“Oh, Massa,” said he, “don’t go for to ask dis child what you knows yourself better nor what he does. I will tell you some oder time, I is bery poorly just now, dis uncountable fog ab got into my bones. Dis is shocking bad country for niggars; oh, dere is nuffin’ like de lubbly sout; it’s a nateral home for blackies.
‘In Souf Carolina de niggars grow
If de white man will only plant his toe,
Den dey water de ground wid baccy smoke,
And out ob de soil dere heads will poke.
Ring de hoop, blow de horn,
I nebber see de like since I was born,
Way down in de counte-ree,
Four or five mile from de ole Peedee.’
“Oh, Massa, dis coast is only fit for seals, porpoises, and dog-fish, but not for gentleman, nor niggars, nor ladies. Oh, I berry bad,” and he pressed both hands on his stomach as if he was in great pain.
“Perhaps another glass of old Jamaica would set you right,” I said.
“Massa, what a most a grand doctor you would ab made,” he said. “Yah, yah, yah—you know de wery identical medicine for de wery identical disease, don’t you? dat is just what natur was callin’ for eber so bad.”
“Natur,” sais I, “what’s that, spell it.”
“R-u-m,” said he, “dat is human natur, and whiskey is soft sawder, it tickle de troat so nice and go down so slick. Dem is de names my old missus used to gib ’em. Oh, how she would a lubb’d you, if you had spunked up to her and tied up to our plantation; she didn’t fection Yankees much, for dem and dead niggars is too cold to sleep with, and cunnuchs (Canadians) she hated like pison, cause they ‘ticed off niggars; but she’d a took to you naterally, you is such a good cook. I always tink, Massa, when folks take to eatin’ same breakfast, same lunch, same dinner, same tea, same supper, drinkin’ same soup, lubbin’ same graby, and fectioning same preserves and pickles, and cakes and pies, and wine, and cordials, and ice-creams, den dey plaguy soon begin to rambition one anodder, and when dey do dat, dey is sure to say, ‘Sorrow, does you know how to make weddin’ cake, and frost him, and set him off partikelar jam, wid wices of all kinds, little koopids, and cocks and hens, and bales of cotton, figs of baccy, and ears of corn, and all sorts of pretty things done in clarfied sugar. It do seem nateral to me, for when our young niggars go sparkin’ and spendin’ evenings, dey most commonly marries. It stand to reason. But, Massa, I is bery bad indeed wid dis dreadful pain in my infernal parts—I is indeed. Oh,” said he, smackin’ his lips, and drainin’ his glass, “dat is def to a white man, but life to a niggar; dat is sublime. What a pity it is though dey make de glasses so almighty tunderin’ small; de man dat inwented dem couldn’t a had no remaginable nose at all, dat are a fac.”
“But the colour of Adam?” said I.
“Oh, Massa,” he said, “you knows bery well he was a black gentleman, and Missus Eve a most splendid Swanga black lady. Oh yes, Massa, dey were made black to enjoy de grand warm sun. Well, Cain was a wicked man, cause he killed his brudder. So de Lord say to him one day, ‘Cain, where is your brudder?’ ‘I don’t know, Massa,’ said he, ‘I didn’t see him nowhere.’ Well, de next time he asked him de sef-same question, and he answered quite sarcy, ‘How in de world does I know,’ sais he, ‘I ain’t my brudder’s keeper.’ Well, afore he know’d where he was, de Lord said to him, in a voice of tunder, ‘You murdered him, you villain!’ And Cain, he was so scared, he turned white dat very instant. He nebber could stand heat, nor enjoy summer no more again, nor none ob his childer arter him, but Abel’s children remain black to dis day. Fac, Massa, fac, I does assure you. When you like supper, Massa?”
“At ten o’clock,” sais I.