"
The vender relieves the honourable sheriff from all further display
of sympathy, by saying that he feels the truth of all the honourable
and learned gentleman has said, "which has 'most made the inward
virtue of his heart come right up." He leans over the desk, extends
his hand, helps himself to a generous piece of Romescos' tobacco.
Romescos rejoins in a subdued voice-"He thinks a man what loves
dimes like the major cannot be modest in nigger business, because
modesty ain't trade commodity. It cannot be; the man who thinks of
such nonsense should sell out-should go north and join the humane
society. Folks are all saints, he feels sure, down north yander;
wouldn't sell nigger property;--they only send south right smart
preachers to keep up the dignity of the institution; to do the
peculiar religion of the very peculiar institution. No objection to
that; nor hain't no objection to their feelin' bad about the poor
niggers, so long as they like our cash and take our cotton. That's
where the pin's drove in; while it hangs they wouldn't be bad
friends with us for the world."
"You may, Mr. Romescos, suspend your remarks," says the vender,
looking indignant, as he thrusts his right hand into his bosom, and
attempts a word of introduction.
Romescos must have his last word; he never says die while he has a
word at hand. "The major's love must be credited, gentlemen; he's a
modest auctioneer,--a gentleman what don't feel just right when white
property's for sale," he whispers, sarcastically.
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