"
When Vespasian came out so strong _versus_ Ramgolam, Fullalove was even
more triumphant: for after all it is not so much the heart as the
intelligence of the negro we albiculi affect to doubt.
"Oh, the great African intellect!" said Fullalove publicly, taking the
bull by the horns.
"I know," said Mrs. Beresford maliciously; "it is down in the maps as the
great African Desert."
To balance his many excellences Vespasian had an infirmity. This was an
ungovernable itch for brushing whites. If he was talking with one of that
always admired, and now beloved, race, and saw a speck of dirt on him, he
would brush him unobtrusively, but effectually, in full dialogue: he
would steal behind a knot of whites and brush whoever needed it, however
little. Fullalove remonstrated, but in vain; on this one point Instinct
would not yield to Reason. He could not keep his hands off a dusty white.
He would have died of the Miller of Dee. But the worst was he did not
stop at clothes; he loathed ill-blacked shoes. Woe to all foot-leather
that did not shine; his own skin furnished a perilous standard of
comparison.
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