“Dis yer matter ’bout persistence, feller-niggers,” said Sam, with the air of one entering into an abstruse subject, “dis yer ’sistency ’s a thing what an’t seed into very clar, by most anybody.  Now, yer see, when a feller stands up for a thing one day and night, de contrar de next, folks ses (and nat’rally enough dey ses), why he an’t persistent,—­hand me dat ar bit o’ corn-cake, Andy.  But let’s look inter it.  I hope the gen’lmen and der fair sex will scuse my usin’ an or’nary sort o’ ‘parison.  Here!  I’m a trying to get top o’ der hay.  Wal, I puts up my larder dis yer side; ’tan’t no go;—­den, cause I don’t try dere no more, but puts my larder right de contrar side, an’t I persistent?  I’m persistent in wantin’ to get up which ary side my larder is; don’t you see, all on yer?”

“It’s the only thing ye ever was persistent in, Lord knows!” muttered Aunt Chloe, who was getting rather restive; the merriment of the evening being to her somewhat after the Scripture comparison,—­like “vinegar upon nitre.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Sam, rising, full of supper and glory, for a closing effort.  “Yes, my feller-citizens and ladies of de other sex in general, I has principles,—­I’m proud to ’oon ’em,—­they ’s perquisite to dese yer times, and ter all times.  I has principles, and I sticks to ’em like forty,—­jest anything that I thinks is principle, I goes in to ’t;—­I wouldn’t mind if dey burnt me ’live,—­I’d walk right up to de stake, I would, and say, here I comes to shed my last blood fur my principles, fur my country, fur de gen’l interests of society.”

“Well,” said Aunt Chloe, “one o’ yer principles will have to be to get to bed some time tonight, and not be a keepin’ everybody up till mornin’; now, every one of you young uns that don’t want to be cracked, had better be scase, mighty sudden.”

“Niggers! all on yer,” said Sam, waving his palm-leaf with benignity, “I give yer my blessin’; go to bed now, and be good boys.”

And, with this pathetic benediction, the assembly dispersed.

CHAPTER IX

In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man

The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet of a cosey parlor, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups and well-brightened tea-pot, as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers, which his wife had been working for him while away on his senatorial tour.  Mrs. Bird, looking the very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements of the table, ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of frolicsome juveniles, who were effervescing in all those modes of untold gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers ever since the flood.

“Tom, let the door-knob alone,—­there’s a man!  Mary!  Mary! don’t pull the cat’s tail,—­poor pussy!  Jim, you mustn’t climb on that table,—­no, no!—­You don’t know, my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see you here tonight!” said she, at last, when she found a space to say something to her husband.