We called the Power behind the
Throne to the window in our question and she gave a glad cry:
"Oh, they're the Neegurs! They're the white Neegurs!" and at
sight of our compatriotic faces at the pane, these beautiful
giants took their stand before our house, and burst into the
familiar music of the log-cabin, the stern-wheel steamboat, and
the cornfield, as well as the ragtime melodies of later days. It
was a rich moment, and I know not which joyed in it more, the
Welsh Power or the American Sufferance.
But here, before I go farther afield, I must note a main
difference between the Welsh Power and the English slavey to whom
she corresponded in calling and condition. She was so far
educated as to know the pseudonym of the friend who came to see
us, and to have read his writings in the _Welsh Gazette_,
treating our proposed triumph in his distinction with the fine
scorn she used for all our airs. If she had been an old-fashioned
Yankee Help she could not have been more snubbing; but when we
had been taught to know our place she was more tolerant, and
finally took leave of us without rancor.
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