Artemus Ward on the Negro — 163
Feller Sittersuns,—The African may be our brother. Severil hily rispectable gentlemen and some talented females tell us so, and for argyment sake i might be injooced to grant it, tho’ I don’t beleeve it myself. But the African isn’t our sister, and wife, and unkle. He isn’t severil of our brothers and fust wife’s relashuns. He isn’t our grandfather and grate grandfather, and our aunt in the country. Scarcely: And yet numeris persons would have us think. It’s troo he runs Congress and severil others grossery’s, but he ain’t everybody. But we’ve got the African, or ruther he’s got us, and how are we going to do about it? He’s a orful noosance. P’raps he isn’t to blame for it. P’raps he was created for some wise purpis, like the measles and New England rum, but it’s mity hard to see it. At any rate here, and as I stated to Mr. What-is-it, it’s a pity he coodent go off somewheres quietly by hisself, where he cood wear red weskits and speckled necties, and gratefy his ambition in varis interestin wayse, without havin a eternal fuss up about him. P’raps I’m bearing down too hard on Cuffy.