“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.”