University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
An Invasion of State Rights.

There reigned in the kitchen of Mr. Vancour an
African queen, whose authority, by virtue of long
and vigorous assertion, was paramount to that of the
mistress of the establishment and all other persons.
Her complexion was of the highest order of perfection,
according to the standard of Guinea; for nothing
in the human shape or divine, not even the
personification of Madam Night, was so irresistibly
black as the skin of Aunt Nauntje, as she was called
by the family, young and old. She was the mother
of three generations of blacks—I beg pardon—of
people of colour—who all appertained to the establishment.
The boys at the time of their birth were
given to some one of the young white members of
the family, to whom they continued especially attached
all their lives; and the girls were in like
manner considered the property of the young ladies,
who attended strictly to their conduct, and taught
them to be useful, as well as virtuous. They were
all treated kindly, and as a part of the family; and
there was something in the connexion of mutual services,
mutual good will, and mutual protection, thus
established, that made the relation of master and
slave, in those simple, honest times, one of the most
endearing and respectable of all those which subsist
between man and man. The slaves did not study

metaphysics, nor stultify themselves with dissertations
on the relative claims of the two rival colours
of the present day; but they were far more happy,
virtuous, and useful both to themselves and society,
than the wretched victims of a rash and miscalculating
philanthropy we see every day at the police
and the quarter-sessions. Their labours were not
more heavy than those of the owners of themselves
and of the soil which they cultivated; they worked
in the same fields, or at the same employments;
and when they had given to their master the fruits
of their youth and manhood, they found at his kitchen
fireside a refuge for the evening of their days.
They neither spent it in the poor-house nor the
penitentiary.

It was gratifying in those days to see the interest
which these old and faithful retainers took in the
affairs of their master, and the manner in which they
as it were identified their own characters and consequence
with his. The master and mistress were
not afraid to go a journey, and leave the house in
charge of one of these; for they knew it would be
even more carefully attended to than if they were at
home. These poor people did not then, as they do
now, consider themselves in the light of a wronged
and injured race, whose right, nay, whose duty, it
was to resist, to run away, to defraud, to rob, or to
murder their masters, if it were necessary, in the
pursuit of freedom. The idea of a separation of
interests between them and their masters never entered
their heads; and if it had, their hearts would
have rejected the suggestion. But to return to our
narrative.

Aunt Nauntje was despotic in that region which
among the enlightened of the present day is considered

as the terrestrial paradise, in so far as it
pours forth the choicest of the blessings of this life.
Need I mention that I mean the kitchen? Where
she acquired her art I know not, but tradition says
that the dishes she concocted had a rich and triumphant
relish, a rare je ne sais quoi, which tickled
the palate mightily, and seduced the worthy Ariel
into occasional imprudent feats of the trencher.
Nay, we record on the same venerable authority,
that Sir Henry Moore, his Britannic majesty's
governor, captain-general, and locum tenens in the
province of New-York, being on a visit to the mansion-house,
did incontinently luxuriate so lustily in
the delights of a certain nondescript dish, the art
of making which is lost in these degenerate days,
that he fell asleep before the dessert.

The active Ariel, among his other accomplishments,
such as grafting apple-trees, bleeding horses,
and ringing pigs' noses, was an amateur in the noble
art of cookery. He never could keep out of the
kitchen when there was a feast in preparation; and
many is the time Aunt Nauntje did violently expel
him, by dint of flourishing the gridiron, the toasting-fork,
or some such formidable weapon. Indeed,
something like a feud raged between them, ever
since Ariel had denounced her publicly, as “a stupid
old fool of a Guinea nigger,” for having committed
the enormity of roasting wild pigeons without any
stuffing.

When Ariel heard Colonel Sydenham describe the
famous East India dish of boiled chickens and rice,
which he did with a commendable minuteness, he
pricked up his ears, and thought to himself he would
go and make interest with Aunt Nauntje to surprise
the colonel with a fac-simile. Accordingly, as I

have before noted, he disappeared as soon as the
colonel had finished his detail, and sallied forth for
the empire of queen Nauntje, who was busily engaged
in cooking a jolly, old-fashioned meal, for a
company of healthy, hearty folks, who had dined at
one o'clock, and could therefore afford to eat supper.
The inroad was by no means agreeable to her majesty,
but respect for the brother of her good master
always kept her within bounds, except on the spur
of some immediate cause of irritation.

“Aunt Nauntje, my good soul,” said Ariel, “I want
you to try your hand at a famous dish I have just
heard of from Colonel Sydenham.”

“Ah,” said Nauntje, “Massa Auriel always some
crinkum-crankum in he head, 'bout new dishes. Well,
what is he?”

“Why, a dish of boiled fowl and rice, dressed with
curry. You know the colonel gave you a bottle the
other day.”

Nauntje began to spit. “Curry—eh!—stuff just
fit for a hog or an Indian.”

“Well, but you know, Nauntje,” said Ariel, coaxingly.
“You know, d—n it, you are not obliged to
eat it. Now do, my dear soul, try, for the sake of
the colonel, will you?”

“Colonel, ah!—wish him a hundred miles off, wid
all he crew of red coats; eat massa out of house an
hum bum-by.”

“Well, but your mistress will be pleased with it
—come now, you clever old soul, and the next time
I go to Albany, I'll bring you a new pipe, a paper
of tobacco, and a row of pins.”

To please her mistress, and get the reward promised
by Ariel, Aunt Nauntje at length consented to
try her skill at the outlandish dish, and Ariel was

delighted beyond measure. He was in and out of
the kitchen every five minutes, giving directions and
finding fault, until it was with great difficulty she refrained
from having resort to the gridiron or the
toasting-fork. As it was, she almost broiled with
indignation at this attempt to overrule and insult her
in her own proper dominion. At length the great
attempt was nearly brought to a crisis, and Ariel
solicited and obtained permission to taste the eminent
concoction. But what pen can depict his indignation,
when he discovered that in spite of all his
cautions and injunctions Aunt Nauntje, who had a
passion for onions, had poisoned the whole affair by
a most powerful predominating infusion of that ungenteel
vegetable production. Ariel was confounded,
thunderstruck, and indignant. He ejected the villanous
compound into the fire, exclaiming—

“I'll be shot if the stupid old fool hasn't put onions
in it!”

Whereupon Aunt Nauntje forgot the new pipe, the
paper of tobacco, and the row of pins. She seized
the mortal gridiron, pursued Ariel with a speed which
seemed almost supernatural when contrasted with
her appearance of extreme old age, and drove him,
as we have before related, triumphantly before her
into the parlour; at the door of which she stopped
for a moment brandishing the gridiron, and then retired
grumbling to her strong-hold again. It is due
to the reputation and the memory of Aunt Nauntje
to state, that the dish was brought up with the rest
of the supper, and pronounced by the colonel to be
equal to any thing of the kind he had ever tasted in
India: by which righteous decision he for ever established
himself in the good graces of that high-seasoned
and high-seasoning divinity. The supper
went off gayly, in spite of the discomfiture of uncle

Ariel, who soon recovered his good-humour, for he
was not one of those impracticable churls who
quarrel with the good things of this life and retain
their anger at the same time they are gratifying their
appetites. He threw out broad hints concerning the
colonel and Catalina, every now and then favouring
that young lady with a significant wink or ahem!—
worried poor Sybrandt out of the little self-possession
he had been able to collect together, by recollecting
every thing the youth wished to be forgotten;
shouted, laughed, and finally talked himself fast
asleep in the old high-backed, well-stuffed chair,
which with its fellows had been heirlooms in the
family for almost a century. The worthy Dominie
Stettinius was heart-struck the next day, when he
learned that the party had prolonged its sober revels
until the clock actually struck the half-hour between
eleven and the very witching time of midnight.

A little incident, apparently of no consequence,
which occurred this evening had a material, nay, a
controlling, influence on the future life of Sybrandt
Westbrook. As the party separated for the night
the gallant colonel besought Catalina to bestow on
him a little bunch of violets she wore in her bosom.
In the gayety of her heart, or perhaps influenced
by that little mischievous imp, demon, or godhead
who is for ever found nestling in woman's heart,
she bestowed the violets on Sydenham, with a
most gracious and seducing smile, wishing him at
the same time “pleasant dreams.” The gift, the
smile, and the wish were each one a dagger of
ice planted in the bosom of Sybrandt, poisoning
his rest and agonizing his feelings. The wakeful
tortures of that livelong night gave birth to a fixed
determination, which he carried into execution without
delay.