We Change With Fortune
BUT a few months have passed since the popularly called gallant M'Carstrow led the fair Franconia to the hymeneal altar; and, now that he has taken up his residence in the city, the excitement of the honeymoon is waning, and he has betaken himself to his more congenial associations. The beautiful Franconia for him had but transient charms, which he now views as he would objects necessary to the gratifications of his coarse passions. His feelings have not been softened with those finer associations which make man the kind patron of domestic life; nor is his mind capable of appreciating that respect for a wife which makes her an ornament of her circle. Saloons, race-courses, and nameless places, have superior attractions for him: home is become but endurable.
In truth, Franconia, compelled to marry in deference to fortune, finds she is ensnared into misfortunes. M'Carstrow (Colonel by courtesy) had fifteen hundred dollars, cash down, to pay for Clotilda: this sad grievance excites his feelings, inasmuch as it was all owing to his wife's whims, and the poverty of her relations. The verdict of the jury, recently rendered, was to his mind a strictly correct one; but he cannot forget the insane manner in which the responsibility was fastened upon him, and the hard cash-which might have made two handsome stakes on the turf-drawn from his pocket. His wife's poverty-stricken relations he now detests, and can tolerate them best when farthest away from him. But Franconia does not forget that he is her husband; no, night after night she sits at the window until midnight, waiting his return. Feeble and weary with anxiety, she will despatch a negro on a hopeless errand of search; he, true to his charge, returns with the confidential intelligence of finding Mas'r in a place less reputable than it is proper to mention. Such is our southern society,--very hospitable in language, chivalrous in memory,--base in morals! Some- times the gallant colonel deems it necessary to remain until daylight, lest, in returning by night, the pavement may annoy his understanding. Of this, however, he felt the world knew but little. Now and then, merely to keep up the luxury of southern life, the colonel finds it gratifying to his feelings, on returning home at night, to order a bed to be made for him in one of the yard-houses, in such manner as to give the deepest pain to his Franconia. Coarse and dissolute, indifference follows, cold and cutting; she finds herself a mere instrument of baser purpose in the hands of one she knows only as a ruffian-she loathes! Thus driven under the burden of trouble, she begins to express her unhappiness, to remonstrate against his associations, to plead with him against his course of life. He jeers at this, scouts such prudery, proclaims it far beneath the dignity of his standing as a southern gentleman.
The generous woman could have endured his dissipation-she might have tolerated his licentiousness, but his arbitrary and very uncalled-for remarks upon the misfortunes of her family are more than she can bear. She has tried to respect him-love him she cannot-and yet her sensitive nature recoils at the thought of being attached to one whose feelings and associations are so at variance with her own. Her impulsive spirit quails under the bitterness of her lot; she sees the dreary waste of trouble before her only to envy the happiness of those days of rural life spent on the old plantation. That she should become fretful and unhappy is a natural consequence.
We must invite the reader to go with us to M'Carstrow's residence, an old-fashioned wooden building, three stories high, with large basement windows and doors, on the south side of King Street. It is a wet, gloomy night, in the month of November,--the wind, fierce and chilling, has just set in from the north-east; a drenching rain begins to fall, the ships in the harbour ride ill at ease; the sudden gusts of wind, sweeping through the narrow streets of the city, lighted here and there by the sickly light of an old-fashioned lamp, bespread the scene with drear. At a second-story window, lighted by a taper burning on the sill, sits Franconia, alone, waiting the return of M'Carstrow. M'Carstrow is enjoying his night orgies! He cares neither for the pelting storm, the anxiety of his wife, nor the sweets of home.
A gust of wind shakes the house; the windows rattle their stormy music; the cricket answers to the wailings of the gale as it gushes through the crevices; Franconia's cares are borne to her husband. Now the wind subsides,--a slow rap is heard at the hall door, in the basement: a female servant, expecting her master, hastens to open it. Her master is not there; the wind has extinguished the flaring light; and the storm, sweeping through the sombre arch, spreads noise and confusion. She runs to the kitchen, seizes the globular lamp, and soon returns, frightened at the sight presented in the door. Master is not there-it is the lean figure of a strange old "nigger," whose weather-worn face, snowy with beard and wrinkled with age, is lit up with gladness. He has a warm soul within him,--a soul not unacceptable to heaven! The servant shrinks back,--she is frightened at the strange sight of the strange old man. "Don' be feared, good child; Bob ain't bad nigger," says the figure, in a guttural whisper.
An't da'h fo'h notin good; who is ye'? returns the girl, holding the globular lamp before her shining black face. Cautiously she makes a step or two forward, squinting at the sombre figure of the old negro, as he stands trembling in the doorway. "Is my good young Miss wid'n?" he enquires, in the same whispering voice, holding his cap in his right hand.
Reckon how ye bes be gwine out a dat afo'h Miss come. Yer miss don' lib in dis ouse. So saying, the girl is about to close the door in the old man's face, for he is ragged and dejected, and has the appearance of a "suspicious nigger without a master."
Don' talk so, good gal; ye don' know dis old man,--so hungry,--most starved. I lub Miss Franconia. Tell she I'ze here, he says, in a supplicating tone, as the girl, regaining confidence, scrutinises him from head to foot with the aid of her lamp.
The servant is about to request he will come inside that she may shut out the storm. "Frankone knows old Daddy Bob,--dat she do!" he reiterates, working his cap in his fingers. The familiar words have caught Franconia's ear; she recognises the sound of the old man's voice; she springs to her feet, as her heart gladdens with joy. She bounds down the stairs, and to the door, grasps the old man's hand, as a fond child warmly grasps the hand of a parent, and welcomes him with the tenderness of a sister. "Poor-my poor old Daddy!" she says, looking in his face so sweetly, so earnestly, "where have you come from? who bought you? how did you escape?" she asks, in rapid succession. Holding his hand, she leads him along the passage, as he tells her. "Ah, missus, I sees hard times since old mas'r lef' de plantation. Him an't how he was ven you dah." He views her, curiously, from head to foot; kisses her hand; laughs with joy, as he was wont to laugh on the old plantation.
Faithful as ever, Daddy? You found me out, and came to see me, didn't you? says Franconia, so kindly, leading him into a small room on the left hand of the hall, where, after ordering some supper for him, she begs he will tell her all about his wayfaring. It is some minutes before Bob can get an opportunity to tell Franconia that he is a fugitive, having escaped the iron grasp of the law to stand true to old mas'r. At length he, in the enthusiastic boundings of his heart, commences his story.
Nigger true, Miss Franconia-he mumbles out-"on'e gib 'im chance to be. Ye sees, Bob warn't gwine t' lef' old mas'r, nohow; so I gin 'ein da slip when'e come t' takes 'em fo'h sell-"
Then they didn't sell you, old Dad? That's good! that's good! And Daddy's cold and wet? she interrupts, anxiously, telling the servant to get some dry clothes for him.
I is dat, Miss Frankone. Han't ad nofin t' eat dis most two days, he returns, looking at her affectionately, with one of those simple smiles, so true, so expressive.
A supper is soon ready for Daddy, to which he sits down as if he were about to renew all his former fondness and familiarity. "Seems like old times, don 'un, Miss Frankone? Wish old mas'r war here, too," says the old man, putting the bowl of coffee to his lips, and casting a side-look at the servant.
Franconia sits watching him intently, as if he were a child just rescued from some impending danger. "Don't mention my poor uncle, Daddy. He feels as much interest in you as I do; but the world don't look upon him now as it once did-"
Neber mind: I gwine to work fo' old mas'r. It'll take dis old child to see old mas'r all right, replies the old man, forgetting that he is too old to take care of himself, properly. Bob finishes his supper, rests his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, and commences disclosing his troubles to Franconia. He tells her how he secreted himself in the pine-woods,--how he wandered through swamps, waded creeks, slept on trunks of trees, crept stealthily to the old mansion at night, listened for mas'r's footsteps, and watched beneath the veranda; and when he found he was not there, how he turned and left the spot, his poor heart regretting. How his heart beat as he passed the old familiar cabin, retracing his steps to seek a shelter in the swamp; how, when he learned her residence, famished with hunger, he wended his way into the city to seek her out, knowing she would relieve his wants.
What vil da do wid me, spose da cotch me, Miss Frankone? enquires the old man, simply, looking down at his encrusted feet, and again at his nether wardrobe, which he feels is not just the thing to appear in before young missus.
They won't do anything cruel to you, Daddy. You are too old; your grey hairs will protect you. Why, Daddy, you would not fetch a bid if they found out who owned you, and put you up at auction to-morrow, she says, with seeming unconsciousness. She little knew how much the old man prided in his value,--how much he esteemed the amount of good work he could do for master. He shakes his head, looks doubtingly at her, as if questioning the sincerity of her remark.
Just get Daddy Bob-he mutters-a badge, den 'e show missus how much work in 'um.
Franconia promises to comply with his request, and, with the aid of a friend, will intercede for him, and procure for him a badge, that he may display his energies for the benefit of old mas'r. This done, she orders the servant to show him his bed in one of the "yard houses;" bids the old man an affectionate good night, retires to her room, and watches the return of her truant swain.
There, seated in an arm-chair, she waits, and waits, and waits, hope and anxiety recording time as it passes. The servant has seen Daddy safe in his room, and joins her missus, where, by the force of habit, she coils herself at her feet, and sleeps. She has not long remained in this position when loud singing breaks upon her ear; louder and louder it vibrates through the music of the storm, and approaches. Now she distinctly recognises the sharp voice of M'Carstrow, which is followed by loud rappings at the door of the basement hall. M'Carstrow, impatiently, demands entrance. The half-sleeping servant, startled at the noise, springs to her feet, rubs her eyes, bounds down the stairs, seizes the globular lamp, and proceeds to open the door. Franconia, a candle in her hand, waits at the top of the stairs. She swings back the door, and there, bespattered with mud, face bleeding and distorted, and eyes glassy, stands the chivalrous M'Carstrow. He presents a sorry picture; mutters, or half growls, some sharp imprecations; makes a grasp at the girl, falls prostrate on the floor. Attempting to gain his perpendicular, he staggers a few yards-the girl screaming with fright-and groans as his face again confronts the tiles. To make the matter still worse, three of his boon companions follow him, and, almost in succession, pay their penance to the floor, in an indescribable catacomb.
I tell you what, Colonel! if that nigger gal a' yourn don't stand close with her blazer we'll get into an all-fired snarl, says one, endeavouring to extricate himself and regain his upright. After sundry ineffectual attempts, surging round the room in search of his hat, which is being very unceremoniously transformed into a muff beneath their entangled extremes, he turns over quietly, saying, "There's something very strange about the floor of this establishment,--it don't seem solid; 'pears how there's ups and downs in it." They wriggle and twist in a curious pile; endeavour to bring their knees out of "a fix"--to free themselves from the angles which they are most unmathematically working on the floor. Working and twisting,--now staggering, and again giving utterance to the coarsest language,--one of the gentry--they belong to the sporting world-calls loudly for the colonel's little 'oman. Regaining his feet, he makes indelicate advances towards the female servant, who, nearly pale with fright--a negro can look pale--runs to her mistress at the top of the stairs.
He misses the frightened maid, and seats himself on the lowest step of the stairs. Here he delivers a sort of half-musical soliloquy, like the following: "Gentlemen! this kind a' thing only happens at times, and isn't just the square thing when yer straight; but--seein' how southern life will be so--when a body get's crooked what's got a wife what don't look to matters and things, and never comes to take care on a body when he's done gone, he better shut up shop. Better be lookin' round to see what he can scare up!"
Franconia holds the flaring light over the stairs: pale and death-like, she trembles with fear, every moment expecting to see them ascend.
I see the colonel's 'oman! yander she is; she what was imposed on him to save the poverty of her folks. The M'Carstrows know a thing or two: her folks may crawl under the dignity of the name, but they don't shell under the dignity of the money-they don't! says a stalwart companion, attempting to gain a position by the side of his fellow on the steps. He gives a leering wink, contorts his face into a dozen grimaces, stares vacantly round the hall (sliding himself along on his hands and knees), his glassy eyes inflamed like balls of fire. "It'll be all square soon," he growls out.
The poor affrighted servant again attempts-having descended the stairs-to relieve her master; but the crawling creature has regained his feet. He springs upon her like a fiend, utters a fierce yell, and, snatching the lamp from her hand, dashes it upon the tiles, spreading the fractured pieces about the hall. Wringing herself from his grasp, she leaves a portion of her dress in his bony hand, and seeks shelter in a distant part of the hall. Holding up the fragment as a trophy, he staggers from place to place, making hieroglyphics on the wall with his fingers. His misty mind searches for some point of egress. Confronting (rather uncomfortably) hat stands, tables, porcelains, and other hall appurtenances, he at length shuffles his way back to the stairs, where, as if doubting his bleered optics, he stands some moments, swaying to and fro. His hat again falls from his head, and his body, following, lays its lumbering length on the stairs. Happy fraternity! how useful is that body! His companion, laying his muddled head upon it, says it will serve for a pillow. "E'ke-hum-spose 'tis so? I reckon how I'm some-ec! eke!-somewhere or nowhere; aint we, Joe? It's a funny house, fellers," he continues to soliloquise, laying his arm affectionately over his companion's neck, and again yielding to the caprice of his nether limbs.
The gentlemen will now enjoy a little refreshing sleep; to further which enjoyment, they very coolly and unceremoniously commence a pot-pourri of discordant snoring. This seems of grateful concord for their boon companions, who-forming an equanimity of good feeling on the floor-join in.
The servant is but a slave, subject to her owner's will; she dare not approach him while in such an uncertain condition. Franconia cannot intercede, lest his companions, strangers to her, and having the appearance of low-bred men, taking advantage of M'Carstrow's besotted condition, make rude advances. M'Carstrow, snoring high above his cares, will take his comfort upon the tiles.
The servant is supplied with another candle, which, at Franconia's bidding, she places in a niche of the hall. It will supply light to the grotesque sleepers, whose lamp has gone out.
Franconia has not forgotten that M'Carstrow is her husband; she has not forgotten that she owes him a wife's debt of kindness. She descends the stairs gently, leans over his besotted body, smooths his feverish brow with her hand, and orders the servant to bring a soft cushion; which done, she raises his head and places it beneath-so gently, so carefully. Her loving heart seems swelling with grief, as compassionately she gazes upon him; then, drawing a cambric handkerchief from her bosom, spreads it so kindly over his face. Woman! there is worth in that last little act. She leaves him to enjoy his follies, but regrets their existence. Retiring to the drawing-room, agitated and sleepless, she reclines on a lounge to await the light of morning. Again the faithful servant, endeavouring to appease her mistress's agitation, crouches upon the carpet, resting her head on the ottoman at Franconia's feet.
The morning dawns bright and sunny: Franconia has not slept. She has passed the hours in watchfulness; has watched the negro sleeping, while her thoughts were rivetted to the scene in the hall. She gets up, paces the room from the couch to the window, and sits down again undecided, unresolved. Taking Diana-such is the servant's name-by the hand, she wakes her, and sends her into the hall to ascertain the condition of the sleepers. The metamorphosed group, poisoning the air with their reeking breath, are still enjoying the morbid fruits of their bacchanalianism. Quietly, coolly, and promiscuously, they lay as lovingly as fellows of the animal world could desire.
The servant returns, shaking her head. "Missus, da'h lays yander, so in all fixins dat no tellin' which most done gone. Mas'r seems done gone, sartin!" says the servant, her face glowing with apprehension.
The significant phrase alarms Franconia. She repairs to the hall, and commences restoring the sleepers to consciousness. The gentlemen are doggedly obstinate; they refuse to be disturbed. She recognises the face of one whose business it is to reduce men to the last stage of poverty. Her sensitive nature shudders at the sight, as she views him with a curl of contempt on her lip. "Oh, M'Carstrow,--M'Carstrow!" she whispers, and taking him by the hand, shakes it violently. M'Carstrow, with countenance ghastly and inflamed, begins to raise his sluggish head. He sees Franconia pensively gazing in his face; and yet he enquires who it is that disturbs the progress of his comforts. "Only me!" says the good woman, soliciting him to leave his companions and accompany her.
Oh, you, is it?" he replies, grumblingly, rising on his right elbow, and rubbing his eyes with his left hand. Wildly and vacantly he stares round the hall, as if aroused from a trance, and made sensible of his condition.
Yes, me-simply me, who, lost to your affections, is made most unhappy- Franconia would proceed, but is interrupted by her muddling swain.
Unhappy! unhappy! says the man of southern chivalry, making sundry irresistible nods. "Propagator of mischief, of evil contentions, of peace annihilators. Ah! ah! ah! Thinking about the lustre of them beggared relations. It always takes fools to make a fuss over small things: an angel wouldn't make a discontented woman happy." Franconia breaks out into a paroxysm of grief, so unfeeling is the tone in which he addresses her. He is a southern gentleman,--happily not of New England in his manners, not of New England in his affections, not of New England in his domestic associations. He thinks Franconia very silly, and scouts with derision the idea of marrying a southern gentleman who likes enjoyment, and then making a fuss about it. He thinks she had better shut up her whimpering,--learn to be a good wife upon southern principles.
Husbands should be husbands, to claim a wife's respect; and they should never forget that kindness makes good wives. Take away the life springs of woman's love, and what is she? What is she with her happiness gone, her pride touched, her prospects blasted? What respect or love can she have for the man who degrades her to the level of his own loathsome companions? Franconia points to those who lie upon the floor, repulsive, and reeking with the fumes of dissipation. "There are your companions," she says.
Companions? he returns, enquiringly. He looks round upon them with surprise. "Who are those fellows you have got here?" he enquires, angrily.
You brought them to your own home; that home you might make happy-
Not a bit of it! They are some of your d-d disreputable relations.
My relations never violate the conduct of gentlemen. "No; but they sponge on me. These my companions!" looking at them inquisitively. "Oh, no! Don't let us talk about such things; I'ze got fifteen hundred dollars and costs to pay for that nigger gal you were fool enough to get into a fit about when we were married. That's what I'ze got for my good-heartedness." M'Carstrow permits his very gentlemanly southern self to get into a rage. He springs to his feet suddenly, crosses and recrosses the hall like one frenzied with excitement. Franconia is frightened, runs up the stairs, and into her chamber, where, secreting herself, she fastens the door. He looks wistfully after her, stamping his foot, but he will not follow. Too much of a polished gentleman, he will merely amuse himself by running over the gamut of his strongest imprecations. The noise creates general alarm among his companions, who, gaining their uprights, commence remonstrating with him on his rude conduct, as if they were much superior beings.
Now, colonel, major,--or whatever they dubbed ye, in the way of a title, says one, putting his hand to his hat with a swaggering bow; "just stop that ar' sort a' nonsense, and pay over this 'ere little affair afore we gets into polite etiquette and such things. When, to make the expenses, ye comes into a place like ours, and runs up a credit score,--when ye gets so lofty that ye can't tell fifty from five, we puts a sealer on, so customers don't forget in the morning." The modest gentleman presents to M'Carstrow's astonished eyes a note for twenty-seven hundred dollars, with the genuine signature. M'Carstrow takes it in his hand, stares at it, turns it over and over. The signature is his; but he is undecided about the manner of its getting there, and begins to give expression to some doubt.
The gentleman watches M'Carstrow very cautiously. "Straight! colonel-he says-just turn out the shiners, or, to 'commodate, we'll let ye off with a sprinkling of niggers."
The colonel puts the fore-finger of his left hand to his lips, and, with serious countenance, walks twice or thrice across the hall, as if consulting his dignity: "Shell out the niggers first; we'll take the dignity part a'ter," he concludes.
I demand to know how you came in my house, interrupts the colonel, impatiently. He finds himself in very bad company; company southern gentlemen never acknowledge by daylight.
We brought you here! Anything else you'd like to know? is the cool, sneering response. The gentleman will take a pinch of snuff; he draws his fancy box from his pocket, gives the cover a polite rap with his finger, invites the enraged M'Carstrow to "take." That gentleman shakes his head,--declines. He is turning the whole affair over in his head, seems taking it into serious consideration. Seriously, he accepted their accommodation, and now finds himself compelled to endure their painful presence.
I, I, I-m, rather in doubt, stammers M'Carstrow, fingering the little obligation again, turning it over and over, rubbing his eyes, applying his glass. He sees nothing in the signature to dispute. "I must stop this kind of fishing," he says; "don't do. It 's just what friend Scranton would call very bad philosophy. Gentlemen, suppose you sit down; we'd better consider this matter a little. Han't got a dime in the bank, just now." M'Carstrow is becoming more quiet, takes a philosophical view of the matter, affects more suavity. Calling loudly for the negro servant, that personage presents herself, and is ordered to bring chairs to provide accommodation for the gentlemen, in the hall.
Might just as well settle the matter in the parlour, colonel; t'wont put you out a mite, the gambler suggests, with a laconic air. He will not trouble M'Carstrow by waiting for his reply. No; he leads the way, very coolly, asking no odds of etiquette; and, having entered the apartment, invites his comrades to take seats. The dignity and coolness with which the manouvre is executed takes "Boss" M'Carstrow by surprise; makes him feel that he is merely a dependent individual, whose presence there is not much need of. "I tell you what it is, gents, I'ze shaved my accounts at the bank down to the smallest figure, have! but there's an honourable consideration about this matter; and, honour's honour, and I want to discharge it somehow--niggers or cash!" The gentlemen's feelings have smoothed down amazingly. M'Carstrow is entirely serious, and willing to comply.
The gentlemen have seated themselves in a triangle, with the "done over" colonel in the centre.
Well, niggers will do just as well, provided they are sound, prime, and put at prices so a feller can turn 'em into tin, quick, says the gentleman, who elects himself spokesman of the party.
Keeps my property in tall condition, but won't shove it off under market quotations, no how! M'Carstrow interrupts, as the spokesman, affecting the nonchalance of a newly-elected alderman, places his feet upon the rich upholstery of a sofa close by. He would enjoy the extremes of southern comfort. "Colonel, I wish you had a more convenient place to spit," rejoins the gentleman. He will not trouble the maid, however-he let's fly the noxious mixture, promiscuously; it falls from his lips upon the soft hearth-rug. "It will add another flower to the expensive thing," he says, very coolly, elongating his figure a little more. He has relieved himself, wondrously. M'Carstrow calls the servant, points to the additional wreath on the hearth-rug!
All your nigger property as good-conditioned as that gal? enquires the gentleman, the others laughing at the nicety of his humour. Rising from his seat very deliberately, he approaches the servant, lays his hand upon her neck and shoulders.
Not quite so fast, my friend: d-n it, gentlemen, don't be rude. That's coming the thing a little too familiar. There is a medium: please direct your moist appropriations and your improper remarks in their proper places. The girl, cringing beneath the ruffian's hand, places the necessary receptacle at his feet.
The gentleman is offended,--very much offended. He thinks it beneath the expansion of his mind-to be standing on aristocratic nonsense! "Spit boxes and nigger property ain't the thing to stand on about haristocrats; just put down the dimes. Three bright niggers 'll do: turn 'em out."
Three of my best niggers! ejaculates the Colonel.
Nothin' shorter, Colonel.
Remember, gentlemen, the market price of such property. The demand for cotton has made niggers worth their weight in gold, for any purpose. Take the prosperity of our country into consideration, gentlemen; remember the worth of prime men. The tip men of the market are worth 1200 dollars.
Might as well lay that kind a' financerin aside, Colonel. What's the use of living in a free country, where every man has a right to make a penny when he can, and talk so? Now, 'pears to me t'aint no use a' mincing the matter; we might a' leaked ye in for as many thousands as hundreds. Seein' how ye was a good customer, we saved ye on a small shot. Better put the niggers out: ownin' such a lot, ye won't feel it! Give us three prime chaps; none a' yer old sawbones what ye puts up at auction when ther' worked down to nothin'.
M'Carstrow's powers of reasoning are quite limited; and, finding himself in one of those strange situations southern gentlemen so often get into, and which not unfrequently prove as perplexing as the workings of the peculiar institution itself, he seeks relief by giving an order for three prime fellows. They will be delivered up, at the plantation, on the following day, when the merchandise will be duly made over, as per invoice. Everything is according to style and honour; the gentlemen pledge their faith to be gentlemen, to leave no dishonourable loop-hole for creeping out. And now, having settled the little matter, they make M'Carstrow the very best of bows, desire to be remembered to his woman, bid him good morning, and leave. They will claim their property-three prime men-by the justice of a "free-born democracy."
M'Carstrow watches them from the house, moralising over his folly. They have gone! He turns from the sight, ascends the stairs, and repairs to meet his Franconia.
The Vicissitudes Of A Preacher
WE left Harry, the faithful servant, whose ministerial functions had been employed in elevating the souls of Marston's property, being separated from his wife and sold to Mr. M'Fadden. M'Fadden is a gentleman--we do not impugn the name, in a southern sense--of that class--very large class--who, finding the laws of their own country too oppressive for their liberal thoughts, seek a republican's home in ours. It is to such men, unhappily, the vices of slavery are open. They grasp them, apply them to purposes most mercenary, most vile. The most hardened of foreigners-that essence of degraded outcasts,--may, under the privileges of slavery, turn human misery into the means of making money. He has no true affiliations with the people of the south, nor can he feel aught beyond a selfish interest in the prosperity of the State; but he can be active in the work of evil. With the foreigner--we speak from observation--affecting love of liberty at home, it would seem, only makes him the greater tyrant when slavery gives him power to execute its inhuman trusts. Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden is one of this description of persons; he will make a fortune in the South, and live a gentleman in the North-- perhaps, at home on his own native Isle. Education he has none; moral principle he never enjoyed,--never expects to. He is a tall, athletic man, nearly six feet two inches in height, with extremely broad, stooping shoulders, and always walks as if he were meditating some speculation. His dress is usually of southern red-mixed homespun,--a dress which he takes much pride in wearing, in connection with a black brigand hat, which gives his broad face, projecting cheek-bones, and blunt chin, a look of unmistakeable sullenness. Add to this a low, narrow forehead, generally covered with thick tufts of matted black hair, beneath which two savage eyes incessantly glare, and, reader, you have the repulsive personification of the man. Mr. M'Fadden has bought a preacher,--an article with the very best kind of a soul,--which he would send to his place in the country. Having just sent the article to the rail-road, he stands in a neighbouring bar-room, surrounded by his cronies, who are joining him in a social glass, discussing the qualities of the article preacher. We are not favoured with the point at issue; but we hear Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden say, with great force,--"Preachers are only good property under certain circumstances; and if them circumstances ain't just so, it won't do to buy 'em. Old aristocrat rice planters may make a good thing or two on 'em, because they can make 'em regulate the cummin' o' their property, and make it understand what the Lord says about minding their masters." For his-Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's-own part, he wouldn't give seven coppers for the thinking part of any property, having no belief in that fashionable way of improving its value. "My preacher has been nicely packed up and sent off in advance," he says, wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, and smacking his lips, as he twirls his glass upon the zinc counter, shakes hands with his friends-they congratulate him upon the good bargain in his divine-and proceeds to the railroad dep“t. Harry has arrived nearly two hours in advance,--delivered in good condition, as stated in a receipt which he holds in his hand, and which purports to be from the baggage-master. "Ah! here you are," says M'Fadden, taking the paper from Harry's hand, as he enters the luggage-room. "Take good care on ye,--I reckon I will!" He looks down upon him with an air of satisfaction. The poor preacher-the soul-glowing property-is yet chained, hand and foot. He sits upon the cold floor, those imploring eyes swelling at the thought that freedom only awaits him in another world. M'Fadden takes a little flask from his breast pocket, and, with a motion of kindness, draws the cork, passes it to him. "It's whiskey!" he says; "take a drop-do ye good, old feller." Quietly the man passes it to his lips, and moistens his mouth. "No winking and blinking-it's tip-top stuff," enjoins M'Fadden; "don't get it every day."
Mr. M'Fadden will take a little himself. "Glad to find ye here, all straight!" he mutters, taking the flask from his mouth. He had returned the receipt to his property; and, having gratified his appetite a little, he begins to take a more perspective view of his theological purchase.
Yes, master; I am here! He again holds up his chained hands, drops his face upon his knees; as much as to say, be sure I am all safe and sound.
Looking at the receipt again, and then at his preacher, "Guess 'hain't made a bad rap on ye' to-day!" he ejaculates, taking out his pocket-book and laying away the precious paper as carefully as if it were a hundred dollar note. "Should like to have bought your old woman and young 'uns, but hadn't tin enough. And the way stock's up now, ain't slow! Look up here, my old buck! just put on a face as bright and smooth as a full moon-no sulkin'. Come along here."
The manacled preacher turns upon his hands, gets up as best he can-M'Fadden kindly assists by taking hold of his shoulder-and follows his purchaser to the platform,--like a submissive animal goaded to the very flesh, but chained, lest it make some show of resentment. "Good heap o' work in ye', old chuck; had a master what didn't understand bringing on't out, though!" mutters M'Fadden, as he introduces Harry to the negro car, at the same time casting a look of satisfaction at the brakeman standing at his left hand ready to receive the freight.
In the car-a dungeon-like box about ten feet square, the only aperture for admitting light being a lattice of about eight inches square, in the door-are three rough negro men and one woman, the latter apparently about twenty years of age.
Got a tall chap here, boys! Make ye stand round some, in pickin' time; and can preach, too. M'Fadden shakes his head exultingly! "Can put in the big licks preachin'; and I'ze goin' t' let 'im, once in a while. Goin' t' have good times on my place, boys--ha'h! Got a jug of whiskey to have a fandango when ye gits home. Got it somewhere, I knows." Mr. M'Fadden exults over the happy times his boys have at home. He shakes himself all over, like a polar bear just out of the water, and laughs heartily. He has delivered himself of something that makes everybody else laugh; the mania has caught upon his own subtle self. The negroes laugh in expressive cadences, and shrug their shoulders as Mr. M'Fadden continues to address them so sportively, so familiarly. Less initiated persons might have formed very satisfactory opinions of his character. He takes a peep under one of the seats, and with a rhapsody of laughter draws forth a small jug. "You can't come the smuggle over me, boys! I knew ye had a shot somewhere," he exclaims. At his bidding, the woman hands him a gourd, from which he very deliberately helps himself to a stout draught.
Sit down here!-Isaac, Abraham, Daniel, or whatever yer name is-Mr. M'Fadden addresses himself to his preacher. Ye'll get yer share on't when ye gits to my place. He sets the jug down, and passes the gourd back, saying: "What a saucy hussy ye are!" slapping the woman's black shoulder playfully. "Give him some-won't ye', boys?" he concludes.
Mr. M'Fadden (the cars are not yet ready to start, but the dep“t is thronging with travellers, and the engine is puffing and snorting, as the driver holds his hand on the throttle, and the stoker crams with pitch pine knots the iron steed of fiery swiftness) will step out and take the comfort of his cigar. He pats his preacher on the shoulder, takes off his shackles, rubs his head with his hand, tells the boys to keep an eye on him. "Yes, mas'r," they answer, in tones of happy ignorance. The preacher must be jolly, keep on a bright face, never mind the old gal and her young 'uns, and remember what a chance he will have to get another. He can have two or more, if he pleases; so says his very generous owner.
Mr. M'Fadden shakes hands with his friends on the platform, smokes his cigar leisurely, mingles with the crowd importantly, thinking the while what an unalloyed paragon of amiability he is. Presently the time-bell strikes its warning; the crowd of passengers rush for the cars; the whistle shrieks; the exhaust gives forth its gruff snorts, the connections clank, a jerk is felt, and onward bounds-mighty in power, but controlled by a finger's slightest touch-the iron steed, dragging its curious train of living merchandise.
M'Fadden again finds his way to the negroes' car, where, sitting down in front of his property, he will take a bird's-eye view of it. It is very fascinating to a man who loves the quality of such articles as preachers. He will draw his seat somewhat closer to the minister; his heart bounds with joy at the prime appearance of his purchase. Reaching out his hand, he takes the cap from Harry's head, throws it into the woman's lap; again rubs his hair into a friz. Thus relieved of his pleasing emotions, he will pass into one of the fashionable cars, and take his place among the aristocrats.
Boss mighty funny when 'e come t' town, and git just so 'e don't see straight: wish 'e so good wen 'e out da'h on de plantation yander, ejaculates one of the negroes, who answers to the name-Joe! Joe seems to have charge of the rest; but he watches M'Fadden's departure with a look of sullen hatred.
Hard old Boss on time-an't he, boys? enquires Harry, as an introduction to the conversation.
Won't take ye long t' find 'um out, I reckon! Git nigger on de plantation 'e don't spa' him, nohow, rejoins another.
Lor', man, if ye ain't tough ye'll git used up in no time, wid him! the woman speaks up, sharply. Then, pulling her ragged skirts around her, she casts a sympathising look at Harry, and, raising her hand in a threatening attitude, and shaking it spitefully in the direction M'Fadden has gone, says:--"If only had dat man, old Boss, where 'um could revenge 'um, how a' would make 'um suffer! He don' treat 'e nigger like 'e do 'e dog. If 'twarn't fo'h Buckra I'd cut 'e troat, sartin." This ominous expression, delivered with such emphasis, satisfies Harry that he has got into the hands of a master very unlike the kind and careless Marston.
Onward the cars speed, with clanking music making din as they go. One of the negroes will add something to change the monotony. Fumbling beneath the seats for some minutes, he draws forth a little bag, carefully unties it, and presents his favourite violin. Its appearance gladdens the hearts of his comrades, who welcome it with smiling faces and loud applause. The instrument is of the most antique and original description. It has only two strings; but Simon thinks wonders of it, and would not swap it for a world of modern fiddles, what don't touch the heart with their music. He can bring out tremendous wailings with these two strings; such as will set the whole plantation dancing. He puts it through the process of tuning, adding all the scientific motions and twists of an Italian first-fiddling artiste. Simon will moisten its ears by spitting on them, which he does, turning and twisting himself into the attitudes of a pompous maestro. But now he has got it in what he considers the very nick of tune; it makes his face glow with satisfaction. "Jest-lef'-'um cum, Simon;--big and strong!" says Joe, beginning to keep time by slapping his hands on his knees. And such a sawing, such a scraping, as he inflicts, never machine of its kind, ancient or modern, got before. Simon and his companions are in ecstasies; but such cross-grained, such painful jingling of sounds! Its charm is irresistible with the negro; he mustn't lose a note of the tune; every creak is exhausted in a break-down dance, which the motion of the "Jim Crow" car makes more grotesque by every now and then jolting them into a huddle in one corner.
Mr. M'Fadden has been told that his property are having a lively time, and thinks he will leave his aristocratic friends, and go to see it; here he is followed by several young gentlemen, anxious to enjoy the hilarity of the scene.
All my property,--right prime, isn't it? says M'Fadden, exultingly, nudging one of the young men on the shoulder, as he, returning, enters the car. The gentleman nods assent, sits down, and coolly lights his cigar. "Good thing to have a fiddler on a plantation! I'd rather have it than a preacher; keeps the boys together, and makes 'um a deal better contented," he adds, beginning to exhale the fumes from his weed.
Yes!-and ye sees, fellers, how I'ze bought a parson, too. Can do the thing up brown now, boys, I reckon, remarks the happy politician, slapping his professional gentleman on the knee, and laughing right heartily.
Turning to Harry with a firm look, he informs the gentlemen that "this critter's kind o got the sulks, a'cos Romescos-he hates Romescos-has bought his wench and young 'uns. Take that out on him, at my place," he adds.
The dancing continues right merrily. One of the young gentlemen would like to have the fiddler strike up "Down in Old Tennessee." The tune is sounded forth with all that warmth of feeling the negro only can add to the comical action of his body.
Clar' the way; let the boys have a good time, says Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, taking Harry by the arm and giving him a violent shake. He commands him to join in, and have a jolly good tune with the rest on 'em.
Have no call for that, master. Let me act but the part of servant to you.
Do you mean to come nigger sulks over this child? interrupts M'Fadden, impatiently, scowling his heavy eyebrows, and casting a ferocious look at Harry. After ordering him to stow himself in a corner, he gets the others upon the floor, and compels them to shuffle what he calls a plantation "rip-her-up." The effect of this, added to the singular positions into which they are frequently thrown by the motion of the cars, affords infinite amusement.
You see, gentlemen, there's nothing like putting the springs of life into property. Makes it worth fifty per cent. more; and then ye'll get the hard knocks out to a better profit. Old southerners spoil niggers, makin' so much on 'em; and soft-soapin' on 'em. That bit o' property's bin spiled just so-he points to Harry, crouched in the corner-And the critter thinks he can preach! Take that out on him with a round turn, when I git to my place, he continues.
Harry cares very little for M'Fadden's conversation; he sits as quietly and peaceably as if it had been addressed to some other negro. M'Fadden, that he may not be found wanting in his efforts to amuse the young gentlemen, reaches out his hand to one of them, takes his cigar from a case, lights it, and proceeds to keep time by beating his hands on his knees.
The train is approaching the crossing where Mr. M'Fadden will discharge his property,--his human merchandise, and proceed with it some eleven miles on the high road. The noise created by the exuberance of feeling on the part of Mr. M'Fadden has attracted a numerous assemblage of passengers to the "Jim Crow" car. The conductor views this as violating the rules of the corporation; he demands it shall be stopped. All is quiet for a time; they reach the "crossing" about five o'clock P.M., where, to Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's great delight, he finds himself surrounded by a promiscuous assembly of sovereign citizens, met to partake of the hospitalities offered by the candidate for the Assembly, who, having offered himself, expects the distinguished honour of being elected. The assembled citizens will hear what the learned man's going to talk about when he gets into the Assembly.
As Mr. M'Fadden is a great politician, and a greater democrat-we speak according to the southern acceptation-his presence is welcomed with an enthusiastic burst of applause. Shout after shout makes the very welkin ring, as his numerous friends gather round him, smile solicitously, shake him warmly by the hand, honour him as the peasantry honour the Lord of the Manor.
The crossing-one of those points so well known in the south-is a flat, wooded lawn, interspersed here and there with clumps of tall pine-trees. It is generally dignified with a grocery, a justice's office, and a tavern, where entertainment for man and beast may always be had. An immense deal of judicial and political business "is put through a process" at these strange places. The squire's law-book is the oracle; all settlements must be made by it; all important sayings drawn from it. The squire himself is scarcely less an individual of mysterious importance; he draws settled facts from his copious volume, and thus saves himself the trouble of analysing them. Open it where he will, the whys and wherefores for every case are never wanting.
Our present crossing is a place of much importance, being where the political effervescence of the state often concentrates. It will not do, however, to analyse that concentration, lest the fungi that give it life and power may seem to conflict with the safety of law and order. On other occasions it might be taken for a place of rural quiet, instead of those indescribable gatherings of the rotten membranes of a bad political power.
Here the justice's office is attached to the grocery, a little shop in which all men may drink very deleterious liquor; and, in addition to the tavern, which is the chief building-a quadrangular structure raised a few feet from the ground on piles of the palmetto tree-there is a small church, shingled and clapboarded, and having a belfry with lattice-work sides. An upper and lower veranda surround the tavern, affording gentlemen an opportunity to enjoy the shade.
Several of Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's friends meet him at the station, and, as he receives his property, assist him in securing it with irons preparatory to lodging it in a place of safe keeping.
Goin' t' make this chap a deacon on my place; can preach like sixty. It'll save the trouble sendin' north for such trash as they send us. Can make this feller truer on southern principles, says M'Fadden, exultingly, addressing himself to his companions, looking Harry smilingly in the face, and patting him on the shoulder. The gentlemen view Harry with particular admiration, and remark upon his fine points with the usual satisfaction of connoisseurs. Mr. M'Fadden will secure his preacher, in iron fellowship, to the left hand of the woman slave.
All right! he says, as the irons are locked, and he marches his property up to the tavern, where he meets mine host-a short, fat man, with a very red and good-natured face, who always dresses in brown clothes, smiles, and has an extra laugh for 'lection days-who stands his consequential proportions in the entrance to the lower veranda, and is receiving his customers with the blandest smiles. "I thinks a right smart heap on ye, or I would'nt a' 'gin ye that gal for a mate," continues M'Fadden, walking along, looking at Harry earnestly, and, with an air of self-congratulation, ejecting a quantity of tobacco-juice from his capacious mouth. "Mr. M'Fadden is very, very welcome;" so says mine host, who would have him take a social glass with his own dear self.
Mr. M'Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to deposit his preacher and other property.
Ah, ha!-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;--"want grits for 'em, I s'pose?" he returns, and his round fat face glows with satisfaction. "Can suit you to a shavin'."
That's right, Colonel; I know'd ye could, ejaculates the other. Mine host is much elated at hearing his title appended. Colonel Frank Jones-such is mine host's name--never fought but one duel, and that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel--"Colonel Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;" beneath which an impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M'Donal Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment." Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became gentlemen. The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put bullets in the weapons.
Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little. Mine host rubs his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then cries out at the top of his voice, "Ho, boys, ho!"
Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready to answer the summons. "Take charge o' this property o' my friend's here. Get 'em a good tuck out o' grits."
Can grind 'em themselves, interrupts M'Fadden, quickly. "About the price, Colonel?"
That's all straight, spreading his hands with an accompanying nod of satisfaction: "'commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the grits at seven-pence a day."
No objection. Mr. M'Fadden is entirely satisfied. The waiters take the gentleman's property in charge, and conduct it to a small building, an appropriate habitation of hens and pigs. It was of logs, rough hewn, without chinking; without floor to keep Mr. M'Fadden's property from the ground, damp and cold. Unsuited as it is to the reception of human beings, many planters of great opulence have none better for their plantation people. It is about ten feet high, seven broad, and eleven long.
Have a dandy time on't in here to-night, says Mr. M'Fadden, addressing himself to Harry, as one of the waiters unlocks the door and ushers the human property into its dreary abode. Mr. M'Fadden will step inside, to take a bird's-eye view of the security of the place. He entertains some doubts about the faith of his preacher, however, and has half an inclination to turn round as he is about making his exit. He will. Approaches Harry a second time; he feels his pockets carefully, and suggests that he has some mischievous weapon of liberty stowed away somewhere. He presses and presses his hands to his skirts and bosom. And now he knew he was not mistaken, for he feels something solid in the bosom of his shirt, which is not his heart, although that thing makes a deuce of a fluttering. Mr. M'Fadden's anxiety increases as he squeezes his hands over its shapes, and watches the changes of Harry's countenance. "Book, ha'h!" he exclaims, drawing the osnaburg tight over the square with his left hand, while, with his right, he suddenly grasps Harry firmly by the hair of the head, as if he has discovered an infernal machine. "Book, ha'h!"
Pull it out, old buck. That's the worst o' learned niggers; puts the very seven devils in their black heads, and makes 'em carry their conceit right into nigger stubbornness, so ye have t' bring it out by lashin' and botherin'. Can't stand such nigger nonsense nohow.
Harry has borne all very peaceably; but there is a time when even the worm will turn. He draws forth the book,--it is the Bible, his hope and comforter; he has treasured it near his heart-that heart that beats loudly against the rocks of oppression. "What man can he be who feareth the word of God, and says he is of his chosen? Master, that's my Bible: can it do evil against righteousness? It is the light my burdened spirit loves, my guide--"
Your spirit? inquires M'Fadden, sullenly, interrupting Harry. "A black spirit, ye' mean, ye' nigger of a preacher. I didn't buy that, nor don't want it. 'Taint worth seven coppers in picking time. But I tell ye, cuff, wouldn't mind lettin' on ye preach, if a feller can make a spec good profit on't." The gentleman concludes, contracting his eyebrows, and scowling at his property forbiddingly.
You'll let me have it again when I gets on the plantation, won't ye, master? inquires Harry, calmly.
Let you have it on the plantation?-Mr. M'Fadden gives his preacher a piercingly fierce look-"that's just where ye won't have 't. Have any kind o' song-book ye' wants; only larn 'em to other niggers, so they can put in the chorus once in a while. Now, old buck (I'm a man o' genius, ye know), when niggers get larnin' the Bible out o' ther' own heads, 't makes 'em sassy'r than ther's any calculatin' on. It just puts the very d-l into property. Why, deacon," he addresses himself to Harry with more complacency, "my old father-he was as good a father as ever came from Dublin-said it was just the spilin' on his children to larn 'em to read. See me, now! what larnin' I'ze got; got it all don't know how: cum as nat'ral as daylight. I've got the allfired'st sense ye ever did see; and it's common sense what makes money. Yer don't think a feller what's got sense like me would bother his head with larnin' in this ar' down south?" Mr. M'Fadden exhibits great confidence in himself, and seems quite playful with his preacher, whom he pats on the shoulder and shakes by the hand. "I never read three chapters in that ar' book in my whole life-wouldn't neither. Really, deacon, two-thirds of the people of our State can't read a word out o' that book. As for larnin', I just put me mind on the thing, and got the meanin' out on't sudden."
Mr. M'Fadden's soothing consolation, that, as he has become such a wonderful specimen of mankind without learning, Harry must be a very dangerous implement of progress if allowed to go about the plantation with a Bible in his pocket, seems strange in this our Christian land. "Can fiddle just as much as yer mind t'," concludes Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, as he again shakes the hand of his preacher, and proceeds to mingle with the political gathering, the Bible in his pocket.
How We Manufacture Political Faith
MR. M'FADDEN enters the tavern, which presents one of those grotesque scenes so peculiarly southern, almost impossible for the reader to imagine, and scarcely less for pen to describe. In and around the verandas are numerous armchairs, occupied by the fashionable portion of the political material, who, dressed in extreme profuseness, are displaying their extraordinary distinctions in jewellery of heavy seals and long dangling chains. Some are young men who have enjoyed the advantage of a liberal education, which they now turn into the more genial duty of ornamenting themselves. They have spent much time and many valuable cosmetics on their heads, all of which is very satisfactorily repaid by the smoothness of their hair. Their pleasure never penetrated beyond this; they ask no more.
They ask but little of the world, and are discussing the all-important question, whether Colonel Mophany or General Vandart will get the more votes at the polls. So they smoke and harangue, and drink and swear, and with inimitable provincialisms fill up the clattering music. There is a fascinating piquancy in the strange slang and conversational intermixture. It is a great day at the crossing; the political sediment has reduced all men to one grade, one harmonious whole, niggers excepted. Spirits that cannot flow one way must flow another.
In an adjoining room sit the two candidates-gentlemen of high distinction-for the votes of the sovereign people. Through those sovereign rights they will satisfy their yearning desire to reach the very high position of member of the general assembly. Anxiety is pictured on their very countenances; it is the fruit of care when men travel the road to distinction without finding it. They are well dressed, and would be modest, if modesty were worth its having in such an atmosphere. Indeed, they might have been taken for men with other motives than those of gaining office by wallowing in a political quagmire reeking with democratic filth. Courteous to each other, they sit at a large table containing long slips of paper, each candidate's sentiments printed thereon. As each voter--good fellow that he is--enters the room, one or the other candidate reaches out his hand to welcome him, and, as a sequel, hands him his slip, making the politest bow. Much is said about the prospects of the South, and much more that is very acceptable to those about to do the drinking part of the scene.
Both candidates are very ambitious men; both profess to be the people's champion-the sovereign people-the dear people-the noble-hearted people-the iron-handed, unbribable, unterrified democracy-the people from whom all power springs. The never-flinching, unterrified, irresistible democracy are smothered with encomiums of praise, sounding from all parts of the room. Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden is ushered into the room to the great joy of his friends: being a very great man among the loyal voters, his appearance produces great excitement.
Several friends of the candidates, working for their favourites, are making themselves very humble in their behalf. Although there is little care for maintaining any fundamental principle of government that does not serve his own pocket, Mr. M'Fadden can and will control a large number of votes, do a deal of knocking down at the polls, and bring up first-rate fighting men to do the keeping away the opposite's constituents. Thus our man, who has lately been bought as preacher, is most useful in this our little democratic world.
Some two or three hundred persons have collected near a clump of trees on the lawn, and are divided into knots intermixed with ruffian-looking desperadoes, dressed most coarsely and fantastically. They are pitting their men, after the fashion of good horses; then they boldly draw forth and expose the minor delinquencies of opposing candidates. Among them are the "Saw- piters," who affect an air of dignity, and scout the planter's offer of work so long as a herring runs the river; the "piny woods-man," of great independence while rabbits are found in the woods, and he can wander over the barren unrestrained; and the "Wire-Grass-Men;" and the Crackers,
Singular species of gypsies, found throughout the State. who live anywhere and everywhere, and whom the government delights to keep in ignorance, while declaring it much better they were enslaved. The State possesses many thousands of these people; but few of them can read, while never having written a stroke in their lives is a boast. Continually armed with double-barrel guns, to hunt the panting buck is one of their sports; to torture a runaway negro is another; to make free with a planter's corn field is the very best. The reader may imagine this picture of lean, craven faces-unshaven and made fiercely repulsive by their small, treacherous eyes, if he can. It can only be seen in these our happy slave states of our happy Union.
The time draws near when the candidates will come forward, address the sovereign constituency, and declare their free and open principles-their love of liberal governments, and their undying affection for the great truths of democracy. The scene, as the time approaches, becomes more and more animated. All are armed to the teeth, with the symbol of honour--something so called--beneath their coarse doublets, or in the waistbands of their pantaloons. The group evinces so much excitement that belligerents are well nigh coming to blows; in fact, peace is only preserved by the timely appearance of the landlord, who proclaims that unless order be preserved until after the candidates have addressed them, the next barrel of whiskey will positively "not be tapped." He could not use a more effectual argument. Mr. M'Fadden, who exercises great authority over the minions under him, at this announcement mounts the top of an empty whiskey barrel, and declares he will whip the "whole crowd," if they do not cease to wage their political arguments.
While the above cursory remarks and party sparrings are going on, some forty negroes are seen busily employed preparing the indispensable adjuncts of the occasion-the meats. Here, beneath the clump of trees, a few yards from the grocery and justices' office, the candidates' tables are being spread with cold meats, crackers, bread and cheese, cigars, &c., &c. As soon as the gentlemen candidates have delivered themselves of their sentiments, two barrels of real "straight-back" whiskey will be added.
This is the way we puts our candidate through, down south, ye see, fellers, voters: it's we what's the bone and siners o' the rights o' the south. It's we what's got t' take the slow-coach politics out o' the hands o' them ar' old harristocrats what don't think them ar' northern abolitionists han't goin to do nothin. It's we, fellow citizens, what puts southern-rights principles clean through; it's we what puts them ar' old Union haristocrats, what spiles all the nigger property, into the straight up way o' doing things! Now, feller voters, free and independent citizens-freemen who have fought for freedom,--you, whose old, grey-headed fathers died for freedom! it takes you t' know what sort a thing freedom is; and how to enjoy it so niggers can't take it away from you! I'ze lived north way, know how it is! Yer jist the chaps to put niggers straight,--to vote for my man, Colonel Mohpany, Mr. M'Fadden cries out at the very top of his voice, as he comes rushing out of the tavern, edging his way through the crowd, followed by the two candidates. The gentlemen look anxiously good-natured; they walk together to the rostrum, followed by a crowd, measuring their way to the assembly through the darling affections of our free and independent voters. Gossamer citizenship, this!
As they reach the rostrum, a carriage is seen in the distance, approaching in great haste. All attention being directed to it, the first candidate, Colonel Mohpany, mounts the stump, places his right hand in his bosom, and pauses as if to learn who it brings. To the happy consolation of Mr. M'Fadden and his friends, it bears Mr. Scranton the philosopher. Poor Mr. Scranton looks quite worn out with anxiety; he has come all the way from the city, prepared with the very best kind of a southern-rights speech, to relieve his friend, General Vardant, who is not accustomed to public declamation. The General is a cunning fellow, fears the stump accomplishments of his antagonist, and has secured the valuable services of philosopher Scranton. Mr. S. will tell the constituency, in very logical phraseology,--making the language suit the sentiments of his friends,--what principles must be maintained; how the General depends upon the soundness of their judgment to sustain him; how they are the bone and sinews of the great political power of the South; how their hard, uncontrastable appearance, and their garments of similar primitiveness, are emblematic of the iron firmness of their democracy. Mr. Scranton will further assure them that their democracy is founded on that very accommodating sort of freedom which will be sure to keep all persons of doubtful colour in slavery.
Mr. Scranton arrives, receives the congratulations of his friends, gets the negroes to brush him down,--for it is difficult to distinguish him from a pillar of dust, save that we have his modest eyes for assurances-takes a few glasses of moderate mixture, and coolly collects his ideas. The mixture will bring out Mr. Scranton's philosophical facts: and, now that he has got his face and beard cleanly washed, he will proceed to the stand. Here he is received with loud cheering; the gentleman is a great man, all the way from the city. Sitting on a chair he is sorry was made at the north, he exhibits a deal of method in taking from his pocket a long cedar pencil, with which he will make notes of all Colonel Mohpany's loose points.
The reader, we feel assured, will excuse us for not following Colonel Mohpany through his speech, so laudatory of the patriotism of his friends, so much interrupted by applause. The warm manner in which his conclusion is received assures him that he now is the most popular man in the State. Mr. Scranton, armed with his usually melancholy countenance, rises to the stump, makes his modestly political bow, offers many impressive apologies for the unprepared state in which he finds himself, informs his hearers that he appears before them only as a substitute for his very intimate and particular friend, General Vardant. He, too, has a wonderful prolixity of compliments to bestow upon the free, the patriotic, the independent voters of the very independent district. He tries to be facetious; but his temperament will not admit of any inconsistencies, not even in a political contest. No! he must be serious; because the election of a candidate to so high an office is a serious affair. So he will tell the "Saw-pit men" a great deal about their noble sires; how they lived and died for liberty; how the tombstones of immortality are emblazoned with the fame of their glorious deeds. And he will tell these glorious squatters what inalienable rights they possess; how they must be maintained; and how they have always been first to maintain the principle of keeping "niggers" in their places, and resisting those mischievous propagators of northern villainy-abolitionists. He will tell the deep-thinking saw-pit voters how it has been charged against them that they were only independent once a year, and that was when herrings run up the Santee river. Such a gross slander Mr. Scranton declares to be the most impious. They were always independent; and, if they were poor, and preferred to habit themselves in primitive garbs, it was only because they preferred to be honest! This, Mr. Scranton, the northern philosopher, asserts with great emphasis. Yes! they are honest; and honest patriots are always better than rich traitors. From the san-pit men, Mr. Scranton, his face distended with eloquence, turns to his cracker and "wire-grass" friends, upon whom he bestows most piercing compliments. Their lean mules-the speaker laughs at his own wit-and pioneer waggons always remind him of the good old times, when he was a boy, and everybody was so honest it was unnecessary even to have such useless finery as people put on at the present day. A word or two, very derogatory of the anti-slavery people, is received with deafening applause. Of the descendants of the Huguenots he says but little; they are few, rich, and very unpopular in this part of the little sovereign state. And he quite forgot to tell this unlettered mass of a sovereign constituency the true cause of their poverty and degradation. Mr. Scranton, however, in one particular point, which is a vital one to the slave-ocracy, differs with the ungovernable Romescos,--he would not burn all common schools, nor scout all such trash as schoolmasters.
In another part of Mr. Scranton's speech he enjoins them to be staunch supporters of men known to be firm to the south, and who would blow up every yankee who came south, and refused to declare his sentiments to be for concession. "You!"-he points round him to the grotesque crowd-"were first to take a stand and keep niggers down; to keep them where they can't turn round and enslave you! Great Britain, fell ercitizens,"-Mr. Scranton begins to wax warm; he adjusts his coat sleeves, and draws himself into a tragic attitude as he takes his tobacco from his mouth, seemingly unconscious of his own enthusiasm-I say Great Britain-" A sudden interruption is caused. Mr. Scranton's muddled quid, thrown with such violence, has bedaubed the cheek of an admiring saw-pitter, whose mind was completely absorbed in his eloquence. He was listening with breathless suspense, and only saved its admission in his capacious mouth by closing it a few seconds before.
Sarved him just right; keep on, Colonel! exclaims Mr. M'Fadden. He takes the man by the arm, pushes him aside, and makes a slight bow to Mr. Scranton. He would have him go on.
Great Britain-feller citizens, I say-was first to commence the warfare against nigger slavery; and now she is joining the north to seek its permanent overthrow. She is a monster tyrant wherever she sets her foot-I say! (Three cheers for that.) She contributed to fasten the curse upon us; and now she wants to destroy us by taking it away according to the measures of the northern abolitionists-fanaticism! Whatever the old school southerner neglects to do for the preservation of the peculiar institution, we must do for him! And we, who have lived at the north, can, with your independent support, put the whole thing through a course of political crooks. Again Mr. Scranton pauses; surveys his assembly of free and independent citizens.
That we can: I knows what fanatics down east be! rejoins Mr. M'Fadden, shaking his head very knowingly. He laughs with an air of great satisfaction, as much as to say that, with such northern philosophers to do the championism of slavery in the south, all the commercial relations for which northern merchants are under so many obligations to slave-labour, will be perfectly safe. But Mr. Scranton has drawn out his speech to such an uncommon length, that the loquacious M'Fadden is becoming decidedly wearied. His eyes begin to glow languid, and the lids to close,--and now he nods assent to all Mr. Scranton's sayings, which singularly attracts the attention of that orator's hearers. The orator becomes very much annoyed at this, suddenly stops-begs Mr. M'Fadden will postpone his repose. This, from so great a man as Mr. Scranton, is accepted as provokingly witty. Mr. M'Fadden laughs; and they all laugh. The gentleman will continue his speech.
The South must come out; must establish free trade, direct trade,--trade that will free her from her disreputable association with the North. She can do it! Mr. Scranton wipes his forehead with his white pocket-handkerchief.
Ain't we deeply indebted to the North? a voice in the crowd cries out.
Well! what if we are? Can't we offset the debts on the principles of war? Let it go against the injury of abolition excitements! Mr. Scranton makes a theatrical flourish with his right hand, and runs the fingers of his left through his crispy hair, setting it on end like quills on a porcupine's back. Three long and loud cheers follow, and the gentleman is involuntarily compelled to laugh at his own singular sayings. "The South must hold conventions; she must enforce constitutional guarantees; she must plant herself in the federal capital, and plead her cause at the bar of the world. She will get a hearing there! And she must supplant that dangerous engine of abolition, now waging war against our property, our rights, our social system." Thus concluding, Mr. Scranton sits down, very much fatigued from his mental effervescence, yet much lighter from having relieved himself of his speech, amidst a storm of applause. Such a throwing up of hats and slouches, such jostling, abetting, and haranguing upon the merits of the candidates, their speeches and their sentiments, never was heard or seen before.
Mine host now mounts the stand to make the welcome announcement, that, the speeches being over, the eating entertainments are ready. He hopes the friends of the candidates will repair to the tables, and help themselves without stint or restraint. As they are on the point of rushing upon the tables, Colonel Mohpany suddenly jumps up, and arrests the progress of the group by intimating that he has one word more to say. That word is, his desire to inform the bone and sinew of the constituency that his opponent belongs to a party which once declared in the Assembly that they-the very men who stand before him now-were a dangerous class unless reduced to slavery! The Colonel has scarcely delivered himself of this very clever charge, when the tables, a few yards distant, are surrounded by promiscuous friends and foes, who help themselves after the fashion most advantageous. All rules of etiquette are unceremoniously dispensed with,--he who can secure most is the best diplomatist. Many find their mouths so inadequate to the temptation of the feast, that they improve on Mr. Scranton's philosophy by making good use of their ample pockets. Believe us, reader, the entertainment is the essential part of the candidate's political virtue, which must be measured according to the extent of his cold meats and very bad whiskey.
To carry out the strength of General Vardant's principles, several of his opponent's friends are busily employed in circulating a report that his barrel of whiskey has been "brought on" only half full. A grosser slander could not have been invented. But the report gains circulation so fast, that his meats and drinks are mischievously absorbed, and the demonstration of his unpopular position begins to be manifest. The candidates, unflinching in their efforts, mix with the medley, have the benefit of the full exercise of free thought and action, hear various opinions upon "the Squire's chances," and listen to the chiming of high-sounding compliments. While this clanging of merry jargon is at its highest, as if by some magic influence Romescos makes his appearance, and immediately commences to pit sides with Mr. M'Fadden. With all Romescos' outlawry, he is tenacious of his southern origin; and he will assert its rights against Mr. M'Fadden, whom he declares to be no better than a northern humbug, taking advantage of southern institutions. To him all northerners are great vagabonds, having neither principles nor humanity in their composition; he makes the assertion emphatically, without fear or trembling; and he calls upon his friends to sustain him, that he may maintain the rights of the South. Those rights Romescos asserts, and re-asserts, can only be preserved by southern men-not by sneaking northerners, who, with their trade, pocket their souls. Northerners are great men for whitewashing their faces with pretence! Romescos is received with considerable ?clat. He declares, independently, that Mr. Scranton too is no less a sheer humbug of the same stripe, and whose humbugging propensities make him the humble servant of the south so long as he can make a dollar by the bemeaning operation. His full and unmeasured appreciation of all this northern-southern independence is here given to the world for the world's good. And he wants the world to particularly understand, that the old southerner is the only independent man, the only true protector of humanity!
Romescos' sudden appearance, and the bold stand he takes against Mr. M'Fadden and his candidate, produce the utmost confusion; he being unpopular with the saw-pit men, with whom he once exhibited considerable dexterity in carrying off one of their number and putting the seal of slavery on him, they take sides against him. It is the Saw-pitters against Romescos and the Crackers. The spirits have flowed, and now the gods of our political power sway to and fro under most violent shocks. Many, being unable to keep a perpendicular, are accusing each other of all sorts of misdeeds-of the misdeeds of their ancestors-of the specific crimes they committed-the punishments they suffered. From personalities of their own time they descend forth into jeering each other on matters of family frailty, setting what their just deserts would have entitled them to receive. They continue in this strain of jargon for some time, until at length it becomes evident the storm of war is fast approaching a crisis. Mr. M'Fadden is mentally unprepared to meet this crisis, which Romescos will make to suit himself; and to this end the comical and somewhat tragical finale seems pretty well understood by the candidates and a few of the "swell-ocracy," who have assembled more to see the grand representation of physical power on the part of these free and enlightened citizens, than to partake of the feast or listen to the rhetoric of the speeches. In order to get a good view of the scene they have ascended trees, where, perched among their branches like so many jackals, they cheer and urge on the sport, as the nobility of Spain applaud a favourite champion of the ring. At length the opposing parties doff their hats and coats, draw knives, make threatening grimaces, and twirl their steel in the air: their desperation is earnest; they make an onset, charging with the bravado of men determined to sacrifice life. The very air resounds with their shouts of blasphemy; blood flows from deep incisions of bowie-knives, garments are rent into shreds; and men seem to have betaken themselves to personating the demons.
Would that they were rational beings! would that they were men capable of constituting a power to protect the liberty of principle and the justice of law! Shout after shout goes up; tumult is triumphant. Two fatal rencontres are announced, and Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden is dangerously wounded; he has a cut in the abdomen. The poor victims attract but little attention; such little trifling affairs are very common, scarcely worth a word of commiseration. One gentleman insinuates that the affair has been a desperately amusing one; another very coolly adds, that this political feed has had much more interest in it than any preceding one.
The victims are rolled in blankets, and laid away in the corn-shed; they will await the arrival of the coroner, who, the landlord says, it will be no more than right to send for. They are only two dead Crackers, however, and nobody doubts what the verdict will be. In truth-and it must be told once in a while, even in our atmosphere-the only loss is the two votes, which the candidate had already secured with his meat and drink, and which have now, he regrets, been returned to the box of death instead of his ballot. Poor voters, now only fit to serve the vilest purpose! how degraded in the scale of human nature is the being, only worth a suffrance at elections, where votes cast from impulse control the balance of power. Such beings are worth just nothing; they would not sell in the market. The negro waiters say, "It don't make a bit of matter how much white rubbish like this is killed, it won't fetch a bid in the market; and when you sell it, it won't stay sold."
Lose I dat way, Cato, might jist as well take tousand dollar straight out o' mas'r's pocket; but dese critters b'nt notin' nohow, says old Daniel, one of the servants, who knows the value of his own body quite well. Daniel exults as he looks upon the dead bodies he is assisting to deposit in the corn-shed.
Mr. M'Fadden is carefully borne into the tavern, where, after much difficulty, he is got up stairs and laid on a very nice bed, spread with snowy white linen. A physician is called, and his wound dressed with all possible skill and attention. He is in great pain, however; begs his friends to bestow all care upon him, and save no expense.
Thus ends our political day. The process of making power to shape the social and political weal of our State, closes.
Mr. M'fadden Sees Shadows In The Future
NIGHT has quickly drawn its curtain over the scene. Mr. M'Fadden lies on his bed, writhing under the pain of the poisoned wound. He left his preacher locked up for the night in a cold hovel, and he has secured the dangerous Bible, lest it lessen his value. Mr. M'Fadden, however, feels that now his earthly career is fast closing he must seek redemption. Hie has called in the aid of a physician, who tells him there is great danger, and little hope unless his case takes a favourable turn about midnight. The professional gentleman merely suggests this, but the suggestion conveys an awful warning. All the misdeeds of the past cloud before his eyes; they summon him to make his peace with his Maker. He remembers what has been told him about the quality of mercy,--the duration of hope in redemption,--which he may secure by rendering justice to those he has wronged. But now conscience wars with him; he sees the fierce elements of retribution gathering their poisoned shafts about him; he quails lest their points pierce his heart; and he sees the God of right arraigning him at the bar of justice. There, that Dispenser of all Good sits in his glory and omnipotence, listening while the oppressed recites his sufferings: the oppressed there meets him face to face, robed in that same garb of submission which he has inflicted upon him on earth. His fevered brain gives out strange warnings,--warnings in which he sees the angel of light unfolding the long list of his injustice to his fellow man, and an angry God passing the awful sentence. Writhing, turning, and contorting his face, his very soul burns with the agony of despair. He grasps the hand of his physician, who leans over his wounded body, and with eyes distorted and glassy, stares wildly and frantically round the room. Again, as if suffering inward torture, he springs from his pillow, utters fierce imprecations against the visions that surround him, grasps at them with his out-stretched fingers, motions his hand backward and forward, and breaks out into violent paroxysms of passion, as if struggling in the unyielding grasp of death.
That physical power which has so long borne him up in his daily pursuits yields to the wanderings of his haunted mind. He lays his hand upon the physician's shoulder as his struggles now subside, looks mournfully in his face, and rather mutters than speaks: "Bring-bring-bring him here: I'll see him,--I must see him! I-I-I took away the book; there's what makes the sting worse! And when I close my eyes I see it burning fiercely-"
Who shall I bring? interrupts the physician, mildly, endeavouring to soothe his feelings by assuring him there is no danger, if he will but remain calm.
Heaven is casting its thick vengeance round me; heaven is consuming me with the fire of my own heart! How can I be calm, and my past life vaulted with a glow of fire? The finger of Almighty God points to that deed I did today. I deprived a wretch of his only hope: that wretch can forgive me before heaven. Y-e-s, he can,--can speak for me,--can intercede for me; he can sign my repentance, and save me from the just vengeance of heaven. His-his-his-
What? the physician whispers, putting his ear to his mouth. "Be calm."
Calm! he mutters in return.
Neither fear death nor be frightened at its shadows-
It's life, life, life I fear--not death! he gurgles out. "Bring him to me; there is the Bible. Oh! how could I have robbed him of it! 'Twas our folly--all folly--my folly!" Mr. M'Fadden had forgotten that the bustle of current life was no excuse for his folly; that it would be summed up against him in the day of trouble. He never for once thought that the Bible and its teachings were as dear to slave as master, and that its truths were equally consoling in the hour of death. In life it strengthens man's hopes; could it have been thus with M'Fadden before death placed its troubled sea before his eyes, how happy he would have died in the Lord!
The emphatic language, uttered in such supplicating tones, and so at variance with his habits of life, naturally excited the feelings of his physician, whose only solicitude had been evinced in his efforts to save life,--to heal the wound. Never had he watched at a patient's bed-side who had exhibited such convulsions of passion,--such fears of death.
Now struggling against a storm of convulsions, then subsiding into sluggish writhings, accompanied with low moans, indicating more mental disquietude than bodily pain. Again he is quiet; points to his coat.
The physician brings it forward and lays it upon the bed, where Mr. M'Fadden can put his hand upon it. "It is there--in there!" he says, turning on his left side, and with a solicitous look pointing to the pockets of his coat. The professional gentleman does not understand him.
He half raises himself on his pillow, but sinks back fatigued, and faintly whispers, "Oh, take it to him--to him! Give him the comforter: bring him, poor fellow, to me, that his spirit may be my comforter!"
The physician understands, puts his hand into the pocket; draws forth the little boon companion. It is the Bible, book of books; its great truths have borne Harry through many trials,--he hopes it will be his shield and buckler to carry him through many more. Its associations are as dear to him as its teachings are consoling in the days of tribulation. It is dear to him, because the promptings of a noble-hearted woman secretly entrusted it to his care, in violation of slavery's statutes. Its well-worn pages bear testimony of the good service it has done. It was Franconia's gift-Franconia, whose tender emotions made her the friend of the slave-made in the kindness of woman's generous nature. The good example, when contrasted with the fierce tenor of slavery's fears, is worthy many followers.
But men seldom profit by small examples, especially when great fears are paramount.
The physician, holding the good book in his hand, enquires if Mr. M'Fadden would have him read from it? He has no answer to make, turns his feverish face from it, closes his eyes, and compressing his forehead with his hands, mutely shakes his head. A minute or two passes in silence; he has re-considered the point,--answers, no! He wants Harry brought to him, that he may acknowledge his crimes; that he may quench the fire of unhappiness burning within him. "How seldom we think of death while in life,--and how painful to see death while gathering together the dross of this worldly chaos! Great, great, great is the reward of the good, and mighty is the hand of Omnipotence that, holding the record of our sins, warns us to prepare." As Mr. M'Fadden utters these words, a coloured woman enters the room to enquire if the patient wants nourishment. She will wait at the door.
The physician looks at the patient; the patient shakes his head and whispers, "Only the boy. The boy I bought to-day." The Bible lays at his side on the sheet. He points to it, again whispering, "The boy I took it from!"
The boy, the preacher, Mr. M'Fadden's purchase, can read; she will know him by that; she must bring him from the shed, from his cold bed of earth. That crime of slavery man wastes his energies to make right, is wrong in the sight of heaven; our patient reads the glaring testimony as the demons of his morbid fancy haunt him with their damning terrors, their ghastly visages.
Go, woman, bring him! he whispers again.
Almost motionless the woman stands. She has seen the little book-she knows it, and her eyes wander over the inscription on the cover. A deep blush shadows her countenance; she fixes her piercing black eyes upon it until they seem melting into sadness; with a delicacy and reserve at variance with her menial condition, she approaches the bed, lays her hand upon the book, and, while the physician's attention is attracted in another direction, closes its pages, and is about to depart.
Can you tell which one he wants, girl? enquires the physician, in a stern voice.
His name, I think, is Harry; and they say the poor thing can preach; forgive me what I have done to him, oh Lord! It is the weakness of man grasping the things of this world, to leave behind for the world's nothingness, says Mr. M'Fadden, as the woman leaves the room giving an affirmative reply.
The presence of the Bible surprised the woman; she knew it as the one much used by Harry, on Marston's plantation. It was Franconia's gift! The associations of the name touched the chord upon which hung the happiest incidents of her life. Retracing her steps down the stairs, she seeks mine host of the tavern, makes known the demand, and receives the keys of this man-pen of our land of liberty. Lantern in hand, she soon reaches the door, unlocks it gently, as if she expects the approach of some strange object, and fears a sudden surprise.
There the poor dejected wretches lay; nothing but earth's surface for a bed,--no blanket to cover them. They have eaten their measure of corn, and are sleeping; they sleep while chivalry revels! Harry has drawn his hat partly over his face, and made a pillow of the little bundle he carried under his arm.
Passing from one to the other, the woman approaches him, as if to see if she can recognise any familiar feature. She stoops over him, passes the light along his body, from head to foot, and from foot to head. "Can it be our Harry?" she mutters. "It can't be; master wouldn't sell him." Her eyes glare with anxiety as they wander up and down his sleeping figure.
Harry,--Harry,--Harry! which is Harry? she demands.
Scarcely has she lisped the words, when the sleeper starts to his feet, and sets his eyes on the woman with a stare of wonderment. His mind wanders-bewildered; is he back on the old plantation? That cannot be; they would not thus provide for him there. "Back at the old home! Oh, how glad I am: yes, my home is there, with good old master. My poor old woman; I've nothing for her, nothing," he says, extending his hand to the woman, and again, as his mind regains itself, their glances become mutual; the sympathy of two old associates gushes forth from the purest of fountains,--the oppressed heart.
Harry-oh, Harry! is it you?
Ellen! my good Ellen, my friend, and old master's friend! is the simultaneous salutation.
Sold you, too? enquires Harry, embracing her with all the fervour of a father who has regained his long-lost child. She throws her arms about his neck, and clings to him, as he kisses, and kisses, and kisses her olive brow.
My sale, Harry, was of little consequence; but why did they sell you? (Her emotions have swollen into tears). You must tell me all, to-night! You must tell me of my child, my Nicholas,--if master cares for him, and how he looks, grows, and acts. Oh, how my heart beats to have him at my side;--when, when will that day come! I would have him with me, even if sold for the purpose. Tears gush down her cheeks, as Harry, encircling her with his arm, whispers words of consolation in her ear.
If we were always for this world, Ellen, our lot could not be borne. But heaven has a recompense, which awaits us in the world to come. Ellen!-he holds her from him and looks intently in her face-"masters are not to blame for our sufferings,--the law is the sinner! Hope not, seek not for common justice, rights, privileges, or anything else while we are merchandise among men who, to please themselves, gamble with our souls and bodies. Take away that injustice, Ellen, and men who now plead our unprofitableness would hide their heads with shame. Make us men, and we will plead our own cause; we will show to the world that we are men; black men, who can be made men when they are not made merchandise." Ellen must tell him what has brought her here, first! He notices sad changes in her countenance, and feels anxious to listen to the recital of her troubles.
She cannot tell him now, and begs that he will not ask her, as the recollection of them fills her heart with sorrow. She discloses the object of her mission, will guide him to his new master, who, they say, is going to die, and feels very bad about it. He was a desperate man on his plantation, and has become the more contrite at death's call. "I hope God will forgive him!"
He will!-He will! He is forgiving, interrupts Harry, hurriedly.
Ellen reconnoitres the wearied bodies of the others as they lie around. "Poor wretches! what can I do for them?" she says, holding the lamp over them. She can do but little for them, poor girl. The will is good, but the wherewith she hath not. Necessity is a hard master; none know it better than the slave woman. She will take Harry by the hand, and, retracing her steps, usher him into the presence of the wounded man. Pressing his hand as she opens the door, she bids him good night, and retires to her cabin. "Poor Harry!" she says, with a sigh.
The kind woman is Ellen Juvarna. She has passed another eventful stage of her eventful life. Mine host, good fellow, bought her of Mr. O'Brodereque, that's all!
How They Stole The Preacher
THE scenes we have described in the foregoing chapter have not yet been brought to a close. In and about the tavern may be seen groups of men, in the last stage of muddled mellowness, the rank fumes of bad liquor making the very air morbid. Conclaves of grotesque figures are seated in the veranda and drinking-room, breaking the midnight stillness with their stifled songs, their frenzied congratulations, their political jargon; nothing of fatal consequence would seem to have happened.
Did master send for me? You've risen from a rag shop, my man! interrupts the physician.
Master there-sorry to see him sick-owns me. Harry cast a subdued look on the bed where lay his late purchaser.
Harry's appearance is not the most prepossessing,--he might have been taken for anything else but a minister of the gospel; though the quick eye of the southerner readily detected those frank and manly features which belong to a class of very dark men who exhibit uncommon natural genius.
At the sound of Harry's voice, M'Fadden makes an effort to raise himself on his elbow. The loss of blood has so reduced his physical power that his effort is unsuccessful. He sinks back, prostrate,--requests the physician to assist him in turning over. He will face his preacher. Putting out his hand, he embraces him cordially,--motions him to be seated.
The black preacher, that article of men merchandise, takes a seat at the bed-side, while the man of medicine withdraws to the table. The summons is as acceptable to Harry as it is strange to the physician, who has never before witnessed so strange a scene of familiarity between slave and master. All is silent for several minutes. Harry looks at his master, as if questioning the motive for which he is summoned into his presence; and still he can read the deep anxiety playing upon M'Fadden's distorted countenance. At length, Harry, feeling that his presence may be intrusive, breaks the silence by enquiring if there is anything he can do for master. Mr. M'Fadden whispers something, lays his trembling hand on Harry's, casts a meaning glance at the physician, and seems to swoon. Returning to his bed-side, the physician lays his hand upon the sick man's brow; he will ascertain the state of his system.
Give-him-his-Bible, mutters the wounded man, pointing languidly to the table. "Give it to him that he may ask God's blessing for me-for me-for me,--"
The doctor obeys his commands, and the wretch, heart bounding with joy, receives back his inspiring companion. It is dear to him, and with a smile of gratitude invading his countenance he returns thanks. There is pleasure in that little book. "And now, Harry, my boy," says M'Fadden, raising his hand to Harry's shoulder, and looking imploringly in his face as he regains strength; "forgive what I have done. I took from you that which was most dear to your feelings; I took it from you when the wounds of your heart were gushing with grief-" He makes an effort to say more, but his voice fails; he will wait a few moments.
The kind words touch Harry's feelings; tears glistening in his eyes tell how he struggles to suppress the emotions of his heart. "Did you mean my wife and children, master?" he enquires.
M'Fadden, somewhat regaining strength, replies in the affirmative. He acknowledges to have seen that the thing "warn't just right." His imagination has been wandering through the regions of heaven, where, he is fully satisfied, there is no objection to a black face. God has made a great opening in his eyes and heart just now. He sees and believes such things as he neither saw nor believed before; they pass like clouds before his eyes, never, never to be erased from his memory. Never before has he thought much about repentance; but now that he sees heaven on one side and hell on the other, all that once seemed right in bartering and selling the bodies and souls of men, vanishes. There, high above all, is the vengeance of heaven written in letters of blood, execrating such acts, and pointing to the retribution. It is a burning consciousness of all the suffering he has inflicted upon his negroes. Death, awful monitor! stares him in the face; it holds the stern realities of truth and justice before him; it tells him of the wrong,--points him to the right. The unbending mandates of slave law, giving to man power to debase himself with crimes the judicious dare not punish, are being consumed before Omnipotence, the warning voice of which is calling him to his last account.
And now the wounded man is all condescension, hoping forgiveness! His spirit has yielded to Almighty power; he no longer craves for property in man; no, his coarse voice is subdued into softest accents. He whispers "coloured man," as if the merchandise changed as his thoughts are brought in contact with revelations of the future.
Take the Bible, my good boy-take it, read it to me, before I die. Read it, that it may convert my soul. If I have neglected myself on earth, forgive me; receive my repentance, and let me be saved from eternal misery. Read, my dear good boy,-M'Fadden grasps his hand tighter and tighter-"and let your voice be a warning to those who never look beyond earth and earth's enjoyments." The physician thinks his patient will get along until morning, and giving directions to the attendants, leaves him.
Harry has recovered from the surprise which so sudden a change of circumstances produced, and has drawn from the patient the cause of his suffering. He opens the restored Bible, and reads from it, to Mr. M'Fadden's satisfaction. He reads from Job; the words producing a deep effect upon the patient's mind.
The wretched preacher, whose white soul is concealed beneath black skin, has finished his reading. He will now address himself to his master, in the following simple manner.
Master, it is one thing to die, and another to die happy. It is one thing to be prepared to die, another to forget that we have to die, to leave the world and its nothingness behind us. But you are not going to die, not now. Master, the Lord will forgive you if you, make your repentance durable. 'Tis only the fear of death that has produced the change on your mind. Do, master! learn the Lord; be just to we poor creatures, for the Lord now tells you it is not right to buy and sell us.
Buy and sell you! interrupts the frightened man, making an effort to rise from his pillow; "that I never will, man nor woman. If God spares my life, my people shall be liberated; I feel different on that subject, now! The difference between the commerce of this world and the glory of heaven brightens before me. I was an ignorant man on all religious matters; I only wanted to be set right in the way of the Lord,--that's all." Again he draws his face under the sheet, writhing with the pain of his wound.
I wish everybody could see us as master does, about this time; for surely God can touch the heart of the most hardened. But master ain't going to die so soon as he thinks, mutters Harry, wiping the sweat from his face, as he lays his left hand softly upon master's arm. "God guide us in all coming time, and make us forget the retribution that awaits our sins!" he concludes, with a smile glowing on his countenance.
The half spoken words catch upon the patient's ear. He starts suddenly from his pillow, as if eager to receive some favourable intelligence. "Don't you think my case dangerous, my boy? Do you know how deep is the wound?" he enquires, his glassy eyes staring intently at Harry.
It is all the same, master! is the reply.
Give me your hand again-M'Fadden grasps his hand and seems to revive-"pray for me now; your prayers will be received into heaven, they will serve me there!"
Ah, master, says Harry, kindly, interrupting him at this juncture, "I feel more than ever like a christian. It does my heart good to hear you talk so true, so kind. How different from yesterday! then I was a poor slave, forced from my children, with nobody to speak a kind word for me; everybody to reckon me as a good piece of property only. I forgive you, master-I forgive you; God is a loving God, and will forgive you also." The sick man is consoled; and, while his preacher kneels at his bed-side, offering up a prayer imploring forgiveness, he listens to the words as they fall like cooling drops on his burning soul. The earnestness--the fervency and pathos of the words, as they gush forth from the lips of a wretch, produce a still deeper effect upon the wounded man. Nay, there is even a chord loosened in his heart; he sobs audibly. "Live on earth so as to be prepared for heaven; that when death knocks at the door you may receive him as a welcome guest. But, master! you cannot meet our Father in heaven while the sin of selling men clings to your garments. Let your hair grow grey with justice, and God will reward you," he concludes.
True, Harry; true!--he lays his hand on the black man's shoulder, is about to rise--"it is the truth plainly told, and nothing more." He will have a glass of water to quench his thirst; Harry must bring it to him, for there is consolation in his touch. Seized with another pain, he grasps with his left hand the arm of his consoler, works his fingers through his matted hair, breathes violently, contorts his face haggardly, as if suffering acutely. Harry waits till the spasm has subsided, then calls an attendant to watch the patient while he goes to the well. This done he proceeds into the kitchen to enquire for a vessel. Having entered that department as the clock strikes two, he finds Ellen busily engaged preparing food for Mr. M'Fadden's property, which is yet fast secured in the pen. Feeling himself a little more at liberty to move about unrestrained, he procures a vessel, fills it at the well, carries it to his master's bed-side, sees him comfortably cared for, and returns to the kitchen, where he will assist Ellen in her mission of goodness.
The little pen is situated a few yards from the tavern, on the edge of a clump of tall pines.
Ellen has got ready the corn and bacon, and with Harry she proceeds to the pen, where the property are still enjoying that inestimable boon,--a deep sleep.
Always sleeping, he says, waking them one by one at the announcement of corn and bacon. "Start up and get something good my girl has prepared for you." He shakes them, while Ellen holds the lantern. There is something piercing in the summons-meats are strong arguments with the slave-they start from their slumbers, seize upon the food, and swallow it with great relish. Harry and Ellen stand smiling over the gusto with which they swallow their coarse meal.
You must be good boys to-night. Old master's sick; flat down on e' back, and 'spects he's going to die, he does. Harry shakes his head as he tells it to the astonished merchandise. "Had a great time at the crossing to-day; killed two or three certain, and almost put master on the plank."
'Twarn't no matter, nohow: nobody lose nofin if old Boss do die: nigger on e' plantation don' put e' hat in mournin', mutters the negro woman, with an air of hatred. She has eaten her share of the meal, shrugs her shoulders, and again stretches her valuable body on the ground.
Uncle Sparton know'd old Boss warn't gwine t' be whar de debil couldn't cotch 'em, so long as 'e tink. If dat old mas'r debil, what white man talk 'bout so much, don' gib 'em big roasting win 'e git 'e dah, better hab no place wid fireins fo' such folks, speaks up old Uncle Sparton, one of the negroes, whose face shines like a black-balled boot.
Neber mind dat, Uncle Sparton; 'taint what ye say 'bout he. Ven mas'r debil cotch old Boss 'e don't cotch no fool. Mas'r debil down yander find old Boss too tuf fo' he business; he jus' like old hoss what neber die, rejoins another.
In a word, M'Fadden had told his negroes what a great democrat he was-how he loved freedom and a free country-until their ideas of freedom became strangely mystified; and they ventured to assert that he would not find so free a country when the devil became his keeper. "Mas'r tink 'e carry 'e plantation t' t'oder world wid him, reckon," Uncle Sparton grumblingly concludes, joining the motley conclave of property about to resume its repose.
Ellen returns to the house. Harry will remain, and have a few words more with the boys. A few minutes pass, and Ellen returns with an armful of blankets, with which she covers the people carefully and kindly. How full of goodness-how touching is the act! She has done her part, and she returns to the house in advance of Harry, who stops to take a parting good-night, and whisper a word of consolation in their ears. He looks upon them as dear brothers in distress, objects for whom he has a fellow sympathy. He leaves them for the night; closes the door after him; locks it. He will return to Ellen, and enjoy a mutual exchange of feeling.
Scarcely has he left the door, when three persons, disguised, rush upon him, muffle his head with a blanket, bind his hands and feet, throw him bodily into a waggon, and drive away at a rapid speed.
Competition In Human Things
IT is enough to inform the reader that Romescos and Mr. M'Fadden were not only rival bidders for this very desirable piece of preaching property, but, being near neighbours, had become inveterate enemies and fierce political opponents. The former, a reckless trader in men, women, and children, was a daring, unprincipled, and revengeful man, whose occupation seldom called him to his plantation; while the latter was notorious as a hard master and a cruel tyrant, who exacted a larger amount of labour from his negroes than his fellow planters, and gave them less to eat. His opinion was, that a peck of corn a week was quite enough for a negro; and this was his systematic allowance;--but he otherwise tempted the appetites of his property, by driving them, famished, to the utmost verge of necessity. Thus driven to predatory acts in order to sustain life, the advantages offered by Romescos' swamp-generally well sprinkled with swine-were readily appropriated to a very good use.
Under covert of Romescos' absence, Mr. M'Fadden had no very scrupulous objection to his negroes foraging the amply provided swamp,--provided, however, they did the thing on the sly, were careful whose porker they dispatched, and said nothing to him about the eating. In fact, it was simply a matter of economy with Mr. M'Fadden; and as Romescos had a great number of the obstinate brutes, it saved the trouble of raising such undignified stock. Finding, however, that neighbour M'Fadden, or his predatory negroes-such they were called-were laying claim to more than a generous share of their porkships, Romescos thought it high time to put the thing down by a summary process. But what particularly "riled" Romescos in this affair of the hogs was, that M'Fadden's negroes were not content with catching them in an honourable way, but would do it through the agency of nasty cur-dogs, which he always had despised, and held as unfit even to hunt niggers with. Several times had he expressed his willingness to permit a small number of his grunters to be captured for the benefit of his neighbour's half-starved negroes, provided, always, they were hunted with honourable hound-dogs. He held such animals in high esteem, while curs he looked upon with utter contempt; he likened the one to the chivalrous old rice-planter, the other to a pettifogging schoolmaster fit for nothing but to be despised and shot. With these feelings he (Romescos) declared his intention to kill the very first negro he caught in his swamp with cur-dogs; and he kept his word. Lying in ambush, he would await their approach, and, when most engaged in appropriating the porkers, rush from his hiding-place, shoot the dogs, and then take a turn at the more exhilarating business of shooting the negroes. He would, with all possible calmness, command the frightened property to approach and partake of his peculiar mixture, administered from his double-barrel gun.
That the reader may better understand Romescos' process of curing this malady of his neighbour's negroes, we will give it as related by himself. It is a curious mode of dispatching negro property; the reader, however, cannot fail to comprehend it. "Plantin' didn't suit my notions o' gittin' rich, ye see, so I spec'lates in nigger property, and makes a better thing on't. But there's philosophy about the thing, and a body's got t' know the hang on't afore he can twist it out profitably; so I keeps a sort of a plantation just to make a swell; cos ye got to make a splash to be anybody down south. Can't be a gentleman, ye see, 'cept ye plants cotton and rice; and then a feller what's got a plantation in this kind of a way can be a gentleman, and do so many other bits of trade to advantage. The thing works like the handle of a pump; and then it makes a right good place for raising young niggers, and gettin' old uns trimmed up. With me, the worst thing is that old screwdriver, M'Fadden, what don't care no more for the wear and tear of a nigger than nothin', and drives 'em like as many steam-engines he thinks he can keep going by feeding on saw-dust. He han't no conception o' nigger constitution, and is just the worst sort of a chap that ever cum south to get a fortune. Why, look right at his niggers: they look like crows after corn-shuckin. Don't give 'em no meat, and the critters must steal somethin' t' keep out o' the bone-yard. Well, I argers the case with Mack, tells him how t'll be atween he and me on this thing, and warns him that if he don't chunk more corn and grease into his niggers, there 'll be a ruptous fuss. But he don't stand on honour, as I does, especially when his property makes a haul on my swamp of shoats. I an't home often; so the hogs suffer; and Mack's niggers get the pork. This 'ere kind o' business"--Romescos maintains the serious dignity of himself the while--"don't go down nohow with me; so Mack and me just has a bit of a good-natured quarrel; and from that we gets at daggers' points, and I swears how I'll kill the first nigger o' his'n what steals hogs o' mine. Wouldn't a cared a sous, mark ye, but it cum crossways on a feller's feelins to think how the 'tarnal niggers had no more sense than t' hunt hogs o' mine with cur-dogs: bin hounds, honourable dogs, or respectable dogs what 'll do to hunt niggers with, wouldn't a cared a toss about it; but-when-I-hears-a cur-dog yelp, oh! hang me if it don't set my sensations all on pins, just as somethin' was crucifyin' a feller. I warns and talks, and then pleads like a lawyer what's got a bad case; but all to no end o' reformin' Mack's morals,--feller han't got no sense o' reform in him. So I sets my niggers on the scent-it gives 'em some fun-and swears I'll kill a nigger for every hog he steals. This I concludes on; and I never backs out when once I fixes a conclusion.
"Hears the infernal cur-dog's yelp, yelp, yelp, down in the swamp; then I creeps through the jungle so sly, lays low till the fellers cum up, all jumpin'-pig ahead, then dogs, niggers follerin', puffin' and blowin', eyes poppin' out, 'most out o' breath, just as if they tasted the sparerib afore they'd got the critter. Well, ye see, I know'd all the ins and outs of the law,--keeps mighty shy about all the judicial quibbles on't,--never takes nobody with me whose swearin' would stand muster in a court of law. All right on that score (Romescos exults in his law proficiency). I makes sure o' the dogs fust, ollers keepin' the double-barrel on the right eye for the best nigger in the lot. It would make the longest-faced deacon in the district laugh to see the fire flash out o' the nigger's big black eyes, when he sees the cur drop, knowin' how he'll get the next plugs souced into him. It's only natural, cos it would frighten a feller what warn't used to it just to see what a thunder-cloud of agitation the nigger screws his black face into. And then he starts to run, and puts it like streaks o' cannon-balls chased by express lightnin'.
"'Stand still, ye thievin' varmint! hold up,--bring to a mooring: take the mixture according to Gunter!' I shouts. The way the nigger pulls up, begs, pleads, and says things what'll touch a feller's tender feelins, aint no small kind of an institution. 'Twould just make a man what had stretchy conscience think there was somethin' crooked somewhere. 'Well, boys,' says I, feeling a little soft about the stomach, 'seeing how it's yer Boss what don't feed ye, I'll be kind o' good, and give ye a dose of the mixture in an honourable way.' Then I loads t'other barrel, the feller's eyes flashin' streaks of blue lightnin' all the time, lookin' at how I rams it down, chunk! 'Now, boys,' says I, when the plugs shot is all ready, 'there's system 'bout this ere thing a' mine--t'aint killin' ye I wants,--don't care a copper about that (there an't no music in that), but must make it bring the finances out a' yer master's pocket. That's the place where he keeps all his morals. Now, run twenty paces and I'll gin ye a fair chance! The nigger understands me, ye see, and moves off, as if he expected a thunderbolt at his heel, lookin' back and whining like a puppy what's lost his mother. Just when he gets to an honourable distance,--say twenty paces, according to fighting rule,--I draws up, takes aim, and plumps the plugs into him. The way the critter jumps reminds me of a circus rider vaultin' and turnin' sumersets. You'd think he was inginrubber 'lectrified. A'ter all, I finds these playin' doses don't do; they don't settle things on the square. So I tries a little stronger mixture, which ends in killin' three o' Mack's niggers right up smooth. But the best on't is that Mack finds he han't no proof, goes right into it and kills three o' my prime fat niggers: that makes us bad friends on every score. But he got a nigger ahead o' me a'ter awhile, and I ware detarmined to straighten accounts, if it was by stealin' the odds. Them ar's my principles, and that's just the way I settles accounts with folks what don't do the square thing in the way o' nigger property.
Thus the two gentlemen lived in the terror of internal war; and Romescos, seeing such a fine piece of property pass into the hands of his antagonist, resolved on squaring accounts by stealing the preacher,--an act Mr. M'Fadden least expected.
The candidates' festival offered every facility for carrying this singular coup-d'etat into effect. Hence, with the skilful assistance of Nath. Nimrod, and Dan Bengal, Harry was very precipitately and dexterously passed over to the chances of a new phase of slave life.
Ellen waited patiently for Harry's return until it became evident some ill-luck had befallen him. Lantern in hand, she proceeds to the pen in search. No Harry is to be found there; Mr. M'Fadden's common negroes only are there, and they sleep sweetly and soundly. What can have befallen him? She conjectures many things, none of which are the right. The lock is upon the door; all is still outside; no traces of kidnapping can be found. She knows his faithfulness,-- knows he would not desert his master unless some foul means had been used to decoy him into trouble. She returns to the house and acquaints her master.
Straggling members, who had met to enjoy the generous political banquet, and who still remain to see the night "through" with appropriate honour, are apprised of the sudden disappearance of this very valuable piece of property. They are ready for any turn of excitement,--anything for "topping off" with a little amusement; and to this end they immediately gather round mine host in a party of pursuit. Romescos-he must make his innocence more imposing-has been conspicuous during the night, at times expressing sympathy for Mr. M'Fadden, and again assuring the company that he has known fifty worse cases cured. In order to make this better understood, he will pay the doctor's bill if M'Fadden dies. Mine host has no sooner given the alarm than Romescos expresses superlative surprise. He was standing in the centre of a conclave of men, whom he harangues on the particular political points necessary for the candidates to support in order to maintain the honour of the State; now he listens to mine host as he recounts the strange absence of the preacher, pauses and combs his long red beard with his fingers, looks distrustfully, and then says, with a quaintness that disarmed suspicion, "Nigger-like!-preacher or angel, nigger will be nigger! The idea o' makin' the black rascals preachers, thinkin' they won't run away! Now, fellers, that ar' chap's skulkin' about, not far off, out among the pines; and here's my two dogs"-he points to his dogs, stretched on the floor-"what'll scent him and bring him out afore ten minutes! Don't say a word to Mack about it; don't let it 'scape yer fly-trap, cos they say he's got a notion o' dying, and suddenly changed his feelins 'bout nigger tradin'. There's no tellin' how it would affect the old democrat if he felt he warnt goin' to slip his breeze. This child"-Romescos refers to himself-"felt just as Mack does more nor a dozen times, when Davy Jones looked as if he was making slight advances: a feller soon gets straight again, nevertheless. It's only the difference atween one's feelings about makin' money when he's well, and thinkin' how he made it when he's about to bid his friends good morning and leave town for awhile. Anyhow, there aint no dodging now, fellers! We got to hunt up the nigger afore daylight, so let us take a drop more and be moving." He orders the landlord to set on the decanters,--they join in a social glass, touch glasses to the recovery of the nigger, and then rush out to the pursuit. Romescos heads the party. With dogs, horses, guns, and all sorts of negro-hunting apparatus, they scour the pinegrove, the swamp, and the heather. They make the pursuit of man full of interest to those who are fond of the chase; they allow their enthusiasm to bound in unison with the sharp baying of the dogs.
For more than two hours is this exhilarating sport kept up. It is sweet music to their ears; they have been trained (educated) to the fascination of a man-hunt, and dogs and men become wearied with the useless search.
Romescos declares the nigger is near at hand: he sees the dogs curl down their noses; he must be somewhere in a hole or jungle of the swamp, and, with more daylight and another dog or two, his apprehension is certain. He makes a halt on the brow of a hill, and addresses his fellow-hunters from the saddle. In his wisdom on nigger nature he will advise a return to the tavern-for it is now daylight-where they will spend another hour merrily, and then return brightened to the pursuit. Acting on this advice, friends and foes-both join as good fellows in the chase for a nigger-followed his retreat as they had his advance.
No nigger preacher just about this circle, Major! exclaims Romescos, addressing mine host, as he puts his head into the bar-room, on his return. "Feller's burrowed somewhere, like a coon: catch him on the broad end of morning, or I'll hang up my old double-barrel," he concludes, shaking his head, and ordering drink for the party at his expense.
The morning advanced, however, and nothing was to be seen of Romescos: he vanished as suddenly from among them as Harry had from the pen. Some little surprise is expressed by the knowing ones; they whisper among themselves, while mine host reaches over the counter, cants his head solicitously, and says:--"What's that, gentlemen?"
In this dilemma they cannot inform mine host; they must continue the useless chase without Romescos' valuable services. And here we must leave mine host preparing further necessaries for capturing the lost property, that he may restore it to its owner so soon as he shall become convalescent, and turn to Harry.
Like a well-stowed bale of merchandise, to be delivered at a stated place within a specified time, he was rolled in bagging, and not permitted to see the direction in which he was being driven. When the pursuing party started from the crossing, Romescos took the lead in order to draw it in an opposite direction, and keep the dogs from the trail. This would allow the stolen clergyman to get beyond their reach. When daylight broke upon the capturers they were nearly twenty miles beyond the reach of the pursuers, approaching an inn by the road side. The waggon suddenly stopped, and Harry found himself being unrolled from his winding sheet by the hands of two strangers. Lifting him to his feet, they took him from the waggon, loosed the chains from his legs, led him into the house, and placed him in a dark back room. Here, his head being uncovered, he looks upon his captors with an air of confusion and distrust. "Ye know me too, I reckon, old feller, don't ye?" enquires one of the men, with a sardonic grin, as he lifts his hat with his left hand, and scratches his head with his right.
Yes, mas'r; there's no mistakin on ye! returns Harry, shaking his head, as they release the chains from his hands. He at length recognises the familiar faces of Dan Bengal and Nath. Nimrod. Both have figured about Marston's plantation, in the purchase and sale of negroes.
Ye had a jolly good ride, old feller, had'nt ye? says Bengal, exultingly, looking Harry in the face, shrugging his shoulders, and putting out his hand to make his friendship.
Harry has no reply to make; but rubs his face as if he is not quite satisfied with his new apartment, and wants to know a little more of the motive of the expedition. "Mas'r! I don't seem to know myself, nor nothin'. Please tell me where I am going to, and who is to be my master? It will relieve my double troubles," he says, casting an enquiring look at Nimrod.
Shook up yer parson-thinkin' some, I reckon, did'nt it, old chap? returns Nimrod, laughing heartily, but making no further reply. He thinks it was very much like riding in a railroad backwards.
Did my sick mas'r sell me to you? again he enquires.
No business o' yourn, that ain't; yer nigger-knowin ought to tell you how ye'd got into safe hands. We'll push along down south as soon as ye gets some feed. Put on a straight face, and face the music like a clever deacon, and we'll do the square in selling ye to a Boss what 'll let ye preach now and then. (Nimrod becomes very affectionate). Do the thing up righteous, and when yer sold there 'll be a five-dollar shiner for yerself. (He pats him on the head, and puts his arm over his shoulder.) Best t' have a little shot in a body's own pocket; now, shut up yer black bread-trap, and don't go makin a fuss about where yer goin' to: that's my business!
Harry pauses as if in contemplation; he is struggling against his indignation excited by such remarks. He knew his old master's weaknesses, enjoyed his indulgences; but he had never been made to feel so acutely how degraded he could be as a mere article of trade. It would have been some consolation to know which way he was proceeding, and why he had been so suddenly snatched from his new owner. Fate had not ordained this for him; oh no! He must resign himself without making any further enquiries; he must be nothing more than a nigger--happy nigger happily subdued! Seating himself upon the floor, in a recumbent position, he drops his face on his knees,--is humbled among the humblest. He is left alone for some time, while his captors, retiring into an adjoining room, hold a consultation.
Breakfast is being prepared, and much conversation is kept up in an inaudible tone of voice. Harry has an instinctive knowledge that it is about him, for he hears the words, "Peter! Peter!" his name must be transmogrified into "Peter!" In another minute he hears dishes rattling on the table, and Bengal distinctly complimenting the adjuncts, as he orders some for the nigger preacher. This excites his anxiety; he feels like placing his ear at the keyhole,--doing a little evesdropping. He is happily disappointed, however, for the door opens, and a black boy bearing a dish of homony enters, and, placing it before him, begs that he will help himself. Harry takes the plate and sets it beside him, as the strange boy watches him with an air of commiseration that enlists his confidence. "Ain't da'h somefin mo' dat I can bring ye?" enquires the boy, pausing for an answer.
Nothing,--nothing more!
Harry will venture to make some enquiries about the locality. "Do you belong to master what live here?" He puts out his hand, takes the other by the arm.
Hard tellin who I belongs to. Buckra man own 'em to-day; ain't sartin if he own 'em to-morrow, dough. What country-born nigger is you?
Down country! My poor old master's gone, and now I'm goin'; but God only knows where to. White man sell all old Boss's folks in a string,--my old woman and children among the rest. My heart is with them, God bless them!
Reckon how ya' had a right good old Boss what larn ye somethin. The boy listens to Harry with surprise. "Don't talk like dat down dis a way; no country-born nigger put in larn'd wods so, nohow," returns the boy, with a look of curious admiration.
But you harn't told me what place this is?
Dis 'ouse! e' ant nowhare when Buckra bring nigger what he want to sell, and don' want nobody to know whar e' bring him from. Dat man what bring ye here be great Buckra. De 'h way he lash nigger whin e' don do jist so! The boy shakes his head with a warning air.
How did you get here? There must be roads leading in some directions?
Roads runnin' every which way, yand'r; and trou de woods anyway, but mighty hard tellin whar he going to, he is. Mas'r Boss don lef 'e nigger know how 'e bring'um, nor how he takes 'um way. Guess da 'h gwine to run ye down country, so God bless you, says the boy, shaking him by the hand, and taking leave.
Well! if I only knew which way I was going I should feel happy; because I could then write to my old master, somewhere or somehow. And I know my good friend Missus Rosebrook will buy me for her plantation,--I know she will. She knows my feelings, and in her heart wouldn't see me abused, she wouldn't! I wish I knew who my master is, where I am, and to whom I'm going to be sold next. I think new master has stolen me, thinking old master was going to die, Harry mutters to himself, commencing his breakfast, but still applying his listening faculties to the conversation in the next room. At length, after a long pause, they seem to have finished breakfast and taken up the further consideration of his sale.
I don't fear anything of the kind! Romescos is just the keenest fellow that can be scared up this side of Baltimore. He never takes a thing o' this stamp in hand but what he puts it through, says Bengal, in a whispering tone.
True! the trouble's in his infernal preaching; that's the devil of niggers having intelligence. Can do anything in our way with common niggers what don't know nothin'; but when the critters can do clergy, and preach, they'll be sending notes to somebody they know as acquaintances. An intelligent nigger's a bad article when ye want to play off in this way, replies the other, curtly.
Never mind, returns Bengal, "can't ollers transpose a nigger, as easy as turnin' over a sixpence, specially when he don't have his ideas brightened. Can't steer clar on't. Larnin's mighty dangerous to our business, Nath.-better knock him on the head at once; better end him and save a sight of trouble. It'll put a stopper on his preaching, this pesks exercisin' his ideas."
A third interrupts. "Thinks such a set of chicken-hearted fellows won't do when it comes to cases of 'mergency like this. He will just make clergyman Peter Somebody the deacon; and with this honorary title he'll put him through to Major Wiley's plantation, when he'll be all right down in old Mississippi. The Colonel and he, understanding the thing, can settle it just as smooth as sunrise. The curate is what we call a right clever fellow, would make the tallest kind of a preacher, and pay first-rate per centage on himself." Bengal refers to Harry. His remarks are, indeed, quite applicable. "I've got the dockerment, ye see, all prepared; and we'll put him through without a wink," he concludes, in a measured tone of voice.
The door of Harry's room opens, and the three enter together. "Had a good breakfast, old feller, hain't ye?" says Nimrod, approaching with hand extended, and patting him on the head with a child's playfulness. "I kind o' likes the looks on ye" (a congratulatory smile curls over his countenance), "old feller; and means to do the square thing in the way o' gettin' on ye a good Boss. Put on the Lazarus, and no nigger tricks on the road. I'm sorry to leave ye on the excursion, but here's the gentleman what'll see ye through,--will put ye through to old Mississip just as safe as if ye were a nugget of gold." Nimrod introduces Harry to a short gentleman with a bald head, and very smooth, red face. His dress is of brown homespun, a garb which would seem peculiar to those who do the villainy of the peculiar institution. The gentleman has a pair of handcuffs in his left hand, with which he will make his pious merchandise safe. Stepping forward, he places the forefinger of his right hand on the preacher's forehead, and reads him a lesson which he must get firm into his thinking shell. It is this. "Now, at this very time, yer any kind of a nigger; but a'ter this ar' ye got to be a Tennessee nigger, raised in a pious Tennessee family. And yer name is Peter-Peter-Peter!-don't forget the Peter: yer a parson, and ought t' keep the old apostle what preached in the marketplace in yer noddle. Peter, ye see, is a pious name, and Harry isn't; so ye must think Peter and sink Harry."
What do I want to change my name for? Old master give me that name long time ago!
None o' yer business; niggers ain't t' know the philosophy of such things. No nigger tricks, now! interrupts Bengal, quickly, drawing his face into savage contortions. At this the gentleman in whose charge he will proceed steps forward and places the manacles on Harry's hands with the coolness and indifference of one executing the commonest branch of his profession. Thus packed and baled for export, he is hurried from the house into a two-horse waggon, and driven off at full speed. Bengal watches the waggon as it rolls down the highway and is lost in the distance. He laughs heartily, thinks how safe he has got the preacher, and how much hard cash he will bring. God speed the slave on his journey downward, we might add.
It will be needless for us to trace them through the many incidents of their journey; our purpose will be served when we state that his new guardian landed him safely at the plantation of Major Wiley, on the Tallahatchee River, Mississippi, on the evening of the fourth day after their departure, having made a portion of their passage on the steamer Ohio. By some process unknown to Harry he finds himself duly ingratiated among the major's field hands, as nothing more than plain Peter. He is far from the high-road, far from his friends, without any prospect of communicating with his old master. The major, in his way, seems a well-disposed sort of man, inclined to "do right" by his negroes, and willing to afford them an opportunity of employing their time after task, for their own benefit. And yet it is evident that he must in some way be connected with Graspum and his party, for there is a continual interchange of negroes to and from his plantation. This, however, we must not analyse too closely, but leave to the reader's own conjectures, inasmuch as Major Wiley is a very distinguished gentleman, and confidently expects a very prominent diplomatic appointment under the next administration.
Harry, in a very quiet way, sets himself about gaining a knowledge of his master's opinions on religion, as well as obtaining his confidence by strict fidelity to his interests. So far does he succeed, that in a short time he finds himself holding the respectable and confidential office of master of stores. Then he succeeds in inducing his master to hear him preach a sermon to his negroes. The major is perfectly willing to allow him the full exercise of his talents, and is moved to admiration at his fervency, his aptitude, his knowledge of the Bible, and the worth there must be in such a piece of clergy property. Master Wiley makes his man the offer of purchasing his time, which Harry, under the alias of Peter, accepts, and commences his mission of preaching on the neighbouring plantations.
Ardently and devoutedly does he pursue his mission of Christianity among his fellow-bondmen; but he has reaped little of the harvest to himself, his master having so increased the demand for his time that he can scarcely save money enough to purchase clothes. At first he was only required to pay six dollars a week; now, nothing less than ten is received. It is a happy premium on profitable human nature; and through it swings the strongest hinge of that cursed institution which blasts alike master and slave. Major Wiley is very chivalrous, very hospitable, and very eminent for his many distinguished qualifications; but his very pious piece of property must pay forty-seven per cent. annual tribute for the very hospitable privilege of administering the Word of God to his brother bondmen. Speak not of robed bishops robbing Christianity in a foreign land, ye men who deal in men, and would rob nature of its tombstone! Ye would rob the angels did their garments give forth gold.
The poor fellow's income, depending, in some measure, upon small presents bestowed by the negroes to whom he preached, was scarcely enough to bring him out at the end of the week, and to be thus deprived of it seemed more than his spirits could bear. Again and again had he appealed to his master for justice; but there was no justice for him,--his appeals proved as fruitless as the wind, on his master's callous sensibilities. Instead of exciting compassion, he only drew upon him his master's prejudices; he was threatened with being sold, if he resisted for a day the payment of wages for his own body. Hence he saw but one alternative left-one hope, one smile from a good woman, who might, and he felt would, deliver him; that was in writing to his good friend, Mrs. Rosebrook, whose generous heart he might touch through his appeals for mercy. And yet there was another obstacle; the post-office might be ten miles off, and his master having compelled him to take the name of Peter Wiley, how was he to get a letter to her without the knowledge of his master? Should his letter be intercepted, his master, a strict disciplinarian, would not only sell him farther south, but inflict the severest punishment. Nevertheless, there was one consolation left; his exertions on behalf of the slaves, and his earnestness in promoting the interests of their masters, had not passed unnoticed with the daughter of a neighbouring planter (this lady has since distinguished herself for sympathy with the slave), who became much interested in his welfare. She had listened to his exhortations with admiration; she had listened to his advice on religion, and become his friend and confidant. She would invite him to her father's house, sit for hours at his side, and listen with breathless attention to his pathos, his display of natural genius. To her he unfolded his deep and painful troubles; to her he looked for consolation; she was the angel of light guiding him on his weary way, cheering his drooping soul on its journey to heaven. To her he disclosed how he had been called to the bedside of his dying master; how, previously, he had been sold from his good old master, Marston, his wife, his children; how he was mysteriously carried off and left in the charge of his present master, who exacts all he can earn.
The simple recital of his story excites the genial feelings of the young lady; she knows some foul transaction is associated with his transition, and at once tenders her services to release him. But she must move cautiously, for even Harry's preaching is in direct violation of the statutes; and were she found aiding in that which would unfavourably affect the interests of his master she would be subjected to serious consequences-perhaps be invited to spend a short season at the sheriff's hotel, commonly called the county gaol. However, there was virtue in the object to be served, and feeling that whatever else she could do to relieve him would be conferring a lasting benefit on a suffering mortal, she will brave the attempt.
"Tell me he is not a man, but a slave! tell me a being with such faculties should be thus sunken beneath the amenities of freedom! that man may barter almighty gifts for gold! trample his religion into dust, and turn it into dollars and cents! What a mockery is this against the justice of heaven! When this is done in this our happy land of happy freedom, scoffers may make it their foot-ball, and kings in their tyranny may point the finger of scorn at us, and ask us for our honest men, our cherished freedom! Woman can do something, if she will; let me see what I can do to relieve this poor oppressed,"" she exclaims one day, after he has consulted her on the best means of relief. ""I will try.""
"Woman knows the beatings of the heart; she can respond more quickly to its pains and sorrows. Our youthful missionary will sit down and write a letter to Mrs. Rosebrook-she will do something, the atmosphere of slavery will hear of her yet-it will!
The Pretty Children Are To Be Sold
HOW varied are the sources of human nature-how changing its tints and glows-how immeasurable its uncertainties, and how obdurate the will that can turn its tenderest threads into profitable degradation! But what democrat can know himself a freeman when the whitest blood makes good merchandise in the market? When the only lineal stain on a mother's name for ever binds the chains, let no man boast of liberty. The very voice re-echoes, oh, man, why be a hypocrite! cans't thou not see the scorner looking from above? But the oligarchy asks in tones so modest, so full of chivalrous fascination, what hast thou to do with that? be no longer a fanatic. So we will bear the warning-pass from it for the present.
More than two years have passed; writs of error have been filed and argued; the children have dragged out time in a prison-house. Is it in freedom's land a prison was made for the innocent to waste in? So it is, and may Heaven one day change the tenour! Excuse, reader, this digression, and let us proceed with our narrative.
The morning is clear and bright; Mrs. Rosebrook sits at the window of her cheerful villa, watching the approach of the post-rider seen in the distance, near a cluster of oaks that surround the entrance of the arbour, at the north side of the garden. The scene spread out before her is full of rural beauty, softened by the dew-decked foliage, clothing the landscape with its clumps. As if some fairy hand had spread a crystal mist about the calm of morning, and angels were bedecking it with the richest tints of a rising sun at morn, the picture sparkles with silvery life. There she sits, her soft glowing eyes scanning the reposing scene, as her graceful form seems infusing spirit into its silent loveliness. And then she speaks, as if whispering a secret to the wafting air: "our happy union!" It falls upon the ear like some angel voice speaking of things too pure, too holy for the caprices of earth. She would be a type of that calmness pervading the scene-that sweetness and repose which seem mingling to work out some holy purpose; and yet there is a touching sadness depicted in her face.
Two years have passed; how changed! she exclaims, as if rousing from a reverie: "I would not be surprised if he brought bad tidings."
The postman has reached the gate and delivered a letter, which the servant quickly bears to her hand. She grasps it anxiously, as if recognising the superscription; opens it nervously; reads the contents. It is from Franconia, interceding with her in behalf of her uncle and the two children, in the following manner:--"My dearest Friend,
"Can I appeal to one whose feelings are more ready to be enlisted in a good cause? I think not. I wish now to enlist your feelings in something that concerns myself. It is to save two interesting children-who, though our eyes may at times be blinded to facts, I cannot forget are nearly allied to me by birth and association-from the grasp of slavery. Misfortune never comes alone; nor, in this instance, need I recount ours to you. Of my own I will say but little; the least is best. Into wedlock I have been sold to one it were impossible for me to love; he cannot cherish the respect due to my feelings. His associations are of the coarsest, and his heartless treatment beyond my endurance. He subjects me to the meanest grievances; makes my position more degraded than that of the slave upon whom he gratifies his lusts. Had my parents saved me from such a monster-I cannot call him less-they would have saved me many a painful reflection. As for his riches-I know not whether they really exist-they are destined only to serve his lowest passions. With him misfortune is a crime; and I am made to suffer under his taunts about the disappearance of my brother, the poverty of my parents. You are well aware of the verdict of the jury, and the affirmation of the Court of Appeal, upon those dear children. The decree orders them to be sold in the market, for the benefit of my uncle's creditors: this is the day, the fatal day, the sale takes place. Let me beseech of you, as you have it in your power, to induce the deacon to purchase them. O, save them from the fate that awaits them! You know my uncle's errors; you know also his goodness of heart; you can sympathise with him in his sudden downfall. Then the affection he has for Annette is unbounded. No father could be more dotingly fond of his legitimate child. But you know what our laws are-what they force us to do against our better inclinations. Annette's mother, poor wretch, has fled, and M'Carstrow charges me with being accessory to her escape: I cannot, nor will I, deny it, while my most ardent prayer invokes her future happiness. That she has saved herself from a life of shame I cannot doubt; and if I have failed to carry out a promise I made her before her departure-that of rescuing her child-the satisfaction of knowing that she at least is enjoying the reward of freedom partially repays my feelings. Let me entreat you to repair to the city, and, at least, rescue Annette from that life of shame and disgrace now pending over her-a shame and disgrace no less black in the sight of heaven because society tolerates it as among the common things of social life.
" "I am now almost heart-broken, and fear it will soon be my lot to be driven from under the roof of Colonel M'Carstrow, which is no longer a home, but a mere place of durance to me. It would be needless for me here to recount his conduct. Were I differently constituted I might tolerate his abuse, and accept a ruffian's recompense in consideration of his wealth. Go, my dear friend, save that child,
" "Is the prayer of your affectionate FRANCONIA.""
"Mrs. Rosebrook reads and re-reads the letter; then heaves a sigh as she lays it upon the table at her side. As if discussing the matter in her mind, her face resumes a contemplative seriousness.
"And those children are to be sold in the market! Who won't they sell, and sanctify the act? How can I relieve them? how can I be their friend, for Franconia's sake? My husband is away on the plantation, and I cannot brave the coarse slang of a slave mart; I cannot mingle with those who there congregate. And, too, there are so many such cases-bearing on their front the fallacy of this our democracy-that however much one may have claims over another, it were impossible to take one into consideration without inciting a hundred to press their demands. In this sense, then, the whole accursed system would have to be uprooted before the remedy could be applied effectually. Notwithstanding, I will go; I will go: I'll see what can be done in the city,"" says Mrs. Rosebrook, bristling with animation. ""Our ladies must have something to arouse their energies; they all have a deep interest to serve, and can do much:"" she will summon resolution and brave all. Rising from her seat, she paces the room several times, and then orders a servant to command Uncle Bradshaw to get the carriage ready, and be prepared for a drive into the city.
"Soon Bradshaw has got the carriage ready, and our good lady is on the road, rolling away toward the city. As they approach a curvature that winds round a wooded hill, Bradshaw intimates to "missus" that he sees signs of a camp a short distance ahead. He sees smoke curling upwards among the trees, and very soon the notes of a long-metre tune fall softly on the ear, like the tinkling of distant bells in the desert. Louder and louder, as they approach, the sounds become more and more distinct. Then our good lady recognises the familiar voice of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy. This worthy christian of the Southern Church is straining his musical organ to its utmost capacity, in the hope there will be no doubt left on the minds of those congregated around him as to his very sound piety. The carriage rounds the curvature, and there, encamped in a grove of pines by the road side, is our pious Elder, administering consolation to his infirm property. Such people! they present one of the most grotesque and indiscriminate spectacles ever eyes beheld. The cholera has subsided; the Elder's greatest harvest time is gone; few victims are to be found for the Elder's present purposes. Now he is constrained to resort to the refuse of human property (those afflicted with what are called ordinary diseases), to keep alive the Christian motive of his unctuous business. To speak plainly, he must content himself with the purchase of such infirmity as can be picked up here and there about the country.
A fire of pine knots blazes in the centre of a mound, and over it hangs an iron kettle, on a straddle, filled with corn-grits. Around this, and anxiously watching its boiling, are the lean figures of negroes, with haggard and sickly faces, telling but too forcibly the tale of their troubles. They watch and watch, mutter in grumbling accents, stir the homony, and sit down again. Two large mule carts stand in the shade of a pine tree, a few yards from the fire. A few paces further on are the mules tethered, quietly grazing; while, seated on a whiskey-keg, is the Elder, book in hand, giving out the hymn to some ten or a dozen infirm negroes seated round him on the ground. They have enjoyed much consolation by listening with wondrous astonishment to the Elder's exhortations, and are now ready to join their musical jargon to the words of a Watts's hymn.
On arriving opposite the spot, our good lady requests Bradshaw to stop; which done, the Elder recognises her, and suddenly adjourning his spiritual exercises, advances to meet her, his emotions expanding with enthusiastic joy. In his eagerness, with outstretched hand, he comes sailing along, trips his toe in a vine, and plunges head foremost into a broad ditch that separates the road from the rising ground.
The accident is very unfortunate at this moment; the Elder's enthusiasm is somewhat cooled, nevertheless; but, as there is seldom a large loss without a small gain, he finds himself strangely bespattered from head to foot with the ingredients of a quagmire.
U'h! u'h! u'h! my dear madam, pardon me, I pray;--strange moment to meet with a misfortune of this kind. But I was so glad to see you! he ejaculates, sensitively, making the best of his way out, brushing his sleeves, and wiping his face with his never-failing India handkerchief. He approaches the carriage, apologising for his appearance.
He hopes our lady will excuse him, having so far lost himself in his enthusiasm, which, together with the fervency and devotion of the spiritual exercises he was enjoying with his poor, helpless property, made him quite careless of himself. Begging a thousand pardons for presenting himself in such a predicament (his gallantry is proverbially southern), he forgets that his hat and spectacles have been dislodged by his precipitation into the ditch.
The good lady reaches out her hand, as a smile curls over her face; but Bradshaw must grin; and grin he does, in right good earnest.
Bless me, my dear Elder! what trade are you now engaged in? she enquires.
A little devotional exercises, my dear madam! We were enjoying them with so much christian feeling that I was quite carried away, indeed I was! He rubs his fingers through his bristly hair, and then downwards to his nasal organ, feeling for his devoted glasses. He is surprised at their absence-makes another apology. He affirms, adding his sacred honour, as all real southerners do, that he had begun to feel justified in the belief that there never was a religion like that preached by the good apostles, when such rural spots as this (he points to his encampment) were chosen for its administration. Everything round him made him feel so good, so much like the purest christian of the olden time. He tells her, with great seriousness, that we must serve God, and not forget poor human nature, never! To the world he would seem labouring under the influence of those inert convictions by which we strive to conceal our natural inclinations, while drawing the flimsy curtain of "to do good" over the real object.
He winks and blinks, rubs his eyes, works his face into all the angles and contortions it is capable of, and commences searching for his hat and spectacles. Both are necessary adjuncts to his pious appearance; without them there is that in the expression of his countenance from which none can fail to draw an unfavourable opinion of his real character. The haggard, care-worn face, browned to the darkest tropical tints; the ceaseless leer of that small, piercing eye, anxiety and agitation pervading the tout ensemble of the man, will not be dissembled. Nay; those acute promontories of the face, narrow and sharp, and that low, reclining forehead, and head covered with bristly iron-grey hair, standing erect in rugged tufts, are too strong an index of character for all the disguises Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy can invent.
One minute, my dear madam, he exclaims, in his eagerness for the lost ornaments of his face.
Never mind them, Elder; never mind them! In my eyes you are just as well without them, she rejoins, an ironical smile invading her countenance, and a curl of contempt on her lip. "But,--tell me what are you doing here?"
Here! my dear madam? Doing good for mankind and the truth of religion. I claim merit of the parish, for my pursuit is laudable, and saves the parish much trouble, says the Elder, beginning to wax warm in the goodness of his pursuit, before anyone has undertaken to dispute him, or question the purity of his purpose.
Still speculating in infirmity; making a resurrection man of yourself! You are death's strongest opponent; you fight the great slayer for small dollars and cents.
Well, now, interrupts the Elder, with a serious smile, "I'd rather face a Mexican army than a woman's insinuating questions,--in matters of this kind! But it's business, ye see! according to law; and ye can't get over that. There's no getting over the law; and he that serveth the Lord, no matter how, deserveth recompense; my recompense is in the amount of life I saves for the nigger."
That is not what I asked; you evade my questions, Elder! better acknowledge honestly, for the sake of the country, where did you pick up these poor wretches?
I goes round the district, madam, and picks up a cripple here, and a cancer case there, and a dropsy doubtful yonder; and then, some on em's got diseases what don't get out until one comes to apply medical skill. Shan't make much on these sort o' cases,--
The lady interrupts him, by bidding him good morning, and advising him, whenever he affects to serve the Lord, to serve him honestly, without a selfish motive. She leaves the Elder to his own reflections, to carry his victim property to his charnel-house, where, if he save life for the enjoyment of liberty, he may serve the Lord to a good purpose. She leaves him to the care of the christian church of the South,--the church of christian slavery, the rules of which he so strictly follows.
As our good lady moves quickly away toward the city, the Elder looks up, imploringly, as if invoking the praise of heaven on his good deeds. He is, indeed, astonished, that his dear friend, the lady, should have made such a declaration so closely applied, so insinuating. That such should have escaped her lips when she must know that his very soul and intention are purity! "I never felt like making a wish before now; and now I wishes I was, or that my father had made me, a lawyer. I would defend my position in a legal sense then! I don't like lawyers generally, I confess; the profession's not as honourable as ours, and its members are a set of sharpers, who would upset gospel and everything else for a small fee, they would!" He concludes, as his eyes regrettingly wander after the carriage. The words have moved him; there is something he wishes to say, but can't just get the point he would arrive at. He turns away, sad at heart, to his sadder scenes. "I know that my Redeemer liveth," he sings.
In the city a different piece is in progress of performance. Papers, and all necessary preparations for procuring the smooth transfer of the youthful property, are completed; customers have begun to gather round the mart. Some are searching among the negroes sent to the warehouse; others are inquiring where this property, advertised in the morning journals, and so strongly commented upon, may be found. They have been incited to examine, in consequence of the many attractions set forth in the conditions of sale.
There the two children sit, on a little seat near the vender's tribune. Old Aunt Dina, at the prison, has dressed Annette so neatly! Her white pinafore shines so brightly, is so neatly arranged, and her silky auburn locks curl so prettily, in tiny ringlets, over her shoulders; and then her round fair face looks so sweetly, glows with such innocent curiosity, as her soft blue eyes, deep with sparkling vivacity, wander over the strange scene. She instinctively feels that she is the special object of some important event. Laying her little hand gently upon the arm of an old slave that sits by her side, she casts shy glances at those admirers who stand round her and view her as a marketable article only.
Auntie, where are they going to take me? the child inquires, with a solicitous look, as she straightens the folds of her dress with her little hands.
Gwine t' sell 'um, mumbles the old slave. "Lor', child, a'h wishes ye wa'h mine; reckon da'h wouldn't sell ye. T'ant much to sell nigger like I, nohow; but e' hurt my feelins just so 'twarnt right t' sell de likes o' ye." The old slave, in return, lays her hand upon Annette's head, and smooths her hair, as if solicitous of her fate. "Sell ye, child-sell ye?" she concludes, shaking her head.
And what will they do with me and Nicholas when they get us sold? continues the child, turning to Nicholas and taking him by the arm.
Don' kno': perhaps save ye fo'h sinnin' agin de Lor', is the old slave's quick reply. She shakes her head doubtingly, and bursts into tears, as she takes Annette in her arms, presses her to her bosom, kisses and kisses her pure cheek. How heavenly is the affection of that old slave--how it rebukes our Christian mockery!
Will they sell us where we can't see mother, auntie? I do want to see mother so, says the child, looking up in the old slave's face. There seemed something too pure, too holy, in the child's simplicity, as it prattled about its mother, for such purposes as it is about to be consigned to. "They do not sell white folks, auntie, do they? My face is as white as anybody's; and Nicholas's aint black. I do want to see mother so! when will she come back and take care of me, auntie?"
Lor', child, interrupts the old negro, suppressing her emotions, "no use to ax dem questions ven ye gwine t' market. Buckra right smart at makin' nigger what bring cash."
The child expresses a wish that auntie would take her back to the old plantation, where master, as mother used to call him, wouldn't let them sell her away off. And she shakes her head with an air of unconscious pertness; tells the old negro not to cry for her.
The cryer's bell sounds forth its muddling peals to summon the customers; a grotesque mixture of men close round the stand. The old slave, as if from instinct, again takes Annette in her arms, presses and presses her to her bosom, looks compassionately in her face, and smiles while a tear glistens in her eyes. She is inspired by the beauty of the child; her heart bounds with affection for her tender years; she loves her because she is lovely; and she smiles upon her as a beautiful image of God's creation. But the old slave grieves over her fate; her grief flows from the purity of the heart; she knows not the rules of the slave church.
Annette is born a child of sorrow in this our land of love and liberty; she is a democrat's daughter, cursed by the inconsistencies of that ever-praised democratic goodness. A child! nothing more than an item of common trade. It is even so; but let not happy democracy blush, for the child, being merchandise, has no claims to that law of the soul which looks above the frigidity of slave statutes. What generosity is there in this generous land? what impulses of nature not quenched by force of public opinion, when the associations of a child like this (we are picturing a true story), her birth and blood, her clear complexion, the bright carnatic of her cheek, will not save her from the mercenary grasp of dollars and cents? It was the law; the law had made men demons, craving the bodies and souls of their fellow men. It was the white man's charge to protect the law and the constitution; and any manifestation of sympathy for this child would be in violation of a system which cannot be ameliorated without endangering the whole structure: hence the comments escaping from purchasers are only such as might have been expressed by the sporting man in his admiration of a finely proportioned animal.
What a sweet child! says one, as they close round.
Make a woman when she grows up! rejoins another, twirling his cane, and giving his hat an extra set on the side of his head.
Take too long to keep it afore its valuable is developed; but it's a picture of beauty. Face would do to take drawings from, it's so full of delicate outlines, interposes a third.
An old gentleman, with something of the ministerial in his countenance, and who has been very earnestly watching them for some time, thinks a great deal about the subject of slavery, and the strange laws by which it is governed just at this moment. He says, "One is inspired with a sort of admiration that unlocks the heart, while gazing at such delicacy and child-like sweetness as is expressed in the face of that child." He points his cane coldly at Annette. "It causes a sort of reaction in one's sense of right, socially and politically, when we see it mixed up with niggers and black ruffians to be sold."
Must abide the laws, though, says a gentleman in black, on his left.
Yes, returns our friend, quickly, "if such property could be saved the hands of speculators"--
Speculators! speculators! rejoins the gentleman in black, knitting his brows.
Yes; it's always the case in our society. The beauty of such property makes it dangerous about a well-ordained man's house. Our ladies, generally, have no sympathy with, and rather dislike its ill-gotten tendencies. The piety of the south amounts to but little in its influence on the slave population. The slave population generates its own piety. There is black piety and white piety; but the white piety effects little when it can dispose of poor black piety just as it pleases; and there's no use in clipping the branches off the tree while the root is diseased, concludes our ministerial-looking gentleman, who might have been persuaded himself to advance a bid, were he not so well versed in the tenour of society that surrounded him.
During the above ad interim at the shambles, our good lady, Mrs. Rosebrook, is straining every nerve to induce a gentleman of her acquaintance to repair to the mart, and purchase the children on her account.
Nature Shames Itself
MRS. ROSEBROOK sits in Mrs. Pringle's parlour. Mrs. Pringle is thought well of in the city of Charleston, where she resides, and has done something towards establishing a church union for the protection of orphan females. They must, however, be purely white, and without slave or base blood in their veins, to entitle them to admittance into its charitable precincts. This is upon the principle that slave blood is not acceptable in the sight of Heaven; and that allowing its admittance into this charitable earthly union would only be a sad waste of time and Christian love. Mrs. Pringle, however, feels a little softened to the good cause, and does hope Mrs. Rosebrook may succeed at least in rescuing the little girl. She has counselled Mr. Seabrook, commonly called Colonel Seabrook, a very distinguished gentleman, who has a very distinguished opinion of himself, having studied law to distinguish himself, and now and then merely practises it for his own amusement. Mr. Seabrook never gives an opinion, nor acts for his friends, unless every thing he does be considered distinguished, and gratuitously rendered.
What will you do with such property, madam? inquires the gentleman, having listened profoundly to her request.
To save them from being sold into the hands of such men as Graspum and Romescos; it's the only motive I have she speaks, gently: "I love the child; and her mother still loves her: I am a mother."
Remember, my dear lady, they are adjudged property by law; and all that you can do for them won't save them, nor change the odour of negro with which it has stamped them.
"Of that I am already too well aware, Mr. Seabrook; and I know, too, when once enslaved, how hard it is to unslave. Public sentiment is the worst slave we have; unslave that, and the righteousness of heaven will give us hearts to save ourselves from the unrighteousness of our laws. Go, Mr. Seabrook, purchase the children for me, and you will soon see what ornaments of society I will make them!""
"Ornaments to our society! interrupts Mr. Seabrook, pausing for a moment, as he places the fore-finger of his right hand upon his upper lip. "That would be a pretty consummation-at the south! Make ornaments of our society!" Mr. Seabrook turns the matter over and over and over in his mind. "Of such things as have been pronounced property by law! A pretty fix it would get our society into!" he rejoins, with emphasis. Mr. Seabrook shakes his head doubtingly, and then, taking three or four strides across the room, his hands well down in his nether pockets, relieves himself of his positive opinion. "Ah! ah! hem! my dear madam," he says, "if you undertake the purchase of all that delicate kind of property-I mean the amount total, as it is mixed up-your head'll grow grey afore you get all the bills of sale paid up,--my word for it! That's my undisguised opinion, backed up by all the pale-faced property about the city."
We will omit the opinion, Mr. Seabrook; such have kept our society where it now is. I am resolved to have those children. If you hesitate to act for me, I'll brave-
Don't say that, my dear lady. Let me remind you that it ill becomes a lady of the south to be seen at a slave-mart; more especially when such delicate property is for sale. Persons might be present who did not understand your motive, and would not only make rude advances, but question the propriety of your proceedings. You would lose caste, most surely.
Mrs. Rosebrook cares little for Mr. Seabrook's very learned opinion, knowing that learned opinions are not always the most sensible ones, and is seen arranging her bonnet hastily in a manner betokening her intention to make a bold front of it at the slave-mart. This is rather too much for Mr. Seabrook, who sets great value on his chivalrous virtues, and fearing they may suffer in the esteem of the softer sex, suddenly proffers his kind interposition, becomes extremely courteous, begs she will remain quiet, assuring her that no stone that can further her wishes shall be left unturned. Mr. Seabrook (frequently called the gallant colonel) makes one of his very best bows, adjusts his hat with exquisite grace, and leaves to exercise the wisest judgment and strictest faith at the man-market.
Such matters are exceedingly annoying to gentlemen of my standing, says Mr. Seabrook, as deliberately he proceeds to the fulfilment of his promise. He is a methodical gentleman, and having weighed the matter well over in his legal mind, is deeply indebted to it for the conclusion that Mrs. Rosebrook has got a very unsystematised crotchet into her brain. "The exhibition of sympathy for 'niggers'-they're nothing else" says Mr. Seabrook-"much adds to that popular prejudice which is already placing her in an extremely delicate position." He will call to his aid some very nice legal tact, and by that never-failing unction satisfy the good lady.
When Mr. Seabrook enters the mart (our readers will remember that we have already described it) he finds the children undergoing a very minute examination at the hands of several slave-dealers. As Mr. Forshou, the very polite man-seller, is despatching the rougher quality of human merchandise, our hero advances to the children, about whose father he asks them unanswerable questions. How interesting the children look!-how like a picture of beauty Annette's cherub face glows forth! Being seriously concerned about the child, his countenance wears an air of deep thought. "Colonel, what's your legal opinion of such pretty property?" enquires Romescos, who advances to Mr. Seabrook, and, after a minute's hesitation, takes the little girl in his arms, rudely kissing her as she presses his face from her with her left hand, and poutingly wipes her mouth with her right.
Pretty as a picture-Romescos has set the child down-"but I wouldn't give seven coppers for both; for, by my faith, such property never does well." The gentleman shakes his head in return. "It's a pity they're made it out nigger, though,--it's so handsome. Sweet little creature, that child, I declare: her beauty would be worth a fortune on the stage, when she grows up."
Romescos touches Mr. Seabrook on the arm; remarks that such things are only good for certain purposes; although one can make them pay if they know how to trade in them. But it wants a man with a capable conscience to do the business up profitably. "No chance o' your biddin' on 'um, is there, colonel?" he enquires, with a significant leer, folding his arms with the indifference of a field-marshal. After a few minutes' pause, during which Mr. Seabrook seems manufacturing an answer, he shrugs his shoulders, and takes a few pleasing steps, as if moved to a waltzing humour. "Don't scare up the like o' that gal-nigger every day," he adds. Again, as if moved by some sudden idea, he approaches Annette, and placing his hand on her head, continues: "If this ain't tumbling down a man's affairs by the run! Why, colonel, 'taint more nor three years since old Hugh Marston war looked on as the tallest planter on the Ashley; and he thought just as much o' these young 'uns as if their mother had belonged to one of the first families. Now-I pity the poor fellow!-because he tried to save 'em from being sold as slaves, they-his creditors-think he has got more property stowed away somewhere. They're going to cell him, just to try his talent at putting away things."
The "prime fellows" and wenches of the darker and coarser quality have all been disposed of; and the vender (the same gentlemanly man we have described selling Marston's undisputed property) now orders the children to be brought forward. Romescos, eagerly seizing them by the arms, brings them forward through the crowd, places them upon the stand, before the eager gaze of those assembled. Strangely placed upon the strange block, the spectators close in again, anxious to gain the best position for inspection: but little children cannot stand the gaze of such an assemblage: no; Annette turns toward Nicholas, and with a childish embrace throws her tiny arms about his neck, buries her face on his bosom. The child of misfortune seeks shelter from that shame of her condition, the evidence of which is strengthened by the eager glances of those who stand round the shambles, ready to purchase her fate. Even the vender,--distinguished gentleman that he is, and very respectably allied by marriage to one of the "first families,"-is moved with a strange sense of wrong at finding himself in a position somewhat repugnant to his feelings. He cannot suppress a blush that indicates an innate sense of shame.
Here they are, gentlemen! let no man say I have not done my duty. You have, surely, all seen the pedigree of these children set forth in the morning papers; and, now that you have them before you, the living specimen of their beauty will fully authenticate anything therein set forth, the vender exclaims, affecting an appearance in keeping with his trade. Notwithstanding this, there is a faltering nervousness in his manner, betraying all his efforts at dissimulation. He reads the invoice of human property to the listening crowd, dilates on its specific qualities with powers of elucidation that would do credit to any member of the learned profession. This opinion is confirmed by Romescos, the associations of whose trade have gained for him a very intimate acquaintance with numerous gentlemen of that very honourable profession.
Now, gentlemen, continues the vender, "the honourable high sheriff is anxious, and so am I-and it's no more than a feelin' of deserving humanity, which every southern gentleman is proud to exercise-that these children be sold to good, kind, and respectable owners; and that they do not fall into the hands, as is generally the case, of men who raise them up for infamous purposes. Gentlemen, I am decidedly opposed to making licentiousness a means of profit."
That neither means you nor me, mutters Romescos, touching Mr. Seabrook on the arm, shaking his head knowingly, and stepping aside to Graspum, in whose ear he whispers a word. The very distinguished Mr. Graspum has been intently listening to the outpouring of the vender's simplicity. What sublime nonsense it seems to him! He suggests that it would be much more effectual if it came from the pulpit,--the southern pulpit!
Better sell 'um to some deacon's family, mutters a voice in the crowd.
That's precisely what we should like, gentlemen; any bidder of that description would get them on more favourable terms than a trader, he would, he returns, quickly. The man of feeling, now wealthy from the sale of human beings, hopes gentlemen will pardon his nervousness on this occasion. He never felt the delicacy of his profession so forcibly-never, until now! His countenance changes with the emotions of his heart; he blushes as he looks upon the human invoice, glances slily over the corner at the children, and again at his customers. The culminating point of his profession has arrived; its unholy character is making war upon his better feelings. "I am not speaking ironically, gentlemen: any bidder of the description I have named will get these children at a satisfactory figure. Remember that, and that I am only acting in my office for the honourable sheriff and the creditors," he concludes.
If that be the case, Mr. Seabrook thinks to himself, "it's quite as well. Our good lady friend will be fully satisfied. She only wants to see them in good hands: deacons are just the fellows." He very politely steps aside, lights his choice habanero, and sends forth its curling fumes as the bidding goes on.
A person having the appearance of a country gentleman, who has been some time watching the proceedings, is seen to approach Graspum: this dignitary whispers something in his ear, and he leaves the mart.
I say, squire! exclaims Romescos, addressing himself to the auctioneer, "do you assume the responsibility of making special purchasers? perhaps you had better keep an eye to the law and the creditors, you had!" (Romescos's little red face fires with excitement.) "No objection t' yer sellin' the gal to deacons and elders,--even to old Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy, who's always singing, 'I know that my Redeemer cometh!' But the statutes give me just as good a right to buy her, as any first-class deacon. I knows law, and got lots o' lawyer friends."
The issue is painful enough, without any interposition from you, my friend, rejoins the vender, interrupting Romescos in his conversation. After a few minutes pause, during which time he has been watching the faces of his customers, he adds: "Perhaps, seeing how well mated they are, gentlemen will not let them be separated. They have been raised together."
Certainly! again interrupts Romescos, "it would be a pity to separate them, 'cos it might touch somebody's heart."
Ah, that comes from Romescos; we may judge of its motive as we please, rejoins the man of feeling, taking Annette by the arm and leading her to the extreme edge of the stand. "Make us a bid, gentlemen, for the pair. I can see in the looks of my customers that nobody will be so hard-hearted as to separate them. What do you offer? say it! Start them; don't be bashful, gentlemen!"
Rather cool for a hard-faced nigger-seller! Well, squire, say four hundred dollars and the treats,--that is, sposin' ye don't double my bid cos I isn't a deacon. Wants the boy t' make a general on when he grows up; don't want the gal at all. Let the deacon here (he points to the man who was seen whispering to Graspum) have her, if he wants. The deacon, as Romescos calls him, edges his way through the crowd up to the stand, and looks first at the vender and then at the children. Turning his head aside, as if it may catch the ears of several bystanders, Romescos whispers, "That's deacon Staggers, from Pineville."
Like your bid; but I'm frank enough to say I don't want you to have them, Romescos, interposes the auctioneer, with a smile.
Four hundred and fifty dollars! is sounded by a second bidder. The vender enquires, "For the two?"
Yes! the pair on 'em, is the quick reply.
Four hundred and fifty dollars! re-echoes the man of feeling. "What good democrats you are! Why, gentlemen, it's not half the value of them. You must look upon this property in a social light; then you will see its immense value. It's intelligent, civil, and promisingly handsome; sold for no fault, and here you are hesitating on a small bid.
Only four hundred and fifty dollars for such property, in this enlightened nineteenth century!
Trade will out, like murder. Squire wouldn't sell 'em to nobody but a deacon a few minutes ago! is heard coming from a voice in the crowd. The vender again pauses, blushes, and contorts his face: he cannot suppress the zest of his profession; it is uppermost in his feelings.
Romescos says it is one of the squire's unconscious mistakes. There is no use of humbugging; why not let them run off to the highest bidder?
The deacon has bid upon them; why not continue his advance? says Mr. Seabrook, who has been smoking his cigar the while.
Oh, well! seein' how it's the deacon, I won't stand agin his bid. It's Deacon Staggers of Pineville; nobody doubts his generosity, ejaculates Romescos, in a growling tone. The bids quicken,--soon reach six hundred dollars.
Getting up pretty well, gentlemen! You must not estimate this property upon their age: it's the likeliness and the promise.
Six hundred and twenty-five! mutters the strange gentleman they call Deacon Staggers from Pineville.
All right, rejoins Romescos; "just the man what ought to have 'em. I motion every other bidder withdraw in deference to the deacon's claim," rejoins Romescos, laughing.
The clever vender gets down from the stand, views the young property from every advantageous angle, dwells upon the bid, makes further comments on its choiceness, and after considerable bantering, knocks them down to-"What name, sir?" he enquires, staring at the stranger vacantly.
Deacon Staggers, replies the man, with a broad grin. Romescos motions him aside,--slips a piece of gold into his hand; it is the price of his pretensions.
The clerk enters his name in the sales book: "Deacon Staggers, of Pineville, bought May 18th, 18-.
Two children, very likely: boy, prime child, darkish hair, round figure, intelligent face, not downcast, and well outlined in limb. Girl, very pretty, bluish eyes, flaxen hair, very fair and very delicate. Price 625 dollars. Property of Hugh Marston, and sold per order of the sheriff of the county, to satisfy two fi fas issued from the Court of Common Pleas, &c. &c. &c.
An attendant now steps forward, takes the children into his charge, and leads them away. To where? The reader may surmise to the gaol. No, reader, not to the gaol; to Marco Graspum's slave-pen,--to that pent-up hell where the living are tortured unto death, and where yearning souls are sold to sink!
Thus are the beauties of this our democratic system illustrated in two innocent children being consigned to the miseries of slave life because a mother is supposed a slave: a father has acknowledged them, and yet they are sold before his eyes. It is the majesty of slave law, before which good men prostrate their love of independence. Democracy says the majesty of that law must be carried out; creditors must be satisfied, even though all that is generous and noble in man should be crushed out, and the rights of free men consigned to oblivion. A stout arm may yet rise up in a good cause; democrats may stand ashamed of the inhuman traffic, and seek to cover its poisoning head with artifices and pretences; but they write only an obituary for the curse.
A quaint-faced, good-looking country deacon has bought them. Very good; I can now go home, and relieve Mrs. Rosebrook's very generous feelings, says the very distinguished Mr. Seabrook, shrugging his shoulders, lighting a fresh cigar, and turning toward home with a deliberate step, full of good tidings.
The Vision Of Death Has Past
MR. SEABROOK returns to the mansion, and consoles the anxious lady by assuring her the children have been saved from the hands of obnoxious traders-sold to a good, country deacon. He was so delighted with their appearance that he could not keep from admiring them, and does not wonder the good lady took so great an interest in their welfare. He knows the ministerial-looking gentleman who bought them is a kind master; he has an acute knowledge of human nature, and judges from his looks. And he will further assure the good lady that the auctioneer proved himself a gentleman-every inch of him! He wouldn't take a single bid from a trader, not even from old Graspum (he dreads to come in contact with such a brute as he is, when he gets his eye on a good piece o' nigger property), with all his money. As soon as he heard the name of a deacon among the bidders, something in his heart forbade his bidding against him.
You were not as good as your word, Mr. Seabrook, says the good lady, still holding Mr. Seabrook by the hand. "But, are you sure there was no disguise about the sale?"
Not the least, madam! interrupts Mr. Seabrook, emphatically. "Bless me, madam, our people are too sensitive not to detect anything of that kind; and too generous to allow it if they did discover it. The children-my heart feels for them-are in the very best hands; will be brought up just as pious and morally. Can't go astray in the hands of a deacon-that's certain!" Mr. Seabrook rubs his hands, twists his fingers in various ways, and gives utterance to words of consolation, most blandly. The anxious lady seems disappointed, but is forced to accept the assurance.
We need scarcely tell the reader how intentionally Mr. Seabrook contented himself with the deception practised at the mart, nor with what freedom he made use of that blandest essence of southern assurance,--extreme politeness, to deceive the lady. She, however, had long been laudably engaged in behalf of a down-trodden race; and her knowledge of the secret workings of an institution which could only cover its monstrosity with sophistry and fraud impressed her with the idea of some deception having been practised. She well knew that Mr. Seabrook was one of those very contented gentlemen who have strong faith in the present, and are willing to sacrifice the future, if peace and plenty be secured to their hands. He had many times been known to listen to the advice of his confidential slaves, and even to yield to their caprices. And, too, he had been known to decry the ill-treatment of slaves by brutal and inconsiderate masters; but he never thinks it worth while to go beyond expressing a sort of rain-water sympathy for the maltreated. With those traits most prominent in his character, Annette and Nicholas were to him mere merchandise; and whatever claims to freedom they might have, through the acknowledgments of a father, he could give them no consideration, inasmuch as the law was paramount, and the great conservator of the south.
Our worthy benefactress felt the force of the above, in his reluctance to execute her commands, and the manner in which he faltered when questioned about the purchase. Returning to her home, weighing the circumstances, she resolves to devise some method of ascertaining the true position of the children. "Women are not to be outdone," she says to herself.
We must again beg the reader's indulgence while accompanying us in a retrograde necessary to the connection of our narrative. When we left Mr. M'Fadden at the crossing, more than two years ago, he was labouring under the excitement of a wound he greatly feared would close the account of his mortal speculations.
On the morning following that great political gathering, and during the night Harry had so singularly disappeared, the tavern was rife with conjectures. On the piazza and about the "bar-room" were a few stupefied and half-insensible figures stretched upon benches, or reclining in chairs, their coarse garments rent into tatters, and their besotted faces resembling as many florid masks grouped together to represent some demoniacal scene among the infernals; others were sleeping soundly beside the tables, or on the lawn. With filthy limbs bared, they snored with painful discord, in superlative contempt of everything around. Another party, reeking with the fumes of that poisonous drug upon which candidates for a people's favours had built their high expectations, were leaning carelessly against the rude counter of the "bar-room," casting wistful glances at the fascinating bottles so securely locked within the lattice-work in the corner. Oaths of touching horror are mingling with loud calls for slave attendants, whose presence they wait to quench their burning thirst. Reader! digest the moral. In this human menagerie-in this sink of besotted degradation-lay the nucleus of a power by which the greatest interests of state are controlled.
A bedusted party of mounted men have returned from a second ineffectual attempt to recover the lost preacher: the appearance of responsibility haunts mine host. He assured Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden that his property would be perfectly secure under the lock of the corn-shed. And now his anxiety exhibits itself in the readiness with which he supplies dogs, horses, guns, and such implements as are necessary to hunt down an unfortunate minister of the gospel. What makes the whole thing worse, was the report of M'Fadden having had a good sleep and awaking much more comfortable; that there was little chance of the fortunate issue of his death. In this, mine host saw the liability increasing two-fold.
He stands his important person, (hat off, face red with expectancy, and hands thrust well down into his breeches pocket), on the top step of the stairs leading to the veranda, and hears the unfavourable report with sad discomfiture. "That's what comes of making a preacher of a slave! Well! I've done all I can. It puts all kinds of deviltry about runnin' away into their heads," he ventures to assert, as he turns away, re-enters the "bar-room," and invites all his friends to drink at his expense.
Mark what I say, now, Squire Jones. The quickest way to catch that ar' nigger 's just to lay low and keep whist. He's a pious nigger; and a nigger can't keep his pious a'tween his teeth, no more nor a blackbird can his chattering. The feller 'll feel as if he wants to redeem somebody; and seeing how 'tis so, if ye just watch close some Sunday ye'll nab the fellow with his own pious bait. Can catch a pious runaway nigger 'most any time; the brute never knows enough to keep it to himself, says a flashily dressed gentleman, as he leaned against the counter, squinted his eye with an air of ponderous satisfaction, and twirled his tumbler round and round on the counter. "'Pears to me," he continues, quizzically, "Squire, you've got a lot o' mixed cracker material here, what it'll be hard to manufactor to make dependable voters on, 'lection day:" he casts a look at the medley of sleepers.
I wish the whole pack on 'em was sold into slavery, I do! They form six-tenths of the voters in our state, and are more ignorant, and a great deal worse citizens, than our slaves. Bl-'em, there is'nt one in fifty can read or write, and they're impudenter than the Governor.
Hush! hush! squire. 'Twon't do to talk so. There ain't men nowhere stand on dignity like them fellers; they are the very bone-and-siners of the unwashed, hard-fisted democracy. The way they'd pull this old tavern down, if they heard reflections on their honour, would be a caution to storms. But how's old iron-sided M'Fadden this morning? Begins to think of his niggers, I reckon, interrupts the gentleman; to which mine host shakes his head, despondingly. Mine host wishes M'Fadden, nigger, candidates and all, a very long distance from his place.
I s'pose he thinks old Death, with his grim visage, ain't going to call for him just now. That's ollers the way with northerners, who lives atween the hope of something above, and the love of makin' money below: they never feel bad about the conscience, until old Davy Jones, Esq., the gentleman with the horns and tail, takes them by the nose, and says-'come!'
I have struck an idea, says our worthy host, suddenly striking his hand on the counter. "I will put up a poster. I will offer a big reward. T'other property's all safe; there's only the preacher missing."
Just the strike! Give us yer hand, squire! The gentleman reaches his hand across the counter, and smiles, while cordially embracing mine host. "Make the reward about two hundred, so I can make a good week's work for the dogs and me. Got the best pack in the parish; one on 'em knows as much as most clergymen, he does!" he very deliberately concludes, displaying a wonderful opinion of his own nigger-catching philosophy.
And Mr. Jones, such is mine host's name, immediately commenced exercising his skill in composition on a large, poster, which with a good hour's labour he completes, and posts upon the ceiling of the "bar-room," just below an enormously illustrated Circus bill.
There! now's a chance of some enterprise and some sense. There's a deuced nice sum to be made at that! says Mr. Jones, emphatically, as he stands a few steps back, and reads aloud the following sublime outline of his genius:--
"GREAT INDUCEMENT FOR SPORTSMEN. Two Hundred Dollars Reward. The above reward will be given anybody for the apprehension of the nigger-boy, Harry, the property of Mr. M'Fadden. Said Harry suddenly disappeared from these premises last night, while his master was supposed to be dying. The boy's a well-developed nigger, 'ant sassy, got fine bold head and round face, and intelligent eye, and 's about five feet eleven inches high, and equally proportionate elsewhere. He's much giv'n to preachin', and most likely is secreted in some of the surrounding swamps, where he will remain until tempted to make his appearance on some plantation for the purpose of exortin his feller niggers. He is well disposed, and is said to have a good disposition, so that no person need fear to approach him for capture. The above reward will be paid upon his delivery at any gaol in the State, and a hundred and fifty dollars if delivered at any gaol out of the State.
"JETHRO JONES.
Just the instrument to bring him, Jethro! intimates our fashionable gent, quizzically, as he stands a few feet behind Mr. Jones, making grimaces. Then, gazing intently at the bill for some minutes, he runs his hands deep into his pockets, affects an air of greatest satisfaction, and commences whistling a tune to aid in suppressing a smile that is invading his countenance. "Wouldn't be in that nigger's skin for a thousand or more dollars, I wouldn't!" he continues, screeching in the loudest manner, and then shaking, kicking, and rousing the half-animate occupants of the floor and benches. "Come! get up here! Prize money ahead! Fine fun for a week. Prize money ahead! wake up, ye jolly sleepers, loyal citizens, independent voters-wake up, I say. Here's fun and frolic, plenty of whiskey, and two hundred dollars reward for every mother's son of ye what wants to hunt a nigger; and he's a preachin nigger at that! Come; whose in for the frolic, ye hard-faced democracy that love to vote for your country's good and a good cause?" After exerting himself for some time, they begin to scramble up like so many bewildered spectres of blackness, troubled to get light through the means of their blurred faculties.
Who's dragging the life out o' me? exclaims one, straining his mottled eyes, extending his wearied limbs, gasping as if for breath; then staggering to the counter. Finally, after much struggling, staggering, expressing consternation, obscene jeering, blasphemous oaths and filthy slang, they stand upright, and huddle around the notice. The picture presented by their ragged garments, their woebegone faces, and their drenched faculties, would, indeed, be difficult to transfer to canvas.
Now, stare! stare! with all yer fire-stained eyes, ye clan of motley vagrants-ye sovereign citizens of a sovereign state. Two hundred dollars! aye, two hundred dollars for ye. Make plenty o' work for yer dogs; knowin brutes they are. And ye'll get whiskey enough to last the whole district more nor a year, says our worthy Jones, standing before them, and pointing his finger at the notice. They, as if doubting their own perceptibilities, draw nearer and nearer, straining their eyes, while their bodies oscillate against each other.
Mine host tells them to consider the matter, and be prepared for action, while he will proceed to M'Fadden's chamber and learn the state of his health.
He opens the sick man's chamber, and there, to his surprise, is the invalid gentleman, deliberately taking his tea and toast. Mine host congratulates him upon his appearance, extends his hand, takes a seat by his bed-side. "I had fearful apprehensions about you, my friend," he says.
So had I about myself. I thought I was going to slip it in right earnest. My thoughts and feelins-how they wandered! M'Fadden raises his hand to his forehead, and slowly shakes his head. "I would'nt a' given much for the chances, at one time; but the wound isn't so bad, after all. My nigger property gets along all straight, I suppose?" he enquires, coolly, rolling his eyes upwards with a look of serious reflection. "Boy preacher never returned last night. It's all right, though, I suppose?" again he enquired, looking mine host right in the eye, as if he discovered some misgiving. His seriousness soon begins to give place to anxiety.
That boy was a bad nigger, says mine host, in a half-whisper; "but you must not let your property worry you, my friend."
Bad nigger! interrupts the invalid. Mine host pauses for a moment, while M'Fadden sets his eyes upon him with a piercing stare.
Not been cutting up nigger tricks? he ejaculates, enquiringly, about to spring from his couch with his usual nimbleness. Mine host places his left hand upon his shoulder, and assures him there is no cause of alarm.
Tell me if any thing's wrong about my property. Now do,--be candid: his eyes roll, anxiously.
All right-except the preacher; he's run away, mine host answers, suggesting how much better it will be to take the matter cool, as he is sure to be captured.
What! who-how? you don't say! My very choicest piece of property. Well-well! who will believe in religion, after that? He came to my sick chamber, the black vagabond did, and prayed as piously as a white man. And it went right to my heart; and I felt that if I died it would a' been the means o' savin my soul from all sorts of things infernal, says the recovering M'Fadden. He, the black preacher, is only a nigger after all; and his owner will have him back, or he'll have his black hide-that he will! The sick man makes another effort to rise, but is calmed into resignation through mine host's further assurance that the property will be "all right" by the time he gets well.
"How cunning it was in the black vagrant! I shouldn't be a bit surprised if he cleared straight for Massachusetts-Massachusetts hates our State. Her abolitionists will ruin us yet, sure as the world. We men of the South must do something on a grand scale to protect our rights and our property. The merchants of the North will help us; they are all interested in slave labour. Cotton is king; and cotton can rule, if it will. Cotton can make friendship strong, and political power great. There's my cousin John, ye see; he lives north, but is married to a woman south. He got her with seventeen mules and twenty-three niggers. And there's brother Jake's daughter was married to a planter out south what owns lots o' niggers. And there's good old uncle Richard; he traded a long time with down south folks, made heaps a money tradin niggers in a sly way, and never heard a word said about slavery not being right, that he did'nt get into a deuce of a fuss, and feel like fightin? Two of Simon Wattler's gals were married down south, and all the family connections became down-south in principle. And here's Judge Brooks out here, the very best down-south Judge on the bench; he come from cousin Ephraim's neighbourhood, down east. It's just this way things is snarled up a'tween us and them ar' fellers down New England way. It keeps up the strength of our peculiar institution, though. And southern Editors! just look at them; why, Lord love yer soul! two thirds on' em are imported from down-north way; and they make the very best southern-principled men. I thought of that last night, when Mr. Jones with the horns looked as if he would go with him. But, I'll have that preachin vagrant, I'll have him!"" says Mr. M'Fadden, emphatically, seeming much more at rest about his departing affairs. As the shadows of death fade from his sight into their proper distance, worldly figures and property justice resume their wonted possession of his thoughts.
"Again, as if suddenly seized with pain, he contorts his face, and enquires in a half-whisper--"What if this wound should mortify? would death follow quickly? I'm dubious yet!"
Mine host approaches nearer his bed-side, takes his hand. M'Fadden, with much apparent meekness, would know what he thought of his case?
He is assured by the kind gentleman that he is entirely out of danger-worth a whole parish of dead men. At the same time, mine host insinuates that he will never do to fight duels until he learns to die fashionably.
M'Fadden smiles,--remembers how many men have been nearly killed and yet escaped the undertaker,--seems to have regained strength, and calls for a glass of whiskey and water. Not too strong! but, reminding mine host of the excellent quality of his bitters, he suggests that a little may better his case.
I didn't mean the wound, resuming his anxiety for the lost preacher: "I meant the case of the runaway?"
Oh! oh! bless me! he will forget he is a runaway piece of property in his anxiousness to put forth his spiritual inclinations. That's what'll betray the scamp;--nigger will be nigger, you know! They can't play the lawyer, nohow, mine host replies, with an assurance of his ability to judge negro character. This is a new idea, coming like the dew-drops of heaven to relieve his anxiety. The consoling intelligence makes him feel more comfortable.
The whiskey-and-bitters-most unpoetic drink-is brought to his bed-side. He tremblingly carries it to his lips, sips and sips; then, with one gulp, empties the glass. At this moment the pedantic physician makes his appearance, scents the whiskey, gives a favourable opinion of its application as a remedy in certain cases. The prescription is not a bad one. Climate, and such a rusty constitution as Mr. M'Fadden is blest with, renders a little stimulant very necessary to keep up the one thing needful-courage! The patient complains bitterly to the man of pills and powders; tells a great many things about pains and fears. What a dreadful thing if the consequence had proved fatal! He further thinks that it was by the merest act of Providence, in such a desperate affray, he had not been killed outright. A great many bad visions have haunted him in his dreams, and he is very desirous of knowing what the man of salts and senna thinks about the true interpretation of such. About the time he was dreaming such dreams he was extremely anxious to know how the spiritual character of slave-holders stood on the records of heaven, and whether the fact of slave-owning would cause the insertion of an item in the mortal warrant forming the exception to a peaceful conclusion with the Father's forgiveness. He felt as if he would surely die during the night past, and his mind became so abstracted about what he had done in his life,--what was to come, how negro property had been treated, how it should be treated,--that, although he had opinions now and then widely-different, it had left a problem which would take him all his life-time to solve,--if he should live ever so long. And, too, there were these poor wretches accidentally shot down at his side; his feelings couldn't withstand the ghostly appearance of their corpses as he was carried past them, perhaps to be buried n the same forlorn grave, the very next day. All these things reflected their results through the morbidity of Mr. M'Fadden's mind; but his last observation, showing how slender is the cord between life and death, proved what was uppermost in his mind. "You'll allow I'm an honest man? I have great faith in your opinion, Doctor! And if I have been rather go-ahead with my niggers, my virtue in business matters can't be sprung," he mutters. The physician endeavours to calm his anxiety, by telling him he is a perfect model of goodness,--a just, honest, fearless, and enterprising planter; and that these attributes of our better nature constitute such a balance in the scale as will give any gentleman slaveholder very large claims to that spiritual proficiency necessary for the world to come.
Mr. M'Fadden acquiesces in the correctness of this remark, but desires to inform the practitioner what a sad loss he has met with. He is sure the gentleman will scarcely believe his word when he tells him what it is. "I saw how ye felt downright affected when that nigger o' mine prayed with so much that seemed like honesty and christianity, last night," he says.
Yes, interrupts the man of medicine, "he was a wonderful nigger that. I never heard such natural eloquence nor such pathos; he is a wonder among niggers, he is! Extraordinary fellow for one raised up on a plantation. Pity, almost, that such a clergyman should be a slave."
You don't say so, Doctor, do you? Well! I've lost him just when I wanted him most.
He is not dead? enquires the physician, suddenly interrupting. He had seen Mr. M'Fadden's courage fail at the approach of death, and again recover quickly when the distance widened between that monitor and himself, and could not suppress the smile stealing over his countenance.
Dead! no indeed. Worse-he has run away! Mr. M'Fadden quickly retorted, clenching his right hand, and scowling. In another minute he turns back the sheets, and, with returned strength, makes a successful attempt to sit up in bed. "I don't know whether I'm better or worse; but I think it would be all right if I warn't worried so much about the loss of that preacher. I paid a tremendous sum for him. And the worst of it is, my cousin deacon Stoner, of a down-east church, holds a mortgage on my nigger stock, and he may feel streaked when he hears of the loss;" Mr. M'Fadden concludes, holding his side to the physician, who commences examining the wound, which the enfeebled man says is very sore and must be dressed cautiously, so that he may be enabled to get out and see to his property.
To the great surprise of all, the wound turns out to be merely a slight cut, with no appearance of inflammation, and every prospect of being cured through a further application of a very small bit of dressing plaster.
The physician smiled, mine host smiled; it was impossible to suppress the risible faculties. The poor invalid is overpowered with disappointment. His imagination had betrayed him into one of those desperate, fearful, and indubitable brinks of death, upon which it seems the first law of nature reminds us what is necessary to die by. They laughed, and laughed, and laughed, till Mr. M'Fadden suddenly changed countenance, and said it was no laughing affair,--such things were not to be trifled with; men should be thinking of more important matters. And he looked at the wound, run his fingers over it gently, and rubbed it as if doubting the depth.
A little more whiskey would'nt hurt me, Doctor? he enquires, complacently, looking round the room distrustfully at those who were enjoying the joke, more at his expense than he held to be in accordance with strict rules of etiquette.
I'll admit, my worthy citizen, your case seemed to baffle my skill, last night, the physician replies, jocosely. "Had I taken your political enthusiasm into consideration,--and your readiness to instruct an assemblage in the holy democracy of our south,--and your hopes of making strong draughts do strong political work, I might have saved my opiate, and administered to your case more in accordance with the skilfully administered prescriptions of our politicians. Notwithstanding, I am glad you are all right, and trust that whenever you get your enthusiasm fired with bad brandy, or the candidates' bad whiskey, you will not tax other people's feelings with your own dying affairs; nor send for a 'nigger' preacher to redeem your soul, who will run away when he thinks the job completed."
Mr. M'Fadden seemed not to comprehend the nature of his physician's language, and after a few minutes pause he must needs enquire about the weather? if a coroner's inquest has been held over the dead men? what was its decision? was there any decision at all? and have they been buried? Satisfied on all these points, he gets up, himself again, complaining only of a little muddled giddiness about the head, and a hip so sore that he scarcely could reconcile his mind to place confidence in it.
Good by! good by! says the physician, shaking him by the hand. "Measure the stimulant carefully; and take good care of dumplin dep“t No. 1, and you'll be all right very soon. You're a good democrat, and you'll make as good a stump orator as ever took the field."
The man of medicine, laughing heartily within himself, descends the stairs and reaches the bar-room, where are concentrated sundry of the party we have before described. They make anxious enquiries about Mr. M'Fadden,--how he seemed to "take it;" did he evince want of pluck? had he courage enough to fight a duel? and could his vote be taken afore he died? These, and many other questions of a like nature, were put to the physician so fast, and with so many invitations to drink "somethin'," that he gave a sweeping answer by saying Mac had been more frightened than hurt; that the fear of death having passed from before his eyes his mind had now centered on the loss of his nigger preacher-a valuable piece of property that had cost him no less than fifteen hundred dollars. And the worst of it was, that the nigger had aggravatingly prayed for him when he thought he was going to sink out into the arms of father death.
So pressing were the invitations to drink, that our man of medicine advanced to the counter, like a true gentleman of the south, and with his glass filled with an aristocratic mixture, made one of his politest bows, toasted the health of all free citizens, adding his hope for the success of the favourite candidate.
Drink it with three cheers, standin'! shouted a formidably mustached figure, leaning against the counter with his left hand, while his right was grasping the jug from which he was attempting in vain to water his whiskey. To this the physic gentleman bows assent; and they are given to the very echo. Taking his departure for the city, as the sounds of cheering die away, he emerged from the front door, as Mr. M'Fadden, unexpectedly as a ghost rising from the tomb, made his entrance from the old staircase in the back. The citizens-for of such is our assembly composed-are astonished and perplexed. "Such a set of scapegoats as you are!" grumbles out the debutant, as he stands before them like a disentombed spectre. With open arms they approach him, congratulate him on his recovery, and shower upon him many good wishes, and long and strong drinks.
A few drinks more, and our hero is quite satisfied with his welcome. His desire being intimated, mine host conducts himself to the corn-shed, where he satisfies himself that his faithful property (the preacher excepted) is all snugly safe. Happy property in the hands of a prodigious democrat! happy republicanism that makes freedom but a privilege! that makes a mockery of itself, and enslaves the noblest blood of noble freemen! They were happy, the victims of ignorance, contented with the freedom their country had given them, bowing beneath the enslaving yoke of justice-boasting democracy, and ready to be sold and shipped, with an invoice of freight, at the beckon of an owner.
Mr. M'Fadden questions the people concerning Harry's departure; but they are as ignorant of his whereabouts as himself. They only remember that he came to the shed at midnight, whispered some words of consolation, and of his plain fare gave them to eat;--nothing more.
Poor recompense for my goodness! says Mr. M'Fadden, muttering some indistinct words as he returns to the tavern, followed by a humorous negro, making grimaces in satisfaction of "mas'r's" disappointment. Now friends are gathered together, chuckling in great glee over the large reward offered for the lost parson, for the capture of which absconding article they have numerous horses, dogs, confidential negroes, and a large supply of whiskey, with which very necessary liquid they will themselves become dogs of one kine. The game to be played is purely a democratic one; hence the clansmen are ready to loosen their souls' love for the service. M'Fadden never before witnessed such satisfactory proofs of his popularity; his tenderest emotions are excited; he cannot express the fullness of his heart; he bows, puts his hand to his heart, orders the balance of his invoice sent to his plantation, mounts his horse, and rides off at full gallop, followed by his friends.
A Friend Is Woman
THE reader will again accompany us to the time when we find Annette and Nicholas in the hands of Graspum, who will nurture them for their increasing value.
Merciless creditors have driven Marston from that home of so many happy and hospitable associations, to seek shelter in the obscure and humble chamber of a wretched building in the outskirts of the city. Fortune can afford him but a small cot, two or three broken chairs, an ordinary deal table, a large chest, which stands near the fire-place, and a dressing-stand, for furniture. Here, obscured from the society he had so long mingled with, he spends most of his time, seldom venturing in public lest he may encounter those indomitable gentlemen who would seem to love the following misfortune into its last stage of distress. His worst enemy, however, is that source of his misfortunes he cannot disclose; over it hangs the mystery he must not solve! It enshrines him with guilt before public opinion; by it his integrity lies dead; it is that which gives to mother rumour the weapons with which to wield her keenest slanders.
Having seized Marston's real estate, Graspum had no scruples about swearing to the equity of his claim; nor were any of the creditors willing to challenge an investigation; and thus, through fear of such a formidable abettor, Marston laboured under the strongest, and perhaps the most unjust imputations. But there was no limit to Graspum's mercenary proceedings; for beyond involving Marston through Lorenzo, he had secretly purchased many claims of the creditors, and secured his money by a dexterous movement, with which he reduced the innocent children to slavery.
Reports have spread among the professedly knowing that Marston can never have made away with all his property in so few years. And the manner being so invisible, the charge becomes stronger. Thus, labouring between the pain of misfortune and the want of means to resent suspicion, his cheerless chamber is all he can now call his home. But he has two good friends left-Franconia, and the old negro Bob. Franconia has procured a municipal badge for Daddy; and, through it (disguised) he seeks and obtains work at stowing cotton on the wharfs. His earnings are small, but his soul is large, and embued with attachment for his old master, with whom he will share them. Day by day the old slave seems to share the feelings of his master,--to exhibit a solicitous concern for his comfort. Earning his dollars and twenty-five cents a day, he will return when the week has ended, full of exultation, spread out his earnings with childlike simplicity, take thirty cents a day for himself, and slip the remainder into Marston's pocket. How happy he seems, as he watches the changes of Marston's countenance, and restrains the gushing forth of his feelings!
It was on one of those nights upon which Daddy had received his earnings, that Marston sat in his cheerless chamber, crouched over the faint blaze of a few pieces of wood burning on the bricks of his narrow fire-place, contemplating the eventful scenes of the few years just passed. The more he contemplated the more it seemed like a dream; his very head wearied with the interminable maze of his difficulties. Further and further, as he contemplated, did it open to his thoughts the strange social and political mystery of that more strange institution for reducing mankind to the level of brutes. And yet, democracy, apparently honest, held such inviolable and just to its creed; which creed it would defend with a cordon of steel. The dejected gentleman sighs, rests his head on his left hand, and his elbow on the little table at his side. Without, the weather is cold and damp; an incessant rain had pattered upon the roof throughout the day, wild and murky clouds hang their dreary festoons along the heavens, and swift scudding fleeces, driven by fierce, murmuring winds, bespread the prospect with gloom that finds its way into the recesses of the heart.
Who is worse than a slave! sighs the rejected man, getting up and looking out of his window into the dreary recesses of the narrow lane. "If it be not a ruined planter I mistake the policy by which we govern our institution! As the slave is born a subject being, so is the planter a dependent being. We planters live in disappointment, in fear, in unhappy uncertainty; and yet we make no preparations for the result. Nay, we even content ourselves with pleasantly contemplating what may come through the eventful issue of political discord; and when it comes in earnest, we find ourselves the most hapless of unfortunates. For myself, bereft of all I had once,--even friends, I am but a forlorn object in the scale of weak mankind! No man will trust me with his confidence,--scarce one knows me but to harass me; I can give them no more, and yet I am suspected of having more. It is so, and ever will be so. Such are the phases of man's downfall, that few follow them to the facts, while rumour rules supreme over misfortune. There may be a fountain of human pain concealed beneath it; but few extend the hand to stay its quickening. Nay, when all is gone, mammon cries, more! until body and soul are crushed beneath the "more" of relentless self.
Few know the intricacies of our system; perhaps 'twere well, lest our souls should not be safe within us. But, ah! my conscience chides me here. And betwixt those feelings which once saw all things right, but now through necessity beholds their grossest wrongs, comes the pain of self-condemnation. It is a condemnation haunting me unto death. Had I been ignorant of Clotilda's history, the fiendish deed of those who wronged her in her childhood had not now hung like a loathsome pestilence around my very garments. That which the heart rebukes cannot be concealed; but we must be obedient to the will that directs all things;--and if it be that we remain blind in despotism until misfortune opens our eyes, let the cause of the calamity be charged to those it belongs to, he concludes; and then, after a few minutes' silence, he lights his taper, and sets it upon the table. His care-worn countenance pales with melancholy; his hair has whitened with tribulation; his demeanour denotes a man of tender sensibility fast sinking into a physical wreck. A well-soiled book lies on the table, beside which he takes his seat; he turns its pages over and over carelessly, as if it were an indifferent amusement to wile away the time. "They cannot enslave affection, nor can they confine it within prison walls," he mutters. He has proof in the faithfulness of Daddy, his old slave. And as he contemplates, the words "she will be more than welcome to-night," escape his lips. Simultaneously a gentle tapping is heard at the door. Slowly it opens, and the figure of an old negro, bearing a basket on his arm, enters. He is followed by the slender and graceful form of Franconia, who approaches her uncle, hand extended, salutes him with a kiss, seats herself at his side, says he must not be sad. Then she silently gazes upon him for a few moments, as if touched by his troubles, while the negro, having spread the contents of the basket upon the chest, makes a humble bow, wishes mas'r and missus good night, and withdraws. "There, uncle," she says, laying her hand gently on his arm, "I didn't forget you, did I?" She couples the word with a smile-a smile so sweet, so expressive of her soul's goodness. "You are dear to me, uncle; yes, as dear as a father. How could I forget that you have been a father to me? I have brought these little things to make you comfortable,"-she points to the edibles on the chest-"and I wish I were not tied to a slave, uncle, for then I could do more. Twice, since my marriage to M'Carstrow, have I had to protect myself from his ruffianism."
From his ruffianism! interrupts Marston, quickly: "Can it be, my child, that even a ruffian would dare exhibit his vileness toward you?"
Even toward me, uncle. With reluctance I married him, and my only regret is, that a slave's fate had not been mine ere the fruits of that day fell upon me. Women like me make a feeble defence in the world; and bad husbands are the shame of their sex, she returns, her eyes brightening with animation, as she endeavours to calm the excitement her remarks have given rise to: "Don't, pray don't mind it, uncle," she concludes.
Such news had been anticipated; but I was cautious not to--
Never mind, she interrupts, suddenly coiling her delicate arm round his neck, and impressing a kiss on his care-worn cheek. "Let us forget these things; they are but the fruits of weak nature. It were better to bear up under trouble than yield to trouble's burdens: better far. Who knows but that it is all for the best?" She rises, and, with seeming cheerfulness, proceeds to spread the little table with the refreshing tokens of her friendship. Yielding to necessity, the table is spread, and they sit down, with an appearance of domestic quietness touchingly humble.
There is some pleasure, after all, in having a quiet spot where we can sit down and forget our cares. Perhaps (all said and done) a man may call himself prince of his own garret, when he can forget all beyond it, says Marston affected to tears by Franconia's womanly resignation.
Yes, returns Franconia, joyously, "it's a consolation to know that we have people among us much worse off than we are. I confess, though, I feel uneasy about our old slaves. Slavery's wrong, uncle; and it's when one's reduced to such extremes as are presented in this uninviting garret that we realise it the more forcibly. It gives the poor wretches no chance of bettering their condition; and if one exhibits ever so much talent over the other, there is no chance left him to improve it. It is no recompense to the slave that his talent only increases the price of the article to be sold. Look what Harry would have been had he enjoyed freedom. Uncle, we forget our best interests while pondering over the security of a bad system. Would it not be better to cultivate the slave's affections, rather than oppress his feelings?" Franconia has their cause at heart-forgets her own. She is far removed from the cold speculations of the south; she is free from mercenary motives; unstained by that principle of logic which recognises only the man merchandise. No will hath she to contrive ingenious apologies for the wrongs inflicted upon a fallen race. Her words spring from the purest sentiment of the soul; they contain a smarting rebuke of Marston's former misdoings: but he cannot resent it, nor can he turn the tide of his troubles against her noble generosity.
They had eaten their humble supper of meats and bread, and coffee, when Franconia hears a rap at the lower entrance, leading into the street. Bearing the taper in her hand, she descends the stairs quickly, and, opening the door, recognises the smiling face of Daddy Bob. Daddy greets her as if he were surcharged with the very best news for old mas'r and missus. He laughs in the exuberance of his simplicity, and, with an air of fondness that would better become a child, says, "Lor', young missus, how glad old Bob is to see ye! Seems like long time since old man see'd Miss Frankone look so spry. Got dat badge." The old man shows her his badge, exultingly. "Missus, nobody know whose nigger I'm's, and old Bob arns a right smart heap o' money to make mas'r comfortable." The old slave never for once thinks of his own infirmities; no, his attachment for master soars above every thing else; he thinks only in what way he can relieve his necessities. Honest, faithful, and affectionate, the associations of the past are uppermost in his mind; he forgets his slavery in his love for master and the old plantation. Readily would he lay down his life, could he, by so doing, lighten the troubles he instinctively sees in the changes of master's position. The old plantation and its people have been sold; and he, being among the separated from earth's chosen, must save his infirm body lest some man sell him for the worth thereof. Bob's face is white with beard, and his coarse garments are much worn and ragged; but there is something pleasing in the familiarity with which Franconia accepts his brawny hand. How free from that cold advance, that measured welcome, and that religious indifference, with which the would-be friend of the slave, at the north, too often accepts the black man's hand! There is something in the fervency with which she shakes his wrinkled hand that speaks of the goodness of the heart; something that touches the old slave's childlike nature. He smiles bashfully, and says, "Glad t' see ye, missus; dat I is: 'spishilly ven ye takes care on old mas'r." After receiving her salutation he follows her to the chamber, across which he hastens to receive a welcome from old mas'r. Marston warmly receives his hand, and motions him to be seated on the chest near the fire-place. Bob takes his seat, keeping his eye on mas'r the while. "Neber mind, mas'r," he says, "Big Mas'r above be better dan Buckra. Da'h is somefin' what Buckra no sell from ye, dat's a good heart. If old mas'r on'y keeps up he spirit, de Lor' 'll carry un throu' 'e triblation," he continues; and, after watching his master a few minutes, returns to Franconia, and resumes his jargon.
Franconia is the same fair creature Bob watched over when she visited the plantation: her countenance wears the same air of freshness and frankness; her words are of the same gentleness; she seems as solicitous of his comfort as before. And yet a shadow of sadness shrouds that vivacity which had made her the welcome guest of the old slaves. He cannot resist those expressions which are ever ready to lisp forth from the negro when his feelings are excited. "Lor, missus, how old Bob's heart feels! Hah, ah! yah, yah! Looks so good, and reminds old Bob how e' look down on dah Astley, yander. But, dah somefin in dat ar face what make old nigger like I know missus don't feel just right," he exclaims.
The kind woman reads his thoughts in the glowing simplicity of his wrinkled face. "It has been said that a dog was our last friend, Bob: I now think a slave should have been added. Don't you think so, uncle?" she enquires, looking at Marston, and, again taking the old slave by the hand, awaits the reply.
We rarely appreciate their friendship until it be too late to reward it, he replies, with an attempt to smile.
True, true! but the world is full of ingratitude,--very amiable ingratitude. Never mind, Daddy; you must now tell me all about your affairs, and what has happened since the night you surprised me at our house; and you must tell me how you escaped M'Carstrow on the morning of the disturbance, she enjoins. And while Bob relates his story Franconia prepares his supper. Some cold ham, bread, and coffee, are soon spread out before him. He will remove them to the chest, near the fire-place. "Why, Missus Frankone," he says, "ye sees how I'se so old now dat nobody tink I'se werf ownin; and so nobody axes old Bob whose nigger he is. An't prime nigger, now; but den a' good fo' work some, and get cash, so t' help old mas'r yander (Bob points to old master). Likes t' make old master feel not so bad."
Yes, rejoins Marston, "Bob's good to me. He makes his sleeping apartments, when he comes, at the foot of my bed, and shares his earnings with me every Saturday night. He's like an old clock that can keep time as well as a new one, only wind it up with care."
Dat I is! says Daddy, with an exulting nod of the head, as he, to his own surprise, lets fall his cup. It was only the negro's forgetfulness in the moment of excitement. Giving a wistful look at Franconia, he commences picking up the pieces, and drawing his week's earnings from a side pocket of his jacket.
Eat your supper, Daddy; never mind your money now says Franconia, laughing heartily: at which Bob regains confidence and resumes his supper, keeping a watchful eye upon his old master the while. Every now and then he will pause, cant his ear, and shake his head, as if drinking in the tenour of the conversation between Franconia and her uncle. Having concluded, he pulls out his money and spreads it upon the chest. "Old Bob work hard fo' dat!" he says, with emphasis, spreading a five-dollar bill and two dollars and fifty cents in silver into divisions. "Dah!" he ejaculates, "dat old mas'r share, and dis is dis child's." The old man looks proudly upon the coin, and feels he is not so worthless, after all. "Now! who say old Bob aint werf nofin?" he concludes, getting up, putting his share into his pocket, and then, as if unobserved, slipping the balance into Marston's. This done, he goes to the window, affects to be looking out, and then resuming his seat upon the chest, commences humming a familiar plantation tune, as if his pious feelings had been superseded by the recollection of past scenes.
What, Daddy,--singing songs? interrupts Franconia, looking at him enquiringly. He stops as suddenly as he commenced, exchanges an expressive look, and fain would question her sincerity.
Didn't mean 'um, missus, he returns, after a moment's hesitation, "didn't mean 'um. Was thinkin 'bout somefin back'ards; down old plantation times."
You had better forget them times, Bob.
Buckra won't sell dis old nigger,--will he, Miss Frankone? he enquires, resuming his wonted simplicity.
Sell you, Bob? You're a funny old man. Don't think your old half-worn-out bones are going to save you. Money's the word: they'll sell anything that will produce it,--dried up of age are no exceptions. Keep out of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy's way: whenever you hear him singing, 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall come,' as he always does,--run! He lives on the sale of infirmity, and your old age would be a capital thing for the exercise of his genius. He will put you through a course of regeneration, take the wrinkles smooth out of your face, dye those old grey whiskers, and get a profit for his magic power of transposing the age of negro property, she replied, gravely, while Bob stares at her as if doubting his own security.
Why, missus! he interposes, his face glowing with astonishment; "Buckra don't be so smart dat he make old nigger young, be he?"
Traders can do anything with niggers that have got money in them, as they say. Our distinguished people are sensitive of the crime, but excuse themselves with apologies they cannot make cover the shame.
Franke! interrupts Marston, "spare the negro's feelings,--it may have a bad effect." He touches her on the arm, and knits his brows in caution.
How strange, to think that bad influence could come of such an inoffensive old man! Truth, I know and feel, is powerfully painful when brought home to the doors of our best people,--it cuts deep when told in broad letters; but they make the matter worse by attempting to enshrine the stains with their chivalry. We are a wondrous people, uncle, and the world is just finding it out, to our shame. We may find it out ourselves, by and by; perhaps pay the penalty with sorrow. We look upon negroes as if they were dropped down from some unaccountable origin,--intended to raise the world's cotton, rice, and sugar, but never to get above the menial sphere we have conditioned for them. Uncle, there is a mistake somewhere,--a mistake sadly at variance with our democratic professions. Democracy needs to reclaim its all-claiming principles of right and justice for the down-trodden. And yet, while the negro generously submits to serve us, we look upon him as an auspicious innovator, who never could have been born to enjoy manhood, and was subjected to bear a black face because God had marked him for servitude. Did God found an aristocracy of colour, or make men to be governed by their distinctive qualifications of colour relationship? says Franconia, her face resuming a flush of agitation. Touching Marston on the arm with the fore-finger of her right hand, and giving a glance at Bob, who listens attentively to the theme of conversation, she continues: "Say no more of bad influence coming of slaves, when the corruptest examples are set by those who hold them as such,--who crash their hopes, blot out their mental faculties, and turn their bodies into licentious merchandise that they may profit by its degradation! Show me the humblest slave on your plantation, and, in comparison with the slave-dealer, I will prove him a nobleman of God's kind,--of God's image: his simple nature will be his clean passport into heaven. The Father of Mercy will receive him there; he will forgive the crimes enforced upon him by man; and that dark body on earth will be recompensed in a world of light,--it will shine with the brighter spirits of that realm of justice and love. Earth may bring the slavetrader bounties; but heaven will reject the foul offering." The good woman unfolds the tender emotions of her heart, as only woman can.
Bob listens, as if taking a deep interest in the force and earnestness of young missus's language. He is swayed by her pathos, and at length interposes his word.
Nigger ain't so good as white man (he shakes his head, philosophically). "White man sharp; puzzle nigger to find out what 'e don, know ven 'e mind t'." Thus saying, he takes a small hymn- book from his pocket, and, Franconia setting the light beside him, commences reading to himself by its dim glare.
Well! now, uncle, it's getting late, and I've a good way to go, and the night's stormy; so I must prepare for home. Franconia gets up, and evinces signs of withdrawing. She walks across the little chamber three or four times, looks out of the window, strains her sight into the gloomy prospect, and then, as if reluctant to leave her uncle, again takes a seat by his side. Gently laying her left hand upon his shoulder, she makes an effort at pleasantry, tells him to keep up his resolution-to be of good cheer.
Remember, uncle, she says, calmly, "they tell us it is no disgrace to be poor,--no shame to work to live; and yet poor people are treated as criminals. For my own part, I would rather be poor and happy than rich with a base husband; I have lived in New England, know how to appreciate its domestic happiness. It was there Puritanism founded true American liberty.--Puritanism yet lives, and may be driven to action; but we must resign ourselves to the will of an all-wise Providence." Thus concluding, she makes another attempt to withdraw.
You must not leave me yet! says Marston, grasping her hand firmly in his. "Franke, I cannot part with you until I have disclosed what I have been summoning resolution to suppress. I know your attachment, Franconia; you have been more than dear to me. You have known my feelings,--what they have already had to undergo." He pauses.
Speak it, uncle, speak it! Keep nothing from me, nor make secrets in fear of my feelings. Speak out,--I may relieve you! she interrupts, nervously: and again encircling her arm round his neck, waits his reply, in breathless suspense.
He falters for a moment, and then endeavours to regain his usual coolness. "To-morrow, Franconia," he half mutters out, "to-morrow, you may find me not so well situated," (here tears are seen trickling down his cheeks) "and in a place where it will not become your delicate nature to visit me."
Nay, uncle! she stops him there; "I will visit you wherever you may be-in a castle or a prison."
The word prison has touched the tender chord upon which all his troubles are strung. He sobs audibly; but they are only sobs of regret, for which there is no recompense in this late hour. "And would you follow me to a prison, Franconia?" he enquires, throwing his arms about her neck, kissing her pure cheek with the fondness of a father.
Yea, and share your sorrows within its cold walls. Do not yield to melancholy, uncle,--you have friends left: if not, heaven will prepare a place of rest for you; heaven shields the unfortunate at last, rejoins the good woman, the pearly tears brightening in mutual sympathy.
To-morrow, my child, you will find me the unhappy tenant of those walls where man's discomfiture is complete.
Nay, uncle, nay! you are only allowing your melancholy forebodings to get the better of you. Such men as Graspum-men who have stripped families of their all-might take away your property, and leave you as they have left my poor parents; but no one would be so heartless as to drive you to the extreme of imprisonment. It is a foolish result at best. Franconia's voice falters; she looks more and more intently in her uncle's face, struggles to suppress her rising emotions. She knows his frankness, she feels the pain of his position; but, though the dreadful extreme seems scarcely possible, there is that in his face conveying strong evidence of the truth of his remark.
Do not weep, Franconia; spare your tears for a more worthy object: such trials have been borne by better men than I. I am but the merchandise of my creditors. There is, however, one thing which haunts me to grief; could I have saved my children, the pain of my position had been slight indeed.
Speak not of them, uncle, Franconia interrupts, "you cannot feel the bitterness of their lot more than myself. I have saved a mother, but have failed to execute my plan of saving them; and my heart throbs with pain when I think that now it is beyond my power. Let me not attempt to again excite in your bosom feelings which must ever be harassing, for the evil only can work its destruction. To clip the poisoning branches and not uproot the succouring trunk, is like casting pearls into the waste of time. My heart will ever be with the destinies of those children, my feelings bound in unison with theirs; our hopes are the same, and if fortune should smile on me in times to come I will keep my word-I will snatch them from the devouring element of slavery."
Stop, my child! speaks Marston, earnestly: "Remember you can do little against the strong arm of the law, and still stronger arm of public opinion. Lay aside your hopes of rescuing those children, Franconia, and remember that while I am in prison I am the property of my creditors, subject to their falsely conceived notions of my affairs," he continues. "I cannot now make amends to the law of nature," he adds, burying his face in his hand, weeping a child's tears.
Franconia looks solicitously upon her uncle, as he sorrows. She would dry her tears to save his throbbing heart. Her noble generosity and disinterestedness have carried her through many trials since her marriage, but it fails to nerve her longer. Her's is a single-hearted sincerity, dispensing its goodness for the benefit of the needy; she suppresses her own troubles that she may administer consolation to others. "The affection that refuses to follow misfortune to its lowest step is weak indeed. If you go to prison, Franconia will follow you there," she says, with touching pathos, her musical voice adding strength to the resolution. Blended with that soft angelic expression her eyes give forth, her calm dignity and inspiring nobleness show how firm is that principle of her nature never to abandon her old friend.
The old negro, who had seemed absorbed in his sympathetic reflections, gazes steadfastly at his old master, until his emotions spring forth in kindest solicitude. Resistance is beyond his power. "Neber mind, old mas'r," (he speaks in a devoted tone) "dar's better days comin, bof fo' old Bob and mas'r. Tink 'um sees de day when de old plantation jus so 't was wid mas'r and da' old folks." Concluding in a subdued voice, he approaches Franconia, and seats himself, book in hand, on the floor at her feet. Moved by his earnestness, she lays her hand playfully upon his head, saying: "Here is our truest friend, uncle!"
My own heart lubs Miss Frankone more den eber, he whispers in return. How pure, how holy, is the simple recompense! It is nature's only offering, all the slave can give; and he gives it in the bounty of his soul.
Marston's grief having subsided, he attempts to soothe Franconia's feelings, by affecting an air of indifference. "What need I care, after all? my resolution should be above it," he says, thrusting his right hand into his breast pocket, and drawing out a folded paper, which he throws upon the little table, and says, "There, Franconia, my child! that contains the climax of my unlamented misfortunes; read it: it will show you where my next abode will be-I may be at peace there; and there is consolation at being at peace, even in a cell." He passes the paper into her hand.
With an expression of surprise she opens it, and glances over its contents; then reads it word by word. "Do they expect to get something from nothing?" she says, sarcastically. "It is one of those soothsayers so valuable to men whose feelings are only with money-to men who forget they cannot carry money to the graves; and that no tribute is demanded on either road leading to the last abode of man."
Stop there, my child! stop! interrupts Marston. "I have given them all, 'tis true; but suspicion is my persecutor-suspicion, and trying to be a father to my own children!"
It is, indeed, a misfortune to be a father under such circumstances, in such an atmosphere! the good woman exclaims, clasping her hands and looking upward, as if imploring the forgiveness of Heaven. Tremblingly she held the paper in her hand, until it fell upon the floor, as she, overcome, swooned in her uncle's arms.
She swooned! yes, she swooned. That friend upon whom her affections had been concentrated was a prisoner. The paper was a bail writ, demanding the body of the accused. The officer serving had been kind enough to allow Marston his parole of honour until the next morning. He granted this in accordance with Marston's request, that by the lenity he might see Daddy Bob and Franconia once more.
Lifting Franconia in his arms, her hair falling loosely down, Marston lays her gently on the cot, and commences bathing her temples. He has nothing but water to bathe them with,--nothing but poverty's liquid. The old negro, frightened at the sudden change that has come over his young missus, falls to rubbing and kissing her hands,--he has no other aid to lend. Marston has drawn his chair beside her, sits down upon it, unbuttons her stomacher, and continues bathing and chafing her temples. How gently heaves that bosom so full of fondness, how marble-like those features, how pallid but touchingly beautiful that face! Love, affection, and tenderness, there repose so calmly! All that once gave out so much hope, so much joy, now withers before the blighting sting of misfortune. "Poor child, how fondly she loves me!" says Marston, placing his right arm under her head, and raising it gently. The motion quickens her senses-she speaks; he kisses her pallid cheek-kisses and kisses it. "Is it you uncle?" she whispers. She has opened her eyes, stares at Marston, then wildly along the ceiling. "Yes, I'm in uncle's arms; how good!" she continues, as if fatigued. Reclining back on the pillow, she again rests her head upon his arm. "I am at the mansion-how pleasant; let me rest, uncle; let me rest. Send aunt Rachel to me." She raises her right hand and lays her arms about Marston's neck, as anxiously he leans over her. How dear are the associations of that old mansion! how sweet the thought of home! how uppermost in her wandering mind the remembrance of those happy days!