“Yes, yes,” replied my grandfather, “yon black fellow; fetch him hither to me.”
The servant quitted the room, and it was not without some feelings of fear, as well as hopes of amusement, that a few minutes afterwards I saw the poor African stand bowing at the parlour door. The twilight had faded away, and except the reflection from the snow, night had thrown its sable shadows on the scene; but as the bright gleam of the fire shed its red hue upon the jetty features of the negro and flashed upon his rolling eyes, he presented rather a terrific appearance to my young mind.
“Come in!” exclaimed my grandfather in a shrill voice; but the poor fellow stood hesitatingly on the borders of the carpet till the command was repeated with more sternness than before, and then the trembling African advanced a few steps towards the easy chair in which the veteran was sitting. Never shall I forget the abject figure which the poor black displayed. He was a tall large-boned man, but was evidently bent down under the pressure of sickness and of want rather than age. A pair of old canvass trousers hung loosely on his legs, but his feet were quite naked. On the upper part of his body was a striped flannel shirt, one of the sleeves of which was torn away; he had no covering for his head, and the snow which had fallen on it having melted in the warmth of the room, large transparent drops of clear water hung glistening on his thick woolly hair. His look was inclined downwards, as if fearful of meeting the stern gaze of my grandfather, who scanned him with the most minute attention not unmingled with agitation. Every joint of the poor fellow’s limbs shook as if struck with ague, and the cold seemed to have contracted his sinews; for he crouched his body together, as if to shrink from the keen blast. Tears were trickling down his cheeks, and his spirit seemed bowed to the earth by distress.
“Don’t stand showing your ivories[10] there,” said my grandfather; “but tell me, sir, what brought you to England, and what you mean by strolling about the country here as a beggar? I have a great mind to order you to be put in the stocks.”
“Ah, massa!” replied the negro, “Buckra[11] neber hab stocks for nigger-man in dis country; yet nigger-man die, if massa neber give him something for fill hungry belly.”
Whilst he was speaking, my grandfather was restless and impatient. He removed me from his knee and looked with more intense eagerness at the black, who never raised his head. “But we have beggars enough of our own nation,” said the veteran, “without having a swarm of black beetles to eat up the produce of our industry.”
“Massa speak for true,” replied the African meekly; “distress lib every where; come like race-horse, but go away softly, softly.”
Again my grandfather scanned the dark features of the negro, and showed signs of agitation in his own. “Softly! Softly!” said he, imitating the black; “that’s just your negro cant! I know the whole gang of you; but you are not going to deceive me. Why, sirrah! I know you would sacrifice me and all I am worth for a bunch of plantains.”[12]
“Massa hab eat de plantains den,” responded the black; “and yet massa tink hard of poor nigger who work for make ’em grow. Gor Amighty send rain,—Gor Amighty send sun: but Gor Amighty send poor nigger too.”
“Well, well,” said my grandfather, softening his voice to its accustomed tone of mildness; “the Omnipotent is no respecter of colours, and we must not let you be put in the stocks till the morning, daddy;[13] so Robert, tell the cook to get some warm broth for this shivering piece of ebony; and bid her bear a hand about it.”