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- 6573
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.842Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 6506
- text
- I was particularly pleased and tickled, with a multitude of little
salt-droghers, rigged like sloops, and not much bigger than a
pilot-boat, but with broad bows painted black, and carrying red sails,
which looked as if they had been pickled and stained in a tan-yard.
These little fellows were continually coming in with their cargoes for
ships bound to America; and lying, five or six together, alongside of
those lofty Yankee hulls, resembled a parcel of red ants about the
carcass of a black buffalo.
When loaded, these comical little craft are about level with the water;
and frequently, when blowing fresh in the river, I have seen them
flying through the foam with nothing visible but the mast and sail, and
a man at the tiller; their entire cargo being snugly secured under
hatches.
It was diverting to observe the self-importance of the skipper of any
of these diminutive vessels. He would give himself all the airs of an
admiral on a three-decker’s poop; and no doubt, thought quite as much
of himself. And why not? What could Caesar want more? Though his craft
was none of the largest, it was subject to _him;_ and though his crew
might only consist of himself; yet if he governed it well, he achieved
a triumph, which the moralists of all ages have set above the victories
of Alexander.
These craft have each a little cabin, the prettiest, charmingest, most
delightful little dog-hole in the world; not much bigger than an
old-fashioned alcove for a bed. It is lighted by little round glasses
placed in the deck; so that to the insider, the ceiling is like a small
firmament twinkling with astral radiations. For tall men, nevertheless,
the place is but ill-adapted; a sitting, or recumbent position being
indispensable to an occupancy of the premises. Yet small, low, and
narrow as the cabin is, somehow, it affords accommodations to the
skipper and his family. Often, I used to watch the tidy good-wife,
seated at the open little scuttle, like a woman at a cottage door,
engaged in knitting socks for her husband; or perhaps, cutting his
hair, as he kneeled before her. And once, while marveling how a couple
like this found room to turn in, below, I was amazed by a noisy
irruption of cherry-cheeked young tars from the scuttle, whence they
came rolling forth, like so many curly spaniels from a kennel.
Upon one occasion, I had the curiosity to go on board a salt-drogher,
and fall into conversation with its skipper, a bachelor, who kept house
all alone. I found him a very sociable, comfortable old fellow, who had
an eye to having things cozy around him. It was in the evening; and he
invited me down into his sanctum to supper; and there we sat together
like a couple in a box at an oyster-cellar.
“He, he,” he chuckled, kneeling down before a fat, moist, little cask
of beer, and holding a cocked-hat pitcher to the faucet—“You see, Jack,
I keep every thing down here; and nice times I have by myself. Just
before going to bed, it ain’t bad to take a nightcap, you know; eh!
Jack?—here now, smack your lips over that, my boy—have a pipe?—but
stop, let’s to supper first.”
So he went to a little locker, a fixture against the side, and groping
in it awhile, and addressing it with—_“What cheer here, what cheer?”_
at last produced a loaf, a small cheese, a bit of ham, and a jar of
butter. And then placing a board on his lap, spread the table, the
pitcher of beer in the center. “Why that’s but a two legged table,”
said I, “let’s make it four.”
So we divided the burthen, and supped merrily together on our knees.
He was an old ruby of a fellow, his cheeks toasted brown; and it did my
soul good, to see the froth of the beer bubbling at his mouth, and
sparkling on his nut-brown beard. He looked so like a great mug of ale,
that I almost felt like taking him by the neck and pouring him out.
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