“It was in the bargain. They knew they couldn’t be trusted not to sell their votes to the next man that offered more whiskey, and they like going to jail well enough, if they can go drunk. Make the niggers voters, and you’ll have just such another class to be bought up with whiskey.”
“It seems to me more reasonable,” I replied, “to suppose that the franchise will elevate the negro; and by elevating him you will elevate the white man who has been degraded by the negro’s degradation. Some of both races will no doubt be found willing to sell their votes, as well as their souls, for whiskey; but that is no more a reason why all blacks should be deprived of the right of suffrage, than that all whites should be.”
This is a specimen of the talk that was kept up during the day.
We stopped to dine at a house, where I was told by a young lady that the Yankees were the greatest set of rogues, and that some passed there every day.
“Is it possible!” I said. “Are you not afraid of them?”
“I have nothing whatever to do with them. I should be ashamed to be seen talking with one.”
“Then be careful that no one sees you now.”
“You are not a Yankee!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said I, “I am one of that set of rogues.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, for I had formed a more favorable opinion of you.”