In conversation with a well-known Southern gentleman, not long since, I mentioned these two cases, and commented on them as a man educated with New England ideas might be supposed to do. The gentleman admitted that he knew of twenty such instances, and gravely defended the practice as being infinitely more moral and respectable than the more common relation existing between masters and slaves.
I looked at my watch—it was nearly ten o'clock, and I rose to go. As I did so the old negress said:
"Don't yer gwo, massa, 'fore you hab sum ob aunty's wine; you'm good friends wid Scip, and I knows you'se not too proud to drink wid brack folks, ef you am from de Norf."
Being curious to know what quality of wine a plantation slave indulged in, I accepted the invitation. She went to the side-board, and brought out a cut-glass decanter, and three cracked tumblers, which she placed on the table. Filling the glasses to the brim, she passed one to Scip, and one to me, and, with the other in her hand, resumed her seat. Wishing her a good many happy years, and Scip a pleasant journey home, I emptied my glass. It was Scuppernong, and the pure juice of the grape!
"Aunty," I said, "this wine is as fine as I ever tasted."
"Oh, yas, massa, it am de raal stuff. I growed de grapes myseff."
"You grew them?"
"Yas, sar, an' Massa Davy make de wine. He do it ebery yar for de ole nuss."
"The Colonel is very good. Do you raise any thing else?"
"Yas, I hab collards and taters, a little corn, and most ebery ting."