t upon the luggage of the approaching vessel would
be not only to forfeit all "considerations" from the passengers, but, by
proving him a laggard in his calling, to cast a damaging blemish upon
his reputation. Liberally as he might lend himself to a friend, it could
not be done at that sacrifice. After a minute or two of fidgety waiting
for the song to end, Cuff's patience could endure no longer, and,
cautiously hazarding a glimpse of his profile beyond the edge of the
flat, he called in a hurried whisper: "Massa Rice, Massa Rice, must
have my clo'se! Massa Griffif wants me,--steamboat's comin'!"

The appeal was fruitless. Massa Rice did not hear it, for a happy hit at
an unpopular city functionary had set the audience in a roar in which
all other sounds were lost. Waiting some moments longer, the restless
Cuff, thrusting his visage from under cover into full three-quarter view
this time, again charged upon the singer in the same words, but with
more emphatic voice: "Massa Rice, Massa Rice, must have my clo'se! Massa
Griffif wants me,--_steamboat's comin'!_"

A still more successful couplet brought a still more tempestuous
response, and the invocation of the baggage-carrier was unheard and
unheeded. Driven to desperation, and forgetful in the emergency of every
sense of propriety, Cuff, in ludicrous undress as he was, started from
his place, rushed upon the stage, and, laying his hand upon the
performer's shoulder, called out excitedly: "Massa Rice, Massa Rice, gi'
me nigga's hat,--nigga's coat,--nigga's shoes,--gi' me nigga's t'ings!
Massa Griffif wants 'im,--STEAMBOAT'S COMIN'!!"

The incident was the touch, in the mirthful experience of that night,
that passed endurance. Pit and circles were one scene of such convulsive
merriment that it was impossible to proceed in the performance; and the
extinguishment of the footlights, the fall of the curtain, and the
throwing wide of the doors for exit, indicated that the entertainment
was ended.

Such were the circumstances--authentic in every particular--under which
the first work of the distinct art of Negro Minstrelsy was presented.

Next day found the song of Jim Crow, in one style of delivery or
another, on everybody's tongue. Clerks hummed it serving customers at
shop counters, artisans thundered it at their toils to the time-beat of
sledge and of tilt-hammer, boys whistled it on the streets, ladies
warbled it in parlors, and house-maids repeated it to the clink of