No. XXVII The White Nigger
One of the most amiable, and at the same time most amusing traits, in the Clockmaker’s character, was the attachment and kindness with which he regarded his horse. He considered “Old Clay” as far above a Provincial horse, as he did one of his “free and enlightened citizens” superior to a Bluenose. He treated him as a travelling companion, and when conversation flagged between us, would often soliloquize to him, a habit contracted from pursuing his journeys alone. “Well now,” he would say, “Old Clay, I guess you took your time a-goin’ up that ’ere hill—’spose we progress now. Go along, you old sculpin, and turn out your toes. I reckon you are as deff as a shad, do you hear there? Go ahead! Old Clay. There now,” he’d say, “Squire ain’t that dreadful pretty? There’s action. That looks about right: legs all under him—gathers all up snug—no bobbin’ of his head—no rollin’ of his shoulders—no wabblin’ of his hind parts, but steady as a pump bolt, and the motion all underneath. When he fairly lays himself to it, he trots like all vengeance. Then look at his ear—jist like rabbit’s; none o’ your flop-ears like them Amherst beasts, half horses, half pigs, but strait up and p’inted, and not too near at the tips; for that ’ere, I consait, always shows a horse ain’t true to draw. There are only two things, Squire, worth lookin’ at in a horse, action and soundness; for I never saw a critter that had good action that was a bad beast. Old Clay puts me in mind of one of our free and enlightened—”
“Excuse me,” said I, “Mr. Slick, but really you appropriate that word ‘free’ to your countrymen, as if you thought no other people in the world were entitled to it but yourselves.”
“Neither be they,” said he. “We first sot the example. Look at our declaration of independence. It was writ by Jefferson, and he was the first man of the age; perhaps the world never seed his ditto. It’s a beautiful piece of penmanship that, he gave the British the butt eend of his mind there. I calculate you couldn’t falt it in no particular, it’s generally allowed to be his cap shief. In the first page of it, second section, and first varse, are these words: ‘We hold this truth to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’ I guess King George turned his quid when he read that. It was somethin’ to chaw on, he hadn’t been used to the flavour of, I reckon.”
“Jefferson forgot to insert one little word,” said I; “he should have said, ‘all white men;’ for as it now stands, it is a practical untruth, in a country which tolerates domestic slavery in its worst and most forbidding form. It is a declaration of SHAME, and not of INDEPENDENCE. It is as perfect a misnomer as ever I knew.”
“Well,” said he, “I must admit there is a screw loose somewhere thereabouts, and I wish it would convene to Congress, to do somethin’ or another about our niggers, but I am not quite certified how that is to be sot to rights; I consait that you don’t understand us. But,” said he, evading the subject with his usual dexterity, “we deal only in niggers—and those thick-skulled, crooked-shanked, flat-footed, long-heeled, wooly-headed gentlemen, don’t seem fit for much else but slavery, I do suppose. They ain’t fit to contrive for themselves. They are jist like grasshoppers; they dance and sing all summer, and when winter comes they have nothin’ provided for it, and lay down and die. They require some one to see arter them. Now, we deal in black niggers only, but the Bluenoses sell their own species—they trade in white slaves.”
“Thank God,” said I, “slavery does not exist in any part of his Majesty’s dominions now, we have at last wiped off that national stain.”
“Not quite, I guess,” said he, with an air of triumph, “it ain’t done with in Nova Scotia, for I have seed these human cattle sales with my own eyes; I was availed of the truth of it up here to old Furlong’s last November. I’ll tell you the story,” said he; and as this story of the Clockmaker’s contained some extraordinary statements, which I had never heard of before, I noted it in my journal, for the purpose of ascertaining their truth; and, if founded on fact, of laying them before the proper authorities.
“Last fall,” said he, “I was on my way to Partridge Island, to ship off some truck and produce I had taken in, in the way of trade; and as I neared old Furlong’s house, I seed an amazin’ crowd of folks about the door; I said to myself, says I, who’s dead, and what’s to pay now? What on airth is the meanin’ of all this? Is it a vandew, or a weddin’, or a rollin’ frolic, or a religious stir, or what is it? Thinks I, I’ll see, so I hitches Old Clay to the fence, and walks in. It was some time afore I was able to swiggle my way through the crowd, and get into the house. And when I did, who should I see but deacon Westfall, a smooth faced, slick haired, meechin’ lookin’ chap as you’d see in a hundred, a-standin’ on a stool, with an auctioneer’s hammer in his hand; and afore him was one Jerry Oaks and his wife, and two little orphan children, the prettiest little toads I ever beheld in all my born days. ‘Gentlemen,’ said he, ‘I will begin the sale by putting up Jerry Oaks, of Apple River, he’s a considerable of a smart man yet, and can do many little chores besides feedin’ the children and pigs, I guess he’s near about worth his keep.’ ‘Will you warrant him sound, wind and limb?’ says a tall ragged lookin’ countryman, ‘for he looks to me as if he was foundered in both feet, and had a string halt into the bargain.’ ‘When you are as old as I be,’ says Jerry, ‘mayhap you may be foundered too, young man; I have seen the day when you wouldn’t dare to pass that joke on me, big as you be.’ ‘Will any gentleman bid for him,’ says the deacon, ‘he’s cheap at 7s. 6d.’ ‘Why deacon,’ said Jerry, ‘why surely your honour isn’t a-goin’ for to sell me separate from my poor old wife, are you? Fifty years have we lived together as man and wife, and a good wife has she been to me, through all my troubles and trials, and God knows I have had enough of ’em. No one knows my ways and my ailments but her, and who can tend me so kind, or who will bear with the complaints of a poor old man but his wife? Do, deacon, and Heaven bless you for it, and yours, do sell us together. We have but a few days to live now, death will divide us soon enough. Leave her to close my old eyes, when the struggle comes, and when it comes to you, deacon, as come it must to us all, may this good deed rise up for you, as a memorial before God. I wish it had pleased him to have taken us afore it came to this, but his will be done;’ and he hung his head, as if he felt he had drained the cup of degradation to its dregs. ‘Can’t afford it, Jerry—can’t afford it, old man,’ said the deacon, with such a smile as a November sun gives, a-passin’ atween clouds. ‘Last year they took oats for rates, now nothin’ but wheat will go down, and that’s as good as cash; and you’ll hang on, as most of you do, yet these many years. There’s old Joe Crowe, I believe in my conscience he will live for ever.’ The biddin’ then went on, and he was sold for six shillings a week. Well, the poor critter gave one long, loud, deep groan, and then folded his arms over his breast, so tight that he seemed tryin’ to keep in his heart from bustin’. I pitied the misfortinate wretch from my soul; I don’t know as I ever felt so streaked afore. Not so his wife, she was all tongue. She begged and prayed, and cryed, and scolded, and talked at the very tip eend of her voice, till she became, poor critter, exhausted, and went off in a faintin’ fit, and they ketched her up and carried her out to the air, and she was sold in that condition.
“Well I couldn’t make head or tail of all this, I could hardly believe my eyes and ears; so, says I, to John Porter—him that has that catamount of a wife, that I had such a touss with—‘John Porter,’ says I, ‘who ever seed or heerd tell of the like of this, what under the sun does it all mean? What has that ’ere critter done that he should be sold arter that fashion?’ ‘Done?’ said he, ‘why nothin’, and that’s the reason they sell him. This is town meetin’ day, and we always sell the poor for the year, to the lowest bidder. Them that will keep them for the lowest sum, gets them.’ ‘Why,’ says I, ‘that feller that bought him is a pauper himself, to my sartin knowledge. If you were to take him up by the heels and shake him for a week, you couldn’t shake sixpence out of him. How can he keep him? It appears to me the poor buy the poor here, and that they all starve together.’ Says I, ’there was a very good man once lived to Liverpool, so good, he said he hadn’t sinned for seven years; well he put a mill-dam across the river, and stopped all the fish from goin’ up, and the court fined him fifty pounds for it, and this good man was so wrathy, he thought he should feel better to swear a little, but conscience told him it was wicked. So he compounded with conscience, and cheated the devil, by callin’ it a “dam fine business.” Now, friend Porter, if this is your poor law, it is a damn poor law, I tell you, and no good can come of such hard-hearted doin’s. It’s no wonder your country don’t prosper, for who ever heerd of a blessin’ on such carryins on as this?’ Says I, ‘Did you ever hear tell of a sartin rich man, that had a beggar called Lazarus laid at his gate, and how the dogs had more compassion than he had, and came and licked his sores? ’cause if you have, look at that forehanded and ’sponsible man there, deacon Westfall, and you see the rich man. And then look at that ’ere pauper, dragged away in that ox-cart from his wife for ever, like a feller to States’ Prison, and you see Lazarus. Recollect what follered, John Porter, and have neither art nor part in it, as you are a Christian man.’
“It fairly made me sick all day. John Porter follered me out of the house, and as I was a-turnin’ Old Clay, said he, ‘Mr. Slick,’ says he, ‘I never seed it in that ’ere light afore, for it’s our custom, and custom you know will reconcile one to most anything. I must say, it does appear, as you lay it out, an unfeelin’ way of providin’ for the poor; but, as touchin’ the matter of dividin’ man and wife, why’ (and he peered all round to see that no one was within hearin’), ‘why I don’t know, but if it was my allotment to be sold, I’d as lives they’d sell me separate from Jane as not, for it appears to me it’s about the best part of it.’
“Now, what I have told you Squire,” said the Clockmaker, “is the truth; and if members, instead of their everlastin’ politics, would only look into these matters a little, I guess it would be far better for the country. So, as for our declaration of independence, I guess you needn’t twitt me with our slave-sales, for we deal only in blacks; but Bluenose approbates no distinction in colours, and when reduced to poverty, is reduced to slavery, and is sold—a White Nigger.”