons assembled in Rhode Island, for
whom a clambake and chowder was prepared. This was probably the
greatest feast of the kind that ever took place in New England.”
“Zactly,” said Sorrow, “den dere is anoder way.”
“I won’t hear it,” said I, “stiver now, make the pie any way you like.”
“Massa,” said he, “eber since poor missus died from eaten hogs wid dere
heads on, I feel kinder faint when I sees clams, I hab neber swallowed
one since, and neber will. De parfume gits into my stomach, as it did
when de General’s cook used water instead of milk, in his soup. I don’t
spose you ab any clove-water, but if you will let me take jist a
tumblerfull ob dis, I tink it would make me survive a little,” and
without waiting for leave he helped himself to a bumper. “Now, Massa,”
he said, “I show you what cookin’ is, I know,” and making a scrape of
his leg, he left the cabin.
“Doctor,” said I, “I am glad you have seen this specimen of a southern
negro. He is a fair sample of a servant in the houses of our great
planters. Cheerful, grateful, and contented, they are better off and
happier than any portion of the same race I have met with in any part
of the world. They have a quick perception of humour, a sort of
instinctive knowledge of character, and great cunning, but their
reasoning powers are very limited. Their appetites are gross, and their
constitutional indolence such that they prefer enduring any suffering
and privation to regular habits of industry.
“Slavery in the abstract is a thing that nobody approves of, or
attempts to justify. We all consider it an evil—but unhappily it was
entailed upon us by our forefathers, and has now grown to be one of
such magnitude that it is difficult to know now to deal with it—and
this difficulty is much increased by the irritation which has grown out
of the unskilful and unjustifiable conduct of abolitionists. The
grossest exaggerations have been circulated as to the conduct and
treatment of our slaves, by persons who either did not know what they
were talking about, or who have wilfully perverted facts. The devil we
have painted black, and the negro received the same colour from the
hand of his Maker. It only remained to represent the planter as of a
deeper dye than either. This picture however wanted effect, and
latterly lights and shades have been judiciously introduced, by
mingling with these groups eastern abolitionists, white overseers, and
English noblemen, and ladies of rank. It made a clever caricature—had a
great run—has been superseded by other follies and extravagancies, and
is now nearly forgotten. The social evil still remains, and ever will,
while ignorant zeal, blind bigotry, hypocrisy, and politics, demand to
have the exclusive treatment of it. The planter has rights as well as
the slave, and the claims of both must be well weighed and considered
before any dispassionate judgment can be formed.
“In the mean time invective and misrepresentation, by irritating the
public, disqualify it for the deliberate exercise of its functions. If
the slaves have to mourn over the want of freedom, the planters may
lament the want of truth in their opponents; and it must be admitted
that they have submitted to the atrocious calumnies that have been so
liberally heaped upon them of late years, with a contempt that is the
best refutation of falsehood, or a meekness and forbearance that
contrast very favourably with the violence and fury of their
adversaries.”
My object however, Squire, is not to write a lecture on emancipation,
but to give you a receipt for cooking “a dish of clams.”