'Mr. Kirke,' said Joe,—'you'll take no 'fence, master Robert, if I says dis?'
'No, go on,' said his master.
'De ting am right in a nutshell, an' jess so clar as apple jack: we owes a heap; we'se gittin' inter debt deeper an' deeper ebery yar; we lose money workin' de ole trees; we hain't got no new ones; an', dar's no use to talk,—master Robert won't put de hands inter de swamp. What, den, shill we do?'
Avoiding the darky's question, I said: 'I never before understood why slavery is so clamorous for new fields. I see now—it can draw support only from the virgin soil. It exhausts an old country: like the locusts of Egypt, it blasts the very face of the earth!'
'That is true,' replied Preston; 'but Joe has stated the case correctly, What shall we do?'
'One of two things. Sell your plantation and negroes, or take your hands to a new section, where you can raise virgin turpentine.'[2]
'I cannot sell my negroes—they were all raised with me; and the plantation—it was my ancestors', over a hundred years ago. I would move the hands to a new section, but I have not the means to buy land.'
'Ay, dar's de rub, as Shakspeare say,' said Joe, with a pleasant humor, intended, I thought, to cheer his master, whose face was clouding over with grave thought; 'dat's de ting dat spile de 'gestion ob de king; and in him sleep, such dreams do come ob suffin' better'n dis, some undiscobered country, whar de virgin trees weep tears so white as crystal, and turn to gole de moment dey'm barrled up, dat—'
'Come, Joe, that'll do,' said his master, laughing; 'don't give us any more, or you'll murder us, as well as Shakspeare.'
'You don't 'preciate dat great man, master Robert,' rejoined Joe, also laughing.