Marston's Plantation
ON the left bank of the Ashly River, in the State of South Carolina, and a few miles from its principal city, is a plantation once the property of Hugh Marston. It was near this spot, the brave Huguenots, fleeing religious and political persecution, founded their first American colony-invoked Heaven to guard their liberties-sought a refuge in a new world! And it was here the pious Huguenot forgot his appeals to high heaven-forgot what had driven him from his fatherland, and-unlike the pilgrim fathers who planted their standard on "New England's happy shore,"-became the first to oppress. It was here, against a fierce tyranny, the gallant Yamassee,
A tribe of faithful and heroic Indians. loyal to his professed friend, struggled and died for his liberty. It was here the last remnant of his tribe fought the fierce battle of right over might! It was here, in this domain, destined to be the great and powerful of nations-the asylum of an old world's shelter seeking poor, and the proud embodiment of a people's sovereignty,-liberty was first betrayed! It was here men deceived themselves, and freedom proclaimers became freedom destroyers. And, too, it was here Spanish cupidity, murderous in its search for gold, turned a deaf ear to humanity's cries, slaughtered the friendly Indian, and drenched the soil with his innocent blood. And it is here, at this moment, slavery-fierce monster, threatening the peace of a happy people-runs riot in all its savage vicissitudes, denying man his commonest birthright.
If history did but record the barbarous scenes yet enacted on the banks of this lovely stream, the contrast with its calm surface sweeping gently onward to mingle its waters with the great deep, would be strange indeed. How mellowed by the calm beauty of a summer evening, the one!-how stained with scenes of misery, torment, and death, the other!
Let us beg the reader to follow us back to the time when Marston is found in possession of the plantation, and view it as it is when his friends gather round him to enjoy his bounteous hospitality.
We have ascended the Ashly on a bright spring morning, and are at a jut covered with dark jungle, where the river, about twenty rods wide, sweeps slowly round ;-flowering brakes, waving their tops to and fro in the breeze, bedeck the river banks, and far in the distance, on the left, opens the broad area of the plantation. As we near it, a beautifully undulating slope presents itself, bounded on its upper edge by a long line of sombre-looking pines. Again we emerge beneath clustering foliage overhanging the river; and from out this-sovereign of a southern clime-the wild azalia and fair magnolia diffuse their fragrance to perfume the air. From the pine ridge the slope recedes till it reaches a line of jungle, or hedge, that separates it from the marshy bottom, extending to the river, against which it is protected by a dyke. Most of the slope is under a high state of cultivation, and on its upper edge is a newly cleared patch of ground, which negroes are preparing for the cotton-seed.
Smoking piles burn here and there, burned stumps and trees point their black peaks upward in the murky atmosphere, half-clad negroes in coarse osnaburgs are busy among the smoke and fire: the scene presents a smouldering volcano inhabited by semi-devils. Among the sombre denizens are women, their only clothing being osnaburg frocks, made loose at the neck and tied about the waist with a string: with hoes they work upon the "top surface," gather charred wood into piles, and waddle along as if time were a drug upon life.
Far away to the right the young corn shoots its green sprouts in a square plat, where a few negroes are quietly engaged at the first hoeing. Being tasked, they work with system, and expect, if they never receive, a share of the fruits. All love and respect Marston, for he is generous and kind to them; but system in business is at variance with his nature. His overseer, however, is just the reverse: he is a sharp fellow, has an unbending will, is proud of his office, and has long been reckoned among the very best in the county. Full well he knows what sort of negro makes the best driver; and where nature is ignorant of itself, the accomplishment is valuable. That he watches Marston's welfare, no one doubts; that he never forgets his own, is equally certain. From near mid-distance of the slope we see him approaching on a bay-coloured horse. The sun's rays are fiercely hot, and, though his features are browned and haggard, he holds a huge umbrella in one hand and the inseparable whip in the other. The former is his protector; the latter, his sceptre. John Ryan, for such is his name, is a tall, athletic man, whose very look excites terror. Some say he was born in Limerick, on the Emerald Isle, and only left it because his proud spirit would not succumb to the unbending rod England held over his poor bleeding country.
Running along the centre of the slope is a line of cotton-fields, in which the young plants, sickly in spots, have reached a stage when they require much nursing. Among them are men, women, and children, crouched on the ground like so many sable spectres, picking and pulling at the roots to give them strength. John Ryan has been keeping a sharp eye on them. He will salute you with an air of independence, tell you how he hated oppression and loved freedom, and how, at the present day, he is a great democrat. Now, whether John left his country for his country's good, is a question; but certain it is he dearly delights to ply the lash,-to whip mankind merely for amusement's sake. In a word, John has a good Irish heart within him, and he always lays particular emphasis on the good, when he tells us of its qualities; but let us rather charge to the State that spare use he makes of its gentler parts.
John Ryan, his face indicating tyranny stereotyped, has just been placing drivers over each gang of workmen. How careful he was to select a trustworthy negro, whose vanity he has excited, and who views his position as dearly important. Our driver not unfrequently is the monster tyrant of his circle; but whether from inclination to serve the interests of his master, or a knowledge of the fierce system that holds him alike abject, we know not. At times he is more than obedient to his master's will.
Excuse, reader, this distant view of the plantation at early spring, and follow us back to the Ashly. Here we will still continue along the river-bank, pass borders of thick jungle, flowering vines, and rows of stately pines, their tops moaning in the wind,-and soon find we have reached Marston's landing. This is situated at the termination of an elevated plat extending from thence to the mansion, nearly a mile distant. Three negroes lay basking on the bank; they were sent to wait our coming. Tonio! Murel! Pompe!-they ejaculate, calling one another, as we surprise them. They are cheerful and polite, are dressed in striped shirts and trousers, receive us with great suavity of manner, present master's compliments, tell us with an air of welcome that master will be "right glad" to see us, and conclude by making sundry inquiries about our passage and our "Missuses." Pompe, the "most important nigger" of the three, expresses great solicitude lest we get our feet in the mud. Black as Afric's purest, and with a face of great good nature, Pompe, in curious jargon, apologises for the bad state of the landing, tells us he often reminds Mas'r how necessary it is to have it look genteel. Pompe, more than master, is deeply concerned lest the dignity of the plantation suffer.
Planks and slabs are lain from the water's edge to the high ground on the ridge, upon which we ascend to the crown, a piece of natural soil rising into a beautiful convex of about six rods wide, extending to the garden gate. We wend our way to the mansion, leaving Pompe and his assistants in charge of our luggage, which they will see safely landed. The ridge forms a level walk, sequestered by long lines of huge oaks, their massive branches forming an arch of foliage, with long trailing moss hanging like mourning drapery to enhance its rural beauty. At the extreme of this festooned walk the mansion is seen dwindling into an almost imperceptible perspective. There is something grand and impressive in the still arch above us-something which revives our sense of the beauty of nature. Through the trunks of the trees, on our right and left, extensive rice fields are seen stretching far into the distance. The young blades are shooting above the surface of the water, giving it the appearance of a frozen sheet clothed with green, and protected from the river by a serpentine embankment. How beautiful the expanse viewed from beneath these hoary-headed oaks!
On the surface and along the banks of the river aligators are sporting; moccason snakes twist their way along, and scouring kingfishers croak in the balmy air. If a venerable rattlesnake warn us we need not fear-being an honourable snake partaking of the old southerner's affected chivalry;-he will not approach disguised;-no! he will politely give us warning. But we have emerged from the mossy walk and reached a slab fence, dilapidated and broken, which encloses an area of an acre of ground, in the centre of which stands the mansion: the area seems to have been a garden, which, in former days, may have been cultivated with great care. At present it only presents a few beds rank with weeds. We are told the gardener has been dismissed in consideration of his more lucrative services in the corn-field. That the place is not entirely neglected, we have only to add that Marston's hogs are exercising an independent right to till the soil according to their own system. The mansion is a quadrangular building, about sixty feet long by fifty wide, built of wood, two stories high, having upper and lower verandas.
We pass the dilapidated gate, and reach it by a narrow passage through the garden, on each side of which is a piece of antique statuary, broken and defaced. Entering the lower veranda, we pace the quadrangle, viewing innumerable cuttings and carvings upon the posts: they are initials and full names, cut to please the vanity of those anxious to leave the Marston family a memento. Again we arrive at the back of the mansion where the quadrangle opens a courtyard filled with broken vines, blackened cedars, and venerable-looking leaks;-they were once much valued by the ancient and very respectable Marston family. A few yards from the left wing of the mansion are the "yard houses"-little, comely cabins, about twelve feet by twenty, and proportionately high. One is the kitchen: it has a dingy look, the smoke issuing from its chinks regardless of the chimney; while from its door, sable denizens, ragged and greasy, and straining their curious faces, issue forth. The polished black cook, with her ample figure, is foaming with excitement, lest the feast she is preparing for master's guests may fail to sustain her celebrity. Conspicuous among these cabins are two presenting a much neater appearance: they are brightly whitewashed, and the little windows are decorated with flowering plants. Within them there is an air of simple neatness and freshness we have seldom seen surpassed; the meagre furniture seems to have been arranged by some careful hand, and presents an air of cheerfulness in strange contrast with the dingy cabins around. In each there is a neatly arranged bed, spread over with a white cover, and by its side a piece of soft carpet. It is from these we shall draw forth the principal characters of our story.
Upon a brick foundation, about twenty rods from the right wing of the mansion, stands a wood cottage, occupied by the overseer. Mr. John Ryan not being blessed with family, when Marston is not honoured with company takes his meals at the mansion. In the distance, to the left, is seen a long line of humble huts, standing upon piles, and occupied by promiscuous negro families:--we say promiscuous, for the marriage-tie is of little value to the master, nor does it give forth specific claim to parentage. The sable occupants are beings of uncertainty; their toil is for a life-time-a weary waste of hope and disappointment. Yes! their dreary life is a heritage, the conditions of which no man would share willingly. Victors of husbandry, they share not of the spoils; nor is the sweat of their brows repaid with justice.
Near these cabins, mere specks in the distance, are two large sheds, under which are primitive mills, wherein negroes grind corn for their humble meal. Returning from the field at night, hungry and fatigued, he who gets a turn at the mill first is the luckiest fellow. Now that the workpeople are busily engaged on the plantation, the cabins are in charge of two nurses, matronly-looking old bodies, who are vainly endeavouring to keep in order numerous growing specimens of the race too young to destroy a grub at the root of a cotton plant. The task is indeed a difficult one, they being as unruly as an excited Congress. They gambol round the door, make pert faces at old mamma, and seem as happy as snakes in the spring sun. Some are in a nude state, others have bits of frocks covering hapless portions of their bodies; they are imps of mischief personified, yet our heart bounds with sympathy for them. Alive with comicality, they move us, almost unconsciously, to fondle them. And yet we know not why we would fondle the sable "rascals." One knot is larking on the grass, running, toddling, yelling, and hooting; another, ankle-deep in mud, clench together and roll among the ducks, work their clawy fingers through the tufts of each other's crispy hair, and enjoy their childish sports with an air of genial happiness; while a third sit in a circle beside an oak tree, playing with "Dash," whose tail they pull without stint. "Dash" is the faithful and favourite dog; he rather likes a saucy young "nigger," and, while feeling himself equal to the very best in the clan, will permit the small fry, without resenting the injury, to pull his tail.
It being "ration day," we must describe the serving, that being an interesting phase of plantation life. Negroes have gathered into motley groups around two weatherbeaten store-houses--the overseer has retired to his apartment-when they wait the signal from the head driver, who figures as master of ceremonies. One sings:---"Jim Crack corn, an' I don't care, Fo'h mas'r's gone away! way! way!" Another is croaking over the time he saved on his task, a third is trying to play a trick with the driver (come the possum over him), and a third unfolds the scheme by which the extra for whiskey and molasses was raised. Presenting a sable pot pourri, they jibber and croak among themselves, laugh and whistle, go through the antics of the "break-down" dance, make the very air echo with the music of their incomprehensible jargon. We are well nigh deafened by it, and yet it excites our joy. We are amused and instructed; we laugh because they laugh, our feelings vibrate with theirs, their quaint humour forces itself into our very soul, and our sympathy glows with their happy anticipations. The philosophy of their jargon is catching to our senses; we listen that we may know their natures, and learn good from their simplicity. He is a strange mortal who cannot learn something from a fool!
The happy moment has arrived: "Ho, boys!" is sounded,-the doors open, the negroes stop their antics and their jargon; stores are exposed, and with one dinning mutter all press into a half-circle at the doors, in one of which stands the huge figure of Balam, the head driver. He gives a scanning look at the circle of anxious faces; he would have us think the importance of the plantation centred in his glowing black face. There he stands-a measure in his hand-while another driver, with an air of less dignity, cries out, with a stentorian voice, the names of the heads of families, and the number of children belonging thereto. Thus, one by one, the name being announced in muddled accents, they step forward, and receive their corn, or rice, as may be. In pans and pails they receive it, pass it to the younger members of the family; with running and scampering, they carry the coarse allotment to their cabin with seeming cheerfulness. Marston, esteemed a good master, always gives bacon, and to receive this the negroes will gather round the store a second time. In this, the all-fascinating bacon is concealed, for which the children evince more concern; their eyes begin to shine brighter, their watchfulness becomes more intent. Presently a negro begins to withdraw the meat, and as he commences action the jargon gets louder, until we are deafened, and would fain move beyond it. Just then, the important driver, with hand extended, commands,-"Order!" at the very top of his loud voice. All is again still; the man returns to his duty. The meat is somewhat oily and rancid, but Balam cuts it as if it were choice and scarce. Another driver weighs it in a pair of scales he holds in his hands; while still another, cutting the same as before, throws it upon some chaff at the door, as if it were a bone thrown to a hungry dog. How humbly the recipient picks it up and carries it to his or her cabin! Not unfrequently the young "imps" will scramble for it, string it upon skewers, and with great nonchalance throw it over their shoulders, and walk off. If it bathe their backs with grease so much more the comfort. Those little necessaries which add so much to the negro's comfort, and of which he is so fond, must be purchased with the result of his extra energy. Even this allowance may serve the boasted hospitality; but the impression that there is a pennyworth of generosity for every pound of parsimony, forces itself upon us. On his little spot, by moonlight or starlight, the negro must cultivate for himself, that his family may enjoy a few of those fruits of which master has many. How miserable is the man without a spark of generosity in his soul; and how much more miserable the man who will not return good for good's worth! To the negro, kindness is a mite inspiring the impulses of a simple heart, and bringing forth great good.
Let us again beg the reader to return with us to those conspicuous cottages near the court-yard, and in which we will find several of our characters.
We cross the threshold of one, and are accosted by a female who, speaking in musical accents, invites us to sit down. She has none of Afric's blood in her veins;-no! her features are beautifully olive, and the intonation of her voice discovers a different origin. Her figure is tall and well-formed; she has delicately-formed hands and feet, long, tapering fingers, well-rounded limbs, and an oval face, shaded with melancholy. How reserved she seems, and yet how quickly she moves her graceful figure! Now she places her right hand upon her finely-arched forehead, parts the heavy folds of glossy hair that hang carelessly over her brown shoulders, and with a half-suppressed smile answers our salutation. We are welcome in her humble cabin; but her dark, languishing eyes, so full of intensity, watch us with irresistible suspicion. They are the symbols of her inward soul; they speak through that melancholy pervading her countenance! The deep purple of her cheek is softened by it, while it adds to her face that calm beauty which moves the gentle of our nature. How like a woman born to fill a loftier sphere than that to which a cruel law subjects her, she seems!
Neither a field nor a house servant, the uninitiated may be at a loss to know what sphere on the plantation is her's? She is the mother of Annette, a little girl of remarkable beauty, sitting at her side, playing with her left hand. Annette is fair, has light auburn hair-not the first tinge of her mother's olive invades her features. Her little cheerful face is lit up with a smile, and while toying with the rings on her mother's fingers, asks questions that person does not seem inclined to answer. Vivacious and sprightly, she chatters and lisps until we become eager for her history. "It's only a child's history," some would say. But the mother displays so much fondness for it; and yet we become more and more excited by the strange manner in which she tries to suppress an outward display of her feelings. At times she pats it gently on the head, runs her hands through its hair, and twists the ends into tiny ringlets.
In the next cabin we meet the shortish figure of a tawny female, whose Indian features stand boldly out. Her high cheek bones, long glossy black hair, and flashing eyes, are the indexes of her pedigree. "My master says I am a slave:" in broken accents she answers our question. As she sits in her chair near the fire-place of bricks, a male issue of the mixed blood toddles round and round her, tossing her long coarse hair every time he makes a circut. The little boy is much fairer than the brawny daughter who seems his mother. Playful, and even mischievous, he delights in pulling the hair which curls over his head; and when the woman calls him he answers with a childish heedlessness, and runs for the door. Reader! this woman's name is Ellen Juvarna; she has youth on her side, and though she retains the name of her ancient sire, is proud of being master's mistress. She tells us how comfortable she is; how Nicholas, for such is his name, resembles his father, how he loves him, but how he fails to acknowledge him. A feud, with its consequences, is kept up between the two cabins; and while she makes many insinuations about her rival, tells us she knows her features have few charms. Meanwhile, she assures us that neither good looks nor sweet smiles make good mothers. "Nicholas!" she exclaims, "come here; the gentlemen want to know all about papa." And, as she extends her hand, the child answers the summons, runs across the room, fondles his head in his mother's lap,-seems ashamed!
How A Night Was Spent On Marston's Plantation
EARTH is mantled with richest verdure; far away to the west and south of the mansion the scene stretches out in calm grandeur. The sun sinks beneath glowing clouds that crimson the horizon and spread refulgent shadows on the distant hills, as darkness slowly steals its way on the mellow landscape.
Motley groups of negroes are returned from the field, fires are lighted in and about the cabins, and men mutter their curious jargon while moving to prepare the coarse meal. Their anxious countenances form a picture wild and deeply interesting.
Entering Marston's mansion, we find its interior neater than its weather-stained and paintless sides portended. Through the centre runs a broad passage, and on the left and right are large parlours, comfortably furnished, divided by folding doors of carved walnut. We are ushered into the one on the right by a yellow servant, who, neatly dressed in black, has prepared his politeness for the occasion. With great suavity, accompanied by a figurative grin, he informs us that master will pay his respects presently. Pieces of singularly antique furniture are arranged round the room, of which, he adds, master is proud indeed. Two plaster figures, standing in dingy niches, he tells us are wonders of the white man's genius. In his own random style he gives us an essay on the arts, adding a word here and there to remind us of master's exquisite taste, and anxiously waits our confirmation of what he says.
A large open fire-place, with fancifully carved framework and mantel-pieces, in Italian marble of polished blackness, upon which stood massive silver candlesticks, in chased work, denotes the ancient character of the mansion. It has many years been the home of the ever-hospitable Marston family.
In another part of the room is a mahogany side-board of antique pattern, upon which stand sundry bottles and glasses, indicative of Marston having entertained company in the morning. While we are contemplating the furniture around us, and somewhat disappointed at the want of taste displayed in its arrangement, the door opens, and Sam, the yellow servant, bows Marston in with a gracious smile. It is in the south where the polite part is played by the negro. Deacon Rosebrook and Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, a man of the world, follow Marston into the room. Marston is rather tall of figure, robust, and frank of countenance. A florid face, and an extremely large nose bordering on the red, at times give him an aldermanic air. He rubs his fingers through the short, sandy-coloured hair that bristles over a low forehead (Tom, the barber, has just fritted it) smiles, and introduces us to his friends. He is vain-vanity belongs to the slave world-is sorry his eyes are grey, but adds an assurance every now and then that his blood is of the very best stock. Lest a doubt should hang upon our mind, he asserts, with great confidence, that grey eyes indicate pure Norman birth. As for phrenology! he never believed in a single bump, and cites his own contracted forehead as the very strongest proof against the theory. Indeed, there is nothing remarkable in our host's countenance, if we except its floridness; but a blunt nose protruding over a wide mouth and flat chin gives the contour of his face an expression not the most prepossessing. He has been heard to say, "A man who didn't love himself wasn't worth loving:" and, to show his belief in this principle of nature, he adorns his face with thick red whiskers, not the most pleasing to those unaccustomed to the hairy follies of a fashionable southron.
Times are prosperous; the plantation puts forth its bounties, and Marston withholds nothing that can make time pass pleasantly with those who honour him with a visit. He is dressed in an elaborately cut black coat, with sweeping skirts, a white vest, fancy-coloured pantaloons, and bright boots. About his neck is an enormous shirt collar, turned carelessly over, and secured with a plain black ribbon. Elder Praiseworthy is of lean figure, with sharp, craven features. The people of the parish have a doubtful opinion of him. Some say he will preach sermons setting forth the divine right of slavery, or any other institution that has freedom for its foe, provided always there is no lack of pay. As a divine, he is particularly sensitive lest anything should be said disparagingly against the institution he lends his aid to protect. That all institutions founded in patriarchal usage are of God's creation, he holds to be indisputable; and that working for their overthrow is a great crime, as well as an unpardonable sin, he never had the slightest doubt. He is careful of his clerical dress, which is of smoothest black; and remembering how essential are gold-framed spectacles, arranges and re-arranges his with greatest care. He is a great admirer of large books with gilt edges and very expensive bindings. They show to best advantage in the southern parlour library, where books are rarely opened. To say the Elder is not a man of great parts, is to circulate a libel of the first magnitude. Indeed, he liked big books for their solidity; they reminded him of great thoughts well preserved, and sound principles more firmly established. At times he had thought they were like modern democratic rights, linked to huge comprehending faculties, such as was his good fortune to use when expounding state rights and federal obligations.
Deacon Rosebrook is a comely, fair-faced man, a moderate thinker, a charitable Christian, a very good man, who lets his deeds of kindness speak of him. He is not a politician-no! he is a better quality of man, has filled higher stations. Nor is he of the modernly pious-that is, as piety professes itself in our democratic world, where men use it more as a necessary appliance to subdue the mind than a means to improve civilization. But he was always cautious in giving expression to his sentiments, knowing the delicate sensibilities of those he had to deal with, and fearing lest he might spring a democratic mine of very illiberal indignation.
Come, gentlemen guests, you are as welcome as the showers, says Marston, in a stentorious voice: "Be seated; you are at home under my roof. Yes, the hospitality of my plantation is at your service." The yellow man removes a table that stood in the centre of the room, places chairs around it, and each takes his seat.
Pardon me, my dear Marston, you live with the comfort of a nabob. Wealth seems to spring up on all sides, returns the Deacon, good-naturedly.
And so I think, joins the Elder: "the pleasures of the plantation are manifold, swimming along from day to day; but I fear there is one thing our friend has not yet considered."
Pray what is that? Let us hear it; let us hear it. Perhaps it is the very piety of nonsense, rejoined Marston, quickly. "Dead men and devils are always haunting us." The Elder draws his spectacles from his pocket, wipes them with his silk handkerchief, adjusts them on his nose, and replies with some effort, "The Future."
Nothing more? Marston inquires, quaintly: "Never contented; riches all around us, favourable prospects for the next crop, prices stiff, markets good, advices from abroad exciting. Let the future take care of itself; you are like all preachers, Elder, borrowing darkness when you can't see light."
The Elder, so full of allegory! whispers the Deacon. "He means a moral condition, which we all esteem as a source of riches laid up in store for the future."
I discover; but it never troubles me while I take care of others. I pray for my negro property-pray loudly and long. And then, their piety is a charge of great magnitude; but when I need your assistance in looking after it, be assured you will receive an extra fee.
That's personal-personal, decidedly personal.
Quite the reverse, returns Marston, suddenly smiling, and, placing his elbows on the table, rests his face on his hands. "Religion is well in its place, good on simple minds; just the thing to keep vassals in their places: that's why I pay to have it talked to my property. Elder, I get the worth of my money in seeing the excitement my fellows get into by hearing you preach that old worn-out sermon. You've preached it to them so long, they have got it by heart. Only impress the rascals that it's God's will they should labour for a life, and they'll stick to it like Trojans: they are just like pigs, sir."
You don't comprehend me, my friend Marston: I mean that you should prepare-it's a rule applicable to all-to meet the terrible that may come upon us at any moment. The Elder is fearful that he is not quite explicit enough. He continues: "Well, there is something to be considered;"-he is not quite certain that we should curtail the pleasures of this life by binding ourselves with the dread of what is to come. "Seems as if we owed a common duty to ourselves," he ejaculates.
The conversation became more exciting, Marston facetiously attempting to be humorous at the Elder's expense: "It isn't the pleasure, my dear fellow, it's the contentment. We were all born to an end; and if that end be to labour through life for others, it must be right. Everything is right that custom has established right."
Marston, give us your hand, my friend. 'Twould do to plead so if we had no enemies, but enemies are upon us, watching our movements through partizans' eyes, full of fierceness, and evil to misconstruct.
I care not, interrupts Marston. "My slaves are my property-I shall do with them as it pleases me; no insinuations about morality, or I shall mark you on an old score. Do you sound? Good Elders should be good men; but they, as well as planters, have their frailties; it would not do to tell them all, lest high heaven should cry out." Marston points his finger, and laughs heartily. "I wish we had seven lives to live, and they were all as happy as most of our planters could desire to make them."
The Elder understood the delicate hint, but desiring to avoid placing himself in an awkward position before the Deacon, began to change the conversation, criticising the merits of several old pictures hung upon the walls. They were much valued by Marston, as mementoes of his ancestry: of this the Elder attempted in vain to make a point. During this conversation, so disguised in meaning, the mulatto servant stood at the door waiting Marston's commands. Soon, wine and refreshments were brought in, and spread out in old plantation style. The company had scarcely filled glasses, when a rap sounded at the hall door: a servant hastened to announce a carriage; and in another minute was ushered into the room the graceful figure of a young lady whose sweet and joyous countenance bespoke the absence of care. She was followed by a genteelly-dressed young man of straight person and placid features.
Oh! Franconia, said Marston, rising from his seat, grasping her hand affectionately, and bestowing a kiss on her fair cheek, for it was fair indeed.
Taking her right hand in his left, he added, "My niece, gentlemen; my brother's only daughter, and nearly spoiled with attentions." A pleasant smile stole over her face, as gracefully she acknowledged the compliment. In another minute three or four old negroes, moved by the exuberance of their affection for her, gathered about her, contending with anxious faces for the honour of seeing her comfortable.
I love her! continued Marston; "and, as well as she could a father, she loves me, making time pass pleasantly with her cheerfulness." She was the child of his affections; and as he spoke his face glowed with animation. Scarce seventeen summers had bloomed upon his fair niece, who, though well developed in form, was of a delicate constitution, and had inherited that sensitiveness so peculiar to the child of the South, especially she who has been cradled in the nursery of ease and refinement. As she spoke, smiled, and raised her jewelled fingers, the grace accompanying the words was expressive of love and tenderness. Turning to the gentleman who accompanied her, "My friend!" she added, simply, with a frolicsome laugh. A dozen anxious black faces were now watching in the hall, ready to scamper round her ere she made her appearance to say, "How de'h!" to young Missus, and get a glimpse at her stranger friend. After receiving a happy salute from the old servants, she re-enters the room. "Uncle's always drinking wine when I come;-but Uncle forgets me; he has not so much as once asked me to join him!" She lays her hand on his arm playfully, smiles cunningly, points reproachfully at the Elder, and takes a seat at her uncle's side. The wine has seized the Elder's mind; he stares at her through his spectacles, and holds his glass with his left hand.
Come, Dandy, said Marston, addressing himself to the mulatto attendant, "bring a glass; she shall join us." The glass is brought, Marston fills it, she bows, they drink to her and to the buoyant spirits of the noble southern lady. "I don't admire the habit; but I do like to please so," she whispers, and, excusing herself, skips into the parlour on the right, where she is again beset by the old servants, who rush to her, shake her hand, cling playfully to her dress: some present various new-plucked flowers others are become noisy with their chattering jargon. At length she is so beset with the display of their affection as to be compelled to break away from them, and call for Clotilda. "I must have Clotilda!" she says: "Tell her to come soon, Dandy: she alone can arrange my dress." Thus saying, she disappeared up a winding stair leading from the hall into the second story.
We were anxious to know who Clotilda was, and why Franconia should summon her with so much solicitude. Presently a door opened: Franconia appeared at the top of the stairs, her face glowing with vivacity, her hair dishevelled waving in beautiful confusion, giving a fascination to her person. "I do wish she would come, I do!" she mutters, resting her hands upon the banisters, and looking intently into the passage: "she thinks more of fussing over Annette's hair, than she does about taking care of mine. Well, I won't get cross-I won't! Poor Clotilda, I do like her; I can't help it; it is no more than natural that she should evince so much solicitude for her child: we would do the same." Scarcely had she uttered these words, when the beautiful female we have described in the foregoing chapter ran from her cabin, across the yard, into the mansion. "Where is young Miss Franconia?" she inquires; looks hastily around, ascends the stairs, greets Franconia with a fervent shake of the hand, commences adjusting her hair. There is a marked similarity in their countenances: it awakens our reflections. Had Clotilda exhibited that exactness of toilet for which Franconia is become celebrated, she would excel in her attractions. There was the same oval face, the same arched brows; there was the same Grecian contour of features, the same sharply lined nose; there was the same delicately cut mouth, disclosing white, pearly teeth; the same eyes, now glowing with sentiment, and again pensive, indicating thought and tenderness; there was the same classically moulded bust, a shoulder slightly converging, of beautiful olive, enriched by a dark mole.
Clotilda would fain have kissed Franconia, but she dare not. "Clotilda, you must take good care of me while I make my visit. Only do my hair nicely, and I will see that Uncle gets a new dress for you when he goes to the city. If Uncle would only get married, how much happier it would be," says Franconia, looking at Clotilda the while.
And me, too,-I would be happier! Clotilda replies, resting her arms on the back of Franconia's lolling chair, as her eyes assumed a melancholy glare. She heaved a sigh.
You could not be happier than you are; you are well cared for; Uncle will never see you want; but you must be cheerful when I come, Clotilda,-you must! To see you unhappy makes me feel unhappy.
Cheerful!-its better said than felt. Can he or she be cheerful who is forced to sin against God and himself? There is little to be cheerful with, where the nature is not its own. Why should I be the despised wretch at your Uncle's feet: did God, the great God, make me a slave to his licentiousness?
Suppress such feelings, Clotilda; do not let them get the better of you. God ordains all things: it is well to abide by His will, for it is sinful to be discontented, especially where everything is so well provided. Why, Uncle has learned you to read, and even to write.
Ah! that's just what gave me light; through it I knew that I had a life, and a soul beyond that, as valuable to me as yours is to you.
Be careful, Clotilda, she interrupts; "remember there is a wide difference between us. Do not cross Uncle; he is kind, but he may get a freak into his head, and sell you."
Clotilda's cheeks brightened; she frowned at the word, and, giving her black hair a toss from her shoulder, muttered, "To sell me!-Had you measured the depth of pain in that word, Franconia, your lips had never given it utterance. To sell me!-'tis that. The difference is wide indeed, but the point is sharpest. Was it my mother who made that point so sharp? It could not! a mother would not entail such misery on her offspring. That name, so full of associations dear to me-so full of a mother's love and tenderness,-could not reflect pain. Nay; her affections were bestowed upon me,-I love to treasure them, I do. To tell me that a mother would entail misery without an end, is to tell me that the spirit of love is without good!"
Do not make yourself unhappy, Clotilda. Perhaps you are as well with us as you would be elsewhere. Even at the free north, in happy New England, ladies would not take the notice of you we do: many of your class have died there, poor and wretched, among the most miserable creatures ever born to a sad end. And you are not black-
All is not truth that is told for such, Clotilda interrupts Franconia. "If I were black, my life would have but one stream: now it is terrible with uncertainty. As I am, my hopes and affections are blasted."
Sit down, Clotilda, rejoins Franconia, quickly.
Clotilda, having lavished her skill on Franconia's hair, seats herself by her side. Franconia affectionately takes her tapering hand and presses it with her jewelled fingers. "Remember, Clotilda," she continues, "all the negroes on the plantation become unhappy at seeing you fretful. It is well to seem happy, for its influence on others. Uncle will always provide for Annette and you; and he is kind. If he pays more attention to Ellen at times, take no notice of it. Ellen Juvarna is Indian, moved to peculiarities by the instincts of her race. Uncle is imprudent, I admit; but society is not with us as it is elsewhere!"
I care not so much for myself, speaks the woman, in a desponding voice; "it is Annette; and when you spoke of her you touched the chord of all my troubles. I can endure the sin forced upon myself; but, O heavens! how can I butcher my very thoughts with the unhappy life that is before her? My poor mother's words haunt me. I know her feelings now, because I can judge them by my own-can see how her broken heart was crushed into the grave! She kissed my hand, and said, 'Clotilda, my child, you are born to a cruel death. Give me but a heart to meet my friends in judgment!'"
The child with the flaxen hair, humming a tune, came scampering up the stairs into the room. It recognises Franconia, and, with a sportive laugh, runs to her and fondles in her lap; then, turning to its mother, seems anxious to divide its affections between them. Its features resembled Franconia's-the similarity was unmistakeable; and although she fondled it, talked with it, and smoothed its little locks, she resisted its attempts to climb on her knee: she was cold.
Mother says I look like you, and so does old Aunt Rachel, Miss Franconia-they do, whispers the child, shyly, as it twisted its fingers round the rings on Franconia's hand. Franconia blushed, and cast an inquiring look at Clotilda.
You must not be naughty, she says; "those black imps you play with around Aunt Rachel's cabin teach you wrong. You must be careful with her, Clotilda; never allow her to such things to white people: she may use such expressions before strangers,-which would be extremely painful-"
It seems too plain: if there be no social sin, why fear the degradation? she quietly interrupts. "You cannot keep it from the child. O, how I should like to know my strange history, Franconia,-to know if it can be that I was born to such cruel misfortunes, such bitter heart-achings, such gloomy forebodings. If I were, then am I content with my lot."
Franconia listened attentively, saw the anguish that was bursting the bounds of the unhappy woman's feelings, and interrupted by saying, "Speak of it no more, Clotilda. Take your child; go to your cabin. I shall stay a few days: to-morrow I will visit you there." As she spoke, she waved her hand, bid Clotilda good night, kissing Annette as she was led down stairs. Now alone, she begins to contemplate the subject more deeply. "It must be wrong," she says to herself: "but few are brought to feel it who have the power to remove it. The poor creature seems so unhappy; and my feelings are pained when they tell me how much she looks like me--and it must be so; for when she sat by my side, looking in the glass the portrait of similarity touched my feelings deeply. 'Tis not the thing for Uncle to live in this way. Here am I, loved and beloved, with the luxury of wealth, and friends at my pleasure; I am caressed: she is but born a wretch to serve my Uncle's vanity; and, too, were I to reproach him, he would laugh at what he calls our folly, our sickly sensitiveness; he would tell me of the pleasures of southern life, southern scenery, southern chivalry, southern refinement;--yes, he would tell me how it were best to credit the whole to southern liberality of custom:--so it continues! There is a principle to be served after all: he says we are not sent into the world to excommune ourselves from its pleasures. This may be good logic, for I own I don't believe with those who want the world screwed up into a religious vice; but pleasure is divided into so many different qualities, one hardly knows which suits best now-a-days. Philosophers say we should avoid making pleasure of that which can give pain to others; but philosophers say so many things, and give so much advice that we never think of following. Uncle has a standard of his own. I do, however, wish southern society would be more circumspect, looking upon morality in its proper light. Its all doubtful! doubtful! doubtful! There is Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy; he preaches, preaches, preaches!--his preaching is to live, not to die by. I do pity those poor negroes, who, notwithstanding their impenetrable heads, are bored to death every Sunday with that selfsame sermon. Such preaching, such strained effort, such machinery to make men pious,--it's as soulless as a well. I don't wonder the world has got to be so very wicked, when the wickedness of the slavery church has become so sublime. And there's Uncle, too,--he's been affected just in that way; hearing pious discourses to uphold that which in his soul he knew to be the heaviest wickedness the world groaned under, he has come to look upon religion as if it were a commodity too stale for him. He sees the minister of God's Word a mere machine of task, paid to do a certain amount of talking to negroes, endeavouring to impress their simple minds with the belief that it is God's will they should be slaves. And this is all for necessity's sake!" In this musing mood she sits rocking in her chair, until at length, overcome with the heat, she reclines her head against the cushion, resigning herself to the soothing embrace of sweet sleep.
The moon's silver rays were playing on the calm surface of the river, the foliage on its banks seemed bathed in quiet repose, the gentle breeze, bearing its balmy odours, wafted through the arbour of oaks, as if to fan her crimson cheeks; the azalia and magnolia combined their fragrance, impregnating the dew falling over the scene, as if to mantle it with beauty. She slept, a picture of southern beauty; her auburn tresses in undulating richness playing to and fro upon her swelling bosom,-how developed in all its delicacy!-her sensitive nature made more lovely by the warmth and generosity of her heart. Still she slept, her youthful mind overflowing with joy and buoyancy: about her there was a ravishing simplicity more than earthly: a blush upon her cheek became deeper,-it was the blush of love flashing in a dream, that tells its tale in nervous vibrations, adding enchantment to sleeping voluptuousness;-and yet all was sacred, an envied object no rude hand dare touch!
Franconia had been educated at the north, in a land where--God bless the name--Puritanism is not quite extinct; and through the force of principles there inculcated had outgrown much of that feeling which at the south admits to be right what is basely wrong. She hesitated to reproach Marston with the bad effect of his life, but resolved on endeavouring to enlist Clotilda's confidence, and learn how far her degraded condition affected her feelings. She saw her with the same proud spirit that burned in her own bosom; the same tenderness, the same affection for her child, the same hopes and expectations for the future, and its rewards. The question was, what could be done for Clotilda? Was it better to reason with her,-to, if possible, make her happy in her condition? Custom had sanctioned many unrighteous inconsistencies: they were southern, nothing more! She would intercede with her Uncle, she would have him sign free papers for Clotilda and her child; she saw a relationship which the law could not disguise, though it might crush out the natural affections. With these thoughts passing in her mind, her imagination wandered until she dropped into the sleep we have described.
There she slept, the blushes suffusing her cheeks, until old Aunt Rachel, puffing and blowing like an exhausting engine, entered the room. Aunty is the pink of a plantation mother: she is as black as the blackest, has a face embodying all the good-nature of the plantation, boasts of her dimensions, which she says are six feet, well as anybody proportioned. Her head is done up in a flashy bandana, the points nicely crosslain, and extending an elaborate distance beyond her ears, nearly covering the immense circular rings that hang from them. Her gingham dress, starched just so, her whitest white apron, never worn before missus come, sets her off to great advantage. Aunty is a good piece of property-tells us how many hundred dollars there is in her-feels that she has been promoted because Mas'r told somebody he would not take a dollar less for her. She can superintend the domestic affairs of the mansion just as well as anybody. In one hand she bears a cup of orange-grove coffee, in the other a fan, made of palmetto-leaves.
Gi'h-e-you! she exclaimed. "If young missus aint nappin' just so nice! I likes to cotch 'em just so;" and setting her tray upon a stand, she views Franconia intently, and in the exuberance of her feelings seats herself in front of her chair, fanning her with the palmetto. The inquisitive and affectionate nature of the good old slave was here presented in its purity. Nothing can be stronger, nothing show the existence of happy associations more forcibly. The old servant's attachment is proverbial,-his enthusiasm knows no bounds,-Mas'r's comfort absorbs all his thoughts. Here, Aunt Rachel's feelings rose beyond her power of restraint: she gazed on her young missus with admiration, laughed, fanned her more and more; then grasping her little jewelled hand, pressed it to her spacious mouth and kissed it. "Young Missus! Franconia, I does lub ye so!" she whispers.
Why, Aunt Rachel! ejaculated Franconia, starting suddenly: "I am glad you wakened me, for I dreamed of trouble: it made me weak-nervous. Where is Clotilda?" And she stared vacantly round the room, as if unconscious of her position. "Guess 'e aint 'bout nowhere. Ye see, Miss, how she don't take no care on ye,-takes dis child to stir up de old cook, when ye comes to see us." And stepping to the stand she brings the salver; and in her excitement to serve Missus, forgets that the coffee is cold. "Da'h he is; just as nice as 'em get in de city. Rachel made 'em!"
I want Clotilda, Rachel; you must bring her to me. I was dreaming of her and Annette; and she can tell dreams-
The old slave interrupts her. "If Miss Franconia hab had dream, 'e bad, sartin. Old Mas'r spoil dat gal, Clotilda,-make her tink she lady, anyhow. She mos' white, fo'h true; but aint no better den oder nigger on de plantation," she returns. Franconia sips her coffee, takes a waf from the plate as the old servant holds it before her, and orders Dandy to summon Clotilda.
Things Are Not So Bright As They Seem
THE following morning broke forth bright and serene. Marston and his guests, after passing a pleasant night, were early at breakfast. When over, they joined him for a stroll over the plantation, to hear him descant upon the prospects of the coming crop. Nothing could be more certain, to his mind, than a bountiful harvest. The rice, cotton, and corn grounds had been well prepared, the weather was most favourable, he had plenty of help, a good overseer, and faithful drivers. "We have plenty,-we live easy, you see, and our people are contented," he says, directing his conversation to the young Englishman, who was suspected of being Franconia's friend. "We do things different from what you do in your country. Your countrymen will not learn to grow cotton: they manufacture it, and hence we are connected in firm bonds. Cotton connects many things, even men's minds and souls. You would like to be a planter, I know you would: who would not, seeing how we live? Here is the Elder, as happy a fellow as you'll find in forty. He can be as jolly as an Englishman over a good dinner: he can think with anybody, preach with anybody!" Touching the Elder on the shoulder, he smiles, and with an insinuating leer, smooths his beard. "I am at your service," replies the Elder, folding his arms.
I pay him to preach for my nigger property,-I pay him to teach them to be good. He preaches just as I wants him to. My boys think him a little man, but a great divine. You would like to hear the Elder on Sunday; he's funny then, and has a very funny sermon, which you may get by heart without much exertion. The young man seems indifferent to the conversation. He had not been taught to realise how easy it was to bring religion into contempt.
Make no grave charges against me, Marston; you carry your practical jokes a little too far, Sir. I am a quiet man, but the feelings of quiet men may be disturbed. The Elder speaks moodily, as if considering whether it were best to resent Marston's trifling sarcasm. Deacon Rosebrook now interceded by saying, with unruffled countenance, that the Elder had but one thing funny about him,-his dignity on Sundays: that he was, at times, half inclined to believe it the dignity of cogniac, instead of pious sentiment.
I preach my sermon,-who can do more? the Elder rejoins, with seeming concern for his honour. "I thought we came to view the plantation?"
Yes, true; but our little repartee cannot stop our sight. You preach your sermon, Elder,--that is, you preach what there is left of it. It is one of the best-used sermons ever manufactured. It would serve as a model for the most stale Oxonian. Do you think you could write another like it? It has lasted seven years, and served the means of propitiating the gospel on seven manors. Can they beat that in your country? says Marston, again turning to the young Englishmam, and laughing at the Elder, who was deliberately taking off his glasses to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.
Our ministers have a different way of patching up old sermons; but I'm not quite sure about their mode of getting them, the young man replies, takes Deacon Rosebrook's arm, and walks ahead.
The Elder must conform to the doctrines of the South; but they say he bets at the race-course, which is not an uncommon thing for our divines, rejoins the Deacon, facetiously.
The Elder, becoming seriously inclined, thinks gentlemen had better avoid personalities. Personalities are not tolerated in the South, where gentlemen are removed far above common people, and protect themselves by the code duello. He will expose Marston.
Marston's good capon sides are proof against jokes. He may crack on, that individual says.
My friend, interposed the Elder, "you desired me to preach to your niggers in one style and for one purpose,-according to the rule of labour and submission. Just such an one as your niggers would think the right stripe, I preached, and it made your niggers wonder and gape. I'll pledge you my religious faith I can preach a different-"
Oh! oh! oh! Elder, interrupted Marston, "pledge something valuable."
To me, my faith is the most sacred thing in the world. I will-as I was going to say-preach to your moulding and necessities. Pay for it, and, on my word, it shall be in the cause of the South! With the landmarks from my planter customers, I will follow to their liking, continues Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, not a smile on his hard face.
Deacon Rosebrook thinks it is well said. Pay is the great desideratum in everything. The Elder, though not an uncommon southern clergyman, is the most versatile preacher to be met with in a day's walk. Having a wonderful opinion of nigger knowledge, he preaches to it in accordance, receiving good pay and having no objection to the wine.
Well, Gentlemen, Marston remarks, coolly, "I think the Elder has borne our jokes well; we will now go and moisten our lips. The elder likes my old Madeira-always passes the highest compliments upon it." Having sallied about the plantation, we return to the mansion, where Dandy, Enoch, and Sam-three well-dressed mulattoes-their hair frizzed and their white aprons looking so bright, meet us at the veranda, and bow us back into the parlour, as we bear our willing testimony of the prospects of the crop. With scraping of feet, grins, and bows, they welcome us back, smother us with compliments, and seem overwilling to lavish their kindness. From the parlour they bow us into a long room in the right wing, its walls being plain boarded, and well ventilated with open seams. A table is spread with substantial edibles,-such as ham, bacon, mutton, and fish. These represent the southern planter's fare, to which he seldom adds those pastry delicacies with which the New Englander is prone to decorate his table. The party become seated as Franconia graces the festive board with her presence, which, being an incentive of gallantry, preserves the nicest decorum, smooths the conversation. The wine-cup flows freely; the Elder dips deeply-as he declares it choice. Temperance being unpopular in the south, it is little regarded at Marston's mansion. As for Marston himself, he is merely preparing the way to play facetious jokes on the Elder, whose arm he touches every few minutes, reminding him how backward he is in replenishing his glass.
Not at all backward in such matters, the Elder fills up, asks the pleasure of drinking his very good health, and empties the liquid into the safest place nearest at hand. Repeated courses have their effect; Marston is pleased, the Elder is mellow. With muddled sensibilities his eyes glare wildly about the table, and at every fresh invitation to drink he begs pardon for having neglected his duty, fingers the ends of his cravat, and deposits another glass,-certainly the very last. Franconia, perceiving her uncle's motive, begs to be excused, and is escorted out of the room. Mr. Praiseworthy, attempting to get a last glass of wine to his lips without spilling, is quite surprised that the lady should leave. He commences descanting on his own fierce enmity to infidelity and catholicism. He would that everybody rose up and trampled them into the dust; both are ruinous to negro property.
Marston coolly suggests that the Elder is decidedly uncatholicised.
Elder, interrupted Deacon Rosebrook, touching him on the shoulder, "you are modestly undone-that is, very respectably sold to your wine."
Yes, rejoined Marston; "I would give an extra ten dollars to hear him preach a sermon to my niggers at this moment."
Villainous inconsistency! exclaimed the Elder, in an indistinct voice, his eyes half closed, and the spectacles gradually falling from his nose. "You are scandalising my excellent character, which can't be replaced with gold." Making another attempt to raise a glass of wine to his lips, as he concluded, he unconsciously let the contents flow into his bosom, instead of his mouth.
Well, my opinion is, Elder, that if you get my nigger property into heaven with your preaching, there'll be a chance for the likes of me, said Marston, watching the Elder intently. It was now evident the party were all becoming pretty deeply tinctured. Rosebrook thought a minister of the gospel, to get in such a condition, and then refer to religious matters, must have a soul empty to the very core. There could be no better proof of how easily true religion could be brought into contempt. The Elder foreclosed with the spirit, considered himself unsafe in the chair, and was about to relieve it, when Dandy caught him in his arms like a lifeless mass, and carried him to a settee, upon which he spread him, like a substance to be bleached in the sun.
Gentlemen! the Elder is completely unreverenced,-he is the most versatile individual that ever wore black cloth. I reverence him for his qualities, says Marston: then, turning to Maxwell, he continued, "you must excuse this little joviality; it occurs but seldom, and the southern people take it for what it is worth, excusing, or forgetting its effects."
Don't speak of it-it's not unlike our English do at times-nor do our ministers form exceptions; but they do such things under a monster protection, without reckoning the effect, the Englishman replied, looking round as if he missed the presence of Franconia.
The Elder, soon in a profound sleep, was beset by swarms of mosquitoes preying upon his haggard face, as if it were good food. "He's a pretty picture," says Marston, looking upon the sleeping Elder with a frown, and then working his fingers through his crispy red hair. "A hard subject for the student's knife he'll make, won't he?" To add to the comical appearance of the reverend gentleman, Marston, rising from his seat, approached him, drew the spectacles from his pocket, and placed them on the tip of his nose, adding piquancy to his already indescribable physiognomy.
Don't you think this is carrying the joke a point too far? asked Deacon Rosebrook, who had been some time silently watching the prostrate condition of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy.
Marston shrugs his shoulders, whispers a word or two in the ear of his friend Maxwell, twirls his glass upon the table. He is somewhat cautious how he gives an opinion on such matters, having previously read one or two law books; but believes it does'nt portray all things just right. He has studied ideal good-at least he tells us so-if he never practises it; finally, he is constrained to admit that this 'ere's all very well once in a while, but becomes tiresome--especially when kept up as strong as the Elder does it. He is free to confess that southern mankind is curiously constituted, too often giving license to revelries, but condemning those who fall by them. He feels quite right about the Elder's preaching being just the chime for his nigger property; but, were he a professing Christian, it would'nt suit him by fifty per cent. There is something between the mind of a "nigger" and the mind of a white man,--something he can't exactly analyse, though he is certain it is wonderfully different; and though such preaching can do niggers no harm, he would just as soon think of listening to Infidelity. Painful as it was to acknowledge the fact, he only appeared at the "Meet'n House" on Sundays for the looks of the thing, and in the hope that it might have some influence with his nigger property. Several times he had been heard to say it was mere machine-preaching-made according to pattern, delivered according to price, by persons whose heads and hearts had no sympathy with the downcast.
There's my prime fellow Harry; a right good fellow, worth nine hundred, nothing short, and he is a Christian in conscience. He has got a kind of a notion into his head about being a divine. He thinks, in the consequence of his black noddle, that he can preach just as well as anybody; and, believe me, he can't read a letter in the book,--at least, I don't see how he can. True, he has heard the Elder's sermon so often that he has committed every word of it to memory,--can say it off like a plantation song, and no mistake. Thus Marston discoursed. And yet he declared that nobody could fool him with the idea of "niggers" having souls: they were only mortal,--he would produce abundant proof, if required.
Deacon Rosebrook listened attentively to this part of Marston's discourse. "The task of proving your theory would be rendered difficult if you were to transcend upon the scale of blood," he replied, getting up and spreading his handkerchief over the Elder's face, to keep off the mosquitoes.
When our most learned divines and philosophers are the stringent supporters of the principle, what should make the task difficult? Nevertheless, I admit, if my fellow Harry could do the preaching for our plantation, no objections would be interposed by me; on the contrary, I could make a good speculation by it. Harry would be worth two common niggers then. Nigger property, christianised, is the most valuable of property. You may distinguish a christianised nigger in a moment; and piety takes the stubborn out of their composition better than all the cowhides you can employ; and, too, it's a saving of time, considering that it subdues so much quicker, says Marston, stretching back in his chair, as he orders Dandy to bring Harry into his presence. He will tell them what he knows about preaching, the Elder's sermon, and the Bible!
Maxwell smiles at such singularly out of place remarks on religion. They are not uncommon in the south, notwithstanding.
A few minutes elapsed, when Dandy opened the door, and entered the room, followed by a creature-a piece of property!-in which the right of a soul had been disputed, not alone by Marston, but by southern ministers and southern philosophers. The thing was very good- looking, very black;-it had straight features, differing from the common African, and stood very erect. We have said he differed from the common African-we mean, as he is recognised through our prejudices. His forehead was bold and well-developed-his hair short, thick and crispy, eyes keen and piercing, cheeks regularly declining into a well-shaped mouth and chin. Dejected and forlorn, the wretch of chance stood before them, the fires of a burning soul glaring forth from his quick, wandering eyes. "There!" exclaimed Marston. "See that," pointing at his extremes; "he has foot enough for a brick-maker, and a head equal to a deacon-no insinuation, my friend," bowing to Deacon Rosebrook. "They say it takes a big head to get into Congress; but I'm afraid, Harry, I'd never get there."
The door again opened, and another clever-looking old negro, anxious to say "how de do" to mas'r and his visitors, made his appearance, bowing, and keeping time with his foot. "Oh, here's my old daddy-old Daddy Bob, one of the best old niggers on the plantation; Harry and Bob are my deacons. There,--stand there, Harry; tell these gentlemen,--they are right glad to see you,--what you know about Elder Praiseworthy's sermon, and what you can do in the way of preaching," says Marston, laughing good-naturedly.
Rather a rough piece of property to make a preacher of, muttered Maxwell.
The poor fellow's feet were encrusted as hard as an alligator's back; and there he stood, a picture upon which the sympathies of Christendom were enlisted-a human object without the rights of man, in a free republic. He held a red cap in his left hand, a pair of coarse osnaburg trousers reached a few inches below his knees, and, together with a ragged shirt of the same material, constituted his covering.
You might have dressed yourself before you appeared before gentlemen from abroad-at least, put on your new jacket, said Marston.
Why, mas'r, t'ant de clothes. God neber make Christian wid'e his clothes on;-den, mas'r, I gin' my new jacket to Daddy Bob. But neber mind him, mas'r-you wants I to tell you what I tinks ob de Lor. I tink great site ob the Bible, mas'r, but me don' tink much ob Elder's sermon, mas'r.
How is that, Harry? interrupted the deacon.
Why, Mas'r Deacon, ye sees how when ye preaches de good tings ob de Lor', ye mus'nt 'dulge in 'e wicked tings on 'arth. A'h done want say Mas'r Elder do dem tings-but 'e seem to me t' warn't right wen 'e join de wickedness ob de world, and preach so ebery Sunday. He may know de varse, and de chapter, but 'e done preach what de Lor' say, nohow.
Then you don't believe in a one-sided sermon, Harry? returned the deacon, while Marston and Maxwell sat enjoying the negro's simple opinion of the Elder's sermon.
No, mas'r. What the Bible teach me is to lob de Lor'-be good myself, and set example fo'h oders. I an't what big white Christian say must be good, wen 'e neber practice him,--but I good in me heart when me tink what de Lor' say be good. Why, mas'r, Elder preach dat sarmon so many Sundays, dat a' forgot him three times, since me know 'im ebery word, said Harry; and his face began to fill with animation and fervency.
Well, now, Harry, I think you are a little too severe on the Elder's sermon; but if you know so much about it, give these gentlemen a small portion of it, just to amuse them while the Elder is taking a nap, said Marston.
Ay, mas'r, be nap dat way too often for pious man what say he lobe de Lor', replied Harry; and drawing himself into a tragic attitude, making sundry gesticulations, and putting his hand to his forehead, commenced with the opening portion of the Elder's sermon. "And it was said-Servants obey your masters, for that is right in the sight of the Lord," and with a style of native eloquence, and rich cantation, he continued for about ten minutes, giving every word, seriatim, of the Elder's sermon; and would have kept it up, in word and action, to the end, had he not been stopped by Marston. All seemed astonished at his power of memory. Maxwell begged that he might be allowed to proceed.
He's a valuable fellow, that-eh? said Marston. "He'll be worth three-sixteenths of a rise on cotton to all the planters in the neighbourhood, by-and-by. He's larned to read, somehow, on the sly-isn't it so, Harry? come, talk up!"
Yes, mas'r, I larn dat when you sleepin'; do Lor' tell me his spirit warn't in dat sarmon what de Elder preach,--dat me must sarch de good book, and make me own tinking valuable. Mas'r tink ignorant nigger lob him best, but t'ant so, mas'r. Good book make heart good, and make nigger love de Lor', and love mas'r too.
I'll bet the rascal's got a Bible, or a Prayer-book, hid up somewhere. He and old Daddy Bob are worse on religion than two old coons on a fowl-yard, said Marston. Here old Aunt Rachel entered the room to fuss around a little, and have a pleasant meeting with mas'r's guests. Harry smiled at Marston's remark, and turned his eyes upward, as much as to say, "a day will come when God's Word will not thus be turned into ridicule!"
And he's made such a good old Christian of this dark sinner, Aunt Rachel, that I wouldn't take two thousand dollars for her. I expect she'll be turning preacher next, and going north to join the abolitionists.
Mas'r, said Rachel, "'t wouldn't do to mind what you say. Neber mind, you get old one ob dese days; den you don't make so much fun ob old Rachel."
Shut up your corn-trap, Marston says, smiling; and turning to his guests, continues-"You hear that, gentlemen; she talks just as she pleases, directs my household as if she were governor." Again, Aunt Rachel, summoning her dignity, retorts,
Not so, Mas'r Deacon, (turning to Deacon Rosebrook,) 't won't square t' believe all old Boss tell, dat it won't! Mas'r take care ob de two cabins in de yard yonder, while I tends de big house." Rachel was more than a match for Marston; she could beat him in quick retort. The party, recognising Aunt Rachel's insinuation, joined in a hearty laugh. The conversation was a little too pointed for Marston, who, changing the subject, turned to Harry, saying, "now, my old boy, we'll have a little more of your wisdom on religious matters." Harry had been standing the while like a forlorn image, with a red cap in his hand.
I can preach, mas'r; I can do dat, fo'h true, he replied quickly. "But mas'r, nigger got to preach against his colour; Buckra tink nigger preachin' ain't good, cus he black."
Never mind that, Harry, interrupts Marston: "We'll forget the nigger, and listen just as if it were all white. Give us the very best specimen of it. Daddy Bob, my old patriarch, must help you; and after you get through, he must lift out by telling us all about the time when General Washington landed in the city; and how the people spread carpets, at the landing, for him to walk upon." The entertainment was, in Marston's estimation, quite a recherché concern: that his guests should be the better pleased, the venerable old Daddy Bob, his head white with goodly years of toil, and full of genuine negro humour, steps forward to perform his part. He makes his best bows, his best scrapes, his best laughs; and says, "Bob ready to do anything to please mas'r." He pulls the sleeves of his jacket, looks vacantly at Harry, is proud to be in the presence of mas'r's guests. He tells them he is a better nigger "den" Harry, points to his extremes, which are decorated with a pair of new russet broghans.
Daddy's worth his weight in gold, continues Marston, "and can do as much work as any nigger on the plantation, if he is old."
No, no, mas'r; I ain't so good what I was. Bob can't tote so much wid de hoe now. I work first-rate once, mas'r, but 'a done gone now!
Now, Bob, I want you to tell me the truth,--niggers will lie, but you are an exception, Bob; and can tell the truth when there's no bacon in the way.
Gih! Mas'r, I do dat sartin, replied Bob, laughing heartily, and pulling up the little piece of shirt that peeped out above the collar of his jacket.
How did Harry and you come by so much knowledge of the Bible? you got one somewhere, hav'n't you? enquired Marston, laconically.
This was rather a "poser" on Bob; and, after stammering and mumbling for some time-looking at Harry slyly, then at Marston, and again dropping his eyes on the floor, he ejaculated,
Well, mas'r, 'spose I might as well own 'im. Harry and me got one, for sartin!
Ah, you black rascals, I knew you had one somewhere. Where did you get it? That's some of Miss Franconia's doings.
Can't tell you, mas'r, whar I got him; but he don't stop my hoein' corn, for' true.
Franconia had observed Harry's tractableness, and heard him wish for a Bible, that he might learn to read from it,--and she had secretly supplied him with one. Two years Harry and Daddy Bob had spent hours of the night in communion over it; the latter had learned to read from it, the former had imbibed its great truths. The artless girl had given it to them in confidence, knowing its consolatory influences and that they, with a peculiar firmness in such cases, would never betray her trust. Bob would not have refused his master any other request; but he would never disclose the secret of Miss Franconia giving it.
Well, my old faithful, said Marston, "we want you to put the sprit into Harry; we want to hear a sample of his preaching. Now, Harry, you can begin; give it big eloquence, none of the new fashion preaching, give us the old plantation break-down style."
The negro's countenance assumed a look indicative of more than his lips dare speak. Looking upward pensively, he replied,--"Can't do dat, mas'r; he ain't what do God justice; but there is something in de text,--where shall I take 'em from?"
Ministers should choose their own; I always do, interrupted Deacon Rosebrook.
Daddy Bob, touching Harry on the arm, looks up innocently, interposes his knowledge of Scripture. "D'ar, Harry, I tells you what text to gin 'em. Gin 'em dat one from de fourt' chapter of Ephes: dat one whar de Lor' say:--'Great mas'r led captivity captive, and gin gifts unto men.' And whar he say, 'Till we come unto a unity of the faith of the knowledge of the son of God unto a perfect man, unto the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ; that we be no more children tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the slight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lay in wait to deceive.'"
And you tink dat 'll do,--eh, Daddy? Harry replies, looking at the old man, as if to say, were he anything but a slave he would follow the advice.
Den, dars t' oder one, away 'long yonder, where 'e say in Isaiah, fifty-eight chapter--'Wherefore have we fasted, say they, and thou seest not? Wherefore have we afflicted our soul, and thou takest no knowledge? Behold ye fast for strife and debate, and to smite with the fist of wickedness. The old man seemed perfectly at home on matters of Scripture; he had studied it in stolen moments.
The young Englishman seemed surprised at such a show of talent. He saw the humble position of the old man, his want of early instruction, and his anxiety to be enlightened. "How singular!" he ejaculated, "to hear property preach, and know so much of the Bible, too! People in my country would open their eyes with surprise." The young man had been educated in an atmosphere where religion was prized-where it was held as a sacred element for the good of man. His feelings were tenderly susceptible; the scene before him awakened his better nature, struck deep into his mind. He viewed it as a cruel mockery of Christianity, a torture of innocent nature, for which man had no shame. He saw the struggling spirit of the old negro contending against wrong,--his yearnings for the teachings of Christianity, his solicitude for Marston's good. And he saw how man had cut down the unoffending image of himself-how Christian ministers had become the tyrant's hand-fellow in the work of oppression. It incited him to resolution; a project sprung up in his mind, which, from that day forward, as if it had been a new discovery in the rights of man, he determined to carry out in future, for the freedom of his fellows.
Harry, in accordance with Bob's advice, chose the latter text. For some minutes he expounded the power of divine inspiration, in his simple but impressive manner, being several times interrupted by the Deacon, who assumed the right of correcting his philosophy. At length, Marston interrupted, reminding him that he had lost the "plantation gauge." "You must preach according to the Elder's rule," said he.
With a submissive stare, Harry replied: "Mas'r, a man what lives fo'h dis world only is a slave to himself; but God says, he dat lives fo'h de world to come, is the light of life coming forth to enjoy the pleasures of eternity;" and again he burst into a rhapsody of eloquence, to the astonishment and admiration of Maxwell, and even touching the feelings of Marston, who was seldom moved by such displays. Seeing the man in the thing of merchandise, he inclined to look upon him as a being worthy of immortality; and yet it seemed next to impossible that he should bring his natural feelings to realise the simple nobleness that stood before him,--the man beyond the increase of dollars and cents in his person! The coloured winter's hand leaned against the mantel-piece, watching the changes in Marston's countenance, as Daddy stood at Harry's side, in patriarchal muteness. A tear stealing down Maxwell's cheek told of the sensation produced; while Marston, setting his elbow on the table, supported his head in his hands, and listened. The Deacon, good man that he was, filled his glass,--as if to say, "I don't stand nigger preaching." As for the Elder, his pishes and painful gurglings, while he slept, were a source of much annoyance. Awaking suddenly-raising himself to a half-bent position-he rubs his little eyes, adjusts his spectacles on his nose, stares at Harry with surprise, and then, with quizzical demeanour, leaves us to infer what sort of a protest he is about to enter. He, however, thinks it better to say nothing.
Stop, Harry, says Marston, interrupting him in a point of his discourse: then turning to his guests, he inquired, with a look of ridicule, "Gentlemen, what have you got to say against such preaching? Elder, you old snoring Christian, you have lost all the best of it. Why didn't you wake up before?"
Verri-ly, truly! ah, indeed: you have been giving us a monkey-show with your nigger, I suppose. I thought I'd lost nothing; you should remember, Marston, there's a future, said the Elder, winking and blinking sardonically.
Yes, old boosey, Marston replies, with an air of indifference, "and you should remember there's a present, which you may lose your way in. That venerable sermon won't keep you straight-"
The Elder is extremely sensitive on this particular point-anything but speak disparagingly of that sermon. It has been his stock in trade for numerous years. He begs they will listen to him for a minute, excuse this little trifling variation, charge it to the susceptibility of his constitution. He is willing to admit there is capital in his example which may be used for bad purposes, and says, "Somehow, when I take a little, it don't seem to go right." Again he gives a vacant look at his friends, gets up, resting his hands on the table, endeavours to keep a perpendicular, but declares himself so debilitated by his sleep that he must wait a little longer. Sinking back upon the settee, he exclaims, "You had better send that nigger to his cabin." This was carrying the amusement a little beyond Marston's own "gauge," and it being declared time to adjourn, preparations were made to take care of the Elder, who was soon placed horizontally in a waggon and driven away for his home. "The Elder is gone beyond himself, beyond everything," said Marston, as they carried him out of the door. "You can go, Harry, I like your preaching; bring it down to the right system for my property, and I'll make a dollar or two out of it yet," he whispers, shaking his head, as Harry, bowing submissively, leaves the door.
Just as they were making preparations to retire, a carriage drove to the gate, and in the next minute a dashing young fellow came rushing into the house, apparently in great anxiety. He was followed by a well-dressed man, whose countenance and sharp features, full of sternness, indicated much mechanical study. He hesitated as the young man advanced, took Marston by the hand, nervously, led him aside, whispered something in his ear. Taking a few steps towards a window, the intruder, for such he seemed, stood almost motionless, with his eyes firmly and watchfully fixed upon them, a paper in his right hand. "It is too often, Lorenzo; these things may prove fatal," said Marston, giving an inquiring glance at the man, still standing at the window.
I pledge you my honour, uncle, it shall be the last time, said the young stranger. "Uncle, I have not forgotten your advice." Marston, much excited, exhibited changes of countenance peculiar to a man labouring under the effect of sudden disappointment. Apologising to his guests, he dismissed them-with the exception of Maxwell-ordered pen and ink, drew a chair to the table, and without asking the stranger to be seated, signed his name to a paper. While this was being done, the man who had waited in silence stepped to the door and admitted two gentlemanly-looking men, who approached Marston and authenticated the instrument. It was evident there was something of deep importance associated with Marston's signature. No sooner had his pen fulfilled the mission, than Lorenzo's face, which had just before exhibited the most watchful anxiety, lighted up with joy, as if it had dismantled its care for some new scene of worldly prosperity.
An Unexpected Confession
HAVING executed the document, Marston ordered one of the servants to show Maxwell his room. The persons who had acted the part of justices, authenticating the instrument, withdrew without further conversation; while the person who had followed Lorenzo, for such was the young man's name, remained as if requiring some further negotiation with Marston. He approached the table sullenly, and with one hand resting upon it, and the other adjusted in his vest, deliberately waited the moment to interrupt the conversation. This man, reader, is Marco Graspum, an immense dealer in human flesh,--great in that dealing in the flesh and blood of mankind which brings with it all the wickedness of the demon. It is almost impossible to conceive the suddenness with which that species of trade changes man into a craving creature, restless for the dross of the world. There he was, the heartless dealer in human flesh, dressed in the garb of a gentleman, and by many would have been taken as such. Care and anxiety sat upon his countenance; he watched the chances of the flesh market, stood ready to ensnare the careless youth, to take advantage of the frailer portions of a Southerner's noble nature. "A word or two with you, Mr. Marston," said he.
Sit down, Graspum, sit down, Marston rejoined, ordering Dandy to give him a chair; which being done he seats himself in front of Marston, and commences dilating upon his leniency. "You may take me for an importune feller, in coming this time o'night, but the fact is I've been-you know my feelings for helpin' everybody-good-naturedly drawn into a very bad scrape with this careless young nephew of yourn: he's a dashing devil, and you don't know it, he is. But I've stood it so long that I was compelled to make myself sure. This nephew of yourn," said he, turning to Lorenzo, "thinks my money is made for his gambling propensities, and if he has used your name improperly, you should have known of it before." At this Lorenzo's fine open countenance assumed a glow of indignation, and turning to his uncle, with a nervous tremor, he said, "Uncle, he has led me into this trouble. You know not the snares of city life; and were I to tell you him-this monster-yea, I say monster, for he has drawn me into a snare like one who was seeking to devour my life-that document, uncle, which he now holds in his hand saves me from a shame and disgrace which I never could have withstood before the world."
Ah! you are just like all gamblers: never consider yourself in the light of bringing yourself into trouble. Take my advice, young man; there is a step in a gambler's life to which it is dangerous to descend, and if you have brought your father and uncle into trouble, blame neither me nor my money, returned Graspum.
You do not say that there is forgery connected with this affair, do you? inquired Marston, grasping Lorenzo by the arm.
I wish it were otherwise, uncle, replied Lorenzo, leaning forward upon the table and covering his face with his hands. "It was my folly, and the flattery of this man, which have driven me to it," he continued.
Oh! cursed inconsistency: and you have now fallen back upon the last resource, to save a name that, once gone, cannot reinstate itself. Tell me, Marco Graspum; are you not implicated in this affair? Your name stands full of dark implications; are you not following up one of those avenues through which you make so many victims? What is the amount? returned Marston.
You will know that to-morrow. He has given paper in your name to an uncertain extent. You should have known this before. Your nephew has been leading a reckless gambler's life-spending whatsoever money came into his possession, and at length giving bills purporting to be drawn by you and his father. You must now honour them, or dishonour him. You see, I am straightforward in business: all my transactions are conducted with promptness; but I must have what is due to me. I have a purpose in all my transactions, and I pursue them to the end. You know the purport of this document, Marston; save yourself trouble, and do not allow me to call too often. Thus saying, he took his hat and left the room.
Uncle," said Lorenzo, as soon as Graspum had left, "I have been led into difficulty. First led away by fashionable associations, into the allurements with which our city is filled, from small vices I have been hurried onward, step by step, deeper and deeper, until now I have arrived at the dark abyss. Those who have watched me through each sin, been my supposed friends, and hurried me onwards to this sad climax, have proved my worst enemies. I have but just learned the great virtue of human nature,--mistrust him who would make pleasure of vice. I have ruined my father, and have involved you by the very act which you have committed for my relief to-night. In my vain struggle to relieve myself from the odium which must attach to my transactions, I have only added to your sorrows. I cannot ask you to forgive me, nor can I disclose all my errors-they are manifold."
This is an unexpected blow-one which I was not prepared to meet. I am ready to save your honour, but there is something beyond this which the voice of rumour will soon spread. You know our society, and the strange manner in which it countenances certain things, yet shuts out those who fall by them. But what is to be done? Although we may discharge the obligation with Graspum, it does not follow that he retains the stigma in his own breast. Tell me, Lorenzo, what is the amount? inquired Marston, anxiously.
My father has already discharged a secret debt of fourteen thousand dollars for me, and there cannot be less than thirty thousand remaining. Uncle, do not let it worry you; I will leave the country, bear the stigma with me, and you can repudiate the obligation, said he, pleading nervously, as he grasped his uncle's hand firmer and firmer.
Among the many vices of the south, spreading their corrupting influence through the social body, that of gambling stands first. Confined to no one grade of society, it may be found working ruin among rich and poor, old and young. Labour being disreputable, one class of men affect to consider themselves born gentlemen, while the planter is ever ready to indulge his sons with some profession they seldom practise, and which too often results in idleness and its attendants. This, coupled to a want of proper society with which the young may mix for social elevation, finds gratification in drinking saloons, fashionable billiard rooms, and at the card table. In the first, gentlemen of all professions meet and revel away the night in suppers and wine. They must keep up appearances, or fall doubtful visitors of these fashionable stepping-stones to ruin. Like a furnace to devour its victims, the drinking saloon first opens its gorgeous doors, and when the burning liquid has inflamed the mental and physical man, soon hurries him onward into those fascinating habitations where vice and voluptuousness mingle their degrading powers. Once in these whirlpools of sin, the young man finds himself borne away by every species of vicious allurement-his feelings become unrestrained, until at length that last spark of filial advice which had hovered round his consciousness dies out. When this is gone, vice becomes the great charmer, and with its thousand snares and resplendent workers never fails to hold out a hope with each temptation; but while the victim now and then asks hope to be his guardian, he seldom thinks how surely he is sinking faster and faster to an irretrievable depth.
Through this combination of snares-all having their life-springs in slavery-Lorenzo brought ruin upon his father, and involved his uncle. With an excellent education, a fine person, frank and gentle demeanour, he made his way into the city, and soon attracted the attention of those who affect to grace polished society. Had society laid its restraints upon character and personal worth, it would have been well for Lorenzo; but the neglect to found this moral conservator only serves to increase the avenues to vice, and to bring men from high places into the lowest moral scale. This is the lamentable fault of southern society; and through the want of that moral bulwark, so protective of society in the New England States-personal worth-estates are squandered, families brought to poverty, young men degraded, and persons once happy driven from those homes they can only look back upon with pain and regret. The associations of birth, education, and polished society-so much valued by the southerner-all become as nothing when poverty sets its seal upon the victim.
And yet, among some classes in the south there exists a religious sentiment apparently grateful; but what credit for sincerity shall we accord to it when the result proves that no part of the organisation itself works for the elevation of a degraded class? How much this is to be regretted we leave to the reader's discrimination. The want of a greater effort to make religious influence predominant has been, and yet is, a source of great evil. But let us continue our narrative, and beg the reader's indulgence for having thus transgressed.
Flattered and caressed among gay assemblages, Lorenzo soon found himself drawn beyond their social pleasantries into deeper and more alluring excitements. His frequent visits at the saloon and gambling-tables did not detract, for a time, from the social position society had conferred upon him.
His parents, instead of restraining, fostered these associations, prided themselves on his reception, providing means of maintaining him in this style of living. Vanity and passion led him captive in their gratifications; they were inseparable from the whirlpool of confused society that triumphs at the south,--that leads the proud heart writhing in the agony of its follies. He cast himself upon this, like a frail thing upon a rapid stream, and--forgetting the voyage was short--found his pleasures soon ended in the troubled waters of misery and disgrace.
There is no fundamental morality in the south, nor is education invested with the material qualities of social good; in this it differs from the north, against which it is fast building up a political and social organisation totally at variance. Instead of maintaining those great principles upon which the true foundation of the republic stands, the south allows itself to run into a hyper- aristocratic vagueness, coupled with an arbitrary determination to perpetuate its follies for the guidance of the whole Union. And the effect of this becomes still more dangerous, when it is attempted to carry it out under the name of democracy,--American democracy! In this manner it serves the despotic ends of European despots: they point to the freest government in the world for examples of their own absolutism, shield their autocracy beneath its democracy, and with it annihilate the rights of the commoner.
Heedlessly wending his way, the man of rank and station at one side, the courtesan with his bland smiles at the other, Lorenzo had not seen the black poniard that was to cut the cord of his downfall,--it had remained gilded. He drank copious draughts at the house of licentiousness, became infatuated with the soft music that leads the way of the unwary, until at length, he, unconsciously at it were, found himself in the midst of a clan who are forming a plot to put the black seal upon his dishonour. Monto Graspum, his money playing through the hands of his minions in the gambling rooms, had professed to be his friend. He had watched his pliable nature, had studied the resources of his parents, knew their kindness, felt sure of his prey while abetting the downfall. Causing him to perpetrate the crime, from time to time, he would incite him with prospects of retrieve, guide his hand to consummate the crime again, and watch the moment when he might reap the harvest of his own infamy. Thus, when he had brought the young man to that last pitiless issue, where the proud heart quickens with a sense of its wrongs-when the mind recurs painfully to the past, imploring that forgiveness which seems beyond the power of mankind to grant, he left him a poor outcast, whose errors would be first condemned by his professed friends. That which seemed worthy of praise was forgotten, his errors were magnified; and the seducer made himself secure by crushing his victim, compromising the respectability of his parents, making the disgrace a forfeiture for life.
Unexpected as the shock was to Marston, he bore it with seeming coolness, as if dreading the appearance of the man who had taken advantage of the moment to bring him under obligations, more than he did the amount to be discharged. Arising from the table, he took Lorenzo by the hand, saying:--"Veil your trouble, Lorenzo! Let the past be forgotten, bury the stigma in your own bosom; let it be an example to your feelings and your actions. Go not upon the world to wrestle with its ingratitude; if you do, misfortune will befall you-you will stumble through it the remainder of your life. With me, I fear the very presence of the man who has found means of engrafting his avarice upon our misfortunes; he deals with those in his grasp like one who would cut the flesh and blood of mankind into fragments of gain. Be firm, Lorenzo; be firm! Remember, it is not the province of youth to despair; be manly-manliness even in crime lends its virtue to the falling." At which he bid him good night, and retired to rest.
The young man, more pained at his uncle's kindness,--kindness stronger in its effects than reproof,--still lingered, as if to watch some change of expression on his uncle's countenance, as he left the door. His face changed into pallid gloominess, and again, as if by magic influence, filled with the impress of passion; it was despair holding conflict with a bending spirit. He felt himself a criminal, marked by the whispers of society; he might not hear the charges against him, nor be within the sound of scandal's tongue, but he would see it outlined in faces that once smiled at his seeming prosperity. He would feel it in the cold hand that had welcomed him,--that had warmly embraced him; his name would no longer be respected. The circle of refined society that had kindly received him, had made him one of its attractions, would now shun him as if he were contagion. Beyond this he saw the fate that hovered over his father's and his uncle's estates;-all the filial affection they had bestowed upon him, blasted; the caresses of his beloved and beautiful sister; the shame the exposure would bring upon her; the knave who held him in his grasp, while dragging the last remnants of their property away to appease dishonest demands, haunted him to despair. And, yet, to sink under them-to leave all behind him and be an outcast, homeless and friendless upon the world, where he could only look back upon the familiar scenes of his boyhood with regret, would be to carry a greater amount of anguish to his destiny. The destroyer was upon him; his grasp was firm and painful. He might live a life of rectitude; but his principles and affections would be unfixed. It would be like an infectious robe encircling him,--a disease which he never could eradicate, so that he might feel he was not an empty vessel among honourable men. When men depicted their villains, moving in the grateful spheres of life, he would be one of their models; and though the thoughtlessness of youth had made him the type haunting himself by day and night, the world never made a distinction. Right and wrong were things that to him only murmured in distrust; they would be blemishes exaggerated from simple error; but the judgment of society would never overlook them. He must now choose between a resolution to bear the consequences at home, or turn his back upon all that had been near and dear to him,--be a wanderer struggling with the eventful trials of life in a distant land! Turning pale, as if frantic with the thought of what was before him, the struggle to choose between the two extremes, and the only seeming alternative, he grasped the candle that flickered before him, gave a glance round the room, as if taking a last look at each familiar object that met his eyes, and retired.
The Marooning Party
A MAROONING pic-nic had been proposed and arranged by the young beaux and belles of the neighbouring plantations. The day proposed for the festive event was that following the disclosure of Lorenzo's difficulties. Every negro on the plantation was agog long before daylight: the morning ushered forth bright and balmy, with bustle and confusion reigning throughout the plantation,--the rendezvous being Marston's mansion, from which the gay party would be conveyed in a barge, overspread with an awning, to a romantic spot, overshaded with luxuriant pines, some ten miles up the stream. Here gay fetes, mirth and joy, the mingling of happy spirits, were to make the time pass pleasantly. The night passed without producing any decision in Lorenzo's mind; and when he made his appearance on the veranda an unusual thoughtfulness pervaded his countenance; all his attempts to be joyous failed to conceal his trouble. Marston, too, was moody and reserved even to coldness; that frank, happy, and careless expression of a genial nature, which had so long marked him in social gatherings, was departed. When Maxwell, the young Englishman, with quiet demeanour, attempted to draw him into conversation about the prospects of the day, his answers were measured, cold, beyond his power of comprehending, yet inciting.
To appreciate those pleasant scenes-those scenes so apparently happy, at times adding a charm to plantation life-those innocent merry-makings in spring time-one must live among them, be born to the recreations of the soil. Not a negro on the plantation, old or young, who does not think himself part and parcel of the scene-that he is indispensably necessary to make Mas'r's enjoyment complete! In this instance, the lawn, decked in resplendent verdure, the foliage tinged by the mellow rays of the rising sun, presented a pastoral loveliness that can only be appreciated by those who have contemplated that soft beauty which pervades a southern landscape at morning and evening. The arbour of old oaks, their branches twined into a panoply of thick foliage, stretching from the mansion to the landing, seemed like a sleeping battlement, its dark clusters soaring above redolent brakes and spreading water-leaks. Beneath their fretted branches hung the bedewed moss like a veil of sparkling crystals, moving gently to and fro as if touched by some unseen power. The rice fields, stretching far in the distance, present the appearance of a mirror decked with shadows of fleecy clouds, transparent and sublime. Around the cabins of the plantation people-the human property-the dark sons and daughters of promiscuous families-are in "heyday glee:" they laughed, chattered, contended, and sported over the presence of the party;-the overseer had given them an hour or two to see the party "gwine so;" and they were overjoyed. Even the dogs, as if incited by an instinctive sense of some gay scene in which they were to take part, joined their barking with the jargon of the negroes, while the mules claimed a right to do likewise. In the cabins near the mansion another scene of fixing, fussing, toddling, chattering, running here and there with sun-slouches, white aprons, fans, shades, baskets, and tin pans, presented itself; any sort of vessel that would hold provender for the day was being brought forth. Clotilda, her face more cheerful, is dressed in a nice drab merino, a plain white stomacher, a little collar neatly turned over: with her plain bodice, her white ruffles round her wrists, she presents the embodiment of neatness. She is pretty, very pretty; and yet her beauty has made her the worst slave-a slave in the sight of Heaven and earth! Her large, meaning eyes, glow beneath her arched brows, while her auburn hair, laid in smooth folds over her ears and braided into a heavy circle at the back of her head, gives her the fascinating beauty of a Norman peasant. Annette plays around her, is dressed in her very best,--for Marston is proud of the child's beauty, and nothing is withheld that can gratify the ambition of the mother, so characteristic, to dress with fantastic colours: the child gambols at her feet, views its many-coloured dress, keeps asking various unanswerable questions about Daddy Bob, Harry, and the pic-nic. Again it scrambles pettishly, sings snatches of some merry plantation song, pulls its braided hat about the floor, climbs upon the table to see what is in the basket.
Passing to the cabin of Ellen Juvarna, we see her in the same confusion which seems to have beset the plantation: her dark, piercing eyes, display more of that melancholy which marks Clotilda's; nor does thoughtfulness pervade her countenance, and yet there is the restlessness of an Indian about her,--she is Indian by blood and birth; her look calls up all the sad associations of her forefathers; her black glossy hair, in heavy folds, hangs carelessly about her olive shoulders, contrasting strangely with the other.
And you, Nicholas! remember what your father will say: but you must not call him such, she says, taking by the hand a child we have described, who is impatient to join the gay group.
That ain't no harm, mother! Father always is fondling about me when nobody's lookin', the child answers, with a pertness indicating a knowledge of his parentage rather in advance of his years.
We pass to the kitchen,--a little, dingy cabin, presenting the most indescribable portion of the scene, the smoke issuing from every crevice. Here old Peggy, the cook,--an enveloped representative of smoke and grease,--as if emerging from the regions of Vulcan, moves her fat sides with the independence of a sovereign. In this miniature smoke-pit she sweats and frets, runs to the door every few minutes, adjusts the points of her flashy bandana, and takes a wistful look at the movements without. Sal, Suke, Rose, and Beck, young members of Peggy's family, are working at the top of their energy among stew-pans, griddles, pots and pails, baskets, bottles and jugs. Wafs, fritters, donjohns and hominy flap-jacks, fine doused hams, savoury meats, ices, and fruit-cakes, are being prepared and packed up for the occasion. Negro faces of every shade seem full of interest and freshness, newly brightened for the pleasures of the day. Now and then broke upon our ear that plaintive melody with the words, "Down on the Old Plantation;" and again, "Jim crack corn, an' I don't care, for Mas'r's gone away." Then came Aunt Rachel, always persisting in her right to be master of ceremonies, dressed in her Sunday bombazine, puffed and flounced, her gingham apron so clean, her head "did up" with the flashiest bandana in her wardrobe; it's just the colour for her taste-real yellow, red, and blue, tied with that knot which is the height of plantation toilet: there is as little restraint in her familiarity with the gentry of the mansion as there is in her control over the denizens of the kitchen. Even Dandy and Enoch, dressed in their best black coats, white pantaloons, ruffled shirts, with collars endangering their ears, hair crisped with an extra nicety, stand aside at her bidding. The height of her ambition is to direct the affairs of the mansion: sometimes she extends it to the overseer. The trait is amiably exercised: she is the best nigger on the plantation, and Marston allows her to indulge her feelings, while his guests laugh at her native pomposity, so generously carried out in all her commands. She is preparing an elegant breakfast, which "her friends" must partake of before starting. Everything must be in her nicest: she runs from the ante-room to the hall, and from thence to the yard, gathering plates and dishes; she hurries Old Peggy the cook, and again scolds the waiters.
Daddy Bob and Harry have come into the yard to ask Marston's permission to join the party as boatmen. They are in Aunt Rachel's way, and she rushes past them, pushing them aside, and calling Mas'r to come and attend to their wants. Marston comes forward, greets them with a familiar shake of the hand, granting their request without further ceremony. Breakfast is ready; but, anxious for the amusement of the day, their appetites are despoiled. Franconia, more lovely than ever, presenting that ease, elegance, and reserve of the southern lady, makes her appearance in the hall, is escorted to the table leaning on the arm of Maxwell. Delicacy, sensitiveness, womanly character full of genial goodness, are traits with which the true southern lady is blessed:--would she were blessed with another, an energy to work for the good of the enslaved! Could she add that to the poetry of her nature, how much greater would be her charm-how much more fascinating that quiet current of thought with which she seems blessed! There is a gentleness in her impulses--a pensiveness in her smile--a softness in her emotions--a grace in her movements--an ardent soul in her love! She is gay and lightsome in her youth; she values her beauty, is capricious with her admirers, and yet becomes the most affectionate mother; she can level her frowns, play with the feelings, make her mercurial sympathy touching, knows the power of her smiles: but once her feelings are enlisted, she is sincere and ardent in her responses. If she cannot boast of the bright carnatic cheek, she can swell the painter's ideal with her fine features, her classic face, the glow of her impassioned eyes. But she seldom carries this fresh picture into the ordinary years of womanhood: the bloom enlivening her face is but transient; she loses the freshness of girlhood, and in riper years, fades like a sensitive flower, withering, unhappy with herself, unadmired by others.
Franconia sat at the table, a pensiveness pervading her countenance that bespoke melancholy: as she glanced inquiringly round, her eyes rested upon Lorenzo fixedly, as if she detected something in his manner at variance with his natural deportment. She addressed him; but his cold reply only excited her more: she resolved upon knowing the cause ere they embarked. Breakfast was scarcely over before the guests of the party from the neighbouring plantations began to assemble in the veranda, leaving their servants in charge of the viands grouped together upon the grass, under a clump of oaks a few rods from the mansion. Soon the merry-makers, about forty in number, old and young, their servants following, repaired to the landing, where a long barge, surrounded by brakes and water-lilies, presented another picture.
Him all straight, Mas'r-him all straight, jus so! said Daddy Bob, as he strode off ahead, singing "Dis is de way to de jim crack corn."
Servants of all ages and colour, mammies and daddies, young 'uns and prime fellows,--"wenches" that had just become hand-maids,--brought up the train, dancing, singing, hopping, laughing, and sporting: some discuss the looks of their young mistresses, others are criticising their dress. Arrived at the landing, Daddy Bob and Harry, full of cares, are hurrying several prime fellows, giving orders to subordinate boatmen about getting the substantial on board,--the baskets of champagne, the demijohns, the sparkling nectar. The young beaux and belles, mingling with their dark sons and daughters of servitude, present a motley group indeed-a scene from which the different issues of southern life may be faithfully drawn.
A band of five musicians, engaged to enliven the sports of the day with their music, announce, "All on board!" and give the signal for starting by striking up "Life on the Ocean Wave." Away they speed, drawn by horses on the bank, amidst the waving of handkerchiefs, the soft notes of the music reverberating over the pine-clad hills. Smoothly and gently, onward they speed upon the still bosom of the Ashly;-the deep, dark stream, its banks bedecked with blossoms and richest verdure, is indeed enough to excite the romantic of one's nature. Wild, yet serene with rural beauty, if ever sensations of love steal upon us, it is while mingling in the simple convivialities so expressive of southern life. On, on, the barge moved, as lovers gathered together, the music dancing upon the waters. Another party sing the waterman's merry song, still another trail for lilies, and a third gather into the prow to test champagne and ice, or regale with choice Havannas. Marston, and a few of the older members, seated at midships, discuss the all-absorbing question of State-rights; while the negroes are as merry as larks in May, their deep jargon sounding high above the clarion notes of the music. Now it subsides into stillness, broken only by the splashing of an alligator, whose sports call forth a rapturous shout.
After some three hours' sailing the barge nears a jut of rising ground on the left bank. Close by it is a grove of noble old pines, in the centre of which stands a dilapidated brick building, deserted for some cause not set forth on the door: it is a pretty, shaded retreat-a spot breathing of romance. To the right are broad lagoons stretching far into the distance; their dark waters, beneath thick cypress, presenting the appearance of an inundated grove. The cypress-trees hang their tufted tops over the water's surface, opening an area beneath studded with their trunks, like rude columns supporting a panoply of foliage.
The barge stops, the party land; the shrill music, still dancing through the thick forest, re-echoes in soft chimes as it steals back upon the scene. Another minute, and we hear the voices of Daddy Bob and Harry, Dandy and Enoch: they are exchanging merry laughs, shouting in great good-nature, directing the smaller fry, who are fagging away at the larder, sucking the ice, and pocketing the lemons. "Dat ain't just straight, nohow: got de tings ashore, an' ye get 'e share whin de white folk done! Don' make 'e nigger ob yourse'f, now, old Boss, doing the ting up so nice," Daddy says, frowning on his minions. A vanguard have proceeded in advance to take possession of the deserted house; while Aunt Rachel, with her cortege of feminines, is fussing over "young missus." Here, a group are adjusting their sun-shades; there, another are preparing their fans and nets. Then they follow the train, Clotilda and Ellen leading their young representatives by the hand, bringing up the rear among a cluster of smaller fry. Taking peaceable possession of the house, they commence to clear the rooms, the back ones being reserved for the sumptuous collation which Rachel and her juniors are preparing. The musicians are mustered,--the young belles and beaux, and not a few old bachelors, gather into the front room, commence the fetes with country dances, and conclude with the polka and schottische.
Rachel's department presents a bustling picture; she is master of ceremonies, making her sombre minions move at her bidding, adjusting the various dishes upon the table. None, not even the most favoured guests, dare intrude themselves into her apartments until she announces the completion of her tables, her readiness to receive friends. And yet, amidst all this interest of character, this happy pleasantry, this seeming contentment, there is one group pauses ere it arrives at the house,--dare not enter. The distinction seems undefinable to us; but they, poor wretches, feel it deeply. Shame rankles deep, to their very heart's core. They doubt their position, hesitate at the door, and, after several nervous attempts to enter, fall back,--gather round a pine-tree, where they enjoy the day, separated from the rest. There is a simplicity-a forlornness, about this little group, which attracts our attention, excites our sympathies, unbends our curiosity: we would relieve the burden it labours under. They are Ellen Juvarna, Clotilda, and their children. Socially, they are disowned; they are not allowed to join the festivities with those in the dance, and their feelings revolt at being compelled to associate with the negroes. They are as white as many of the whitest, have the same outlines of interest upon their faces; but their lives are sealed with the black seal of slavery. Sensible of the injustice that has stripped them of their rights, they value their whiteness; the blood of birth tinges their face, and through it they find themselves mere dregs of human kind,--objects of sensualism in its vilest associations.
Maxwell has taken a deep interest in Clotilda; and the solicitude she manifests for her child has drawn him still further in her favour; he is determined to solve the mystery that shrouds her history. Drawing near to them, he seats himself upon the ground at their side, inquires why they did not come into the house. "There's no place there for us,--none for me," Clotilda modestly replies, holding down her head, placing her arm around Annette's waist.
You would enjoy it much better, and there is no restraint upon anyone.
We know not why the day was not for us to enjoy as well as others; but it is ordained so. Where life is a dreary pain, pleasure is no recompense for disgrace enforced upon us. They tell us we are not what God made us to be; but it is the worst torture to be told so. There is nothing in it-it is the curse only that remains to enforce wrong. Those who have gifts to enjoy life, and those who move to make others happy, can enjoy their separate pleasures; our lives are between the two, hence there is little pleasure for us, she answered, her eyes moistening with tears.
If you will but come with me-
Oh, I will go anywhere, she rejoined, quickly; "anywhere from this; that I may know who I am-may bear my child with me-may lead a virtuous life, instead of suffering the pangs of shame through a life of unholy trouble."
She never knows when she's well off. If Marston was to hear her talk in that way, I wouldn't stand in her shoes, interrupted Ellen, with a significant air.
Touched by this anxious reply, Maxwell determined to know more of her feelings-to solve the anxiety that was hanging upon her mind, and, if possible, to carry her beyond the power that held her and her child in such an uncertain position.
I meant into the house, said he, observing that Ellen was not inclined to favour Clotilda's feelings; and just at that moment the shrill sounds of a bugle summoned the party to the collation. Here another scene was enacted, which is beyond the power of pen to describe. The tables, decorated with wild flowers, were spread with meats of all descriptions,--fowl, game, pastry, and fruit, wines, and cool drinks. Faces wearing the blandest smiles, grave matrons, and cheerful planters,--all dressed in rustic style and neatness-gathered around to partake of the feast, while servants were running hither and thither to serve mas'r and missus with the choicest bits. Toasts, compliments, and piquant squibs, follow the wine-cup. Then came that picture of southern life which would be more worthy of praise if it were carried out in the purity of motive:--as soon as the party had finished, the older members, in their turn, set about preparing a repast for the servants. This seemed to elate the negroes, who sat down to their meal with great pomp, and were not restrained in the free use of the choicest beverage. While this was going on, Marston ordered Rachel to prepare fruit and pastry for Ellen and Clotilda. "See to them; and they must have wine too," whispered Marston.
I know's dat, old Boss, returned Rachel, with a knowing wink.
After the collation, the party divided into different sections. Some enjoyed the dance, others strolled through the pine-grove, whispering tales of love. Anglers repaired to the deep pond in quest of trout, but more likely to find water-snakes and snapping turtles. Far in the distance, on the right, moving like fairy gondolas through the cypress-covered lagoon, little barks skim the dark surface. They move like spectres, carrying their fair freight, fanned by the gentle breeze pregnant with the magnolia' sweet perfume. The fair ones in those tiny barks are fishing; they move from tree to tree trailing their lines to tempt the finny tribe here, and there breaking the surface with their gambols.
Lorenzo, as we have before informed the reader, exhibited signs of melancholy during the day. So evident were they that Franconia's sympathies became enlisted in his behalf, and even carried so far, that Maxwell mistook her manner for indifference toward himself. And, as if to confirm his apprehensions, no sooner had the collation ended than she took Lorenzo's arm and retired to the remains of an old mill, a few rods above the landing. It was a quiet, sequestered spot-just such an one as would inspire the emotions of a sensitive heart, recall the associations of childhood, and give life to our pent-up enthusiasm. There they seated themselves, the one waiting for the other to speak.
Tell me, Lorenzo, said Franconia, laying her hand on his arm, and watching with nervous anxiety each change of his countenance, "why are you not joyous? you are gloomy to-day. I speak as a sister-you are nervous, faltering with trouble-"
Trouble! he interrupted, raising his eyes, and accompanying an affected indifference with a sigh. It is something he hesitates to disclose. He has erred! his heart speaks, it is high-handed crime! He looks upon her affectionately, a forced smile spreads itself over his face. How forcibly it tells its tale. "Speak out," she continues, tremulously: "I am a sister; a sister cannot betray a brother's secrets." She removes her hand and lays it gently upon his shoulder.
Looking imploringly in her face for a few minutes, he replies as if it were an effort of great magnitude. "Something you must not know-nor must the world! Many things are buried in the secrets of time that would make great commotion if the world knew them. It were well they passed unknown, for the world is like a great stream with a surface of busy life moving on its way above a troubled current, lashing and foaming beneath, but only breaking here and there as if to mark the smothered conflict. And yet with me it is nothing, a moment of disappointment creeping into my contemplations, transplanting them with melancholy-"
Something more! interrupted Franconia, "something more; it is a step beyond melancholy, more than disappointment. Uncle feels it sensibly-it pains him, it wears upon him. I have seen it foremost in his thoughts." Her anxiety increases, her soft meaning eyes look upon him imploringly, she fondles him with a sister's tenderness, the tears trickling down her cheeks as she beholds him downcast and in sorrow. His reluctance to disclose the secret becomes more painful to her.
You may know it soon enough, he replies. "I have erred, and my errors have brought me to a sad brink. My friends-those who have indulged my follies-have quickened the canker that will destroy themselves. Indulgence too often hastens the cup of sorrow, and when it poisons most, we are least conscious. It is an alluring charmer, betraying in the gayest livery-"
Lorenzo, she interrupts, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Tell me all; remember woman's influence-she can relieve others when she cannot relieve herself. Make me your confidant--relieve your feelings."
This night, Franconia, I shall bid a painful good-bye to those familiar scenes which have surrounded my life,--to you, my sister, to those faithful old friends of the plantation, Daddy Bob and Harry. They have fondled me, protected me, played with me in my childhood, led me to my boyish sports when all was bright and pleasant, when the plantation had its merry scenes for slave and master. I must go upon the world, mingle with strange life, make experience my guardian. I have committed a crime-one which for ever disgraces the honourable-
Crime, crime, crime! weighed itself in her mind. "And what of that?" she rejoined, suddenly; "a sister can forgive a brother any crime; and even a lover, if she love truly, can forget them in her affections. Do not go upon the world; be a man above crime, above the bar of scandal. Have confidence in yourself; do not let the injustice overcome you. Once on the world a wanderer, remember the untold tale of misery, speeding its victims to that death of conscience burning unseen."
Nay, Franconia, you mean well; but you have not learned the world. Take this as my advice, remember it when I am gone, and in years to come you will acknowledge its truth--Fortune at the south rests on an unsound foundation! We are lofty in feelings, but poor in principle, poor in government,--poor in that which has built our great republic. Uncertainty hangs over us at every step; but, whatever befall you, stand firm through adversity. Never chide others for the evils that may befall you; bear your burdens without casting reflections on others,--it is nobler! Befriend those who have no power to befriend themselves; and when the world forgets you, do not forget yourself. There is no step of return for those who falter in poverty. To-night I shall leave for the city; in a few days you will know all. Thus saying, he conducted Franconia back to rejoin the party, already making preparations to return.
He gave her an insight of his troubles, in such a manner as to create deep agitation; and, although satisfied that an event of more than ordinary magnitude was at hand, she could not associate it with the commission of crime. The day, spent with all the conviviality of southern life, ended amidst the clang of merry voices, and soft music: a gay group assembled at the bank, ready to return under the cheering influence of music and moonlight.
The bugle sounded,--the soft notes of "Home, sweet Home!" followed: the party, forming into double file, gay and grotesque, marched through the grove to the barge. Servants, old and young, were in high glee; some joining in chorus with the music; some preparing the barge, others strewing branches and flowers in the pathway, to the delight of young "mas'r" and "missus,"-all singing. Aunt Rachel, high above her minions in authority, is poised on the bank, giving directions at the very top of her voice. Daddy Bob, Harry, and Dandy-the latter named after "mas'r's" fleetest horse-are freighting their young "missusses" in their arms to the boat, shielding their feet from the damp.
Now, mas'r, Old Boss, Bob says, directing himself to Marston, after completing his charge with the young ladies, "Jus' lef' 'um tote, old mas'r safe da'? So 'e don' mus e' foot." And forthwith he shoulders Marston, lands him like a bale of cotton on one of the seats, much to the amusement of those on board, sending forth shouts of applause. The party are on board; all is quiet for a minute; again the music strikes up, the barge is gliding over the still bosom of the fairy-like stream.
The sun has just sunk into a fiery cloud that hangs its crimson curtains high in the heavens, shedding refulgent beauty over the dark jungle lining the river's banks. And then, twilight, as if stealing its way across the hills, follows, softening the scene. Soon it has gone, the landscape sleeps, tranquilly arched by the serene vault of a southern sky. Everything seems peaceful, reposing, and serene; the air breathes warm and balmy, distributing its invigorating influence. The music has ceased, nothing but the ripple of the water is heard; then the stars, like pearls suspended over the dark surface, begin to glimmer and shine. Above all is the moon, like a silver goddess, rising stealthily and shedding her pale light upon the calm glow.
Onward, onward, onward, over the still stream, winding its way to the great deep, they move; and again the music echoes and re-echoes through the forest, over the lawn; dying away in chimes that faintly play around us. The sudden changes in the heavens,--monitor of things divine,--call up in Lorenzo's feelings the reverses of fortune that will soon take place on the plantation. He had never before recognised the lesson conveyed by heavenly bodies; and such was the effect at that moment that it proved a guardian to him in his future career.
It was near midnight when the barge reached the plantation. Fires were lighted on the bank, negroes were here and there stretched upon the ground, sleeping with such superlative comfort that it landed ere they awoke. One by one the parties returned for their homes; and, after shaking hands with Marston, taking an affectionate adieu of Franconia (telling her he would call on the morrow), lisping a kind word to the old negroes, Lorenzo ordered a horse, and left for the city. He took leave of the plantation, of its dearest associations, like one who had the conflict of battle before him, and the light of friendship behind.
Another Scene In Southern Life
IN the city, a few miles from the plantation, a scene which too often affords those degrading pictures that disgrace a free and happy country, was being enacted. A low brick building, standing in an area protected by a high fence, surmounted with spikes and other dangerous projectiles, formed the place. The upper and lower windows of this building were strongly secured with iron gratings, and emitted the morbid air from cells scarcely large enough to contain human beings of ordinary size. In the rear, a sort of triangular area opened, along which was a line of low buildings, displaying single and double cells. Some had iron rings in the floor; some had rings in the walls; and, again, others had rings over head. Some of these confines of misery-for here men's souls were goaded by the avarice of our natures-were solitary; and at night, when the turmoil of the day had ceased, human wailings and the clank of chains might be heard breaking through the walls of this charnel-house. These narrow confines were filled with living beings-beings with souls, souls sold according to the privileges of a free and happy country,--a country that fills us with admiration of its greatness. It is here, O man, the tyrant sways his hand most! it is here the flesh and blood of the same Maker, in chains of death, yearns for freedom.
We walk through the corridor, between narrow arches containing the abodes of misery, while our ears drink the sad melancholy that sounds in agitated throbs, made painful by the gloom and darkness. Touching an iron latch, the door of a cell opens, cold and damp, as if death sat upon its walls; but it discloses no part of the inmate's person, and excites our sympathies still more. We know the unfortunate is there,--we hear the murmuring, like a death-bell in our ears; it is mingled with a dismal chaos of sound, piercing deep into our feelings. It tells us in terror how gold blasts the very soul of man-what a dark monster of cruelty he can become,--how he can forget the grave, and think only of his living self,--how he can strip reason of its right, making himself an animal with man for his food. See the monster seeking only for the things that can serve him on earth-see him stripping man of his best birth-right, see him the raving fiend, unconscious of his hell-born practices, dissevering the hope that by a fibre hangs over the ruins of those beings who will stand in judgment against him. His soul, like their faces, will be black, when theirs has been whitened for judgment in the world to come!
Ascending a few steps, leading into a centre building-where the slave merchant is polished into respectability-we enter a small room at the right hand. Several men, some having the appearance of respectable merchants, some dressed in a coarse, red-mixed homespun, others smoking cigars very leisurely, are seated at a table, upon which are several bottles and tumblers. They drank every few minutes, touched glasses, uttered the vilest imprecations. Conspicuous among them is Marco Graspum: it is enough that we have before introduced him to the reader at Marston's mansion. His dark peering eyes glisten as he sits holding a glass of liquor in one hand, and runs his fingers through his bristly hair with the other. "The depths of trade are beyond some men," he says, striking his hand on the table; then, catching up a paper, tears it into pieces. "Only follow my directions; and there can be no missing your man," he continued, addressing one who sat opposite to him; and who up to that time had been puffing his cigar with great unconcern. His whole energies seemed roused to action at the word. After keeping his eyes fixed upon Graspum for more than a minute, he replied, at the same time replenishing his cigar with a fresh one--
Yee'h sees, Marco,--you'r just got to take that ar' say back, or stand an all-fired chaffing. You don't scar' this 'un, on a point a' business. If I hain't larned to put in the big pins, no fellow has. When ye wants to 'sap' a tall 'un, like Marston, ye stands shy until ye thinks he's right for pulling, and then ye'll make a muffin on him, quicker. But, ye likes to have yer own way in gettin' round things, so that a fellow can't stick a pinte to make a hundred or two unless he weaves his way clean through the law-unless he understands Mr. Justice, and puts a double blinder on his eye. There's nothing like getting on the right side of a fellow what knows how to get on the wrong side of the law; and seeing how I've studied Mr. Justice a little bit better than he's studied his books, I knows just what can be done with him when a feller's got chink in his pocket. You can't buy 'em, sir, they're so modest; but you can coax 'em at a mighty cheaper rate-you can do that! "And ye can make him feel as if law and his business warn't two and two," rejoined Anthony Romescos, a lean, wiry man, whose small indescribable face, very much sun-scorched, is covered with bright sandy hair, matted and uncombed. His forehead is low, the hair grows nearly to his eyebrows, profuse and red; his eyes wander and glisten with desperation; he is a merciless character. Men fear him, dread him; he sets the law at defiance, laughs when he is told he is the cunningest rogue in the county. He owns to the fearful; says it has served him through many a hard squeeze; but now that he finds law so necessary to carry out villainy, he's taken to studying it himself. His dress is of yellow cotton, of which he has a short roundabout and loose pantaloons. His shirt bosom is open, the collar secured at the neck with a short black ribbon; he is much bedaubed with tobacco-juice, which he has deposited over his clothes for the want of a more convenient place. A gray, slouch hat usually adorns his head, which, in consequence of the thinking it does, needs a deal of scratching. Reminding us how careful he is of his feet, he shows them ensconced in a pair of Indian moccasins ornamented with bead-work; and, as if we had not become fully conscious of his power, he draws aside his roundabout, and there, beneath the waist of his pantaloons, is a girdle, to which a large hunting-knife is attached, some five inches of the handle protruding above the belt. "Now, fellers, I tell ye what's what, ye'r point-up at bragin'; but ye don't come square up to the line when there's anything to put through what wants pluck. 'Tain't what a knowin' 'un like I can do; it's just what he can larn to be with a little training in things requiring spunk. I'm a going to have a square horse, or no horse; if I don't, by the great Davy, I'll back out and do business on my own account,--Anthony Romescos always makes his mark and then masters it. If ye don't give Anthony a fair showin', he'll set up business on his own account, and pocket the comins in. Now! thar's Dan Bengal and his dogs; they can do a thing or two in the way of trade now and then; but it requires the cunnin as well as the plucky part of a feller. It makes a great go when they're combined, though,--they ala's makes sure game and slap-up profit."
Hold a stave, Anthony, interrupted a grim-visaged individual who had just filled his glass with whiskey, which he declared was only to counteract the effect of what he had already taken. He begs they will not think him half so stupid as he seems, says he is always well behaved in genteel society, and is fully convinced from the appearance of things that they are all gentlemen. He wears a semi-bandittical garb, which, with his craven features, presents his character in all its repulsiveness. "You needn't reckon on that courage o' yourn, old fellow; this citizen can go two pins above it. If you wants a showin', just name the mark. I've seed ye times enough,--how ye would not stand ramrod when a nigger looked lightning at ye. Twice I seed a nigger make ye show flum; and ye darn't make the cussed critter toe the line trim up, nohow," he mumbles out, dropping his tumbler on the table, spilling his liquor. They are Graspum's "men;" they move as he directs-carry out his plans of trade in human flesh. Through these promulgators of his plans, his plots, his desperate games, he has become a mighty man of trade. They are all his good fellows-they are worth their weight in gold; but he can purchase their souls for any purpose, at any price! "Ah, yes, I see-the best I can do don't satisfy. My good fellows, you are plum up on business, do the square thing; but you're becomin' a little too familiar. Doing the nigger business is one thing, and choosing company's another. Remember, gentlemen, I hold a position in society, I do," says Graspum, all the dignity of his dear self glowing in his countenance.
I see! There's no spoilin' a gentleman what's got to be one by his merits in trade. Thar's whar ye takes the shine out of us. Y'er gentleman gives ye a right smart chance to walk into them ar' big bugs what's careless,--don't think yer comin' it over 'em with a sort o' dignity what don't 'tract no s'picion. rejoined Romescos, taking up his hat, and placing it carelessly on his head, as if to assure Graspum that he is no better than the rest.
Comprehend me, comprehend me, gentlemen! There can, and must be, dignity in nigger trading; it can be made as honourable as any other branch of business. For there is an intricacy about our business requiring more dignity and ability than general folks know. You fellers couldn't carry out the schemes, run the law down, keep your finger on people's opinion, and them sort o' things, if I didn't take a position in society what 'ud ensure puttin' ye straight through. South's the place where position's worth somethin'; and then, when we acts independent, and don't look as if we cared two toss-ups, ah!
I wonder you don't set up a dignity shop, and go to selling the article;-might have it manufactured to sell down south.
Ah, Romescos, continued Graspum, "you may play the fool; but you must play it wisely to make it profitable. Here, position puts law at defiance!-here it puts croakers over humanity to rest-here, when it has money, it makes lawyers talk round the points, get fat among themselves, fills the old judge's head with anything; so that he laughs and thinks he don't know nothin'. Listen to what I'm goin' to say, because you'll all make somethin' out on't. I've just got the dignity to do all; and with the coin to back her up, can safe every chance. When you fellers get into a snarl running off a white 'un, or a free nigger, I has to bring out the big talk to make it seem how you didn't understand the thing. 'Tain't the putting the big on, but it's the keepin' on it on. You'd laugh to see how I does it; it's the way I keeps you out of limbo, though."
We have said these men were Graspum's "men;" they are more-they are a band of outlaws, who boast of living in a free country, where its institutions may be turned into despotism. They carry on a system of trade in human bodies; they stain the fairest spots of earth with their crimes. They set law at defiance-they scoff at the depths of hell that yawn for them,--the blackness of their villainy is known only in heaven. Earth cares little for it; and those familiar with the devices of dealers in human bodies shrink from the shame of making them known to the world. There was a discontent in the party, a clashing of interests, occasioned by the meagre manner in which Graspum had divided the spoils of their degradation. He had set his dignity and position in society at a much higher value than they were willing to recognise,--especially when it was to share the spoils in proportion. Dan Bengal, so called from his ferocity of character, was a celebrated dog-trainer and negro-hunter, "was great in doing the savager portion of negro business." This, Romescos contended, did not require so much cunning as his branch of the business-which was to find "loose places," where doubtful whites see out remnants of the Indian race, and free negroes could be found easy objects of prey; to lay plots, do the "sharp," carry out plans for running all free rubbish down south, where they would sell for something.
True! it's all true as sunshine, says Romescos; "we understand Mr. Graspum inside and out. But ye ain't paid a dime to get me out of any scrape. I was larned to nigger business afore I got into the 'tarnal thing; and when I just gits me eye on a nigger what nobody don't own, I comes the sly over him-puts him through a course of nigger diplomacy. The way he goes down to the Mississippi is a caution to nigger property!"
He has enlisted their attention, all eyes are set upon him, every voice calls out to know his process. He begs they will drink round; they fill their glasses, and demand that he will continue the interest of his story.
My plans are worth a fortune to those who follow the business, he says, giving his glass a twirl as he sets it upon the table, and commences--
Born 'cute, you see; trade comes natural. Afore a free 'un don't know it, I has him bonded and tucked off for eight or nine hundred dollars, slap-up, cash and all. And then, ye sees, it's worth somethin' in knowin' who to sell such criturs too-so that the brute don't git a chance to talk about it without getting his back troubled. And then, it requires as much knowin' as a senator's got just to fix things as smooth so nobody won't know it; and just like ye can jingle the coin in yer pocket, for the nigger, what everybody's wonderin' where he can be gone to. I tell ye what, it takes some stameny to keep the price of a prime feller in your pocket, and wonder along with the rest where the rascal can be. If you'd just see Bob Osmand doe it up, you'd think his face was made for a methodist deacon in camp meeting-time. The way he comes it when he wants to prove a free nigger's a runaway, would beat all the disciples of Blackstone between here and old Kentuck. And then, Bob's any sort of a gentleman, what you don't get in town every day, and wouldn't make a bad senator, if he'd bin in Congress when the compromise was settled upon,--'cos he can reason right into just nothin' at all. Ye see it ain't the feelings that makes a feller a gentleman in our business, it's knowing the human natur o' things; how to be a statesman, when ye meets the like, how to be a gentleman, and talk polite things, and sich like; how to be a jolly fellow, an' put the tall sayings into the things of life; and when ye gets among the lawyers, to know all about the pintes of the law, and how to cut off the corners, so they'll think ye're bin a parish judge. And then, when ye comes before the squire, just to talk dignity to him-tell him where the law is what he don't seem to comprehend. You've got to make a right good feller of the squire by sticking a fee under his vest-pocket when he don't obsarve it. And then, ye know, when ye make the squire a right good feller, you must keep him to the point; and when there's any swarin' to be done, he's just as easily satisfied as the law. It's all business, you see; and thar's just the same kind a thing in it; because profit rules principle, and puts a right smart chance o' business into their hands without troubling their consciences. But then, Bob ain't got the cunnin' in him like I-nor he can't rope-in on the sly,"-knock down and drag out, and just tell a whole possee to come on, as I do. And that's what ye don't seem to come at, Graspum," said Romescos, again filling his glass, and drawing a long black pipe from his pocket prepares it for a smoke.
Now, the trouble is, you all think you can carry out these matters on your own hook; but it's no go, and you'll find it so. It's a scheme that must have larger means at the head of it; and each man's rights must be stipulated, and paid according to his own enterprise. But this discontent is monstrous and injurious, and if continued will prove unprofitable. You see, fellers, you've no responsibility, and my position is your protection, and if you don't get rich you must not charge the blame to me; and then just see how you live now to what you did when ranging the piny woods and catching a stray nigger here and there, what didn't hardly pay dog money. There's a good deal in the sport of the thing, too; and ye know it amounts to a good deal to do the gentleman and associate with big folks, who puts the business into one's hands, by finding out who's got lean purses and prime niggers, rejoined Graspum, very coolly.
Ah, yes; that's the way ye comes it over these haristocrats, by doin' the modest. Now, Graspum, 'tain't no trouble to leak a sap like that Lorenzo, and make his friends stand the blunt after we've roped him into your fixings, replied Romescos.
No, no; not a bit of it, resounded several voices. "We do all the dragwork with the niggers, and Graspum gets the tin."
But he pays for the drink. Come, none of this bickering; we must agree upon business, and do the thing up brown under the old system, interrupted another.
Hold! close that bread trap o' yourn, Romescos shouts at the top of his voice. "You're only a green croaker from the piny woods, where gophers crawl independent; you ain't seen life on the borders of Texas. Fellers, I can whip any man in the crowd,--can maker the best stump speech, can bring up the best logic; and can prove that the best frightenin' man is the best man in the nigger business. Now, if you wants a brief sketch of this child's history, ye can have it." Here Romescos entered into an interesting account of himself. He was the descendant of a good family, living in the city of Charleston; his parents, when a youth, had encouraged his propensities for bravery. Without protecting them with that medium of education which assimilates courage with gentlemanly conduct, carrying out the nobler impulses of our nature, they allowed him to roam in that sphere which produces its ruffians. At the age of fifteen he entered a counting-room, when his quick mercurial temperament soon rendered him expert at its minor functions. Three years had hardly elapsed when, in a moment of passion, he drew his dirk, (a weapon he always carried) and, in making a plunge at his antagonist, inflicted a wound in the breast of a near friend. The wound was deep, and proved fatal. For this he was arraigned before a jury, tried for his life. He proved the accident by an existing friendship-he was honourably acquitted. His employer, after reproaching him for his proceedings, again admitted him into his employment. Such, however, was his inclination to display the desperado, that before the expiration of another year he killed a negro, shot two balls at one of his fellows, one of which was well nigh proving fatal, and left the state. His recklessness, his previous acts of malignity, his want of position, all left him little hope of escaping the confines of a prison. Fleeing to parts unknown, his absence relieved the neighbourhood of a responsibility. For a time, he roamed among farmers and drovers in the mountains of Tennessee; again he did menial labour, often forced to the direst necessity to live. One day, when nearly famished, he met a slave-driver, conducting his coffle towards the Mississippi, to whom he proffered his services. The coarse driver readily accepted them; they proceeded on together, and it was not long before they found themselves fitting companions. The one was desperate-the other traded in desperation. An ardent nature, full of courage and adventure, was a valuable acquisition to the dealer, who found that he had enlisted a youngster capable of relieving him of inflicting that cruelty so necessary to his profession. With a passion for inflicting torture, this youth could now gratify it upon those unfortunate beings of merchandise who were being driven to the shambles: he could gloat in the exercise of those natural propensities which made the infliction of pain a pleasant recreation. In the trade of human flesh all these cruel traits became valuable; they enabled him to demand a good price for his services. Initiated in all the mysteries of the trade, he was soon entrusted with gangs of very considerable extent; then he made purchases, laid plans to entrap free negroes, performed the various intricacies of procuring affidavits with which to make slave property out of free flesh. Nature was nature, and what was hard in him soon became harder; he could crib "doubtful white stuff" that was a nuisance among folks, and sell it for something he could put in his pocket. In this way Romescos accumulated several hundred dollars; but avarice increased, and with it his ferocity. It belonged to the trade, a trade of wanton depravity. He became the terror of those who assumed to look upon a negro's sufferings with sympathy, scoffing at the finer feelings of mankind. Twice had his rapacity been let loose-twice had it nearly brought him to the gallows, or to the tribunal of Judge Lynch. And now, when completely inured in the traffic of human flesh,--that traffic which transposes man into a demon, his progress is checked for a while by a false step.
It was this; and this only to the deep disgrace of the freest and happiest country on earth. A poor orphan girl, like many of her class in our hospitable slave world, had been a mere cast-off upon the community. She knew nothing of the world, was ignorant, could neither read nor write,--something quite common in the south, but seldom known in New England. Thus she became the associate of depraved negroes, and again, served Romescos as a victim. Not content with this, after becoming tired of her, he secured her in the slave-pen of one of his fellow traders. Here he kept her for several weeks, closely confined, feeding her with grits. Eventually "running" her to Vicksburg, he found an accomplice to sign a bill of sale, by which he sold her to a notorious planter, who carried her into the interior. The wretched girl had qualities which the planter saw might, with a little care, be made extremely valuable in the New Orleans market,--one was natural beauty. She was not suitable property for the agricultural department of either a cotton or sugar plantation, nor was she "the stripe" to increase prime stock; hence she must be prepared for the general market. When qualified according to what the planter knew would suit the fancy market, she was conveyed to New Orleans, a piece of property bright as the very brightest, very handsome, not very intelligent,--just suited to the wants of bidders.
Here, at the shambles in the crescent city, she remained guarded, and for several weeks was not allowed to go beyond the door-sill; after which a sale was effected of her with the keeper of a brothel, for the good price of thirteen hundred dollars. In this sink of iniquity she remained nearly two years. Fearing the ulterior consequences, she dared not assert her rights to freedom, she dared not say she was born free in a free country. Her disappearance from the village in which she had been reared caused some excitement; but it soon reduced itself to a very trifling affair. Indeed, white trash like this was considered little else than rubbish, not worth bringing up respectably. And while suspicion pointed to Romescos, as the person who could account for her mysterious disappearance, such was the fear of his revenge that no one dared be the accuser. Quietly matters rested, poor virtue was mean merchandise, had its value, could be bought and sold-could be turned to various uses, except enlisting the sympathies of those who study it as a market commodity. A few days passed and all was hushed; no one enquired about the poor orphan, Martha Johnson. In the hands of her creole owner, who held her as a price for licentious purposes, she associated with gentlemen of polite manners-of wealth and position. Even this, though profane, had advantages, which she employed for the best of purposes; she learned to read and to write,--to assimilate her feelings with those of a higher class. Society had degraded her, she had not degraded herself. One night, as the promiscuous company gathered into the drawing-room, she recognised a young man from her native village; the familiar face inspired her with joy, her heart leaped with gladness; he had befriended her poor mother-she knew he had kind feelings, and would be her friend once her story was told. The moments passed painfully; she watched him restlessly through the dance,--sat at his side. Still he did not recognise her,--toilet had changed her for another being; but she had courted self-respect rather than yielded to degradation. Again she made signs to attract his attention; she passed and repassed him, and failed. Have I thus changed, she thought to herself.
At length she succeeded in attracting his attention; she drew him aside, then to her chamber. In it she disclosed her touching narrative, unfolded her sorrows, appealed to him with tears in her eyes to procure her freedom and restore her to her rights. Her story enlisted the better feelings of a man, while her self-respect, the earnestness with which she pleaded her deliverance, and the heartlessness of the act, strongly rebuked the levity of those who had made her an orphan outcast in her own village. She was then in the theatre of vice, surrounded by its allurements, consigned to its degradation, a prey to libertinism-yet respecting herself. The object of his visit among the denizens was changed to a higher mission, a duty which he owed to his moral life,--to his own manliness. He promised his mediation to better her eventful and mysterious life, to be a friend to her; and nobly did he keep his promise. On the following day he took measures for her rescue, and though several attempts were made to wrest her from him, and the mendacity of slave-dealers summoned to effect it, he had the satisfaction of seeing her restored to her native village,--to freedom, to respectability.
We withhold the details of this too true transaction, lest we should be classed among those who are endeavouring to create undue excitement. The orphan girl we here refer to was married to a respectable mechanic, who afterwards removed to Cincinnati, and with his wife became much respected citizens.
Proceedings were after some delay commenced against Romescos, but,--we trust it was not through collusion with officials-he escaped the merited punishment that would have been inflicted upon him by a New England tribunal. Again he left the state, and during his absence it is supposed he was engaged in nefarious practices with the notorious Murrel, who carried rapine and death into the unoffending villages of the far west. However, be this as it may, little was known of him for several years, except in some desperate encounter. The next step in his career of desperation known, was joining a band of guerillos led by one of the most intrepid captains that infested the borders of Mexico, during the internal warfare by which her Texan provinces struggled for independence. Freebooters, they espoused the Texan cause because it offered food for their rapacity, and through it they became formidable and desperate foes to the enemy. They were the terror of the ranchoes, the inhabitants fled at their approach; their pillage, rapine, and slaughtering, would stain the annals of barbarous Africa. They are buried, let us hope for the name of a great nation, that they may remain beneath the pale of oblivion.
In their incursions, as mounted riflemen, they besieged villages, slaughtered the inhabitants, plundered churches, and burned dwellings; they carried off captive females, drove herds of cattle to distant markets. Through the auspices of this band, as is now well known, many young females were carried off and sold into slavery, where they and their offspring yet remain. While pursuing this nefarious course of life, Romescos accumulated more than twenty thousand dollars; and yet,--though ferocity increased with the daring of his profession,--there was one impulse of his nature, deeply buried, directing his ambition. Amid the dangers of war, the tumult of conflict, the passion for daring-this impulse kept alive the associations of home,--it was love! In early life he had formed an attachment for a beautiful young lady of his native town; it had ripened with his years; the thoughts of her, and the hope of regaining her love if he gained wealth, so worked upon his mind that he resolved to abandon the life of a guerillo, and return home. After an absence of fourteen years he found the object of his early love,--that woman who had refused to requite his affection,--a widow, having buried her husband, a gentleman of position, some months previous.
Romescos had money,--the man was not considered; he is not considered where slavery spreads its vices to corrupt social life. He had been careful to keep his business a profound secret, and pressing his affections, soon found the object of his ambition keenly sensitive to his advances. Rumour recounted his character with mystery and suspicion; friends remonstrated, but in vain; they were united despite all opposition, all appeals. For a time he seemed a better man, the business he had followed harassed his mind, seeming to haunt him, and poison his progress. He purchased a plantation on the banks of the Santee; for once resolved to pursue an honest course, to be a respectable citizen, and enjoy the quiet of home.
A year passed: he might have enjoyed the felicity of domestic life, the affections of a beautiful bride; but the change was too sudden for his restless spirit. He was not made to enjoy the quiet of life, the task stood before him like a mountain without a pass, he could not wean himself from the vices of a marauder. He had abused the free offerings of a free country, had set law at defiance; he had dealt in human flesh, and the task of resistance was more than the moral element in his nature could effect. Violations of human laws were mere speculations to him; they had beguiled him, body and soul. He had no apology for violating personal feeling; what cared he for that small consideration, when the bodies of men, women, and children could be sacrificed for that gold which would give him position among the men of the south. If he carried off poor whites, and sold them into slavery, he saw no enormity in the performance; the law invested him with power he made absolute. Society was chargeable with all his wrongs, with all his crimes, all his enormities. He had repeatedly told it so, pointing for proof to that literal observance of the rule by which man is made mere merchandise. Society had continued in its pedantic folly, disregarding legal rights, imposing no restraints on the holder of human property, violating its spirit and pride by neglecting to enforce the great principles of justice whereby we are bound to protect the lives of those unjustly considered inferior beings. Thus ends a sketch of what Romescos gave of his own career.
We now find him associated with the desperadoes of slave-dealing, in the scene we have presented. After Romescos had related what he called the romance of his life,--intended, no doubt, to impress the party with his power and intrepidity, and enable him to set a higher value upon his services,--he lighted a pipe, threw his hat upon the floor, commenced pacing up and down the room, as if labouring under deep excitement. And while each one seemed watching him intently, a loud knocking was heard at the door,--then the baying of blood-hounds, the yelps of curs, mingling with the murmurs of those poor wretches confined in the cells beneath. Then followed the clanking of chains, cries, and wailings, startling and fearful.
Dan Bengal sprang to the door, as if conscious of its import. A voice demanded admittance; and as the door opened Bengal exclaimed, "Halloo!-here's Nath Nimrod: what's the tune of the adventure?"
A short, stout man entered, dressed in a coarse homespun hunting dress, a profuse black beard and moustache nearly covering his face. "I is'nt so bad a feller a'ter all-is I?" he says, rushing forward into the centre of the room, followed by four huge hounds. They were noble animals, had more instinctive gentleness than their masters, displayed a knowledge of the importance of the prize they had just gained.
Hurrah for Nath! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah, for Nath! You got him, Nath-did'nt ye? resounded from several tongues, and was followed by a variety of expressions highly complimentary to his efficiency.
Romescos, however, remained silent, pacing the floor unconcerned, except in his own anxiety-as if nothing had occurred to disturb him. Advancing to the table, the new visitor, his face glowing with exultation, held forth, by the crispy hair, the blanched and bloody head of an unfortunate negro who had paid the penalty of the State's allowance for outlaws. "There: beat that, who can? Four hundred dollars made since breakfast;" he cries out at the top of his voice. They cast a measured look at the ghastly object, as if it were a precious ornament, much valued for the price it would bring, according to law. The demon expresses his joy, descants on his expertness and skill, holds up his prize again, turns it round, smiles upon it as his offering, then throws it into the fire place, carelessly, like a piece of fuel. The dogs spring upon it, as if the trophy was for their feast; but he repulses them; dogs are not so bad after all-the canine is often the better of the two-the morsel is too precious for canine dogs,--human dogs must devour it. "There is nothing like a free country, nothing; and good business, when it's well protected by law," says Nimrod, seating himself at the table, filling a glass, bowing to his companions, drinking to the health of his friends. He imagines himself the best fellow of the lot. Taking Graspum by the hand, he says, "there is a clear hundred for you, old patron!" pulls an Executive proclamation from his pocket, and points to where it sets forth the amount of reward for the outlaw-dead or alive. "I know'd whar the brute had his hole in the swamp," he continues: "and I summed up the resolution to bring him out. And then the gal o' Ginral Brinkle's, if I could pin her, would be a clear fifty more, provided I could catch her without damage, and twenty-five if the dogs havocked her shins. There was no trouble in getting the fifty, seeing how my dogs were trained to the point and call. Taste or no taste, they come square off at the word. To see the critters trace a nigger, you'd think they had human in them; they understands it so! But, I tell you what, it's one thing to hunt a gal nigger, and another to run down an outlaw what has had two or three years in the swamp. The catching him's not much, but when ye have to slide the head off, all the pious in yer natur comes right up to make yer feelings feel kind a' softish. However, the law protects ye, and the game being only a nigger, different rules and things govern one's feelings."
Bengal interrupts by laconically insinuating-raising his moody face, and winking at Graspum-that it was all moonshine to talk about trouble in that kind of business; "It's the very highest of exhilarating sport!" he concludes emphatically.
Dan! returns the other, with a fierce stare, as he seizes the bottle and is about to enjoy a glass of whisky uninvited; "let your liquor stop your mouth. I set the whole pack upon the trail at daylight, and in less than two hours they came upon him, bolted him, and put him to the river. The leader nabbed him about half way across, but the chap, instead of giving in, turned and fought like a hero. Twice I thought he would whip the whole pack, but the way they made the rags fly warn't nobody's business. Well, I just come up with him as he plunged into the stream, lifts old sure mark, as gives him about a dozen plugs; and then the old feller begged just so, you'd thought he was a Christian pleadin' forgiveness at the last moment. But, when I seizes him and gives him three or four levellers with the butt of the rifle, ye never saw a sarpent plunge, and struggle, and warp so. Says I, 'It's no use, old feller,--yer might as well give her up;' and the way his eyes popped, just as if he expected I war'nt goin to finish him. I tell ye, boys, it required some spunk about then, for the critter got his claws upon me with a death grip, and the dogs ripped him like an old corn stalk, and would'nt keep off. And then there was no fracturin his skull; and seeing how he was overpowering me, I just seizes him by the throat and pops his head off quicker than a Chinese executioner."
The author has given the language of the slave-hunter who related the case personally.
Now, thar' war'nt so much in takin' the gal, cos jist when she seed the dogs comin', the critter took to tree and gin right up: but when I went to muzlin' on her, so she could'nt scream, then she gets saucy; and I promised to gin her bricks,--which, fellers, I reckon yer must take a hand in so the brute won't wake the neighbours; and I'll do'e it afore I sleeps, said Nimrod, getting up from the table and playfully touching Romescos upon the arm. "I see ye ain't brightened to-day--Graspum's share don't seem to suit yer, old feller; ah! ah!!" he continued.
Just put another ten per cent. upon the out-lining, and running free 'uns, and I'll stand flint, said Romescos, seeming to be acted upon by a sudden change of feelings, as he turned to Graspum, with a look of anxiety.
Very well, returned Graspum. "Yer see, there's that Marston affair to be brought to a point; and his affairs are just in such a fix that he don't know what's what, nor who's who. Ther'll have to be some tall swearing done in that case afore it's brought to the hammer. That cunning of yours, Romescos, will just come into play in this case. It'll be just the thing to do the crooked and get round the legal points." Thus Graspum, with the dignity and assurance of a gentleman, gave his opinion, drank with his companions, and withdrew for the night.
Romescos, Bengal, and Nimrod, soon after descended into the vaults below, followed by a negro bearing a lantern. Here they unbolted one of the cells, dragged forth a dejected-looking mulatto woman, her rags scarcely covering her nakedness. The poor wretch, a child born to degradation and torture, whose cries were heard in heaven, heaved a deep sigh, then gave vent to a flood of tears. They told how deep was her anguish, how she struggled against injustice, how sorrow was burning her very soul. The outpourings of her feelings might have aroused the sympathies of savage hearts; but the slave monsters were unmoved. Humbleness, despair, and even death, sat upon her very countenance; hope had fled her, left her a wreck for whom man had no pity. And though her prayers ascended to heaven, the God of mercy seemed to have abandoned her to her tormentors. She came forward trembling and reluctantly, her countenance changed; she gave a frowning look at her tormentors, wild and gloomy, shrank back into the cell, the folds of straight, black hair hanging about her shoulders.
Come out here! Nimrod commands in an angry tone; then, seizing her by the arm, dragged her forth, and jerked her prostrate on the ground. Here, like as many fiends in human form, the rest fell upon her, held her flat to the floor by the hands and feet, her face downwards, while Nimrod, with a raw hide, inflicted thirty lashes on her bare back. Her cries and groans, as she lay writhing, the flesh hanging in quivering shreds, and lifting with the lash,--her appeals for mercy, her prayers to heaven, her fainting moans as the agony of her torture stung into her very soul, would have touched a heart of stone. But, though her skin had not defiled her in the eyes of the righteous, there was none to take pity on her, nor to break the galling chains; no! the punishment was inflicted with the measured coolness of men engaged in an every-day vocation. It was simply the right which a democratic law gave men to become lawless, fierce in the conspiracy of wrong, and where the legal excitement of trafficking in the flesh and blood of one another sinks them unconsciously into demons.
Buckra-Man Very Uncertain
THE caption, a common saying among negroes at the south, had its origin in a consciousness, on the part of the negro, of the many liabilities to which his master's affairs are subject, and his own dependence on the ulterior consequences. It carries with it a deep significance, opens a field for reflection, comprehends the negro's knowledge of his own uncertain state, his being a piece of property the good or evil of which is effected by his master's caprices, the binding force of the law that makes him merchandise. Nevertheless, while the negro feels them in all their force, the master values them only in an abstract light. Ask the negro whose master is kind to him, if he would prefer his freedom and go north?-At first he will hesitate, dilate upon his master's goodness, his affection for him, the kindly feeling evinced for him by the family-they often look upon him with a patriarchal tenderness-and, finally, he will conclude by telling you he wishes master and missus would live for ever. He tells you, in the very simplicity of his nature, that "Eve' ting so unsartin! and mas'r don't know if he die when he gwine to." That when he is dying he does not realise it; and though his intention be good, death may blot out his desires, and he, the dependent, being only a chattel, must sink into the uncertain stream of slave-life. Marston's plantation might have been taken as an illustration of the truth of this saying. Long had it been considered one of eminent profit; his field slaves were well cared for; his favourite house servants had every reasonable indulgence granted them. And, too, Marston's mansion was the pleasant retreat of many a neighbour, whose visits were welcomed by the kindly attention he had taught his domestics to bestow. Marston's fault lay in his belonging to that class of planters who repose too much confidence in others.
The morning following Lorenzo's departure ushered forth bright and balmy. A quiet aspect reigned in and about the plantation, servants moved sluggishly about, the incidents of the preceding night oppressed Marston's mind; his feelings broke beyond his power of restraint. Like contagion, the effect seized each member of his household,--forcibly it spoke in word and action! Marston had bestowed much care upon Lorenzo and Franconia; he had indulged and idolised the latter, and given the former some good advice. But advice without example seldom produces lasting good; in truth, precept had the very worst effect upon Lorenzo,--it had proved his ruin! His singular and mysterious departure might for a time be excused,--even accounted for in some plausible manner, but suspicion was a stealing monster that would play upon the deeply tinctured surface, and soar above in disgrace. That the Rovero family were among the first of the State would not be received as a palliation; they had suffered reverses of fortune, and, with the addition of Lorenzo's profligacy, which had been secretly drawing upon their resources, were themselves well nigh in discredit. And now that this sudden and unexpected reverse had befallen Marston, he could do nothing for their relief. Involved, perplexed, and distrusted-with ever-slaying suspicion staring him in the face-he was a victim pursued by one who never failed to lay low his object. That man moved with unerring method, could look around him upon the destitution made by his avarice, without evincing a shadow of sympathy. Yes! he was in the grasp of a living Shylock, whose soul, worn out in the love of gold, had forgotten that there existed a distinction between right and wrong.
Surrounded by all these dark forebodings, Marston begins to reflect on his past life. He sees that mercy which overlooks the sins of man when repentance is pure; but his life is full of moral blemishes; he has sinned against the innocent, against the God of forgiveness. The inert of his nature is unfolding itself,--he has lived according to the tolerated vices of society-he has done no more than the law gave him a right to do! And yet, that very society, overlooking its own wrongs, would now strip him of its associations. He lives in a State where it is difficult to tell what society will approve or reprobate; where a rich man may do with impunity what would consign a poor man to the gallows.
If we examine the many rencontres that take place in the south, especially those proving fatal, we will find that the perpetrator, if he be a rich man, invariably receives an "honourable acquittal." Again, when the man of position shoots down his victim in the streets of a city, he is esteemed brave; but a singular reversion takes place if the rencontre be between poor men. It is then a diabolical act, a murder, which nothing short of the gallows can serve for punishment. The creatures whom he had made mere objects to serve his sensuality were before him; he traced the gloomy history of their unfortunate sires; he knew that Ellen and Clotilda were born free. The cordon that had bound his feelings to the system of slavery relaxed. For the first time, he saw that which he could not recognise in his better nature-himself the medium of keeping human beings in slavery who were the rightful heirs of freedom. The blackness of the crime-its cruelty, its injustice-haunted him; they were at that very moment held by Graspum's caprice. He might doom the poor wretches to irretrievable slavery, to torture and death! Then his mind wandered to Annette and Nicholas; he saw them of his own flesh and blood; his natural affections bounded forth; how could he disown them? The creations of love and right were upon him, misfortune had unbound his sensations; his own offspring stood before him clothed in trouble thick and dangerous. His follies have entailed a life-rent of misery upon others; the fathomless depth of the future opens its yawning jaws to swallow up those upon whom the fondness of a father should have been bestowed for their moral and physical good.
As he sits contemplating this painful picture, Aunt Rachel enters the room to inquire if Lorenzo breakfasts with them. "Why! old mas'r, what ail ye dis mornin'? Ye don't seems nohow. Not a stripe like what ye was yesterday; somethin' gi 'h de wrong way, and mas'r done know what i' is," she mutters to herself, looking seriously at Marston.
Nothing! old bustler; nothing that concerns you. Do not mention Lorenzo's name again; he has gone on a journey. Send my old faithful Daddy Bob to me. Rachel hastened to fulfil the command; soon brought the old servant to the door. His countenance lighted up with smiles as he stood at the doorway, bowing and scraping, working his red cap in his hand. There stood the old man, a picture of attachment.
Come in, Bob, come in! Marston says, motioning his hand, "I wish the world was as faithful as you are. You are worthy the indulgence I have bestowed upon you; let me hope there is something better in prospect for you. My life reproves me; and when I turn and review its crooked path-when I behold each inconsistency chiding me-I lament what I cannot recall." Taking the old man by the hand, the tears glistening in his eyes, he looks upon him as a father would his child.
In a short time, Bob, you shall be free to go where you please, on the plantation or off it. But remember, Bob, you are old-you have grown grey in faithfulness,--the good southerner is the true friend of the negro! I mean he is the true friend of the negro, because he has associated with him from childhood, assimilated with his feelings, made his nature a study. He welcomes him without reserve, approaches him without that sensitiveness and prejudice which the northerner too often manifests towards him. You shall be free, Bob! you shall be free!-free to go where you please; but you must remain among southerners, southerners are your friends.
Yes, mas'r, 'im all just so good, if t'warn't dat I so old. Free nigger, when 'e old, don't gwane to get along much. Old Bob tink on dat mighty much, he do dat! Lef Bob free win 'e young, den 'e get tru' de world like Buckra, only lef 'im de chance what Buckra hab. Freedom ain't wof much ven old Bob worn out, mas'r; and Buckra what sell nigger,--what make 'e trade on him, run 'im off sartin. He sell old nigger what got five dollar wof' a work in 'e old bones. Mas'r set 'um free, bad Buckra catch 'um, old Bob get used up afo' he know nofin, quaintly replied the old man, seeming to have an instinctive knowledge of the "nigger trade," but with so much attachment for his master that he could not be induced to accept his freedom.
It's not the leaving me, Bob; you may be taken from me. You are worth but little, 'tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a bad master. If the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know, and I will prosecute them, returned Marston.
Ah! mas'r; dat's just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty! How I gwane to let mas'r know, when mas'r no larn nigger to read, he quickly responded. There is something in his simple remark that Marston has never before condescended to contemplate,--something the simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery. Education would be valuable to the negro, especially in his old age; it would soften his impulses rather than impair his attachment, unless the master be a tyrant fearing the results of his own oppression. Marston, a good master, had deprived the old man of the means of protecting himself against the avarice of those who would snatch him from freedom, and while his flesh and blood contained dollars and cents, sell him into slavery. Freedom, under the best circumstances, could do him little good in his old age; and yet, a knowledge of the wrong rankled deep in Marston's feelings: he could relieve it only by giving Daddy Bob and Harry their freedom if they would accept it.
Relinquishing Daddy's hand, he commanded him to go and bring him Annette and Nicholas. "Bring them," he says, "without the knowledge of their mothers." Bob withdrew, hastened to the cabins in the yard to fulfil the mission. Poor things, thought Marston; they are mine, how can I disown them? Ah, there's the point to conquer-I cannot! It is like the mad torrents of hell, stretched out before me to consume my very soul, to bid me defiance. Misfortune is truly a great purifier, a great regenerator of our moral being; but how can I make the wrong right?-how can I live to hope for something beyond the caprice of this alluring world? My frailties have stamped their future with shame.
Thus he mused as the children came scampering into the room. Annette, her flaxen curls dangling about her neck, looking as tidy and bright as the skill of Clotilda could make her, runs to Marston, throws herself on his knee, fondles about his bosom, kisses his hand again and again. She loves him,--she knows no other father. Nicholas, more shy, moves slowly behind a chair, his fingers in his mouth the while. Looking through its rounds wistfully, he shakes his head enviously, moves the chair backwards and forwards, and is too bashful to approach Annette's position.
Marston has taken Annette in his arms, he caresses her; she twirls her tiny fingers through his whiskers, as if to play with him in the toying recognition of a father. He is deeply immersed in thought, smooths her hair, walks to the glass with her in his arms, holds her before it as if to detect his own features in the countenance of the child. Resuming his seat, he sets her on one knee, calls Nicholas to him, takes him on the other, and fondles them with an air of kindness it had never before been their good fortune to receive at his hands. He looked upon them again, and again caressed them, parted their hair with his fingers. And as Annette would open her eyes and gaze in his, with an air of sweetest acknowledgment, his thoughts seemed contending with something fearful. He was in trouble; he saw the enemy brooding over the future; he heaved a sigh, a convulsive motion followed, a tear stealing down his cheek told the tale of his reflections.
Now, Daddy; he speaks, directing himself to old Bob, who stands at the door surprised at Marston's singular movements, "you are my confidant, what do you think the world-I mean the people about the district, about the city-would say if they knew these were mine? You know, Bob,--you must tell me straight out, do they look like me?-have they features like mine?" he inquires with rapid utterance.
Mas'r, Bob don' like to say all he feels, meekly muttered the old man.
There is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it recoils upon us when we least think. Unfortunate wretches bear them unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer called right! We sell the most interesting beings for a price,--beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts.
The old slave's eyes glistened with excitement; he looked on astonished, as if some extraordinary scene had surprised him. As his agitation subsided, he continued, "Mas'r, I bin watch 'im dis long time. Reckon how nobody wouldn't take 'em fo'h nobody else's-fo'h true! Dar ain't no spozin' bout 'em, 'e so right smart twarn't no use to guise 'em: da'h just like old Boss. Mas'r, nigger watch dem tings mighty close; more close den Buckra, cos' Buckra tink 'e all right when nigger tink 'e all wrong."
Marston is not quite content with this: he must needs put another question to the old man. "You are sure there can be no mistaking them for mine?" he rejoins, fixing his eyes upon the children with an almost death-like stare, as Daddy leads them out of the room. The door closes after them, he paces the room for a time, seats himself in his chair again, and is soon absorbed in contemplation. "I must do something for them-I must snatch them from the jaws of danger. They are full of interest-they are mine; there is not a drop of negro blood in their veins, and yet the world asks who are their mothers, what is their history? Ah! yes; in that history lies the canker that has eaten out the living springs of many lives. It is that which cuts deepest. Had I known myself, done what I might have done before it was too late, kindness would have its rewards; but I am fettered, and the more I move the worse for them. Custom has laid the foundation of wrong, the law protects it, and a free government tolerates a law that shields iniquities blackening earth." In this train of thought his mind wandered. He would send the children into a free state, there to be educated; that they may live in the enjoyment of those rights with which nature had blest them. The obstacles of the law again stared him in the face; the wrong by which they were first enslaved, now forgotten, had brought its climax.
Suddenly arousing from his reverie, he started to his feet, and walking across the floor, exclaimed in an audible voice, "I will surmount all difficulties,--I will recognise them as my children; I will send them where they may become ornaments of society, instead of living in shame and licentiousness. This is my resolve, and I will carry it out, or die!"
A Cloud Of Misfortune Hangs Over The Plantation
THE document Marston signed for Lorenzo-to release him from the difficulties into which he had been drawn by Graspum-guaranteed the holder against all loss. This, in the absence of Lorenzo, and under such stranger circumstances, implied an amount which might be increased according to the will of the man into whose hands he had so unfortunately fallen.
Nearly twelve months had now elapsed since the disclosure of the crime. Maxwell, our young Englishman, had spent the time among the neighbouring plantations; and failing to enlist more than friendly considerations from Franconia, resolved to return to Bermuda and join his family. He had, however, taken a deep interest in Clotilda and Annette,--had gone to their apartment unobserved, and in secret interviews listened to Clotilda's tale of trouble. Its recital enlisted his sympathies; and being of an ardent and impressible temper, he determined to carry out a design for her relief. He realised her silent suffering,--saw how her degraded condition wrangled with her noble feelings,--how the true character of a woman loathed at being the slave of one who claimed her as his property. And this, too, without the hope of redeeming herself, except by some desperate effort. And, too, he saw but little difference between the blood of Franconia and the blood of Clotilda; the same outline of person was there,--her delicate countenance, finely moulded bust, smoothly converging shoulders. There was the same Grecian cast of face, the same soft, reflective eyes,--filling a smile with sweetness, and again with deep-felt sorrow. The same sensitive nature, ready to yield forth love and tenderness, or to press onward the more impassioned affections, was visible in both. And yet, what art had done for Franconia nature had replenished for Clotilda. But, the servile hand was upon her, she crouched beneath its grasp; it branded her life, and that of her child, with ignominy and death.
During these interviews he would watch her emotions as she looked upon her child; when she would clasp it to her bosom, weeping, until from the slightest emotion her feelings would become frantic with anguish.
And you, my child, a mother's hope when all other pleasures are gone! Are you some day to be torn from me, and, like myself, sent to writhe under the coarse hand of a slave-dealer, to be stung with shame enforced while asking God's forgiveness? Sometimes I think it cannot be so; I think it must all be a dream. But it is so, and we might as well submit, say as little of the hardship as possible, and think it's all as they tell us-according to God's will, she would say, pressing the child closer and closer to her bosom, the agitation of her feelings rising into convulsions as the tears coursed down her cheeks. Then she would roll her soft eyes upwards, her countenance filling with despair. The preservation of her child was pictured in the depth of her imploring look. For a time her emotions would recede into quiet,--she would smile placidly upon Annette, forget the realities that had just swept her mind into such a train of trouble.
One night, as Maxwell entered her apartment, he found her kneeling at her bed-side, supplicating in prayer. The word, "Oh, God; not me, but my child-guide her through the perils that are before her, and receive her into heaven at last," fell upon his ear. He paused, gazed upon her as if some angel spirit had touched the tenderest chord of his feelings-listened unmoved. A lovely woman, an affectionate mother, the offspring of a noble race,--herself forced by relentless injustice to become an instrument of licentiousness-stood before him in all that can make woman an ornament to her sex. What to Ellen Juvarna seemed the happiness of her lot, was pain and remorse to Clotilda; and when she arose there was a nervousness, a shrinking in her manner, betokening apprehension. "It is not now; it is hereafter. And yet there is no glimmer of hope!" she whispers, as she seats herself in a chair, pulls the little curtain around the bed, and prepares to retire.
The scene so worked upon Maxwell's feelings that he could withstand the effect no longer; he approached her, held out his hand, greeted her with a smile: "Clotilda, I am your friend," he whispers, "come, sit down and tell me what troubles you!"
If what I say be told in confidence? she replied, as if questioning his advance.
You may trust me with any secret; I am ready to serve you, if it be with my life!
Clasping her arms round her child, again she wept in silence. The moment was propitious--the summer sun had just set beneath dark foliage in the west, its refulgent curtains now fading into mellow tints; night was closing rapidly over the scene, the serene moon shone softly through the arbour into the little window at her bedside. Again she took him by the hand, invited him to sit down at her side, and, looking imploringly in his face, continued,--"If you are a friend, you can be a friend in confidence, in purpose. I am a slave! yes, a slave; there is much in the word, more than most men are disposed to analyse. It may seem simple to you, but follow it to its degraded depths-follow it to where it sows the seeds of sorrow, and there you will find it spreading poison and death, uprooting all that is good in nature. Worse than that, my child is a slave too. It is that which makes the wrong more cruel, that mantles the polished vice, that holds us in that fearful grasp by which we dare not seek our rights.
My mother, ah! yes, my mother-Clotilda shakes her head in sorrow. "How strange that, by her misfortune, all, all, is misfortune for ever! from one generation to another, sinking each life down, down, down, into misery and woe. How oft she clasped my hand and whispered in my ear: 'If we could but have our rights.' And she, my mother,--as by that sacred name I called her-was fair; fairer than those who held her for a hideous purpose, made her existence loathsome to herself, who knew the right but forced the wrong. She once had rights, but was stripped of them; and once in slavery who can ask that right be done?"
What rights have you beyond these? he interrupted, suddenly. "There is mystery in what you have said, in what I have seen; something I want to solve. The same ardent devotion, tenderness, affection,--the same touching chasteness, that characterises Franconia, assimilates in you. You are a slave, a menial-she is courted and caressed by persons of rank and station. Heavens! here is the curse confounding the flesh and blood of those in high places, making slaves of their own kinsmen, crushing out the spirit of life, rearing up those broken flowers whose heads droop with shame. And you want your freedom?"
For my child first, she replied, quickly: "I rest my hopes of her in the future."
Maxwell hesitated for a moment, as if contemplating some plan for her escape, ran his fingers through his hair again and again, then rested his forehead in his hand, as the perspiration stood in heavy drops upon it. "My child!" There was something inexpressibly touching in the words of a mother ready to sacrifice her own happiness for the freedom of her child. And yet an awful responsibility hung over him; should he attempt to gain their freedom, and fail in carrying out the project, notwithstanding he was in a free country, the act might cost him his life. But there was the mother, her pride beaming forth in every action, a wounded spirit stung with the knowledge of being a slave, the remorse of her suffering soul-the vicissitudes of that sin thus forced upon her. The temptation became irresistible.
You are English!-northerners and Englishmen know what liberty is.
Negroes at the South have a very high opinion of Northern cleverness in devising means of procuring their liberty. The Author here uses the language employed by a slave girl who frequently implored aid to devise some plan by which she would be enabled to make her escape. Northerners could do great things for us, if they would but know us as we are, study our feelings, cast aside selfish motives, and sustain our rights!" Clotilda now commenced giving Maxwell a history of her mother,--which, however, we must reserve for another chapter. "And my mother gave me this!" she said, drawing from her pocket a paper written over in Greek characters, but so defaced as to be almost unintelligible. "Some day you will find a friend who will secure your freedom through that," she would say. "But freedom-that which is such a boon to us-is so much feared by others that you must mark that friend cautiously, know him well, and be sure he will not betray the liberty you attempt to gain." And she handed him the defaced paper, telling him to put it in his pocket.
And where is your mother?
There would be a store of balm in that, if I did but know. Her beauty doomed her to a creature life, which, when she had worn out, she was sold, as I may be, God knows how soon. Though far away from me, she is my mother still, in all that recollection can make her; her countenance seems like a wreath decorating our past associations. Shrink not when I tell it, for few shrink at such things now,--I saw her chained; I didn't think much of it then, for I was too young. And she took me in her arms and kissed me, the tears rolled down her cheeks; and she said-'Clotilda, Clotilda, farewell! There is a world beyond this, a God who knows our hearts, who records our sorrows;' and her image impressed me with feelings I cannot banish. To look back upon it seems like a rough pilgrimage; and then when I think of seeing her again my mind gets lost in hopeless expectations--
You saw her chained? interrupted Maxwell.
Yes, even chained with strong irons. It need not surprise you. Slavery is a crime; and they chain the innocent lest the wrong should break forth upon themselves. And she raised her hands to her face, shook her head, and laid Annette in the little bed at the foot of her own.
What is it that in chaining a woman, whether she be black as ebony or white as snow, degrades all the traits of the southerner's character, which he would have the world think noble? It is fear! The monster which the southerner sees by day, tolerates in his silence, protects as part and parcel of a legal trade, only clothes him with the disgrace that menials who make themselves mere fiends are guilty of, Maxwell thought to himself.
I will set you free, if it cost my life! he exclaimed.
Hush, hush! rejoined Clotilda: "remember those wretches on the plantation. They, through their ignorance, have learned to wield the tyranny of petty power; they look upon us with suspicious eyes. They know we are negroes (white negroes, who are despicable in their eyes), and feeling that we are more favoured, their envy is excited. They, with the hope of gaining favour, are first to disclose a secret. Save my child first, and then save me"--
I will save you first; rest assured, I will save you; he responded, shaking her hand, bidding her good night. On returning to the mansion he found Marston seated at the table in the drawing-room, in a meditative mood. Good night, my friend!" he accosted him.
Ah, good night! was the sudden response.
You seem cast down?
No!-all's not as it seems with a man in trouble. How misfortune quickens our sense of right! O! how it unfolds political and moral wrongs! how it purges the understanding, and turns the good of our natures to thoughts of justice. But when the power to correct is beyond our reach we feel the wrong most painfully, Marston coldly replied.
It never is too late to do good; my word for it, friend Marston, good is always worth its services. I am young and may serve you yet; rise above trouble, never let trifles trouble a man like you. The world seems wagging pleasantly for you; everybody on the plantation is happy; Lorenzo has gone into the world to distinguish himself; grief should never lay its scalpel in your feelings. Remember the motto-peace, pleasantry, and plenty; they are things which should always dispel the foreshadowing of unhappiness, says Maxwell, jocularly, taking a chair at Marston's request, and seating himself by the table.
Marston declares such consolation to be refreshing, but too easily conceived to effect his purpose. The ripest fruits of vice often produce the best moral reflections: he feels convinced of this truth; but here the consequences are entailed upon others. The degradation is sunk too deep for recovery by him,--his reflections are only a burden to him. The principle that moves him to atone is crushed by the very perplexity of the law that compels him to do wrong. "There's what goads me," he says: "it is the system, the forced condition making one man merchandise, and giving another power to continue him as such." He arises from the table, his face flushed with excitement, and in silence paces the room to and fro for several minutes. Every now and then he watches at the window,--looks out towards the river, and again at the pine-woods forming a belt in the background, as if he expected some one from that direction. The serene scene without, calm and beautiful, contrasting with the perplexity that surrounded him within, brought the reality of the change which must soon take place in his affairs more vividly to his mind.
Your feelings have been stimulated and modified by education; they are keenly sensitive to right,--to justice between man and man. Those are the beautiful results of early instruction. New England education! It founds a principle for doing good; it needs no contingencies to rouse it to action. You can view slavery with the unprejudiced eye of a philosopher. Listen to what I am about to say: but a few months have passed since I thought myself a man of affluence, and now nothing but the inroads of penury are upon me. The cholera (that scourge of a southern plantation) is again sweeping the district: I cannot expect to escape it, and I am in the hands of a greater scourge than the cholera,--a slow death-broker. He will take from you that which the cholera would not deign to touch: he has no more conscience than a cotton-press, says Marston, reclining back in his chair, and calling the negro waiter.
The word conscience fell upon Maxwell's ear with strange effect. He had esteemed Marston according to his habits-not a good test when society is so remiss of its duties: he could not reconcile the touch of conscience in such a person, nor could he realise the impulse through which some sudden event was working a moral regeneration in his mind. There was something he struggled to keep from notice. The season had been unpropitious, bad crops had resulted; the cholera made its appearance, swept off many of the best negroes, spread consternation, nearly suspended discipline and labour. One by one his negroes fell victims to its ravages, until it became imperatively necessary to remove the remainder to the pine-woods.
Families might be seen here and there making their little preparations to leave for the hills: the direful scourge to them was an evil spirit, sent as a visitation upon their bad deeds. This they sincerely believe, coupling it with all the superstition their ignorance gives rise to. A few miles from the mansion, among the pines, rude camps are spread out, fires burn to absorb the malaria, to war against mosquitoes, to cook the evening meal; while, up lonely paths, ragged and forlorn-looking negroes are quietly wending their way to take possession. The stranger might view this forest bivouac as a picture of humble life pleasantly domiciled; but it is one of those unfortunate scenes, fruitful of evil, which beset the planter when he is least able to contend against them. Such events develope the sin of an unrighteous institution, bring its supporters to the portals of poverty, consign harmless hundreds to the slave-marts.
In this instance, however, we must give Marston credit for all that was good in his intentions, and separate him from the system. Repentance, however produced, is valuable for its example, and if too late for present utility, seldom fails to have an ultimate influence. Thus it was with Marston; and now that all these inevitable disasters were upon him, he resolved to be a father to Annette and Nicholas,--those unfortunates whom law and custom had hitherto compelled him to disown.
Drawing his chair close to Maxwell, he lighted a cigar, and resumed the disclosure his feelings had apparently interrupted a few minutes before. "Now, my good friend, all these things are upon me; there is no escaping the issue. My people will soon be separated from me; my old, faithful servants, Bob and Harry, will regret me, and if they fall into the hands of a knave, will die thinking of the old plantation. As for Harry, I have made him a preacher,--his knowledge is wonderfully up on Scripture; he has demonstrated to me that niggers are more than mortal, or transitory things. My conscience was touched while listening to one of his sermons; and then, to think how I had leased him to preach upon a neighbouring plantation, just as a man would an ox to do a day's work! Planters paid me so much per sermon, as if the gospel were merchandise, and he a mere thing falsifying all my arguments against his knowledge of the Word of God. Well, it makes me feel as if I were half buried in my own degradation and blindness. And then, again, they are our property, and are bestowed upon us by a legal-"
If that be wrong, interrupted Maxwell, "you have no excuse for continuing it."
True! That's just what I was coming at. The evil in its broadest expanse is there. We look calmly on the external objects of the system without solving its internal grievances,--we build a right upon the ruins of ancient wrongs, and we swathe our thoughts with inconsistency that we may make the curse of a system invulnerable. It is not that we cannot do good under a bad system, but that we cannot ameliorate it, lest we weaken the foundation. And yet all this seems as nothing when I recall a sin of greater magnitude-a sin that is upon me-a hideous blot, goading my very soul, rising up against me like a mountain, over which I can see no pass. Again the impelling force of conscience incites me to make a desperate effort; but conscience rebukes me for not preparing the way in time. I could translate my feelings further, but, in doing so, the remedy seems still further from me-
Is it ever too late to try a remedy-to make an effort to surmount great impediments-to render justice to those who have suffered from such acts? inquired Maxwell, interrupting Marston as he proceeded.
If I could do it without sacrificing my honour, without exposing myself to the vengeance of the law. We are great sticklers for constitutional law, while we care little for constitutional justice. There is Clotilda; you see her, but you don't know her history: if it were told it would resound through the broad expanse of our land. Yes, it would disclose a wrong, perpetrated under the smiles of liberty, against which the vengeance of high Heaven would be invoked. I know the secret, and yet I dare not disclose it; the curse handed down from her forefathers has been perpetuated by me. She seems happy, and yet she is unhappy; the secret recesses of her soul are poisoned. And what more natural? for, by some unlucky incident, she has got an inkling of the foul means by which she was made a slave. To him who knows the right, the wrong is most painful; but I bought her of him whose trade it was to sell such flesh and blood! And yet that does not relieve me from the curse: there's the stain; it hangs upon me, it involves my inclinations, it gloats over my downfall-
You bought her! again interrupts Maxwell.
True, rejoins the other, quickly, "'tis a trade well protected by our democracy. Once bought, we cannot relieve ourselves by giving them rights in conflict with the claims of creditors. Our will may be good, but the will without the means falls hopeless. My heart breaks under the knowledge that those children are mine. It is a sad revelation to make,--sad in the eyes of heaven and earth. My participation in wrong has proved sorrow to them: how can I look to the pains and struggles they must endure in life, when stung with the knowledge that I am the cause of it? I shall wither under the torture of my own conscience. And there is even an interest about them that makes my feelings bound joyfully when I recur them. Can it be aught but the fruit of natural affection? I think not; and yet I am compelled to disown them, and even to smother with falsehood the rancour that might find a place in Franconia's bosom. Clotilda loves Annette with a mother's fondness; but with all her fondness for her child she dare not love me, nor I the child."
Maxwell suggests that his not having bought the child would certainly give him the right to control his own flesh and blood: but he knows little of slave law, and less of its customs. He, however, was anxious to draw from Marston full particulars of the secret that would disclose Clotilda's history, over which the partial exposition had thrown the charm of mystery. Several times he was on the eve of proffering his services to relieve the burden working upon Marston's mind; but his sympathies were enlisted toward the two unfortunate women, for whom he was ready to render good service, to relieve them and their children. Again, he remembered how singularly sensitive Southerners were on matters concerning the peculiar institution, especially when approached by persons from abroad. Perhaps it was a plot laid by Marston to ascertain his feelings on the subject, or, under that peculiar jealousy of Southerners who live in this manner, he might have discovered his interview with Clotilda, and, in forming a plan to thwart his project, adopted this singular course for disarming apprehensions.
At this stage of the proceedings a whispering noise was heard, as if coming from another part of the room. They stopped at the moment, looked round with surprise, but not seeing anything, resumed the conversation.
Of whom did you purchase? inquired Maxwell, anxiously.
One Silenus; a trader who trades in this quality of property only, and has become rich by the traffic. He is associated with Anthony Romescos, once a desperado on the Texan frontier. These two coveys would sell their mossmates without a scruple, and think it no harm so long as they turned a dime. They know every justice of the peace from Texas to Fort M'Henry. Romescos is turned the desperado again, shoots, kills, and otherwise commits fell deeds upon his neighbour's negroes; he even threatens them with death when they approach him for reparation. He snaps his fingers at law, lawyers, and judges: slave law is moonshine to those who have no rights in common law-
And he escapes? Then you institute laws, and substitute custom to make them null. It is a poor apology for a namesake. But do you assert that in the freest and happiest country-a country that boasts the observance of its statute laws-a man is privileged to shoot, maim, and torture a fellow-being, and that public opinion fails to bring him to justice? ejaculated Maxwell.
Yes, returns Marston, seriously; "it is no less shameful than true. Three of my negroes has he killed very good-naturedly, and yet I have no proof to convict him. Even were I to seek redress, it would be against that prejudice which makes the rights of the enslaved unpopular."
The trouble exists in making the man merchandise, reducing him to an abject being, without the protection of common law. Presently the tears began to flow down Marston's cheeks, as he unbuttoned his shirt-collar with an air of restlessness, approached a desk that stood in one corner of the room, and drew from it a somewhat defaced bill of sale. There was something connected with that bit of paper, which, apart from anything else, seemed to harass him most. "But a minute before you entered I looked upon that paper," he spoke, throwing it upon the table, "and thought how much trouble it had brought me, how through it I had left a curse upon innocent life. I paid fifteen hundred dollars for the souls and bodies of those two women, creatures of sense, delicacy, and tenderness. But I am not a bad man, after all. No, there are worse men than me in the world."
Gather, gather, ye incubus of misfortune, bearing to me the light of heaven, with which to see my sins. May it come to turn my heart in the right way, to seek its retribution on the wrong! Thus concluding, Marston covers his face in his hands, and for several minutes weeps like a child. Again rising from his seat, he throws the paper on a table near an open window, and himself upon a couch near by.
Maxwell attempts to quiet him by drawing his attention from the subject. There is little use, however,--it is a terrible conflict,--the conflict of conscience awakening to a sense of its errors; the fate of regrets when it is too late to make amends.
While this was going on, a brawny hand reached into the window, and quickly withdrew the paper from the table. Neither observed it.
And at the moment, Marston ejaculated, "I will! I will! let it cost what it may. I will do justice to Clotilda and her child,--to Ellen and her child; I will free them, send them into a free country to be educated." In his excitement he forgot the bill of sale.
Like enough you will! responds a gruff voice; and a loud rap at the hall-door followed. Dandy was summoned, opened the door, bowed Romescos into the room. He pretends to be under the influence of liquor, which he hopes will excuse his extraordinary familiarity at such a late hour. Touching the hilt of his knife, he swaggers into the presence of Marston, looks at him fixedly, impertinently demands something to drink. He cares not what it be, waits for no ceremony, tips the decanter, gulps his glass, and deliberately takes a seat.
The reader will perhaps detect the object of his presence; but, beyond that, there is something deep and desperate in the appearance of the man, rendering his familiarity exceedingly disagreeable. That he should present himself at such an untimely hour was strange, beyond Marston's comprehension. It was, indeed, most inopportune; but knowing him, he feared him. He could not treat him with indifference,--there was his connection with Graspum, his power over the poor servile whites; he must be courteous-so, summoning his suavity, he orders Dandy to wait upon him.
Romescos amuses himself with sundry rude expressions about the etiquette of gentlemen,--their rights and associations,--the glorious freedom of a glorious land. Not heeding Dandy's attention, he fills another glass copiously, twirls it upon the table, eyes Marston, and then Maxwell, playfully-drinks his beverage with the air of one quite at home.
Marston, old feller, he says, winking at Maxwell, "things don't jibe so straight as they use't-do they? I wants a stave o' conversation on matters o' business with ye to-morrow. It's a smart little property arrangement; but I ain't in the right fix just now; I can't make the marks straight so we can understand two and two. Ye take, don't ye? Somethin' touching a genteel business with your fast young nephew, Lorenzo. Caution to the wise." Romescos, making several vain attempts, rises, laughing with a half-independent air, puts his slouch hat on his head, staggers to the door, makes passes at Dandy, who waits his egress, and bidding them good night, disappears.
Who Is Safe Against The Power?
THE cholera raging on Marston's plantation, had excited Graspum's fears. His pecuniary interests were above every other consideration-he knew no higher object than the accumulation of wealth; and to ascertain the precise nature and extent of the malady he had sent Romescos to reconnoitre.
Returning to the long-room at Graspum's slave-pen, we must introduce the reader to scenes which take place on the night following that upon which Romescos secured the bill of sale at Marston's mansion.
Around the table we have before described sit Graspum and some dozen of his clan. Conspicuous among them is Dan Bengal, and Nath Nimrod, whom we described as running into the room unceremoniously, holding by the hair the head of a negro, and exulting over it as a prize of much value. They are relating their adventures, speculating over the prospects of trade, comparing notes on the result of making free trash human property worth something! They all manifest the happiest of feelings, have a language of their own, converse freely; at times sprinkle their conversation with pointed oaths. They are conversant with the business affairs of every planter in the State, know his liabilities, the condition of his negroes, his hard cases, his bad cases, his runaways, and his prime property. Their dilations on the development of wenches, shades of colour, qualities of stock suited to the various markets-from Richmond to New Orleans-disclose a singular foresight into the article of poor human nature.
There's nothing like pushing our kind of business, specially whin ye gits it where ye can push profitably, speaks Bengal, his fiery red eyes glaring over the table as he droops his head sluggishly, and, sipping his whiskey, lets it drip over his beard upon his bosom; "if 't warn't for Anthony's cunnin' we'd have a pesky deal of crooked law to stumble through afore we'd get them rich uns upset."
My reader must know that southern law and justice for the poor succumb to popular feeling in all slave atmospheres; and happy is the fellow who can work his way through slavedom without being dependent upon the one or brought under the influence of the other.
Graspum, in reply to Bengal, feels that gentlemen in the "nigger business" should respect themselves. He well knows there exists not the best feeling in the world between them and the more exclusive aristocracy, whose feelings must inevitably be modified to suit the democratic spirit of the age. He himself enjoys that most refined society, which he asserts to be strong proof of the manner in which democracy is working its way to distinction. Our business, he says, hath so many avenues that it has become positively necessary that some of them should be guarded by men of honour, dignity, and irreproachable conduct. Now, he has sent Anthony Romescos to do some watching on the sly, at Marston's plantation; but there is nothing dishonourable in that, inasmuch as the victim is safe in his claws. Contented with these considerations, Graspum puffs his cigar very composedly. From slave nature, slave-seeking adventures, and the intricacies of the human-property-market, they turn to the discussion of state rights, of freedom in its broadest and most practical sense. And, upon the principle of the greatest despot being foremost to discuss what really constitutes freedom, which, however, he always argues in an abstract sense, Nimrod was loudest and most lavish in his praises of a protective government--a government that would grant great good justice to the white man only. It matters little to Nimrod which is the greater nigger; he believes in the straight principles of right in the white man. It is not so much how justice is carried out when menial beings form a glorious merchandise; but it is the true essence of liberty, giving men power to keep society all straight, to practice liberty very liberally. "Ye see, now, Graspum," he quaintly remarks, as he takes up the candle to light his cigar, "whatever ye do is right, so long as the law gives a feller a right to do it. 'Tisn't a bit o' use to think how a man can be too nice in his feelings when a hundred or two's to be made on nigger property what's delicate, t'aint! A feller feels sore once in a while, a' cos his conscience is a little touchy now and then; but it won't do to give way to it-conscience don't bring cash. When ye launches out in the nigger-trading business ye must feel vengeance agin the brutes, and think how it's only trade; how it's perfectly legal-and how it's encouraged by the Governor's proclamations. Human natur's human natur'; and when ye can turn a penny at it, sink all the in'ard inclinations. Just let the shiners slide in, it don't matter a tenpence where ye got 'em. Trade's everything! you might as well talk about patriotism among crowned heads,--about the chivalry of commerce: cash makes consequence, and them's what makes gentlemen, south."
They welcome the spirits, although it has already made them soulless. The negro listens to a dialogue of singular import to himself; his eyes glistened with interest, as one by one they sported over the ignorance enforced upon the weak. One by one they threw their slouch hats upon the floor, drew closer in conclave, forming a grotesque picture of fiendish faces. "Now, gentlemen," Graspum deigns to say, after a moment's pause, motioning to the decanter, "pass it along round when ye gets a turn about." He fills his glass and drinks, as if drink were a necessary accompaniment of the project before them. "This case of Marston's is a regular plumper; there's a spec to be made in that stock of stuff; and them bright bits of his own-they look like him-'ll make right smart fancy. Ther' developing just in the right sort of way to be valuable for market."
There's movin' o' the shrewdest kind to be done there, Graspum! Where's the dockerment what 'll make 'um property, eh? interrupted Nimrod, twisting the hair with which his face is covered into fantastic points.
Oh, my good fellows, public opinion's the dockerment; with the bright side of public opinion! Public opinion whispers about Clotilda: it says she looks so much like that niece of Marston's, that you couldn't tell them apart. And they are like two pins, gentlemen; but then one's property and t'other's anything but property. One will bring something substantial in the market: I wouldn't say much about the other. But there's pride in the whole family, and where it's got into the niggers it's worth a few extra dollars. The Marstons and Roveros don't think much of we dealers when they don't want our money; but when they do we are cousins of the right stripe. However, these ere little aristocratic notions don't mount to much; they are bin generous blood-mixers, and now they may wince over it-
Graspum is interrupted again. Bengal has been analysing his logic, and rises to dispute the logic of his arguments. He is ready to stake his political faith, and all his common sense-of which he never fails to boast-that mixing the blood of the two races destroys the purity of the nigger, spiles the gauge of the market, detracts from real plantation property, and will just upset the growin' of young niggers. He is sure he knows just as much about the thing as anybody else, has never missed his guess, although folks say he aint no way clever at selection; and, rubbing his eyes after adjusting the long black hair that hangs down over his shoulders, he folds his arms with an independent air, and waits the rejoinder.
The dingy room breathes thick of deleterious fumes; a gloom hangs over their meditations, deep and treacherous: it excites fear, not of the men, but of the horrors of their trade. A dim light hangs suspended from the ceiling: even the sickly shade contrasts strangely with their black purpose.
Variety of shade, my dear Bengal, is none of our business. If you make a division you destroy the property and the principle. We don't represent the South: if we did, my stars! how the abolitionists would start up,--eh! Now, there's a right smart chance of big aristocrat folks in the district, and they think something of their niggers, and some are fools enough to think niggers have souls just as white as we. That's where the thing don't strike our morals alike. It's all right to let such folks represent us-that it is! It tells down north.
I goes in for that! It puts a polished face on the brown side of things. That's the way I puts it on when I gets among the big 'uns on 'Change. I talks to one, shakes hands with another, touches my hat to the president of the bank; and then them what don't know thinks how I do a little in the taking a corner of notes line! "In the same sly way that directors of banks do," interrupts a voice, sullenly and slow. It was long Joe Morphet, the constable's sponge, who did a little in the line of nigger trailing, and now and then acted as a contingent of Graspum. Joe had, silently and with great attention, listened to their consultations, expecting to get a hook on at some point where his services would play at a profit; but it all seemed beyond his comprehension-amounted to nothing.
There's something in Joe, gentlemen! But our genteelest folks don't alway do the genteelest things, arter all. Right-right! Joe's right! Graspum has suddenly comprehended Joe's logic, and brightens up with the possession of a new idea, that at first was inclined to get crosswise in his mind, which he has drilled in the minor details of human nature rather than the political dignity of the state. Joe's ideas are ranging over the necessity of keeping up a good outside for the state; Graspum thinks only of keeping up the dignity of himself. "Well, give in, fellers; Joe's right clever. He's got head enough to get into Congress, and if polished up wouldn't make the worst feller that ever was sent: he wouldn't, to my certain knowledge. Joe's clever! What great men do with impunity little men have no scruples in following; what the state tolerates, knaves may play upon to their own advantage. To keep up the dignity of a slave state, slave dealers must keep up dignity among themselves: the one cannot live without the other. They must affect, and the state must put on, the dignity; and northerners what aint gentlemen must be taught to know that they aint gentlemen." This is the conclusion to which Graspum has arrived on the maturest reflection of a few minutes: it conforms with the opinion and dignity of slaveocracy-must be right, else the glorious Union, with the free-thinking north unfortunately attached, could never be preserved. It's the nut of a glorious compact which the south only must crack, and will crack. Graspum apologised for the thing having escaped his memory so long. He remembered that southerners left no stone unturned that could serve the policy of concentrating slave power; and he remembered that it was equally necessary to keep an eye to the feeling abroad. There were in America none but southern nobles,--no affable gentlemen who could do the grace of polite circles except themselves,--none who, through their bland manners, could do more to repel the awful descriptions given of southern society, nor who could not make strangers believe slaves were happy mortals, happily created to live in all the happiness of slave life. "There's nothing like putting our learned folks ahead-they're polished down for the purpose, you see-and letting them represent us when abroad; they puts a different sort of shine on things what our institution makes profitable. They don't always set good examples at home, but we can't control their tastes on small matters of that kind: and then, what a valuable offset it is, just to have the power of doing the free and easy gentleman, to be the brilliant companion, to put on the smooth when you go among nobility what don't understand the thing!" Graspum adds, with a cunning wink.
Pooh! pooh! such talk don't jingle. You can't separate our aristocracy from mistress-keeping. It's a matter of romance with them,--a matter of romance, gentlemen, that's all. The south couldn't live without romance, she couldn't! adds Nimrod, stretching back in his chair.
And where did you get that broad idea from, Jakey? I kind o' likes that sort of philosophy, adds another.
Philosophy! I reckon how there is deep and strong philosophy in that ar; but ye can't calc'late much on't when ye haint talents to bring it out. That point where the soul comes in is a puzzler on Yankees; but it takes our editors and parsons to put the arguments where the Yankees can't demolish them. Read the Richmond--, my grandmother of the day, if ye want to see the philosophy of niggers, and their souls. That editor is a philosopher; the world's got to learn his philosophy. Just take that preacher from New Jersey, what preaches in All Saints; if he don't prove niggers aint no souls I'm a Dutchman, and dead at that! He gives 'em broadside logic, gentlemen; and if he hadn't been raised north he wouldn't bin so up on niggers when he cum south, was the quick rejoinder of our knowing expounder, who, looking Graspum in the face, demanded to know if he was not correct. Graspum thinks it better to waste no more time in words, but to get at the particular piece of business for which they have been called together. He is a man of money,--a man of trade, ever willing to admit the philosophy of the man-market, but don't see the difference of honour between the aristocrat who sells his bits in the market, and the honourable dealer who gets but a commission for selling them. And there's something about the parson who, forgetting the sanctity of his calling, sanctifies everything pertaining to slavery. Conscience, he admits, is a wonderful thing fixed somewhere about the heart, and, in spite of all he can do, will trouble it once in a while. Marston-poor Marston!-he declares to be foolishly troubled with it, and it makes him commit grievous errors. And then, there's no understandin' it, because Marston has a funny way of keeping it under such a knotty-looking exterior. Graspum declares he had nothing to do with the breaking out of the cholera, is very sorry for it,--only wants his own, just like any other honest man. He kind o' likes Marston, admits he is a sort of good fellow in his way; mighty careless though, wouldn't cheat anybody if he knew it, and never gave half a minute's thinking about how uncertain the world was. But the cholera-a dire disease among niggers-has broke out in all the fury of its ravages; and it makes him think of his sick niggers and paying his debts. "You see, gentlemen-we are all gentlemen here," Graspum continues,--"a man must pay the penalty of his folly once in a while. It's the fate of great men as well as smaller ones; all are liable to it. That isn't the thing, though; it don't do to be chicken-hearted afore niggers, nor when yer dealing in niggers, nor in any kind o' business what ye want to make coin at. Marston 'll stick on that point, he will; see if he don't. His feelins' are troubling him: he knows I've got the assignment; and if he don't put them ar' white 'uns of his in the schedule, I'll snap him up for fraud,--I will-"
The conversation is here interrupted by a loud rap at the door, which is opened by the negro, who stands with his finger on the latch. Romescos, in his slovenly garb, presents himself with an air of self-assurance that marks the result of his enterprise. He is a prominent feature in all Graspum's great operations; he is desperate in serving his interests. Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket-it is printed with the stars and stripes of freedom-he calls it a New England rag, disdainfully denounces that area of unbelievers in slaveocracy, wipes his blistered face with it, advances to the table-every eye intently watching him-and pauses for breath.
What success, Anthony? Tell us quickly, Graspum demands, extending his hand nervously. "Anthony never fails! It's a fool who fails in our business," was the reply, delivered with great unconcern, and responded to with unanimous applause. A warrior returned from victory was Anthony,--a victory of villainy recorded in heaven, where the rewards will, at some day, be measured out with a just but awful retribution.
The bosom of his shirt lays broadly open: one by one they shake his hand, as he hastily unties the chequered cloth about his neck, pours out his drink of whiskey, seats himself in a chair, and deliberately places his feet upon the table. "Ther's nothin' like making a triangle of oneself when ye wants to feel so ye can blow comfortable," he says. "I done nothin' shorter than put all straight at Marston's last night. It was science, ye see, gents; and I done it up strictly according to science. A feller what aint cunnin', and don't know the nice work o' the law, can't do nothin' in the way o' science. It's just as you said"-addressing his remarks to Graspum,-- "Marston's slackin' out his conscience because he sees how things are goin' down hill with him. If that old hoss cholera don't clar off the nigger property, I'm no prophet. It'll carry 'em into glory; and glory, I reckon, isn't what you calls good pay, eh, Graspum? I overheard his intentions: he sees the black page before him; it troubles the chicken part of his heart. Feels mighty meek and gentle all at once; and, it's no lie, he begins to see sin in what he has done; and to make repentance good he's goin' to shove off that nabob stock of his, so the creditors can't lay paws upon it. Ye got to spring; Marston 'll get ahead of ye if he don't, old feller. This child 'll show him how he can't cum some o' them things while Squire Hobble and I'm on hand." Thus quaintly he speaks, pulling the bill of sale from a side-pocket, throwing it upon the table with an air of satisfaction amounting to exultation. "Take that ar; put it where ye can put yer finger on't when the 'mergency comes." And he smiles to see how gratefully and anxiously Graspum receives it, reviews it, re-reviews it,--how it excites the joy of his nature. He has no soul beyond the love of gold, and the system of his bloody trade. It was that fatal instrument, great in the atmosphere of ungrateful law, bending some of nature's noblest beneath its seal of crimes. "It's from Silenus to Marston; rather old, but just the thing! Ah, you're a valuable fellow, Anthony." Mr. Graspum manifests his approbation by certain smiles, grimaces, and shakes of the hand, while word by word he reads it, as if eagerly relishing its worth. "It's a little thing for a great purpose; it'll tell a tale in its time;" and he puts the precious scrip safely in his pocket, and rubbing his hands together, declares "that deserves a bumper!" They fill up at Graspum's request, drink with social cheers, followed by a song from Nimrod, who pitches his tune to the words, "Come, landlord, fill the flowing bowl."
Nimrod finishes his song: Romescos takes the floor to tell a story about the old judge what hung the nigger a'cos he didn't want to spend his patience listening to the testimony, and adjourned the court to go and take a drink at Sal Stiles's grocery. His description of the court, its high jurisdiction, the dignity of the squire what sits as judge, how he drinks the three jurymen-freeholders-what are going to try a nigger, how they goes out and takes three drinks when the case gets about half way through, how the nigger winks and blinks when he sees the jury drunk, and hears the judge say there's only two things he likes to hang,--niggers and schoolmasters. But as it's no harm to kill schoolmasters-speaking in a southern sense-so Romescos thinks the squire who got the jury inebriated afore he sent the "nigger" to be hung doesn't mean the least harm when he evinces an abhorrence to the whole clan of schoolmaster trash. He turns to the old story of doing everything by system; ends by describing his method of drinking a whole jury. He has surprised Marston, got him on the hip, where he can feather him or sciver him, and where things must be done sly. Public opinion, he whispers, may set folks moving, and then they'll all be down upon him like hawks after chickens. In his mind, the feller what pulls first comes off first best-if the law hounds are not too soon let loose! If they are, there will be a long drag, a small cage for the flock, and very few birds with feathers on. Romescos cares for nobody but the judge: he tells us how the judge and he are right good cronies, and how it's telling a good many dollars at the end of the year to keep on the best of terms with him, always taking him to drink when they meet. The judge is a wonderfully clever fellow, in Romescos' opinion; ranks among first-class drinkers; can do most anything, from hanging a nigger to clearing the fellow that killed the schoolmaster, and said he'd clear a dozen in two two's, if they'd kill off ever so many of the rubbish. It is well to make his favour a point of interest. The company are become tired of this sort of cantation; they have heard enough of high functionaries, know quite enough of judges:--such things are in their line of business. Romescos must needs turn the conversation. "Well, taking it how I can entertain ye to most anything, I'll give ye a story on the secrets of how I used to run off Ingin remnants of the old tribes. 'Taint but a few years ago, ye know, when ther was a lot of Ingin and white, mixed stuff-some called it beautiful-down in Beaufort district. It was temptin' though, I reckon, and made a feller feel just as if he was runnin' it off to sell, every time it come in his way. Ye see, most on't was gal property, and that kind, ollers keeps the whole district in a hubbub; everybody's offended, and there's so much delicacy about the ladies what come in contact with it. Yes, gentlemen! the ladies-I means the aristocracy's ladies-hate these copper-coloured Ingins as they would female devils. It didn't do to offend the delicacy of our ladies, ye see; so something must be done, but it was all for charity's sake. Squire Hornblower and me fixes a plan a'tween us: it was just the plan to do good for the town-we must always be kind, ye know, and try to do good-and save the dear good ladies a great deal of unnecessary pain.
Now, the squire had law larnin', and I had cunnin'; and both put together made the thing work to a point. The scheme worked so nicely that we put twelve out of fifteen of 'em right into pocket-money in less than three years-
Hold a second, Romescos; how did you play the game so adroitly, when they were all members of families living in the town? You're a remarkable fellow, Graspum interposes, stretching his arms, and twisting his sturdy figure over the side of his chair.
That's what I was coming at. Ye see, whenever ye makes white trash what ain't slaved a nuisance, you makes it mightily unpopular; and when folks is unpopular the nuisance is easily removed, especially when ye can get pay for removing it. The law will be as tame as a mouse-nobody 'll say nothin'? Ingin and white rubbish is just alike-one's worth as little as t'other. Both's only fit to sell, sir!-worthless for any other purpose. Ye see, gentlemen, I'm something of a philosopher, and has strong faith in the doctrine of our popular governor, who believes it better to sell all poor whites into slavery. 'Tain't a free country where ye don't have the right to sell folks what don't provide for number one. I likes to hear our big folks talk so-Anthony's face brightens-"'cause it gives a feller a chance for a free speculation in them lank, lean rascals; and, too, it would stop their rifle-shooting and corn-stealing-"
You never try your hand at such hits-do you, Nathe? Bengal interrupts, his fore-finger poised on his nose.
Now, Dan, Anthony quaintly replies, "none o' yer pointed insinuations. 'Twouldn't be much harm if the varmin would only keep its mouth shut along the road. But when the critturs ar' got schoolmaster gumption it's mighty apt to get a feller into a tarnation snarl. Schoolmaster gumption makes d-d bad niggers; and there's why I say it's best to hang schoolmasters. It's dangerous, 'cos it larns the critturs to writin' a scrawl now and then; and, unless ye knows just how much talent he's got, and can whitewash him yaller, it's plaguy ticklish. When the brutes have larnin', and can write a little, they won't stay sold when ye sell 'em-that is, I mean, white riff-raff stuff; they ain't a bit like niggers and Ingins. And there's just as much difference a'tween the human natur of a white nigger and a poverty-bloated white as there is a'twixt philosophy and water-melons."
You're drawing a long bow, Anthony, interrupts Graspum, with a suggestion that it were better to come to the point; and concludes by saying: "We don't care sevenpence about the worthless whites all over the State. They can't read nor write-except a few on 'em-and everybody knows it wouldn't do to give them learning-that wouldn't do! We want the way you cleared that nuisance out of Beaufort district so quick-that's what we want to hear."
"Well, ye'h sees, it took some keen play, some sly play, some dignity, and some talent; but the best thing of the whole was the squire's honour. He and me, ye see, joined partners--that is, he gets places for 'em away out o' town--you understand--places where I keeps a couple of the very best nags that ever stepped turf. And then he puts on the soft sauder, an' is so friendly to the critturs--gets 'em to come out with him to where he will make 'um nice house servants, and such things. He is good at planin', as all justices is, and would time it to arrive at midnight. I, havin' got a start, has all ready to meet him; so when he gives me the papers, I makes a bolt at full speed, and has 'um nowhere afore they knows it. And then, when they sees who it is, it don't do to make a fuss about it--don't! And then, they're so handsome, it ain't no trouble finding a market for 'em down Memphis way. It only takes forty-eight hours--the way things is done up by steam--from the time I clears the line until Timothy Portman signs the bond-that's five per cent. for him-and Ned Sturm does the swearin', and they're sold for a slap-up price--sent to where there's no muttering about it. That's one way we does it; and then, there's another. But, all in all, there's a right smart lot of other ways that will work their way into a talented mind. And when a feller gets the hang on it, and knows lawyer gumption, he can do it up smooth. You must strap 'em down, chain 'em, look vengeance at 'em; and now and then, when the varmin will squeal, spite of all the thrashin' ye can give 'em, box 'em up like rats, and put yer horses like Jehu until ye cl'ar the State. The more ye scars 'em the better-make 'em as whist as mice, and ye can run 'em through the rail-road, and sell 'um just as easy. There was another way I used to do the thing-it was a sort of an honourable way; but it used to take the talents of a senator to do it up square, so the dignity didn't suffer. Then the gals got shy of squire, 'cos them he got places for never cum back; and I know'd how 'twas best to leave two or three for a nest-egg. It was the way to do, in case some green should raise a fuss. But connected with these Ingin gals was one of the likleest yaller fellers that ever shined on a stand. Thar' was about twelve hundred dollars in him, I saw it just as straight, and felt it just as safe in my pocket; and then it made a feller's eyes glisten afore it was got out of him. I tell you what, boys, it's rather hard when ye comes to think on't."" Anthony pauses for a moment, sharpens his eloquence with another drop of whiskey, and resumes his discourse. ""The feller shined all outside, but he hadn't head talents-though he was as cunnin' as a fox-and every time the squire tried an experiment to get him out o'town, the nigger would dodge like a wounded raccoon. 'Twarn't a bit of use for the squire-so he just gin it up. Then I trys a hand, ye see, comes the soft soap over him, in a Sam Slick kind of a way. I'se a private gentleman, and gets the fellers round to call me a sort of an aristocrat. Doing this 'ere makes me a nabob in the town-another time I'm from New York, and has monstrous letters of introduction to the squire. Then I goes among the niggers and comes it over their stupid; tells 'em how I'm an abolitionist in a kind of secret way-gets their confidence. And then I larns a right smart deal of sayings from the Bible-a nigger's curious on Christianity, ye see-and it makes him think ye belong to that school, sartin! All the deviltry in his black natur' 'll cum out then; and he'll do just what ye tells him. So, ye see, I just draws the pious over him, and then-like all niggers-I gets him to jine in what he calculates to be a nice little bit of roguery-running off.""
"Graspum becomes interested in the fine qualities of the prospective property, and must needs ask if he is bright and trim.
Bright! I reckon he warn't nothin' else in a money sense-brighter nor most niggers, but mighty Inginy. Had the fierce of one and the cunnin' of t'other. Tom Pridgeon and me has an understandin' about the thing; and Tom's such a ripper for tradin' in nigger property-he is about the only devil niggers can imagine; and they delight to play tricks on Tom. Well, the nigger and me's good friends, right to the point; a good trick is to be played off on Tom, who buys the nigger in confidence; the nigger is to run off when he gets to Savannah, and Tom is to be indicted for running off 'free niggers.' I'se a great Christian, and joins heart and hand with the darkey; we takes our walks together, reads together, prays together. And then 'tain't long afore I becomes just the best white man in his estimation. Knowing when Tom makes up his gang, I proposes a walk in the grove to the nigger. 'Thank ye, sir,' says he, in an Ingin kind of way, and out we goes, sits down, talks pious, sings hymns, and waits to see the rascally nigger-trader come along. Presently Tom makes his appearance, with a right smart lot of extra prime property. The nigger and me marches down the road just like master and servant, and stops just when we meets Tom. You'd laughed to see Tom and me do the stranger, 'Well, mister,' says I, 'how's trade in your line?-there's mighty good prices for cotton just now; an' I 'spose 't keeps the market stiff up in your line!'
'Well, no,' says Tom: 'a feller can turn a good penny in the way o' fancy articles, just now; but 'tain't the time for prime plantation-stock. Planters are all buying, and breeders down Virginia way won't give a feller a chance to make a shaving. It drives a feller hard up, ye see, and forces more business in running the free 'uns.'
'Why, stranger! what on 'arth do you mean by that 'ar;-wouldn't ye get straightened if you'd git catched at that business?'
'Oh, nothing, nothing! I forgot what I was saying,' says Tom, just as if he was scared at what he had let slip.
'I say, trader, ye got the brightest assortment of property thar' I seen for many a day: you don't call them gals slaves, do you? Down where I cum from, our folks wouldn't know 'em from white folks.' I tell you, boys, he had some bits that would o' made yer heart cum straight up.
'But I say, mister, I kind 'a like yer horse property-somehow he's full blood,' says I.
'Yes,' says Tom; 'he's one o' the best critturs to drive niggers with that ye ever did see; and he's beat the best horse on the Columbia course, twice.'
'Well, now; seein' how I likes the animal, about how much do ye'h set him at?' says I.
'Well! can't part with the nag nohow; seems as if he knowed a nigger, and understands the business right up.'
'But, you see, I'se got a bit of nigger property here what ye'h don't pick up every day for the Memphis trade,' says I, looking at the feller, who played his part right up to the hilt.
'Well, I don't mind strikin' a trade,' says Tom: 'but you see my nag's worth a little risin' a thousand dollars.'
'I don't doubt that, stranger,' says I: 'but ye'h sees this 'ar piece of property o' mine is worth more 'an twelve hundred. You don't come across such a looking chap every day. There's a spec. in him, in any market down south,' says I; and I puts my hands on the nigger and makes him show out, just as if Tom and me was striking for a trade. So Tom examines him, as if he was green in nigger business, and he and me strangers just come from t'other side of moon shadows.
'Well, now,' says Tom, 'it's mighty likely property, and seeing it's you, jist name a trade.'
'Put down the nag and two hundred dollars, and I'll sign the bill of sale, for a swap.' And Tom plants down the dimes, and takes the nigger. When Tom gets him to Savannah, he plunks him into jail, and keeps him locked up in a cell until he is ready to start south. I promises the nigger half of the spiles; but I slips an X
Ten dollars. into his hand, and promises him the rest when he gets back-when he does! And ye see how Tom just tryced him up to the cross and put thirty-nine to his bare skin when he talked about being free, in Savannah; and gagged him when he got his Ingin up. Warn't that doing the thing up slick, fellers?" exclaimed Romescos, chuckling over the sport.
It warn't nothing else. That's what I calls catching a nigger in his own trap, said one. "That's sarvin' him right; I go for sellin' all niggers and Ingins," said another. "Free niggers have no souls, and are impediments to personal rights in a free country," said a third.
Ye'h see, there's such an infernal lot of loose corners about our business, that it takes a feller what has got a big head to do all the things smooth, in a legal way; and it's so profitable all round that it kind o' tempts a feller, once in a while, to do things he don't feel just right in; but then a glass of old monongahela brings ye'h all straight in yer feelins again, a'ter a few minutes, said Romescos.
It's an amusing business; a man's got to have nerve and maxim, if he wants to make a fortune at it. But-now, gentlemen, we'll take another round, said Graspum, stopping short. "Anthony, tell us how you work it when you want to run a free nigger down Maryland way."
There ain't no trouble about that, replied Romescos, quickly. "You see," he continued, squinting his eye, and holding his glass between his face and the light. "Shut out all hope first, and then prime legal gentlemen along the road, and yer sartin to make safe business. I has chaps what keeps their eye on all the free bits, and makes good fellers with 'em; niggers think they'r the right stripe friends; and then they gives 'em jobs once in a while, and tobacco, and whiskey. So when I gets all fixed for a run, some on 'm gets the nigger into a sly spot, and then we pounces upon him like a hawk on a chicken-gags him, and screws him up in the chains, head and feet,--boxes him up, too, and drives him like lightning until I meets Tilman at the cross-roads; and then I just has a document
A forged bill of sale, all ready, which I gives to Till, and he puts his nags in-a pair what can take the road from anything about-and the way he drives, just to make the nigger forget where he's going, and think he's riding in a balloon on his way to glory. Just afore Til. gets to the boat, ye see, he takes the headchains off-so the delicate-hearted passengers won't let their feelins get kind-a out o' sorts. Once in a while the nigger makes a blubber about being free, to the captain,--and if he's fool enough t' take any notice on't then there's a fuss; but that's just the easiest thing to get over, if ye only know the squire, and how to manage him. You must know the pintes of the law, and ye must do the clean thing in the 'tin' way with the squire; and then ye can cut 'em right off by makin' t'other pintes make 'em mean nothing. Once in a while t'll do to make the nigger a criminal, and then there's no trouble in't, 'cos ye can ollers git the swearin' done cheap. Old Captain Smith used to get himself into a scrape a heap o' times by listenin' to free nigger stories, till he gets sick and would kick every nigger what came to him about being free. He takes the law in his hands with a nigger o' mine once, and hands him over to a city policeman as soon as we lands. He didn't understand the thing, ye see, and I jist puts an Ten dollars into the pole's hand, what he takes the hint at. 'Now, ye'll take good care on the feller, says I, giving him a wink. "And he just keeps broad off from the old hard-faced mayor, and runs up to the squire's, who commits him on his own committimus. Then I gets Bob Blanker to stand 'all right' with the squire, who's got all the say in the matter, when it's done so. I cuts like lightenin' on to far down Mississippi, and there gets Sam Slang, just one o' the keenest fellers in that line, about. Sam's a hotel-keeper all at once, and I gets him up afore the Mississippi squire; and as Sam don't think much about the swearin' and the squire ain't particular, so he makes a five: we proves straight off how the crittur's Sam's runaway, gets the dockerment and sends to Bob Blanker, who puts a blinder on the squire's eye, and gets an order to the old jailor, who must give him up, when he sees the squire's order. You see, it's larnin' the secret, that's the thing, and the difference between common law and nigger law; and the way to work the matter so the squire will have it all in his own fingers, and don't let the old judge get a pick. Squire makes it square, hands the nigger over to Bob, Bob puts fifty cuts on his hide, makes him as clever as a kitten, and ships him off down south afore he has time to wink. Then, ye sees, I goes back as independent as a senator from Arkansas, and sues Captain Smith for damages in detainin' the property, and I makes him pay a right round sum, what larns him never to try that agin."
Thus Romescos concludes the details of his nefarious trade, amid cheers and bravos. The party are in ecstasies, evincing a singular merriment at the issue. There is nothing like liberty--liberty to do what you please, to turn freedom into barbarity! They gloat over the privileges of a free country; and, as Romescos recounts each proceeding,--tracing it into the lowest depths of human villainy, they sing songs to right, justice, freedom-they praise the bounties of a great country. How different is the picture below! Beneath this plotting conclave, devising schemes to defraud human nature of its rights, to bring poverty and disgrace upon happy families-all in accordance with the law-are chained in narrow cells poor mortals, hoping for an end to their dreary existence, pining under the weight of pinions dashing their very souls into endless despair. A tale of freedom is being told above, but their chains of death clank in solemn music as the midnight revelry sports with the very agony of their sorrows. Oh! who has made their lives a wanton jest?-can it be the will of heaven, or is it the birthright of a downtrodden race? They look for to-morrow, hope reverberates one happy thought, it may bring some tidings of joy; but again they sink, as that endless gloom rises before them. Hope fades from their feelings, from the bleeding heart for which compassion is dead. The tyrant's heart is of stone; what cares he for their supplications, their cries, their pleadings to heaven; such things have no dollars for him!
Arranging the preliminaries necessary for proceeding with Marston's affairs, they agreed to the plans, received orders from Graspum in reference to their proceedings on the following day, and retired to their homes, singing praises to great good laws, and the freedom of a free country.
Another Shade Of The Picture
WHILE the proceedings we have detailed in the foregoing chapter were progressing at Graspum's slave-pen, a different phase of the system was being discussed by several persons who had assembled at the house of Deacon Rosebrook. Rumour had been busy spreading its many-sided tales about Marston-his difficulties, his connection with Graspum, his sudden downfall. All agreed that Marston was a noble-minded fellow, generous to a fault-generous in his worst errors; and, like many other southerners, who meant well, though personally kind to his slaves, never set a good example in his own person. Religion was indispensably necessary to preserve submission; and, with a view to that end, he had made the Church a means of producing it.
Now, if the southerner resorted to the Church in the purity of Christian motives, he would merit that praise which many are so willing to bestow. Or, if Christianity were embraced by the southerner with heartfelt purity and faith, it would undoubtedly have a beneficial influence, elevate the character of the slave, promote kindly feelings between him and his master, and ultimately prove profitable to both. But where Christianity, used by irreligious persons, whose very acts destroy the vitality of the means, is made the medium of enforcing superstition, and of debasing the mind of the person it degrades into submission, its application becomes nothing less than criminal. It is criminal because it brings true religion into contempt, perverts Christianity-makes it a mockery, and gives to the degraded whites of the South a plea for discarding its precepts. Religion-were it not used as a mechanical agency-would elevate the degraded white population of the South; they would, through its influence, become valuable citizens.
These remarks have been forced upon us by observation. Frequently have we lamented its application, and grieved that its holy mission were made to serve the vilest purposes in a land of liberty, of Christian love. Religion a means of degrading the masses-a subservient agent! It is so, nevertheless; and men use it whose only desire it is to make it serve a property interest-the interest of making men, women, and children, more valuable in the market. God ordained it for a higher purpose,--man applies it for his benefit in the man-market. Hence, where the means for exercising the mind upon the right is forbidden-where ignorance becomes the necessary part of the maintenance of a system, and religion is applied to that end, it becomes farcical; and while it must combine all the imperfections of the performer, necessarily tends to confine the ignorance of those it seeks to degrade, within the narrowest boundary. There are different ways of destroying the rights of different classes; and as many different ways, after they are destroyed, of wiping out the knowledge of their ever having had rights. But, we regret to say, that most resorted to by the South, in the face of civilisation, is the Holy Scriptures, which are made the medium of blotting out all knowledge of the rights a people once possessed. The wrong-doer thus fears the result of natural laws; if they be allowed to produce results through the cultivation of a slave's mind, such may prove fatal to his immediate interests. And to maintain a system which is based on force, the southern minister of the gospel is doubly culpable in the sight of heaven; for while he stimulates ignorance by degrading the man, he mystifies the Word of God, that he may remain for ever and ever degraded.
What a deplorable process of stealing-nay, gently taking away the knowledge which an all-wise Providence has given to man as his inheritance; how it reduces his natural immunities to sensual misery! And, too, it forbids all legitimate influences that could possibly give the menial a link to elevation, to the formation of a society of his own. We would fain shrink from such a system of debasing mankind-even more, from the hideous crimes of those who would make Scripture the means to such an end. And yet, the Church defender of slavery-the Christian little one-his neck-cloth as white as the crimes he defends are black-must distinguish his arguments; and that the world may not suspect his devotion, his honesty, his serious intention, he points us to the many blessings of the plantation-service.
Heavenly divinity! Let us have faith in the little ones sent to teach it; they tell us slavery enforces Christianity! The management of ignorance under the direction of ministers of the gospel is certainly becoming well-defined; while statesmen more energetically legalise it. The one devises, the other carries out a law to make man ignorant of everything but labour. But while the statesman moulds the theory, the preacher manufactures Scripture texts, that the menial may believe God has ordained him the pliable victim.
Under the apparent necessity of the slave world, Marston had regularly paid Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy for preaching to his property on Sundays; and to the requisite end the good Elder felt himself in duty bound to inculcate humility in all things that would promote obedience to a master's will. Of course, one sermon was quite sufficient; and this the credulous property had listened to for more than three years. The effect was entirely satisfactory, the result being that the honest property were really impressed with a belief, that to evince Christian fortitude under suffering and punishment was the best means of cleansing themselves of the sins they were born to. This formality was misnamed Christianity--it was! And through the force of this one sermon the Elder became indolent; and indolence led him to its natural yoke-fellow-intemperance. His indulgent mood, such as we have described him enjoying in a previous chapter, became too frequent, leading to serious annoyances. They had been especially serious for Marston, whom they placed in an awkward situation before his property, and he resolved to tolerate them no longer. Probably this resolution was hastened by the sudden discovery of Harry's singular knowledge of Scripture; be that as it may, the only difficulty in the way was to know if Harry could be so trained, that he would preach the "right stripe" doctrine. This, however, was soon settled, and Marston not only suspended his engagement with the Elder, but entered into a contract with the neighbouring planters, by the terms of which Harry will fill their pulpit, and preach extempore--the Elder has brought written sermons into contempt with Harry--at a stipulated price per Sunday. In this new avocation-this leap from the plantation to the pulpit, Harry, as a piece of property, became extremely valuable; while, through the charm of his new black coat, he rose a great man in the estimation of the common property. Here was a valuable incentive of submission, a lesson for all bad niggers, a chance for them to improve under the peculiar institution. It proved to niggerdom what a good nigger could be if he only fear God and obey his master in all things.
Here was proof that a nigger could be something more than a nigger, in spite of southern philosophy. The Elder-good, pious man that he was-found himself out of pocket and out of preaching. Thrown upon the resources of his ingenuity, he had, in order to save the dictates of his conscience, while taking advantage of the many opportunities of making money afforded by the peculiar institution, entered upon another branch of business, having for its object the advancement of humanity. He resolved to go forth purchasing the sick and the dying; to reclaim sinking humanity and make it marketable.
But, before describing the vicissitudes through which Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy passes in his new mission of humanity, we must introduce the reader to the precincts of a neat little villa, situated at the outskirts of the city of C--. It is a small cottage surrounded with verandas and trellis-work, over which are creeping numerous woodbines and multafloras, spreading their fragrant blossoms, giving it an air of sequestered beauty. An arbour of grapevines extends from a little portico at the front to a wicker fence that separates the embankment of a well-arranged garden, in which are pots of rare plants, beds and walks decorated with flowers, presenting great care and taste. A few paces in the rear of the cottage are several "negro cabins" nicely white-washed without, and an air of cheerfulness and comfort reigning within. The house- servants are trimly dressed; they look and act as if their thoughts and affections were with "mas'r and missus." Their white aprons and clean bright frocks-some bombazine, and some gingham-give them an appearance of exactness, which, whether it be voluntary or force of discipline, bears evidence of attention in the slave, and encouragement on the part of the master. This is the Villa of Deacon Rosebrook; they call him deacon, by courtesy; in the same sense that Georgia majors and South Carolina generals are honoured with those far-famed titles which so distinguish them when abroad. Perhaps we should be doing the deacon no more than justice if we were to admit that he had preached in very respectable spheres; but, feeling that he was wanting in the purity of divine love-that he could not do justice to his conscience while setting forth teachings he did not follow, he laid the profession aside for the more genial associations of plantation life. Indeed, he was what many called a very easy backslider; and at times was recognised by the somewhat singular soubriquet of Deacon Pious-proof. But he was kind to his slaves, and had projected a system singularly at variance with that of his neighbours-a system of mildness, amelioration, freedom.
His plantation, a small one, some few miles from the Villa, presented the same neatness and comfort, the same cheerfulness among the negroes, and the same kindly feeling between master and slave, which characterised the Villa.
We enter a neatly-furnished parlour, where the deacon and a friend are seated on a sofa; various pictures are suspended from the wall,--everything betokens New England neatness. The old-fashioned dog-irons and fender are polished to exquisite brightness, a Brussels carpet spreads the floor, a bright surbase encircles the room; upon the flossy hearth-rug lies crouched the little canine pet, which Aunt Dolly has washed to snowy whiteness. Aunt Dolly enters the room with a low curtsy, gently raises the poodle, then lays him down as carefully as if he were an heir to the estate. Master is happy, "missus" is happy, and Aunt Dolly is happy; and the large bookcase, filled with well-selected volumes, adds to the air of contentment everywhere apparent. In a niche stands a large pier-table, upon which are sundry volumes with gilt edges, nets of cross-work, porcelain ornaments, and card-cases inlaid with mosaic. Antique tables with massive carved feet, in imitation of lions' paws, chairs of curious patterns, reclines and ottomans of softest material, and covered with satin damask, are arranged round the room in harmony and good taste.
Now, Mr. Scranton, the deacon says to his friend, who is a tall, prim, sedate-looking man, apparently about forty, "I pity Marston; I pity him because he is a noble-hearted fellow. But, after all, this whispering about the city may be only mother Rumour distributing her false tales. Let us hope it is all rumour and scandal. Come, tell me-what do you think of our negroes?"
Nigger character has not changed a bit in my mind, since I came south. Inferior race of mortals, sir!-without principles, and fit only for service and submission. A southern man knows their composition, but it takes a northern to study the philosophy-it does, replies Mr. Scranton, running his left hand over his forehead, and then his right over the crown of his head, as if to cover a bald spot with the scanty remnant of hair that projected from the sides.
The deacon smiles at the quaint reply. He knows Mr. Scranton's northern tenacity, and begs to differ with him. "You are ultra, a little ultra, in all things, Mr. Scranton. I fear it is that, carried out in morals as well as politics, that is fast reducing our system to degradation and tyranny. You northern gentlemen have a sort of pedantic solicitude for our rights, but you underrate our feelings upon the slavery question. I'm one among the few southerners who hold what are considered strange views: we are subjected to ridicule for our views; but it is only by those who see nothing but servitude in the negro,--nothing but dollars and cents in the institution of slavery."
Mr. Scranton is struck with astonishment, interrupts the argument by insisting upon the great superiority of the gentlemen whites, and the Bible philosophy which he can bring to sustain his argument.
Stop one moment, my philosophic friend, the deacon interposes, earnestly. "Upon that you northerners who come out here to sustain the cause of slavery for the south, all make fools of yourselves. This continual reasoning upon Bible philosophy has lost its life, funeral dirges have been played over it, the instruments are worn out. And yet, the subject of the philosophy lives,--he belies it with his physical vigour and moral action. We doubt the sincerity of northerners; we have reasons for so doing; they know little of the negro, and care less. Instead of assisting southerners who are inclined to do justice to the wretch-to be his friend-to improve his condition-to protect him against a tyrant's wrong, you bring us into contempt by your proclaiming virtue over the vice we acknowledge belongs to the institution. We know its defects-we fear them; but, in the name of heaven, do not defend them at the cost of virtue, truth, honesty. Do not debase us by proclaiming its glories over our heads;-do not take advantage of us by attempting to make wrong right." The deacon's feelings have become earnest; his face glows with animation.
Mr. Scranton seems discomfited. "That's just like all you southerners: you never appreciate anything we do for you. What is the good of our love, if you always doubt it?"
Such love! says the deacon, with a sarcastic curl on his lip. "It's cotton-bag love, as full of self as a pressed bale-"
But, deacon; you're getting up on the question.
Up as high as northern sincerity is low. Nothing personal, is the cool rejoinder.
Mr. Scranton inquires very seriously-wishing it particularly to be understood that he is not a fighting-man-if Deacon Rosebrook considers all northerners white-washed, ready to deceive through the dim shadows of self. The deacon's frank and manly opinion of northern editors and preachers disturbs Scranton's serious philosophy. "Cotton-bag love!" there's something in it, and contempt at the bottom, he declares within himself. And he gives a serious look, as much as to say-"go on."
I do! He who maketh right, what those most interested in know to be wrong, cherishes a bad motive. When a philosopher teaches doctrines that become doubtful in their ultraness, the weakness carries the insincerity,--the effort becomes stagnant. Never sell yourself to any class of evils for popularity's sake. If you attempt it you mistake the end, and sell yourself to the obscurity of a political trickster, flatttered by a few, believed by none.
Deacon! a little more moderate. Give us credit for the good we do. Don't get excited, don't. These are ticklish times, and we northerners are quick to observe-
Yes, when it will turn a penny on a nigger or a bale of cotton.
Allow me; one minute if you please! returned Scranton, with a nasal twang peculiar to his class, as he began to work himself up into a declamatory attitude. "You southerners don't understand what a force them northern abolitionists are bringing against you; and you know how slow you are to do things, and to let your property all go to waste while you might make a good speculation on it. There's just the difference of things: we study political economy so as to apply it to trade and such like; you let things go to waste, just thinking over it. And, you see, it's our nature to be restless and searching out the best avenues for developing trade. Why, deacon, your political philosophy would die out if the New Englander didn't edit your papers and keep your nigger principles straight."
Nigger principles straight! Ah, indeed! Only another evidence of that cotton bag love that has caused the banns of matrimony to be published between tyrants who disgrace us and northern speculators. The book-publisher-poor servile tool-fears to publish Mrs. Johnson's book, lest it should contain something to offend Mrs. Colonel Sportington, at the south. Mr. Stevens, the grocer, dare not put his vote into the ballot-box for somebody, because he fears one of his customers at the south will hear of it. Parson Munson dare not speak what he thinks in a New England village, because Mrs. Bruce and Deacon Donaldson have yearly interests in slaves at the south; and old Mattock, the boot-maker, thinks it aint right for niggers to be in church with white folks, and declares, if they do go, they should sit away back in one corner, up stairs. He thinks about the combination that brings wealth, old age, and the grave, into one vortex,--feels little misgiving upon humanity, but loves the union, and wants nothing said about niggers. We understand what it all means, Mr. Scranton; and we can credit it for what it's worth, without making any account for its sincerity and independence. I am one among the few who go for educating the negroes, and in that education to cultivate affections between slave and master, to make encouragement perform the part of discipline, and inspire energy through proper rewards.
What!-educate a nigger! These are pretty principles for a southerner to maintain! Why, sir, if such doctrines were advocated in the body politic they would be incendiary to southern institutions. Just educate the niggers, and I wouldn't be an editor in the south two days. You'd see me tramping, bag and baggage, for the north, much as I dislike it! It would never do to educate such a miserable set of wretches as they are. You may depend what I say is true, sir. Their condition is perfectly hopeless at the north, and the more you try to teach them, the greater nuisance they become.
Now, my good northern friend, not so fast, if you please; I can see the evil of all this, and so can you, if you will but study the negro's character a little deeper. The menial man who has passed through generations of oppression, and whose life and soul are blotted from the right of manhood, is sensitive of the power that crushes him. He has been robbed of the means of elevating himself by those who now accuse him of the crime of degradation: and, wherever the chance is afforded him of elevation, as that increases so does a tenacious knowledge of his rights; yet, he feels the prejudice that cuts and slights him in his progress, that charges him with the impudence of a negro, that calls his attempts to be a man mere pompous foolery.
And it is so! To see a nigger setting himself up among white folks-it's perfectly ridiculous!
Mark me, Mr. Scranton: there's where you northerners mistake yourselves. The negro seldom desires to mix with whites, and I hold it better they should keep together; but that two races cannot live together without the one enslaving the other is a fallacy popular only with those who will not see the future, and obstinately refuse to review the past. You must lessen your delicate sensibilities; and when you make them less painful to the man of colour at the north, believe me, the south will respond to the feeling. Experience has changed my feelings,--experience has been my teacher. I have based my new system upon experience; and its working justifies me in all I have said. Let us set about extracting the poison from our institutions, instead of losing ourselves in contemplating an abstract theory for its government.
Remember, deacon, men are not all born to see alike. There are rights and privileges belonging to the southerner: he holds the trade in men right, and he would see the Union sundered to atoms before he would permit the intervention of the federal government on that subject, Mr. Scranton seriously remarks, placing his two thumbs in the armpits of his vest, and assuming an air of confidence, as if to say, "I shall outsouthern the southerner yet, I shall."
That's just the point upon which all the villainy of our institution rests: the simple word man!-man a progressive being; man a chattel,--a thing upon which the sordid appetite of every wretch may feed. Why cannot Africa give up men? She has been the victim of Christendom-her flesh and blood have served its traffic, have enriched its coffers, and even built its churches; but like a ferocious wolf that preys upon the fold in spite of watchers, she yet steals Afric's bleeding victims, and frowns upon them because they are not white, nor live as white men live.
Mercy on me! says Mr. Scranton, with a sigh, "you can't ameliorate the system as it stands: that's out of the question. Begin to loosen the props, and the whole fabric will tumble down. And then, niggers won't be encouraged to work at a price for their labour; and how are you going to get along in this climate, and with such an enormous population of vagabonds?"
Remember, Mr. Scranton, ejaculated the deacon, "there's where you mistake the man in the negro; and through these arguments, set forth in your journal, we suffer. You must have contracted them by association with bad slave-owners. Mark ye! the negro has been sunk to the depths where we yet curse him; and is it right that we should keep him cursed?-to say nothing of the semi-barbarous position in which it finds our poor whites. He feels that his curse is for life-time; his hopes vibrate with its knowledge, and through it he falls from that holy inspiration that could make him a man, enjoying manhood's rights. Would not our energy yield itself a sacrifice to the same sacrificer? Had we been loaded with chains of tyranny, what would have been our condition? Would not that passion which has led the Saxon on to conquest, and spread his energy through the western world, have yielded when he saw the last shadow of hope die out, and realised that his degradation was for life-time? Would not the yearnings of such a consummation have recoiled to blast every action of the being who found himself a chattel? And yet this very chattel, thus yoked in death, toils on in doubts and fears, in humbleness and submission, with unrequited fortitude and affection. And still all is doubted that he does, even crushed in the prejudice against his colour!"
Well, deacon, you perfectly startle me, to hear a southerner talk that way at the south. If you keep on, you'll soon have an abolition society without sending north for it.
That's just what I want. I want our southerners to look upon the matter properly, and to take such steps as will set us right in the eyes of the world. Humanity is progressing with rapid strides-slavery cannot exist before it! It must fall; and we should prepare to meet it, and not be so ungrateful, at least, that we cannot reflect upon its worth, and give merit to whom merit is due. Thus were presented the north and south; the former loses her interests in humanity by seeking to serve the political ends of the latter.