How To Cure A Toper
by
[THE following story, literally true in its leading particulars, was told by a reformed man, who knew W–very well. In repeating it, I do so in the first person, in order to give it more effect.]
I was enjoying my glass of flip, one night, at the little old “Black Horse” that used to stand a mile out of S.–, (I hadn’t joined the great army of teetotallers then,) when a neighboring farmer came in, whose moderation, at least in whisky toddies, was not known unto all men. His name was W–. He was a quiet sort of a man when sober, lively and chatty under the effect of a single glass, argumentative and offensively dogmatic after the second toddy, and downright insulting and quarrelsome after getting beyond that number of drinks. We liked him and disliked him on these accounts.
On the occasion referred too, he passed through all these changes, and finally sunk off to sleep by the warm stove. Being in the way, and also in danger of tumbling upon the floor, some of us removed him to an old settee, where he slept soundly, entertaining us with rather an unmusical serenade. There were two or three mischievous fellows about the place, and one of them suggested it would be capital fun to black W–‘s face, and “make a darkey of him.” No sooner said than done. Some lamp-black and oil were mixed together in an old tin cup, and a coat of this paint laid over the face of W–, who, all unconscious of what had been done, slept on as soundly and snored as loudly as ever. Full two hours passed away before he awoke. Staggering up to the bar, he called for another glass of whisky toddy, while we made the old bar-room ring again with our peals of laughter.
“What are you all laughing at?” he said, as he became aware that he was the subject of merriment, and turning his black face around upon the company as he spoke.
“Give us Zip Coon, old fellow!” called out one of the “boys” who had helped him to his beautiful mask.
“No! no! Lucy Long! Give us Lucy Long!” cried another.
“Can’t you dance Jim Crow? Try it. I’ll sing the ‘wheel about and turn about, and do jist so.’ Now begin.”
And the last speaker commenced singing Jim Crow.
W–neither understood nor relished all this. But the more angry and mystified he became, the louder laughed the company and the freer became their jests. At last, in a passion, he swore at us lustily, and leaving the barroom, in high dudgeon, took his horse from the stable and rode off.
It was past eleven o’clock. The night was cold, and a ride of two miles made W–sober enough to understand that he had been rather drunk, and was still a good deal “in for it;” and that it wouldn’t exactly do for his wife to see him just as he was. So he rode a mile past his house,–and then back again, at a slow trot, concluding that by this time the good woman was fast asleep. And so she was. He entered the house, crept silently up stairs, and got quietly into bed, without his better half being wiser therefor.
On the next morning, Mrs. W–awoke first. But what was her surprise and horror, upon rising up, to see, instead of her lawful husband, what she thought a strapping negro, as black as charcoal, lying at her side. Her first impulse was to scream; but her presence of mind in this trying position, enabled her to keep silence. You may be sure that she didn’t remain long in such a close contact with Sir Darkey. Not she! For, slipping out of bed quickly, but noiselessly, she glided from the room, and was soon down stairs in the kitchen, where a stout, two-fisted Irish girl was at work preparing breakfast.