But let her have her way of it for a moment--just a single breath:
"Why, honey," she closes her eyes as she begins, the better to see memory behind them. "Why, honey, de champagne wine was passed aroun' to de hands all dat indurin' infair in _water-buckets_, an' dipped out in _gou'd dippers-full_, bilin' over so fast an' fizzin' so it'd tickle yo' mouf to drink it. An' Marse Harol' Le Duc, he stood on a _pi_anner-stool on de back gallery an' th'owed out gol' dollars by de hatful for any of us niggers to pick up; an' de guv'ner, ol' Marse Abe Lincolm, he fired off sky-rockers an' read out freedom papers.
"An' mids' all de dance an' reveltry, a bolt o' thunder fell like a cannon-ball outen a clair sky, an' we looked up an' lo an' beholst, here was a vision of a big hand writin' on de sky, an' a voice say, '_Eat up de balance ef anything is found wantin'_!' an' wid dat, dey plunged in like a herd o' swine boun' for de sea, an' dey devoured de fragmints an' popped mo' corks, an' dipped out mo' champagne wine, an' de mo' dey dipped out champagne wine, de mo' dey 'd dance. An' de mo' dey 'd dance, de mo' de wine would flow."
Possibly the old woman's obvious confusion of thought has some explanation in the fact of the presence of the governor of the State, who, introduced as a high dignitary, did make a little speech late that night, thanking the colored people in terms of compliment for their dancing; and any impression made here was so quickly overlaid by the deeper experiences of the war that a blending can easily be explained.
There was a shower of coins--"picayunes" only--thrown during the evening by the master, a feature of the dance being to recover as many of them as possible without breaking step. So the old woman's memory is not so far afield, although as a historian she might need a little editing. But such even as this is much of the so-called "history" which, bound in calf, dishonors the world's libraries to-day.
It is so easy, seeing cobwebs upon a record,--cobwebs which may not be quite construed as alphabet,--to interpret them as hieroglyphics of import, instead of simply brushing them away, or relegating them, where they belong, to the dusky domain of the myth out of which we may expect only weird suggestion, as from the mold of pressed rosemary, typifying remembrance dead.