University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPNER V.

Wal done you 'squire! cried the se'-lect-man,
clapping Gage on the back with tremendous good
will; Hooraw for you, I say! gin' it to 'em both about
right, hey? trig little feller he is too—tho' I cant
say 't I admire to see peeked-toed shoes, or a man's
eyes rigged out with spy-glasses and feelers—gut a
half-pistareen about you frind?—hytee tytee! turning
to another, who appeared to be laboring under some
fierce emotion, his upper lip working after the manner
of Lord Brougham's, and his mouth twitching convulsively
at every motion of his head—who are you
makin' mouths at, hey?

God bless you, my friend, whispered I—the poor
fellow cant help it.

Cant help it! why not, I should like to know?

Why don't you see, whispered another yankee,
he's got a wry mouth.

Rye-mouth—rye-an-injunn more like.

What more could I say? All further explanation
would be useless; and to tell the truth, I could not
help agreeing with the man as to the sort of mouth
before us, much as I pitied the proprietor.

Everlastin' hot weather! aint it you? continued the
down-easter; 'nough to try out a side o'sole-leather;
for my part, I'm all runnin' away.

Taint the fuss time nyther, I'll bate! said the man
with the unfortunate mouth; and then turning toward
a fellow-passenger, he continued, as if renewing a

conversation about a murder which had occured the
day before at Philadelphia, I'm no frind to capital
punishment, an' never was; but if ever a feller
desarved to be frittered in two with a hansaw, that
feller dooze.

Sarved her right! cried another; and then after
running himself entirely out of breath, he protested
the man had no right to be hung; while another
declared, with equal appropriateness of language, that
such a cold blooded murder was ridiculous, and that
the man ought to be hung right away—had'nt ought
to live another hour.

The eyes of both were turned upon Gage. I'm of
your opinion said he, speaking to the last—nothing
can be more ridiculous than cutting a woman's throat
in her sleep—in the dead of night.

Ah—ha! what did I tell you? cried the individual
whose opinion he had so handsomely adopted. And
I agree with you, also, continued Gage, turning to the
other, the poor fellow has no right to be hung, and I
dare say if he were hard pushed, he would own it
himself—or give it up, if you were to try him at the
foot of the gallows.

There now—what did I tell you! cried the other.

I say—you!—mister!—shouted the man with the
nose, rounding to, as he happened to see apassenger
at work upon his lips with a spunge dipped
in sweet-oil. They were dreadfully chapped. I say!
try some o' this ere lip-salve, wont ye? had'nt ye
better? allays care some on't about me—slickest
stuff for piles ever you see! lugging out the identical
box we had seen before, and offering the blue pigment
to the sufferer.

Faugh!—cried the other—should our engine get
out of order, your panacea might come in play there
again!

Te be sure!—take a notch out of a broad-axe in
less 'an three wipes; did'nt I tell ye so—have
some?

Go to the devil with your nasty trumpery!—

Frind!—I meant no offence, an' I'm sorry for it;
but if you'll allow me to express my opinion, I should
say that a leetle o' that are—a very leetle—scooping
out as much as he could with his thumb-nail, and
holding it up—not more 'an you'd want to soap a
griss-mill with—jess slicked over your lips, inside
an' out, you'd be a much easier man for the rest o'
the day; an' talk more to other people's satisfaction.

And then, having said this, he walked off, enjoying
the half-suppressed laugh that broke forth at intervals
for five minutes afterwards, with the most innocent
look you ever saw. After a while he crossed my
path again—Hullow! said he; don't care if I do take
another nip o' your snuff, seein'-ts you!

I reached him the box, and my gentleman, after
opening it as far as it would go and rapping the kiver
as he called it, and shaking it—as a puppy would an
old hat—and tipping it up, first on one side and then
on the other, till his forefinger and thumb, already
prepared for the business by the lip-salve, had cornered
the last pinch there was left—as the dog Billy
would the rats; and then, without the slightest compunction
or hesitation, availing himself of the advantage,
so that none escaped, he slicked it all up,
and returning the box—he said he ruther guessed I
want very fond o' snuff—only cared a box for fashion-sake!

and then, after a short pause and a laugh or two
which set my ears ringing, he added—proper snarl
o' folks here aint they? Wonder how much the
skipper—here he turned to a neighbor—how goes it
Nathan? Cleverly, I'm obleege to ye; how goes it
with yourself?—wonder how much he gits a year,
privilege, perquisytes an' all hey? putty good bairth
I'm a thinkin', if they let him drive on sheers, an' I
rather guess they do by all accounts; ever ben over
the Bay State or Varmount?

Never, said I.

I'm sure I've seen you tho', or somebody plaguy
like you, haint I?

Quite possible.

Quite posserble, hey! more 'n that I rather guess—
why, you look as naiteral, as the nigger said—don't
know yer name though?

No.

Somewhere in the back-parts o' New-Hampshire
may be?

May be so.

Wal! I thought so—I swamp it if I did'nt! felt
considerable acquainted with you from the very fust—
what may I call your name?

What you please.

Ah!—oh—you aint mad nor nothin' I hope.

Not in the least.

Wal then—can't ye tell a feller yer name?

Pretty fair! said I in a voice intended for Gage,
who stood near me, with his arms folded, leaning
over the rail and evidently enjoying the catechism of
the down-easter.

Ah, but your chriss'n name: your given name?

Peter.

Peter!—Peter?—ah, I know I'd seen you afore—
somewhere! travellin' hey? ben to Pheladelphy?

I bowed.

Wal, I say though, Mr. Putty—putty—putty—
quair name tho' that o' yourn by the hokey! as ever I
come across.

Pooty-far—pooty-far?—drollest name ever I heard,
make the best on't though—taint none of your choosin'
I spose—bear it like a good feller, thats the way,
never know'd many o' that name in our part o' the
world.

What! never heard o' the Potiphar family! cried
Gage.

Lord you! that I have! Speakin' o' names though,
there'll be a fight aboard, afore long.

A fight! said I, rather alarmed I confess at the
abrupt communication of what I dreaded more than
any earthly thing—a fight in a crowd. I hope not.

O, but there will tho'. That air long chap there
from Tennessee, he's ben havin' a spat with the
capun about you mister (looking at Gage) and he vows
he'll whip you as soon as he gits you ashore.

I looked at Gage. His countenance never altered,
and he replied in such a quiet natural manner, that I
believed him, when he said—You are under a mistake,
my friend; it cannot be with me that he would quarrel.
I have had nothing to say to him.

Thats the very reason! He swears he'll take the
stiffenin' out o' you—an' that air little southerner.

Which little southerner! demanded Gage in quite
another voice. It startled me, and when I looked up,
he was leaning forward with lighted eyes and trembling

very hard—his hand shook too, I saw that, as it
lay spread out on the bench, with its rigid sinews and
square muscles in action. It was like the paw of a
wild-beast for strength, and gloriously fashioned.

Why that are chap you was with below, said the
Down-Easter.

Gerard Middleton, hey?

Do tell!—is that his name?

Take the stiffnin' out o' Gerard Middleton—will
he?

Never shall I forget the expression of that man's
face, when he uttered these two brief words—will he!
It made me catch my breath. He got up and walked
away after saying this, and when I looked again I saw
him in close conversation with the down-easter, in a
distant part of the vessel where they could not be
overheard.

If they go to kickin up a dust here, they'd better
look out—that's all, said somebody at my elbow, who
appeared to understand my very thoughts—it was the
swapper against whom I had been cautioned.—I know
a feller 'twould whip the whool boodle of 'em an'
give 'em six—an' there he goes now! ever hear tell
o' Gage—Atherton Gage?—that's the very man; rather
too much of a gentleman to be sure, but he can't
help that—runs in the blood, naitral to the family—
old Jerry P. R. Gage was the biggest gentleman ever
you see, an' so's the whole bylin' of 'em.

Atherton Gage said I—you must be mistaken; his
name is Nehemiah.

Nehemiah!—Nehemiah Gage!—Nehemiah Fiddlestick!
don't I know?

But I heard him say so—it must be Nehemiah?

I tell ye taint. His rayal name is Atherton Gage—
his mothers name's Atherton, but jess for the fun o'
the thing sometimes he calls himself Nehemiah, or
Peltiah, or Hezekiah, or some such old-fashioned
name. He's rayal Yankee, I tell ye!—clear grit—an'
smooth as ile; slick as grease, we say. Why where
've you ben all your life, not to hear tell o' Atherton
Gage—son of old deacon Jerry P. R. Gage of Quamphegan?
best wrastler in all New-England; gwin'
right away inter Kentucky, jess to have a try there
with some o' them air fellers that's brought up to
Ingeen-hug among the bears, an' if you ever bate,
I'll bate ye any thing you like in reason—an' plank
the money too—which as I was a sayin'—Old rugged-an'-tough
they used to call his dad, famous wrastler
he was too, warped with hoop-poles an' filled with
oven-wood; beatemest feller ever you see for some
things—ought to go by the name of old say-nothin'
away from our part o' the country, but when he's to
home (talking very slowly and quietly, and eying my
watch-fob all the time)—why Lord you! he's a
match for gab with any body 't ever you come across
—getting hold of my hat and blowing up the fur and
examining every part of it, inside and out, and glancing
every now and then at his own, which he had
rigged out with a new hat-case and stowed away
under the chair. But as you're from Feladelphy—
what a pocky tarnal great place that must be! by all
accounts, may be you can tell us how dry-goods in
jinral is there —?

Dry-goods?

Yes—needles an' pins, and calico and cultery an'
so forth and so forth—putty good cloth that o' yourn

—for war-times—laying his hand on the sleeve of my
coat, and smoothing down the nap—who's your
maker?

My Maker!—Oh, I understand you—my tailor you
mean?

Yis—who made your cote? Is that a Feladelphy
hat o' yourn, though? What do they come at there,
cash on the nail? 'Spose abody was to take three
or four right out, and say no more about it—whoolsale—hey?

I do not know.

My stars! why didt'nt you say 't you'd come from
Feladelphy?

So I did—but as I do not live there, it would be
impossible for me to answer such questions—.

New York then, hey?

No.

Albany?

I shook my head.

Or New-Haven?—or Providence?—or Boston?—
or—

No sir—no sir—

Or Salem?—or Newberyport?—or Portsmuth?—
beginning to say over Morse's Gazetteer, page by
page.

No! no! no! said I, speaking as fast as I could,
and enjoying his look of amazement and perplexity—
put on for the occasion I believe now—more than I
ought perhaps, if it was not.

Well then! drawing a long breath, and beginning
to admire my boots—where upon airth do ye live! I
should like to know, laying his foot alongside of mine,
and turning it this way and that, as he pursued the

investigation, either to satisfy himself about the comparative
size of our feet, or to make me observe that
his boots, evidently new, were topped off in the
highest fashion of the day.

Live—said I—in reply to the last interrogation—
here and there, and every where; in other words—
no where.

Jess so! and then after a long pause—where do
ye stay then? Where do ye keep?

No where.

Wal! you're more'n a match for me, I'll say that
for ye any how! another long pause, but only long
enough to breathe our indefatigble down-easter for
another attack—.

Aint the wandering jew, air ye? and then, instantly
aware that he had overacted his part, he added; you're
from tother side arter all, I'm a' thinkin'?

'Tother side?

From over there—away yender, pointing to the
high-seas. What do ye pay for sech a pair o' boots
as them in Eurup? Newest fashion there—all the
kick I spose, hey?

I laughed—I could not help it—laughed aloud,
and long and heartily. But he was no way disconcerted.

Wal I thought so! if I did'nt there's none o' me,
thats all! more n two hours ago, says I to capin Trip
says I, capin! says I; that air chap there with the
gool watch, he's from the old country, if he aint, I'll
eat a grin-stone—jess so! an' whats more says I,
that air hat he's gut on, aint a rayal beaver hat no more
'n you air, says I—nothin' but a silk hat says I—an'
then, says I, capin Trip, says I—jess look o' them

cloth stockins outside o' his shoe (eying my drab
gaiters)—any body might know.

Cloth stockings outside of my shoes—the rascal!

Capin Trip, says I, any body might know, says I,—
did'nt I mister? (to the man at the wheel) that he's
from tother side—or (lowering his voice) or wants to
be thought so; and whats more 'an all that, says I—
he dooz'nt seem a mite afeard o' the man' o' war's-man
off there 't we passed as tight as we could spring
—and you know you did'nt!—and what's more yit,
says I, he never says nothin' about the war says I,
an' when he seed leetle Georgee, says I, an old
Tennessee says I, jess goin' to pull hair, says I, he
would'nt hourraw for nyther side, says I—jess so!

Nor did you, sir, if you mean the foolish dispute
below.

Not I, you may depend! a leetle too fur east, I
ruther guess for them sort o' didoes. When the
southerners come to a close grip with one another,
what do we care? don't they keep a hundred or two
o' great nasty bull-niggers a piece, jess to sharpen
their knives on—without a rag to kiver 'em, starvin'
'em most to death all the time, an' lettin' their women
folks and babies slash 'em up with case-knives,
for jess nothin' at all, an massacree 'em most to death,
when there's company to dinner, jess to sehw 'em what
they can do? Haint they sold their own flesh an'
blood many a time to get money for a cock-fight or a
hoss-race?—do'nt we know 'em of old? Thats what
they call gettin' the yeller-boys, I spose—I've been
there, an' I've heern 'em say so many a time; pocky
tarnal shame! butter my hide if taint; an' what
should we care, comin' from a land o' liberty where

there aint no niggers to speak of, when we see sech
folks fall together by the ears—where there's hundreds
an' thousands on 'em taint washed from one
years eend to another, an go about the houses thicker
'n the frogs in Ejup, an' a plaguy deal nastier—I've
ben there, I tell ye, an' I know what I'm sayin' of—
which it is no wonder we love to see the feathers
fly.

And why so pray?

Why so! Why what business has the niggers
there? Let them that likes 'em have 'em, I say:
An' if they go to quarlin' about 'em, an' cuttin' one
another's throats, whose business is it? Not ourn I'm
sure. We told 'em how twould be, long enough
ago.

Yet in your part of the country, you are not over
friendly to the blacks—I believe—said somebody in a
quiet mild voice, at our very elbow. It was Middleton
himself.

Frindly! what dye ye mean by that? do ye think
we keep company with niggers, or make frinds of
'em, hey?

And why not, if they are well-behaved?

A nigger well-behaved! guess you don't know
what your talkin' about mister.

Or a mulatto—

Jess as bad—all alike I tell ye; aint a copper to
choose betwixt 'em—if there's a drop o' nigger-blood
in 'em, they'll always show it in their temper.

How in their temper?

How in their temper? Why you know as well as
me—they're right down ugly when theyre mad, clear
niggerish. Why taint more'n a month ago t' I heard

a great he-nigger tell a white man that if he struck
him with his whip, hed split his head open with the
axe—why, in our part o' the country they think
themselves most as good as white folks, every bit
election-days.

And what if they do—if they are otherwise well-behaved—you
tax them, dont you?

Tax 'em! to be sure we do; they are free-niggers
that way.

Do you ever put them into the jury-box?

Into the jury-box—haw, haw, haw!

Or into the militia?

Into the militia! Why frind, you dont seem to
know much about New-England—who do ye think
would train along side a pesky nigger, in a free
country—in the dog-days.

Or a mulatto—

Yes, or a mulatto eyther, down to the fortyeth
generation.

Do you ever allow them to visit you?

Visit me!—niggers visit me!—I'll tell you what
tis frind, if you are pokin' fun at a feller—you'd
better find somethin' else to do, that's all!

But I am perfectly serious. I am only asking a
few questions, which I hope you are good-natured
enough to answer, as civilly as they are put.

Oh, wal! if thats what you're divin' at—whip
away.

Do even the poorest and most worthless of your
white men ever associate freely with the blacks or
mulattos in your part of the country?

Why no! I tell ye. They wunt eat together nor
play together, nor sleep in the same room together if

they can help it; and our overseers o' the poor would
be ashamed to ask it, when they're a town-charge.

Are the children of colored people admitted to the
same benches with the whites in your free schools—

On the same benches! By gimini! if I should'nt
like to see sambo Smith's boys cipherin' along aside
o' mine at our town-school! I guess I'd have a word
to say to master Cobb an' the school committee too!
an' the select men! Putty fellers to be sure!

But who is Sambo Smith?

What! never hearn tell o' Sambo Smith! he twas
out in the revolutionary war, and tho' he was only a
hired man o' gineral Green, he fit the innimy more in
three hours one arternoon, with ony one other great
lazy good-for-nothin' nigger 't had lost his arm to
help him—old Cato Frost—you see old Cato laid
down in the grass an' bit off the catriges and primed
the guns, fust one and then tother, as Sambo blazed
away at 'em out o' the stone-mill, where old Put had
left some flour for the continentals—no idea afore
'at ever Sambo had shot off a gun; killed ever so
many o' the troopers afore they'd give up, some said
eighteen or twenty; others not so much, though some
was carried off, my dad says, and he was out the
whool war, that six bodies was found arterwards, in
the bushes an' among the logs in the river.

Ah!—yet this man—who pays taxes—and is free-born
perhaps of free parents?—

So I've hearn tell.

What kind of a character does he bear?

What kind of a character? O, good enough for a
nigger, I tell ye; works hard as any body and brings
up gran children like the rest of us; owes nobody

nothin', takes off his hat to every body he sees when
he goes to the corner, never drinks a drop, nor swears
a word, an' they do say is a rayal christian—belongs
to the church too.

Ah, a member of the church!

Oh!—yes!

Do they allow him to sit side by side, with the
white communicants at the communion-table?

What!—in a tone of unqualified amazement; and
then all at once perceiving the drift of Middleton's
questioning, he added—Why no! the nigger'd rather
take his 'lowance in the porch—I've hearn him
say so.

And so they let him take his allowance in the porch,
hey—like Lazarus.

O, but—ahem! old Sambo, he's gettin' old now
'an he'd a little ruther not go to the table, I
know.

And rather not serve upon the jury, or train with
the militia perhaps—even before he grew old?

To be sure! The nigger'd only be laughed at, if
he was to be darned fool enough to sarve.

You let him go to the polls I hope?

Oh!—yes! We all'ys care him up—parties ben
putty equally divided, so good an' so good, in our
town this five years, an' Sambo gets a ride every
year, one side o' tother; stuffiest nigger ever you see
tho'! Wunt vote for nobody 't he dont like, no
matter who gives him a recommend; and what's more
nigger than all that, he wont tell aforehand which
side he's goin to vote for, and sometimes he wunt
vote for nyther, an' sometimes he'll vote right agin
the side that brung him up.

Middleton took off his hat, and drew himself up,
and looked about him, as if wondering to find himself
so altogether alone as he appeared to be, in his majestic
admiration of old Sambo Smith—a glow of indignant
wrath burning all over his forehead—in the depth of
his large dark eyes, and about his firmly shut mouth,
as he walked proudly away.

Ah, ha! gut his belly-full, I ruther guess, continued
the other; don't care which side whips, when the
nigger-drivers falls out among themselves; an' I told
'em so—did'n I mister?—oh, you're in the sulks agin
I see!—dont care for that though; raial down-easter
I tell ye.

And how do you know but I'm a down-easter?

You a donw-easter! eying me more narrowly then
ever, and fumbling for his pocket-handkerchief, as if
to assure himself that all was safe, before he ventured
upon a more particular acquaintance—you a down-easter!
you! shaking his head slowly—very slowly.
Why how can that be? Haint I axed you one by one
about all the places down-east, where a feller could
find sech a slick fit as them are—glancing at my boots
and then at my coat? No, no, Mr. Potiphar—Peter
Potiphar I think you said?—thats what we should
call a snorter, down-east. Ah, you may laugh! laugh
away; laugh as much as ever ye like, but I want you
should go long o' me to the map, and show me where
yer live. Tell you what 'tis neighbor—I can see
through you.

What dye mean sir?

Dont I know ye! an' did'nt I say so when ye fust
come aboard! dont talk to me—whizz! You from
down-east!—putty joke faith! Do you play checkers?

or fox an' geese?—or morris?—or all fours?—
or shoe-make-loo?—or te-to-tum?

I shook my head, one by one, to this string of
questions, uttered at longer and longer intervals, in a
sharper and sharper voice, till the astonishment of
the man exhausted itself in a long and a fixed stare.

Draw cuts?—or open a book for the nighest letter?
or chalk the floor, hey? or jump up and kick?

I'm yer man by Gawd, stranger! I'm the boy for
any thing or that sort! cried the tall Tennessee
youth, who had kept aloof till now, lying on his back
by the hour, with a long nine in his mouth and a shotbelt
full of sugar plums dangling over his breast.
I'm the boy for that! hourrra! run, jump, or kick,
wrastle or fight, for all I gut here! slapping his
breeches-pockets, and springing up with a loud boisterous
laugh that sounded not unlike the half-smothered
roar of a good-natured wild-beast—I'm your man
for all that, an' half the plunder about ye if ye dare!
hurra! And then he flung a handful of sugar-plums
right and left over the deck where a group of children
were at play.

I had observed him at the breakfast-table, eying the
dishes with a wary look, and fighting shy whenever
he was helped—as if he hated the very knives and
forks for interfering with a more summary method
of getting into what he called the `belly-timber,' after
a fashion of his own—with the paws of a she-bear,
and the appetite of a grist-mill. Yet he was a good
natured, handsome, savage-looking fellow; and at
the worst only a rougher, and I believe in my heart,
a better sort of Yankee, with more manliness and
straight-forwardness than our people have now.

While I was trying to get a sketch of him, as he
threw himself out his whole length over the bench,
the swapper renewed his attack on me. Fore-warned,
fore-armed thought I, and I determined to favor him
with all the opportunity he could wish.