The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862: Devoted to Literature and National PolicyVarious
History
The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 2, August, 1862: Devoted to Literature and National Policy
Various
Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Politics and government -- 19th century -- Periodicals
'Thet ar brought seven dollars for two hundred an' eighty pounds in
York, airly this yar. It's th' very best No. 1; an' it's hard ter make,
'case ef th' still gets overhet it turns it a tinge. Thet sort is run
through two sieves, the coarse 'un, an' thet ar,' pointing to another
wire strainer, the meshes of which were as fine as those of the
flour-sieve used by housewives.
'Do your seven field-hands produce enough 'dip' to keep your still a
running?'
'No, I buys th' rest uv my naboors who han't no stills; an' th' Cunnel's
down on me 'case I pay 'em more'n he will; but I go on Franklin's
princerpel: 'A nimble sixpence's better'n a slow shillin'. A great ole
feller thet, warn't he? I've got his life.'
'And you practice on his precepts; that's the reason you've got on so
well.'
'Yas, thet an' hard knocks. The best o' doctrins arn't wuth a d----n ef
ye doan't work on 'em.'
'That is true.'
We shortly afterward went to the house, and there I passed several hours
in conversation with my new friend and his excellent wife. The lady,
after a while, showed me over the building. It was well-built,
well-arranged, and had many conveniences I did not expect to find in a
backwoods dwelling. She told me its timbers and covering were of
well-seasoned yellow pine--which will last for centuries--and that it
was built by a Yankee carpenter, whom they had ''ported' from
Charleston, paying his fare, and giving him his living and two dollars
and a half a day. It had cost as near as she 'cud reckon, 'bout two
thousan' dollars.'
It was five o'clock, when, shaking them warmly by the hand, I bade my
pleasant friends 'good-by,' and mounting my horse rode off to the
Colonel's.
The family were at supper when I returned to the mansion, and, entering
the room, I took my accustomed place at the table. None present seemed
disposed to conversation. The little that was said was spoken in a low,
subdued tone, and no allusion was made to the startling event of the
day. At last the octoroon woman asked me if I had met Mrs. Barnes at the
farmer's.
'Yes,' I replied, 'and I was greatly pleased with her. She seems one of
those rare women who would lend grace to even the lowest station.'
'She _is_ a rare woman; a true, sincere Christian. Every one loves her;
but few know all her worth; only those do who have gone to her in sorrow
and trial, as----' and her voice trembled, and her eyes moistened----
'as I have.'
And so that poor, outcast, despised, dishonored woman, scorned and cast
off by all the world, had found one sympathizing, pitying friend. Truly,
'He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.'
When the meal was over, all but Madam P---- retired to the library.
Tommy and I fell to reading, but the Colonel shortly rose and continued
pacing up and down the apartment till the clock sounded eight. The lady
then entered, and said to him:
'The negroes are ready, David; will _you_ go, Mr. K----?'
'I think not, madam,' I replied; 'at least not now.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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