McAllister, Ward, 1827-1895; Socialites -- New York (State) -- New York -- Biography
“Is that all that he has for his dinner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is pea pie?” I asked.
“Cow peas and bacon,” was the answer.
With this, my Southern friend stepped to the back door of the house,
asked the old man to point him out a fat turkey. The old darkey did
this, saying,
“There’s one, sir, but, Lord help me, Massa, don’t kill him.”
The protest came too late. Up to the shoulder went the gun, and down
fell the turkey. Now, turning to the old darkey, he said:
“Old man, pick that turkey and roast him, and tell your Massa four big
buckra men are coming to dine with him to-day, at six o’clock.” We got
some corn-bread from the kitchen and went off shooting. A few minutes
before six, we returned, and heard indeed a racket in that old cabin.
The “Massa” was there, as we saw by the buggy, standing in the front
yard; the horse browsing a few feet off, the harness in the buggy, and
the master shouting out, “You tell me white men came here, kill my
turkey, tell you to cook him, and you don’t know them? Who in the devil
can they be?” No sooner had he got this out, when I appeared on the
scene. Up went his arms in astonishment.
“Why, Mc., is this you? Glad to see you and your friends.”
Down we sat at his table, and had a dinner of small rice, pea pie, and
roast turkey, washed down by a bottle of fine old Madeira, which he
called “the blood of his ancestors.” I looked in vain for a side-board
to put silver on, or any evidence of any past fête having been given on
the premises. Our host was a thoroughly local man; one of those men who,
when in Paris, would say, “I’m going to town,” when he proposed
returning to Savannah, which, at that time, was to him the metropolis of
America. This gentleman then, like others in the South, cultivated the
belief that they alone lived well, and that there was no such thing as
good society in New York or other Northern cities; that New Yorkers and
Northern people were simply a lot of tradespeople, having no
antecedents, springing up like the mushroom, who did not know how to
live, and who, when they gave dinners to their friends, ordered them
from a neighboring restaurant.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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