Marston In Prison
WHILE Franconia revives, let us beg the reader's indulgence for not recounting the details thereof. The night continues dark and stormy, but she must return to her own home,--she must soothe the excited feelings of a dissolute and disregarding husband, who, no doubt, is enjoying his night orgies, while she is administering consolation to the downcast. "Ah! uncle," she says, about to take leave of him for the night, "how with spirit the force of hope fortifies us; and yet how seldom are our expectations realised through what we look forward to! You now see the value of virtue; but when seen through necessity, how vain the repentance. Nevertheless, let us profit by the lesson before us; let us hope the issue may yet be favourable!" Bob will see his young missus safe home-he will be her guide and protector. So, preparing his cap, he buttons his jacket, laughs and grins with joy, goes to the door, then to the fire-place, and to the door again, where, keeping his left hand on the latch, and his right holding the casement, he bows and scrapes, for "Missus comin." Franconia arranges her dress as best she can, adjusts her bonnet, embraces Marston, imprints a fond kiss on his cheek, reluctantly relinquishes his hand, whispers a last word of consolation, and bids him good night,--a gentle good night-in sorrow.
She has gone, and the old slave is her guide, her human watch-dog. Slowly Marston paces the silent chamber alone, giving vent to his pent-up emotions. What may to-morrow bring forth? runs through his wearied mind. It is but the sudden downfall of life, so inseparable from the planter who rests his hopes on the abundance of his human property. But the slave returns, and relieves him of his musings. He has seen his young missus safe to her door; he has received her kind word, and her good, good night! Entering the chamber with a smile, he sets about clearing away the little things, and, when done, draws his seat close to Marston, at the fire-place. As if quite at home beside his old master, he eyes Marston intently for some time,--seems studying his thoughts and fears. At length the old slave commences disclosing his feelings. His well-worn bones are not worth a large sum; nor are the merits of his worthy age saleable;--no! there is nothing left but his feelings, those genuine virtues so happily illustrated. Daddy Bob will stand by mas'r, as he expresses it, in power or in prison. Kindness has excited all that vanity in Bob so peculiar to the negro, and by which he prides himself in the prime value of his person. There he sits-Marston's faithful friend, contemplating his silence with a steady gaze, and then, giving his jet-black face a double degree of seriousness, shrugs his shoulders, significantly nods his head, and intimates that it will soon be time to retire, by commencing to unboot master.
You seem in a hurry to get rid of me, Daddy! Want to get your own cranium into a pine-knot sleep, eh? says Marston, with an encouraging smile, pulling the old slave's whiskers in a playful manner.
No, Boss; 'tant dat, returns Bob, keeping on tugging at Marston's boots until he has got them from his feet, and safely stowed away in a corner. A gentle hint that he is all ready to relieve Marston of his upper garments brings him to his feet, when Bob commences upon him in right good earnest, and soon has him stowed away between the sheets. "Bob neber likes to hurry old Boss, but den 'e kno' what's on old Mas'r's feelins, an 'e kno' dat sleep make 'um forget 'um!" rejoins Bob, in a half whisper that caught Marston's ear, as he patted and fussed about his pillow, in order to make him as comfortable as circumstances would admit. After this he extinguishes the light, and, accustomed to a slave's bed, lumbers himself down on the floor beside his master's cot. Thus, watchfully, he spends the night.
When morning dawned, Bob was in the full enjoyment of what the negro so pertinently calls a long and strong sleep. He cannot resist its soothing powers, nor will master disturb him in its enjoyment. Before breakfast-time arrives, however, he arouses with a loud guffaw, looks round the room vacantly, as if he were doubting the presence of things about him. Rising to his knees, he rubs his eyes languidly, yawns, and stretches his arms, scratches his head, and suddenly gets a glimpse of old master, who is already dressed, and sits by the window, his attention intently set upon some object without. The old slave recognises the same chamber from which he guided Franconia on the night before, and, after saluting mas'r, sets about arranging the domestic affairs of the apartment, and preparing the breakfast table, the breakfast being cooked at Aunt Beckie's cabin, in the yard. Aunt Beckie had the distinguished satisfaction of knowing Marston in his better days, and now esteems it an honour to serve him, even in his poverty. Always happy to inform her friends that she was brought up a first-rate pastry-cook, she now adds, with great satisfaction, that she pays her owner, the very Reverend Mr. Thomas Tippletony, the ever-pious rector of St. Michael's, no end of money for her time, and makes a good profit at her business beside. Notwithstanding she has a large family of bright children to maintain in a respectable way, she hopes for a continuance of their patronage, and will give the best terms her limited means admit. She knows how very necessary it is for a southern gentleman who would be anybody to keep up appearances, and, with little means, to make a great display: hence she is very easy in matters of payment. In Marston's case, she is extremely proud to render him service,--to "do for him" as far as she can, and wait a change for the better concerning any balance outstanding.
Bob fetches the breakfast of coffee, fritters, homony, and bacon,--a very good breakfast it is, considering the circumstances,--and spreads the little rustic board with an air of comfort and neatness complimentary to the old slave's taste. And, withal, the old man cannot forego the inherent vanity of his nature, for he is, unconsciously, performing all the ceremonies of attendance he has seen Dandy and his satellites go through at the plantation mansion. He fusses and grins, and praises and laughs, as he sets the dishes down one by one, keeping a watchful eye on mas'r, as if to detect an approval in his countenance. "Reckon 'ow dis old nigger can fix old Boss up aristocratic breakfast like Dandy. Now, Boss-da'h he is!" he says, whisking round the table, setting the cups just so, and spreading himself with exultation. "Want to see master smile-laugh some-like 'e used down on da'h old plantation!" he ejaculates, emphatically, placing a chair at Marston's plate. This done, he accompanies his best bow with a scrape of his right foot, spreads his hands,--the gesture being the signal of readiness. Marston takes his chair, as Bob affects the compound dignity of the very best trained nigger, doing the distinguished in waiting.
A little less ceremony, my old faithful! the small follies of etiquette ill become such a place as this. We must succumb to circumstances: come, sit down, Bob; draw your bench to the chest, and there eat your share, while I wait on myself, says Marston, touching Bob on the arm. The words were no sooner uttered, than Bob's countenance changed from the playful to the serious; he could see nothing but dignity in master, no matter in what sphere he might be placed. His simple nature recoils at the idea of dispensing with the attention due from slave to master. Master's fallen fortunes, and the cheerless character of the chamber, are nothing to Daddy- master must keep up his dignity.
You need'nt look so serious, Daddy; it only gives an extra shade to your face, already black enough for any immediate purpose! says Marston, turning round and smiling at the old slave's discomfiture. To make amends, master takes a plate from the table, and gives Bob a share of his homony and bacon. This is very pleasing to the old slave, who regains his wonted earnestness, takes the plate politely from his master's hand, retires with it to the chest, and keeps up a regular fire of chit-chat while dispensing its contents. In this humble apartment, master and slave-the former once opulent, and the latter still warm with attachment for his friend-are happily companioned. They finish their breakfast,--a long pause intervenes. "I would I were beyond the bounds of this our south," says Marston, breaking the silence, as he draws his chair and seats himself by the window, where he can look out upon the dingy little houses in the lane.
The unhappy man feels the burden of a misspent life; he cannot recall the past, nor make amends for its errors. But, withal, it is some relief that he can disclose his feelings to the old man, his slave.
Mas'r, interrupts the old slave, looking complacently in his face, "Bob 'll fowler ye, and be de same old friend. I will walk behind Miss Frankone." His simple nature seems warming into fervency.
Ah! old man, returns Marston, "if there be a wish (you may go before me, though) I have on earth, it is that when I die our graves may be side by side, with an epitaph to denote master, friend, and faithful servant lie here." He takes the old man by the hand again, as the tears drop from his cheeks. "A prison is but a grave to the man of honourable feelings," he concludes. Thus disclosing his feelings, a rap at the door announces a messenger. It is nine o'clock, and immediately the sheriff, a gentlemanly-looking man, wearing the insignia of office on his hat, walks in, and politely intimates that, painful as may be the duty, he must request his company to the county gaol, that place so accommodatingly prepared for the reception of unfortunates.
Sorry for your misfortunes, sir! but we'll try to make you as comfortable as we can in our place. The servitor of the law seems to have some sympathy in him. "I have my duty to perform, you know, sir; nevertheless, I have my opinion about imprisoning honest men for debt: it's a poor satisfaction, sir. I'm only an officer, you see, sir, not a law-maker-never want to be, sir. I very much dislike to execute these kind of writs," says the man of the law, as, with an expression of commiseration, he glances round the room, and then at Daddy, who has made preparations for a sudden dodge, should such an expedient be found necessary.
Nay, sheriff, think nothing of it; it's but a thing of common life,--it may befall us all. I can be no exception to the rule, and may console myself with the knowledge of companionship, replies Marston, as coolly as if he were preparing for a journey of pleasure.
How true it is, that, concealed beneath the smallest things, there is a consolation which necessity may bring out: how Providence has suited it to our misfortunes!
There are a few things here-a very few-I should like to take to my cell; perhaps I can send for them, he remarks, looking at the officer, enquiringly.
My name is Martin-Captain Martin, they call me,-returns that functionary, politely. "If you accept my word of honour, I pledge it they are taken care of, and sent to your apartments."
You mean my new lodging-house, or my new grave, I suppose, interrupted Marston, jocosely, pointing out to Daddy the few articles of bedding, chairs, and a window-curtain he desired removed. Daddy has been pensively standing by the fire-place the while, contemplating the scene.
Marston soon announces his readiness to proceed; and, followed by the old slave, the officer leads the way down the ricketty old stairs to the street. "I's gwine t'see whar dey takes old mas'r, any how, reckon I is," says the old slave, giving his head a significant turn.
Now, sir, interrupts the officer, as they arrive at the bottom of the stairs, "perhaps you have a delicacy about going through the street with a sheriff; many men have: therefore I shall confide in your honour, sir, and shall give you the privilege of proceeding to the gaol as best suits your feelings. I never allow myself to follow the will of creditors; if I did, my duties would be turned into a system of tyranny, to gratify their feelings only. Now, you may take a carriage, or walk; only meet me at the prison gate."
Thanks, thanks! returns Marston, grateful for the officer's kindness, "my crime is generosity; you need not fear me. My old faithful here will guide me along." The officer bows assent, and with a respectful wave of the hand they separate to pursue different routes.
Marston walks slowly along, Bob keeping pace close behind. He passes many of his old acquaintances, who, in better times, would have recognised him with a cordial embrace; at present they have scarcely a nod to spare. Marston, however, is firm in his resolution, looks not on one side nor the other, and reaches the prison-gate in good time. The officer has reached it in advance, and waits him there. They pause a few moments as Marston scans the frowning wall that encloses the gloomy-looking old prison. "I am ready to go in," says Marston; and just as they are about to enter the arched gate, the old slave touches him on the arm, and says, "Mas'r, dat's no place fo'h Bob. Can't stand seein' on ye locked up wid sich folks as in dah!" Solicitously he looks in his master's face. The man of trouble grasps firmly the old slave's hand, holds it in silence for some minutes-the officer, moved by the touching scene, turns his head away-as tears course down his cheeks. He has no words to speak the emotions of his heart; he shakes the old man's hand affectionately, attempts to whisper a word in his ear, but is too deeply affected.
Good by, mas'r: may God bless 'um! Ther's a place fo'h old mas'r yet. I'll com t' see mas'r every night, says the old man, his words flowing from the bounty of his heart. He turns away reluctantly, draws his hand from Marston's, heaves a sigh, and repairs to his labour. How precious was that labour of love, wherein the old slave toils that he may share the proceeds with his master!
As Marston and the sheriff disappear through the gate, and are about to ascend the large stone steps leading to the portal in which is situated the inner iron gate opening into the debtors' ward, the sheriff made a halt, and, placing his arm in a friendly manner through Marston's, enquires, "Anything I can do for you? If there is, just name it. Pardon my remark, sir, but you will, in all probability, take the benefit of the act; and, as no person seems willing to sign your bail, I may do something to relieve your wants, in my humble way." Marston shakes his head; the kindness impedes an expression of his feelings. "A word of advice from me, however, may not be without its effect, and I will give it you; it is this:--Your earnestness to save those two children, and the singular manner in which those slave drudges of Graspum produced the documentary testimony showing them property, has created wondrous suspicion about your affairs. I will here say, Graspum's no friend of yours; in fact, he's a friend to nobody but himself; and even now, when questioned on the manner of possessing all your real estate, he gives out insinuations, which, instead of exonerating you, create a still worse impression against you. His conversation on the matter leaves the inference with your creditors that you have still more property secreted. Hence, mark me! it behoves you to keep close lips. Don't let your right hand know what your left does," continues the officer, in a tone of friendliness. They ascend to the iron gate, look through the grating. The officer, giving a whistle, rings the bell by touching a spring in the right-hand wall. "My lot at last!" exclaims Marston. "How many poor unfortunates have passed this threshold-how many times the emotions of the heart have burst forth on this spot-how many have here found a gloomy rest from their importuners-how many have here whiled away precious time in a gloomy cell, provided for the punishment of poverty!" The disowned man, for such he is, struggles to retain his resolution; fain would he, knowing the price of that resolution, repress those sensations threatening to overwhelm him.
The brusque gaoler appears at the iron gate; stands his burly figure in the portal; nods recognition to the officer; swings back the iron frame, as a number of motley prisoners gather into a semicircle in the passage. "Go back, prisoners; don't stare so at every new comer," says the gaoler, clearing the way with his hands extended.
One or two of the locked-up recognise Marston. They lisp strange remarks, drawn forth by his appearance in charge of an officer. "Big as well as little fish bring up here," ejaculates one.
Where are his worshippers and his hospitable friends? whispers another.
There's not much hospitality for poverty, rejoins a third, mutteringly. "Southern hospitality is unsound, shallow, and flimsy; a little dazzling of observances to cover very bad facts. You are sure to find a people who maintain the grossest errors in their political system laying the greatest claims to benevolence and principle-things to which they never had a right. The phantom of hospitality draws the curtain over many a vice-it is a well-told nothingness ornamenting the beggared system of your slavery; that's my honest opinion," says a third, in a gruff voice, which indicates that he has no very choice opinion of such generosity. "If they want a specimen of true hospitality, they must go to New England; there the poor man's offering stocks the garden of liberty, happiness, and justice; and from them spring the living good of all," he concludes; and folding his arms with an air of independence, walks up the long passage running at right angles with the entrance portal, and disappears in a cell on the left.
I knew him when he was great on the turf. He was very distinguished then. "He'll be extinguished here," insinuates another, as he protrudes his eager face over the shoulders of those who are again crowding round the office-door, Marston and the officer having entered following the gaoler.
The sheriff passes the committimus to the man of keys; that functionary takes his seat at a small desk, while Marston stands by its side, watching the process of his prison reception, in silence. The gaoler reads the commitment, draws a book deliberately from off a side window, spreads it open on his desk, and commences humming an air. "Pootty smart sums, eh!" he says, looking up at the sheriff, as he holds a quill in his left hand, and feels with the fingers of his right for a knife, which, he observes, he always keeps in his right vest pocket. "We have a poor debtor's calendar for registering these things. I do these things different from other gaolers, and it loses me nothin'. I goes on the true principle, that 'tant right to put criminals and debtors together; and if the state hasn't made provision for keeping them in different cells, I makes a difference on the books, and that's somethin'. Helps the feelins over the smarting point," says the benevolent keeper of all such troublesome persons as won't pay their debts;--as if the monstrous concentration of his amiability, in keeping separate books for the criminal and poverty-stricken gentlemen of his establishment, must be duly appreciated. Marston, particularly, is requested to take the initiative, he being the most aristocratic fish the gaoler has caught in a long time. But the man has made his pen, and now he registers Marston's name among the state's forlorn gentlemen, commonly called poor debtors. They always confess themselves in dependent circumstances. Endorsing the commitment, he returns it to the sheriff, who will keep the original carefully filed away in his own well-stocked department. The sheriff will bid his prisoner good morning! having reminded the gaoler what good care it was desirable to take of his guest; and, extending his hand and shaking that of Marston warmly, takes his departure, whilst our gaoler leads Marston into an almost empty cell, where he hopes he will find things comfortable, and leaves him to contemplate upon the fallen fruit of poverty. "Come to this, at last!" said Marston, entering the cavern-like place.
Venders Of Human Property Are Not Responsible For Its Mental Caprices
READER! be patient with us, for our task is complex and tedious. We have but one great object in view-that of showing a large number of persons in the south, now held as slaves, who are by the laws of the land, as well as the laws of nature, entitled to their freedom. These people, for whom, in the name of justice and every offspring of human right, we plead, were consigned to the bondage they now endure through the unrighteous act of one whose name (instead of being execrated by a nation jealous of its honour), a singular species of southern historian has attempted to enshrine with fame. Posterity, ignorant of his character, will find his name clothed with a paragon's armour, while respecting the writer who so cleverly with a pen obliterated his crimes. We have only feelings of pity for the historian who discards truth thus to pollute paper with his kindness; such debts due to friendship are badly paid at the shrine of falsehood. No such debts do we owe; we shall perform our duty fearlessly, avoiding dramatic effect, or aught else that may tend to improperly excite the feelings of the benevolent. No one better knows the defects of our social system-no one feels more forcibly that much to be lamented fact of there being no human law extant not liable to be evaded or weakened by the intrigues of designing men;--we know of no power reposed in man the administration of which is not susceptible of abuse, or being turned to means of oppression: how much more exposed, then, must all these functions be where slavery in its popular sway rides triumphant over the common law of the land. Divine laws are with impunity disregarded and abused by anointed teachers of divinity. Peculation, in sumptuous garb, and with modern appliances, finds itself modestly-perhaps unconsciously-gathering dross at the sacred altar. How saint-like in semblance, and how unconscious of wrong, are ye bishops (holy ones, scarce of earth, in holy lawn) in that land of freedom where the slave's chains fall ere his foot pads its soil! how calmly resigned the freemen who yield to the necessity of making strong the altar with the sword of state! How, in the fulness of an expansive soul, these little ones, in lawn so white, spurn the unsanctified spoiler-themselves neck-deep in the very coffers of covetousness the while! How to their christian spirit it seems ordained they should see a people's ekeings serve their rolling in wealth and luxury! and, yet, let no man question their walking in the ways of a meek and lowly Saviour-that Redeemer of mankind whose seamless garb no man purchaseth with the rights of his fellow. Complacently innocent of themselves, they would have us join their flock and follow them,--their pious eyes seeing only heavenly objects to be gained, and their pure hearts beating in heavy throbs for the wicked turmoil of our common world. Pardon us, brother of the flesh, say they, in saintly whispers,--it is all for the Church and Christ. Boldly fortified with sanctimony, they hurl back the shafts of reform, and ask to live on sumptuously, as the only sought recompense for their christian love. Pious infallibility! how blind, to see not the crime!
Reader! excuse the diversion, and accompany us while we retrace our steps to where we left the loquacious Mr. M'Fadden, recovered from the fear of death, which had been produced by whiskey in draughts too strong. In company with a numerous party, he is just returning from an unsuccessful search for his lost preacher. They have scoured the lawns, delved the morasses, penetrated thick jungles of brakes, driven the cypress swamps, and sent the hounds through places seemingly impossible for human being to seclude himself, and where only the veteran rattlesnake would seek to lay his viperous head. No preacher have they found. They utter vile imprecations on his head, pit him "a common nigger," declare he has just learned enough, in his own crooked way, to be dubious property-good, if a man can keep him at minister business.
Mine host of the Inn feels assured, if he be hiding among the swamp jungle, the snakes and alligators will certainly drive him out: an indisputable fact this, inasmuch as alligators and snakes hate niggers. M'Fadden affirms solemnly, that the day he bought that clergyman was one of the unlucky days of his life; and he positively regrets ever having been a politician, or troubling his head about the southern-rights question. The party gather round the front stoop, and are what is termed in southern parlance "tuckered out." They are equally well satisfied of having done their duty to the state and a good cause. Dogs, their tails drooping, sneak to their kennels, horses reek with foam, the human dogs will "liquor" long and strong.
Tisn't such prime stock, after all! says M'Fadden, entering the veranda, reeking with mud and perspiration: "after a third attempt we had as well give it up." He shakes his head, and then strikes his whip on the floor. "I'll stand shy about buying a preacher, another time," he continues; like a man, much against his will, forced to give up a prize.
The crackers and wire-grass men (rude sons of the sand hills), take the matter more philosophically,--probably under the impression that to keep quiet will be to "bring the nigger out" where he may be caught and the reward secured. Two hundred dollars is a sum for which they would not scruple to sacrifice life; but they have three gods-whiskey, ignorance, and idleness, any one of which can easily gain a mastery over their faculties.
Mr. M'Fadden requests that his friends will all come into the bar-room-all jolly fellows; which, when done, he orders mine host to supply as much "good strong stuff" as will warm up their spirits. He, however, will first take a glass himself, that he may drink all their very good healths. This compliment paid, he finds himself pacing up and down, and across the room, now and then casting suspicious glances at the notice of reward, as if questioning the policy of offering so large an amount. But sundown is close upon them, and as the bar-room begins to fill up again, each new-comer anxiously enquires the result of the last search,--which only serves to increase the disappointed gentleman's excitement. The affair has been unnecessarily expensive, for, in addition to the loss of his preacher, the price of whom is no very inconsiderable sum, he finds a vexatious bill running up against him at the bar. The friendship of those who have sympathised with him, and have joined him in the exhilarating sport of man-hunting, must be repaid with swimming drinks. Somewhat celebrated for economy, his friends are surprised to find him, on this occasion, rather inclined to extend the latitude of his liberality. His keen eye, however, soon detects, to his sudden surprise, that the hunters are not alone enjoying his liberality, but that every new comer, finding the drinks provided at M'Fadden's expense, has no objection to join in drinking his health; to which he would have no sort of an objection, but for the cost. Like all men suffering from the effect of sudden loss, he begins to consider the means of economising by which he may repay the loss of the preacher. "I say, Squire!" he ejaculates, suddenly stopping short in one of his walks, and beckoning mine host aside, "That won't do, it won't! It's a coming too tough, I tell you!" he says, shaking his head, and touching mine host significantly on the arm. "A fellow what's lost his property in this shape don't feel like drinkin everybody on whiskey what costs as much as your 'bright eye.' You see, every feller what's comin in's 'takin' at my expense, and claiming friendship on the strength on't. It don't pay, Squire! just stop it, won't ye?"
Mine host immediately directs the bar-keeper, with a sign and a whisper:--"No more drinks at M'Fadden's score, 'cept to two or three o' the most harristocratic." He must not announce the discontinuance openly; it will insult the feelings of the friendly people, many of whom anticipate a feast of drinks commensurate with their services and Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden's distinguished position in political life. Were they, the magnanimous people, informed of this sudden shutting off of their supplies, the man who had just enjoyed their flattering encomiums would suddenly find himself plentifully showered with epithets a tyrant slave-dealer could scarcely endure.
Calling mine host into a little room opening from the bar, he takes him by the arm,--intimates his desire to have a consultation on the state of his affairs, and the probable whereabouts of his divine:--"You see, this is all the thanks I get for my kindness (he spreads his hands and shrugs his shoulders.) A northern man may do what he pleases for southern rights, and it's just the same; he never gets any thanks for it. These sort o' fellers isn't to be sneered at when a body wants to carry a political end," he adds, touching mine host modestly on the shoulder, and giving him a quizzing look, "but ye can't make 'um behave mannerly towards respectable people, such as you and me is. But 'twould'nt do to give 'um edukation, for they'd just spile society-they would! Ain't my ideas logical, now, squire?" Mr. M'Fadden's mind seems soaring away among the generalities of state.
Well! returns mine host, prefacing the importance of his opinion with an imprecation, "I'm fixed a'tween two fires; so I can't say what would be square policy in affairs of state. One has feelins different on these things: I depends a deal on what our big folks say in the way of setting examples. And, too, what can you expect when this sort a ruff-scuff forms the means of raising their political positions; but, they are customers of mine,--have made my success in tavern-keeping!" he concludes, in an earnest whisper.
Now, squire! M'Fadden places his hand in mine host's arm, and looks at him seriously: "What 'bout that ar nigger preacher gittin off so? No way t' find it out, eh squire?" M'Fadden enquires, with great seriousness.
Can't tell how on earth the critter did the thing; looked like peaceable property when he went to be locked up, did!
I think somebody's responsible for him, squire? interrupts M'Fadden, watching the changes of the other's countenance: "seems how I heard ye say ye'd take the risk-"
No,--no,--no! rejoins the other, quickly; "that never will do. I never receipt for nigger property, never hold myself responsible to the customers, and never run any risks about their niggers. You forget, my friend, that whatever shadow of a claim you had on me by law was invalidated by your own act."
My own act? interrupts the disappointed man. "How by my own act? explain yourself!" suddenly allowing his feelings to become excited.
Sending for him to come to your bedside and pray for you. It was when you thought Mr. Jones, the gentleman with the horns, stood over you with a warrant in his hand, mine host whispers in his ear, shrugging his shoulders, and giving his face a quizzical expression. "You appreciated the mental of the property then; but now you view it as a decided defect."
The disappointed gentleman remains silent for a few moments. He is deeply impressed with the anomaly of his case, but has not the slightest objection to fasten the responsibility on somebody, never for a moment supposing the law would interpose against the exercise of his very best inclinations. He hopes God will bless him, says it is always his luck; yet he cannot relinquish the idea of somebody being responsible. He will know more about the preaching rascal's departure. Turning to mine host of the inn: "But, you must have a clue to him, somewhere?" he says, enquiringly.
There's my woman; can see if she knows anything about the nigger! returns mine host, complacently. Ellen Juvarna is brought into the presence of the injured man, who interrogates her with great care; but all her disclosures only tend to throw a greater degree of mystery over the whole affair. At this, Mr. M'Fadden declares that the policy he has always maintained with reference to education is proved true with the preacher's running away. Nigger property should never be perverted by learning; though, if you could separate the nigger from the preaching part of the property, it might do some good, for preaching was at times a good article to distribute among certain slaves "what had keen instincts." At times, nevertheless, it would make them run away. Ellen knew Harry as a good slave, a good man, a good Christian, sound in his probity, not at all inclined to be roguish,--as most niggers are--a little given to drink, but never bad-tempered. Her honest opinion is that such a pattern of worthy nature and moral firmness would not disgrace itself by running away, unless induced by white "Buckra." She thinks she heard a lumbering and shuffling somewhere about the pen, shortly after midnight. It might have been wolves, however. To all this Mr. M'Fadden listens with marked attention. Now and then he interposes a word, to gratify some new idea swelling his brain. There is nothing satisfactory yet: he turns the matter over and over in his mind, looks Ellen steadfastly in the face, and watches the movement of every muscle. "Ah!" he sighs, "nothing new developing." He dismissed the wench, and turns to mine host of the inn. "Now, squire, (one minute mine host is squire, and the next Mr. Jones) tell ye what 'tis; thar's roguery goin on somewhere among them ar' fellers--them sharpers in the city, I means! (he shakes his head knowingly, and buttons his light sack-coat round him). That's a good gal, isn't she?" he enquires, drawing his chair somewhat closer, his hard face assuming great seriousness.
Mine host gives an affirmative nod, and says, "Nothin shorter! Can take her word on a turn of life or death. Tip top gal, that! Paid a price for her what u'd make ye wink, I reckon."
That's just what I wanted to know, he interrupts, suddenly grasping the hand of his friend. "Ye see how I'se a little of a philosopher, a tall politician, and a major in the brigade down our district,--I didn't get my law akermin for nothin; and now I jist discovers how somebody-I mean some white somebody-has had a hand in helpin that ar' nig' preacher to run off. Cus'd critters! never know nothing till some white nigger fills their heads with roguery."
Say, my worthy M'Fadden, interrupts the publican, rising suddenly from his seat, as if some new discovery had just broke forth in his mind, "war'nt that boy sold under a warrant?"
Warranted-warranted-warranted sound in every particular? That he was. Just think of this, squire; you're a knowin one. It takes you! I never thought on't afore, and have had all my nervousness for nothin. Warranted sound in every particular, means-
A moment! mine host interposes, suddenly: "there's a keen point of law there; but it might be twisted to some account, if a body only had the right sort of a lawyer to twist it."
The perplexed man rejoins by hoping he may not be interrupted just at this moment. He is just getting the point of it straight in his mind. "You see," he says, "the thing begun to dissolve itself in my philosophy, and by that I discovered the pint the whole thing stands on. Its entirely metaphysical, though," he says, with a significant shake of the head. He laughs at his discovery; his father, long since, told him he was exceedingly clever. Quite a match for the publican in all matters requiring a comprehensive mind, he declares there are few lawyers his equal at penetrating into points. "He warranted him in every particular," he mutters, as mine host, watching his seriousness, endeavours to suppress a smile. M'Fadden makes a most learned motion of the fore finger of the right hand, which he presses firmly into the palm of his left, while contracting his brows. He will soon essay forth the point of logic he wishes to enforce. The property being a certain man endowed with preaching propensities, soundness means the qualities of the man, mental as well as physical; and running away being an unsound quality, the auctioneer is responsible for all such contingencies. "I have him there,--I have!" he holds up his hands exultingly, as he exclaims the words; his face brightens with animation. Thrusting his hands into his trowsers pockets he paces the room for several minutes, at a rapid pace, as if his mind had been relieved of some deep study. "I will go directly into the city, and there see what I can do with the chap I bought that feller of. I think when I put the law points to him, he'll shell out."
Making some preliminary arrangements with Jones of the tavern, he orders a horse to the door immediately, and in a few minutes more is hastening on his way to the city.
Arriving about noon-day, he makes his way through its busy thoroughfares, and is soon in the presence of the auctioneer. There, in wondrous dignity, sits the seller of bodies and souls, his cushioned arm-chair presenting an air of opulence. How coolly that pomp of his profession sits on the hard mask of his iron features, beneath which lurks a contempt of shame! He is an important item in the political hemisphere of the state, has an honourable position in society (for he is high above the minion traders), joined the Episcopal church not many months ago, and cautions Mr. M'Fadden against the immorality of using profane language, which that aggrieved individual allows to escape his lips ere he enters the door.
The office of our man of fame and fortune is thirty feet long by twenty wide, and sixteen high. Its walls are brilliantly papered, and painted with landscape designs; and from the centre of the ceiling hangs a large chandelier, with ground-glass globes, on which eagles of liberty are inscribed. Fine black-walnut desks, in chaste carving, stand along its sides, at which genteelly-dressed clerks are exhibiting great attention to business. An oil-cloth, with large flowers painted on its surface, spreads the floor, while an air of neatness reigns throughout the establishment singularly at variance with the outer mart, where Mr. Forshou sells his men, women, and little children. But its walls are hung with badly-executed engravings, in frames of gilt. Of the distinguished vender's taste a correct estimation may be drawn when we inform the reader that many of these engravings represented nude females and celebrated racehorses.
Excuse me, sir! I didn't mean it, Mr. M'Fadden says, in reply to the gentleman's caution, approaching him as he sits in his elegant chair, a few feet from the street door, luxuriantly enjoying a choice regalia. "It's the little point of a very nasty habit that hangs upon me yet. I does let out the swear once in a while, ye see; but it's only when I gets a crook in my mind what won't come straight." Thus M'Fadden introduces himself, surprised to find the few very consistent oaths he has made use of not compatible with the man-seller's pious business habits. He will be cautious the next time; he will not permit such foul breath to escape and wound the gentleman's very tender feelings.
Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden addresses him as squire, and with studious words informs him of the nigger preacher property he sold him having actually run away! "Ye warranted him, ye know, squire!" he says, discovering the object of his visit, then drawing a chair, and seating himself in close proximity.
Can't help that-quality we never warrant! coolly returns the other, turning politely in his arm-chair, which works in a socket, and directing a clerk at one of the desks to add six months' interest to the item of three wenches sold at ten o'clock.
Don't talk that ar way, squire! I trades a deal in your line, and a heap o' times, with you. Now we'll talk over the legal points.
Make them short, if you please!
Well! ye warranted the nigger in every particular. There's the advertisement; and there's no getting over that! Ye must do the clean thing-no possumin-squire, or there 'll be a long lawsuit what takes the tin. Honour's the word in our trade. He watches the changes that are fast coming over the vender's countenance, folds his arms, places his right foot over his left knee, and awaits a reply. Interrupting the vender just as he is about to give his opinion he draws from his pocket a copy of the paper containing the advertisement, and places it in his hand: "If ye'll be good enough to squint at it, ye'll see the hang o' my ideas," he says.
My friend, returns the vender, curtly, having glanced over the paper, "save me and yourself any further annoyance. I could have told you how far the property was warranted, before I read the paper; and I remember making some very particular remarks when selling that item in the invoice. A nigger's intelligence is often a mere item of consideration in the amount he brings under the hammer; but we never warrant the exercise or extension of it. Po'h, man! we might just as well attempt to warrant a nigger's stealing, lying, cunning, and all such 'cheating master' propensities. Some of them are considered qualities of much value-especially by poor planters. Warrant nigger property not to run away, eh! Oh! nothing could be worse in our business."
A minute, squire! interrupts the appealing Mr. M'Fadden, just as the other is about to add a suspending clause to his remarks. "If warrantin nigger proper sound in all partiklers is'nt warrantin it not to run away, I'm no deacon! When a nigger's got run-away in him he ain't sound property, no way ye can fix it. Ye may turn all the law and philosophy yer mind to over in yer head, but it won't cum common sense to me, that ye warrant a nigger's body part, and let the head part go unwarranted. When ye sells a critter like that, ye sells all his deviltry; and when ye warrants one ye warrants t'other; that's the square rule o' my law and philosophy!"
The vender puffs his weed very coolly the while; and then, calling a negro servant, orders a chair upon which to comfortably place his feet. "Are you through, my friend?" he enquires, laconically; and being answered in the affirmative, proceeds-"I fear your philosophy is common philosophy-not the philosophy upon which nigger law is founded. You don't comprehend, my valued friend, that when we insert that negro property will be warranted, we don't include the thinking part; and, of course, running away belongs to that!" he would inform all those curious on such matters. Having given this opinion for the benefit of M'Fadden, and the rest of mankind interested in slavery, he rises from his seat, elongates himself into a consequential posi- tion, and stands biting his lips, and dangling his watch chain with the fingers of his left hand.
Take ye up, there, the other suddenly interrupts, as if he has drawn the point from his antagonist, and is prepared to sustain the principle, having brought to his aid new ideas from the deepest recesses of his logical mind. Grasping the vender firmly by the arm, he looks him in the face, and reminds him that the runaway part of niggers belongs to the heels, and not to the head.
The vender exhibits some discomfiture, and, at the same time, a decided unwillingness to become a disciple of such philosophy. Nor is he pleased with the familiarity of his importuning customer, whose arm he rejects with a repulsive air.
There has evidently become a very nice and serious question, of which Mr. M'Fadden is inclined to take a commonsense view. His opponent, however, will not deviate from the strictest usages of business. Business mentioned the mental qualities of the property, but warranted only the physical,--hence the curious perplexity.
While the point stands thus nicely poised between their logic, Romescos rushes into the office, and, as if to surprise M'Fadden, extends his hand, smiling and looking in his face gratefully, as if the very soul of friendship incited him. "Mighty glad to see ye, old Buck!" he ejaculates, "feared ye war going to kick out."
The appalled man stands for a few seconds as unmoved as a statue; and then, turning with a half-subdued smile, takes the hand of the other, coldly.
Friends again! ain't we, old boy? breaks forth from Romescos, who continues shaking his hand, at the same time turning his head and giving a significant wink to a clerk at one of the desks. "Politics makes bad friends now and then, but I always thought well of you, Mack! Now, neighbour, I'll make a bargain with you; we'll live as good folks ought to after this," Romescos continues, laconically. His advance is so strange that the other is at a loss to comprehend its purport. He casts doubting glances at his wily antagonist, seems considering how to appreciate the quality of such an unexpected expression of friendship, and is half inclined to demand an earnest of its sincerity. At the same time, and as the matter now stands, he would fain give his considerate friend wide space, and remain within a proper range of etiquette until his eyes behold the substantial. He draws aside from Romescos, who says tremblingly: "Losing that preacher, neighbour, was a hard case-warn't it? You wouldn't a' catched this individual buyin' preachers-know too much about 'em, I reckon! It's no use frettin, though; the two hundred dollars 'll bring him. This child wouldn't want a profitabler day's work for his hound dogs." Romescos winks at the vender, and makes grimaces over M'Fadden's shoulder, as that gentleman turns and grumbles out,--"He warranted him in every partikler; and running away is one of a nigger's partiklers?"
My pertinacious friend! exclaims the vender, turning suddenly towards his dissatisfied customer, "seeing you are not disposed to comprehend the necessities of my business, nor to respect my position, I will have nothing further to say to you upon the subject-not another word, now!" The dignified gentleman expresses himself in peremptory tones. It is only the obtuseness of his innate character becoming unnecessarily excited.
Romescos interposes a word or two, by way of keeping up the zest; for so he calls it. Things are getting crooked, according to his notion of the dispute, but fightin' won't bring back the lost. "'Spose ye leaves the settlin on't to me? There's nothing like friendship in trade; and seeing how I am up in such matters, p'raps I can smooth it down."
There's not much friendship about a loss of this kind; and he was warranted sound in every particular! returns the invincible man, shaking his head, and affecting great seriousness of countenance.
Stop that harpin, I say! the vender demands, drawing himself into a pugnacious attitude; "your insinuations against my honour aggravate me more and more."
Well! just as you say about it, is the cool rejoinder. "But you 'll have to settle the case afore lawyer Sprouts, you will!" Stupidly inclined to dog his opinions, the sensitive gentleman, claiming to be much better versed in the mode of selling human things, becomes fearfully enraged. M'Fadden contends purely upon contingencies which may arise in the mental and physical complications of property in man; and this the gentleman man-seller cannot bear the reiteration of.
Romescos thinks it is at best but a perplexin snarl, requiring gentlemen to keep very cool. To him they are both honourable men, who should not quarrel over the very small item of one preacher. This warrantin' niggers' heads never amounts to anything,--it's just like warrantin' their heels; and when one gets bad, isn't t'other sure to be movin? Them's my sentiments, gratis!" Stepping a few feet behind M'Fadden, Romescos rubs his hands in great anxiety, makes curious signs to the clerks at the desk, and charges his mouth with a fresh cut of tobacco.
Nobody bespoke your opinion, says the disconsolate M'Fadden, turning quickly, in consequence of a sign he detected one of the clerks making, and catching Romescos bestowing a grimace of no very complimentary character, "Your presence and your opinion are, in my estimation, things that may easily be dispensed with."
I say! interrupts Romescos, his right hand in a threatening attitude, "not quite so fast"-he drawls his words-"a gentleman don't stand an insult o' that sort. Just draw them ar' words back, like a yard of tape, or this individual 'll do a small amount of bruising on that ar' profile, (he draws his hand backward and forward across M'Fadden's face). 'Twon't do to go to church on Sundays with a broken phiz?" His face reddens with anger, as he works his head into a daring attitude, grates his teeth, again draws his fist across M'Fadden's face; and at length rubs his nasal organ.
I understand you too well! replies M'Fadden, with a curt twist of his head. "A man of your cloth can't insult a gentleman like me; you're lawless!" He moves towards the door, stepping sideways, watching Romescos over his left shoulder.
I say!-Romescos takes his man by the arm-Come back here, and make a gentleman's apology! He lets go M'Fadden's arm and seizes him by the collar violently, his face in a blaze of excitement.
Nigger killer! ejaculates M'Fadden, "let go there!" He gives his angry antagonist a determined look, as he, for a moment, looses his hold. He pauses, as if contemplating his next move.
The very amiable and gentlemanly man-vender thinks it time he interposed for the purpose of reconciling matters. "Gentlemen! gentlemen! respect me, if you do not respect yourselves. My office is no place for such disgraceful broils as these; you must go elsewhere." The modest gentleman, whose very distinguished family connexions have done much to promote his interests, would have it particularly understood that his office is an important place, used only for the very distinguished business of selling men, women, and little children. But Romescos is not so easily satisfied. He pushes the amiable gentleman aside, calls Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden a tyrant what kills niggers by the detestably mean process of starving them to death. "A pretty feller he is to talk about nigger killin! And just think what our state has come to when such fellers as him can make votes for the next election!" says Romescos, addressing himself to the vender. "The Irish influence is fast destroying the political morality of the country."
Turning to Mr. M'Fadden, who seems preparing for a display of his combativeness, he adds, "Ye see, Mack, ye will lie, and lie crooked too! and ye will steal, and steal dishonourably; and I can lick a dozen on ye quicker nor chain lightnin? I can send the hol batch on ye-rubbish as it is-to take supper t'other side of sundown." To be equal with his adversary, Romescos is evidently preparing himself for the reception of something more than words. Twice or thrice he is seen to pass his right hand into the left breast pocket of his sack, where commonly his shining steel is secreted. In another moment he turns suddenly towards the vender, pushes him aside with his left hand, and brings his right in close proximity with Mr. M'Fadden's left listener. That individual exhibits signs of renewed courage, to which he adds the significant warning: "Not quite so close, if you please!"
As close as I sees fit! returns the other, with a sardonic grin. "Why don't you resent it?-a gentleman would!"
Following the word, Mr. M'Fadden makes a pass at his antagonist, which, he says, is only with the intention of keeping him at a respectful distance. Scarcely has his arm passed when Romescos cries out, "There! he has struck me! He has struck me again!" and deals M'Fadden a blow with his clenched fist that fells him lumbering to the floor. Simultaneously Romescos falls upon his prostrate victim, and a desperate struggle ensues.
The vender, whose sacred premises are thus disgraced, runs out to call the police, while the clerks make an ineffectual attempt to separate the combatants. Not a policeman is to be found. At night they may be seen swarming the city, guarding the fears of a white populace ever sensitive of black rebellion.
Like an infuriated tiger, Romescos, nimble as a catamount, is fast destroying every vestige of outline in his antagonist's face, drenching it with blood, and adding ghastliness by the strangulation he is endeavouring to effect.
Try-try-trying to-kill-me-eh? You-you mad brute! gutters out the struggling man, his eyes starting from the sockets like balls of fire, while gore and saliva foam from his mouth and nostrils as if his struggles are in death.
Kill ye-kill ye? Romescos rejoins, the shaggy red hair falling in tufts about his face, now burning with desperation: "it would be killin' only a wretch whose death society calls for."
At this, the struggling man, like one borne to energy by the last throes of despair, gives a desperate spring, succeeds in turning his antagonist, grasps him by the throat with his left hand, and from his pocket fires a pistol with his right. The report alarms; the shrill whistle calls to the rescue; but the ball has only taken effect in the flesh of Romescos's right arm. Quick to the moment, his arm dripping with gore from the wound, he draws his glittering dirk, and plunges it, with unerring aim, into the breast of his antagonist. The wounded man starts convulsively, as the other coolly draws back the weapon, the blood gushing forth in a livid stream. "Is not that in self-defence?" exclaims the bloody votary, turning his haggard and enraged face to receive the approval of the bystanders. The dying man, writhing under the grasp of his murderer, utters a piercing shriek. "Murdered! I'm dying! Oh, heaven! is this my last-last-last? Forgive me, Lord,--forgive me!" he gurgles; and making another convulsive effort, wrings his body from under the perpetrator of the foul deed. How tenacious of life is the dying man! He grasps the leg of a desk, raises himself to his feet, and, as if goaded with the thoughts of hell, in his last struggles staggers to the door,--discharges a second shot, vaults, as it were, into the street, and falls prostrate upon the pavement, surrounded by a crowd of eager lookers-on. He is dead! The career of Mr. M'Fadden is ended; his spirit is summoned for trial before a just God.
The murderer (perhaps we abuse the word, and should apply the more southern, term of renconterist), sits in a chair, calling for water, as a few among the crowd prepare to carry the dead body into Graspum's slave-pen, a few squares below.
Southern sensibility may call these scenes by whatever name it will; we have no desire to change the appropriateness, nor to lessen the moral tenor of southern society. It nurtures a frail democracy, and from its bastard offspring we have a tyrant dying by the hand of a tyrant, and the spoils of tyranny serving the good growth of the Christian church. Money constructs opinions, pious as well as political, and even changes the feelings of good men, who invoke heaven's aid against the bondage of the souls of men.
Romescos will not flee to escape the terrible award of earthly justice. Nay, that, in our atmosphere of probity, would be dishonourable; nor would it aid the purpose he seeks to gain.
A Common Incident Shortly Told
THE dead body of Mr. Lawrence M'Fadden, whose heart was strong with love of southern democracy, lies upon two pine-boards, ghastly and unshrouded, in a wretched slave-pen. Romescos, surrounded by admiring friends, has found his way to the gaol, where, as is the custom, he has delivered himself up to its keeper. He has spent a good night in that ancient establishment, and on the following morning finds his friends vastly increased. They have viewed him as rather desperate now and then; but, knowing he is brave withal, have "come to the rescue" on the present occasion. These frequent visits he receives with wonderful coolness and deference, their meats and drinks (so amply furnished to make his stay comfortable) being a great Godsend to the gaoler, who, while they last, will spread a princely table.
Brien Moon, Esq.-better known as the good-natured coroner-has placed a negro watchman over the body of the deceased, on which he proposes to hold one of those curious ceremonies called inquests. Brien Moon, Esq. is particularly fond of the ludicrous, is ever ready to appreciate a good joke, and well known for his happy mode of disposing of dead dogs and cats, which, with anonymous letters, are in great numbers entrusted to his care by certain waggish gentlemen, who desire he will "hold an inquest over the deceased, and not forget the fees." It is said-the aristocracy, however, look upon the charge with contempt-that Brien Moon, Esq. makes a small per centage by selling those canine remains to the governor of the workhouse, which very humane gentleman pays from his own pocket the means of transferring them into giblet-pies for the inmates. It may be all scandal about Mr. Moon making so large an amount from his office; but it is nevertheless true that sad disclosures have of late been made concerning the internal affairs of the workhouse.
The hour of twelve has arrived; and since eight in the morning Mr. Moon's time has been consumed in preliminaries necessary to the organisation of a coroner's jury. The reader we know will excuse our not entering into the minuti‘ of the organisation. Eleven jurors have answered the summons, but a twelfth seems difficult to procure. John, the good Coroner's negro servant, has provided a sufficiency of brandy and cigars, which, since the hour of eleven, have been discussed without stint. The only objection our worthy disposer of the dead has to this is, that some of his jurors, becoming very mellow, may turn the inquest into a farce, with himself playing the low-comedy part. The dead body, which lies covered with a sheet, is fast becoming enveloped in smoke, while no one seems to have a passing thought for it. Colonel Tom Edon,--who, they say, is not colonel of any regiment, but has merely received the title from the known fact of his being a hogdriver, which honourable profession is distinguished by its colonels proceeding to market mounted, while the captains walk,--merely wonders how much bad whiskey the dead 'un consumed while he lived.
This won't do! exclaims Brien Moon, Esq., and proceeds to the door in the hope of catching something to make his mournful number complete. He happens upon Mr. Jonas Academy, an honest cracker, from Christ's parish, who visits the city on a little business. Jonas is a person of great originality, is enclosed in loosely-setting homespun, has a woe-begone countenance, and wears a large-brimmed felt hat. He is just the person to make the number complete, and is led in, unconscious of the object for which he finds himself a captive. Mr. Brien Moon now becomes wondrous grave, mounts a barrel at the head of the corpse, orders the negro to uncover the body, and hopes gentlemen will take seats on the benches he has provided for them, while he proceeds to administer the oath. Three or four yet retain their cigars: he hopes gentlemen will suspend their smoking during the inquest. Suddenly it is found that seven out of the twelve can neither read nor write; and Mr. Jonas Academy makes known the sad fact that he does not comprehend the nature of an oath, never having taken such an article in his life. Five of the gentlemen, who can read and write, are from New England; while Mr. Jonas Academy declares poor folks in Christ's parish are not fools, troubled with reading and writing knowledge. He has been told they have a thing called a college at Columbia; but only haristocrats get any good of it. In answer to a question from Mr. Moon, he is happy to state that their parish is not pestered with a schoolmaster. "Yes, they killed the one we had more nor two years ago, thank Good! Han't bin trubl'd with one o' the critters since" he adds, with unmoved nerves. The Coroner suggests that in a matter of expediency like the present it may be well to explain the nature of an oath; and, seeing that a man may not read and write, and yet comprehend its sacredness, perhaps it would be as well to forego the letter of the law. "Six used to do for this sort of a jury, but now law must have twelve," says Mr. Moon. Numerous voices assent to this, and Mr. Moon commences what he calls "an halucidation of the nature of an oath." The jurors receive this with great satisfaction, take the oath according to his directions, and after listening to the statement of two competent witnesses, who know but very little about the affair, are ready to render a verdict,--"that M'Fadden, the deceased, came to his death by a stab in the left breast, inflicted by a sharp instrument in the hand or hands of Anthony Romescos, during an affray commonly called a rencontre, regarding which there are many extenuating circumstances." To this verdict Mr. Moon forthwith bows assent, directs the removal of the body, and invites the gentlemen jurors to join him in another drink, which he does in compliment to their distinguished services. The dead body will be removed to the receiving vault, and Mr. Moon dismisses his jurors with many bows and thanks; and nothing more.
The Children Are Improving
THREE years have rolled round, and wrought great changes in the aspect of affairs. M'Fadden was buried on his plantation, Romescos was bailed by Graspum, and took his trial at the sessions for manslaughter. It was scarcely worth while to trouble a respectable jury with the paltry case-and then, they were so frequent! We need scarcely tell the reader that he was honourably acquitted, and borne from the court amid great rejoicing. His crime was only that of murder in self-defence; and, as two tyrants had met, the successful had the advantage of public opinion, which in the slave world soars high above law. Romescos being again on the world, making his cleverness known, we must beg the reader's indulgence, and request him to accompany us while we return to the children.
Annette and Nicholas are, and have been since the sale, the property of Graspum. They develope in size and beauty-two qualities very essential in the man-market of our democratic world, the South. Those beautiful features, intelligence, and reserve, are much admired as merchandise; for southern souls are not lifted above this grade of estimating coloured worth. Annette's cherub face, soft blue eyes, clear complexion, and light auburn hair, add to the sweetness of a countenance that education and care might make brilliant; and yet, though reared on Marston's plantation, with unrestricted indulgence, her childish heart seems an outpouring of native goodness. She speaks of her mother with the affection of one of maturer years; she grieves for her return, wonders why she is left alone, remembers how kind that mother spoke to her when she said good by, at the cell door. How sweet is the remembrance of a mother! how it lingers, sparkling as a dewdrop, in a child's memory. Annette feels the affliction, but is too young to divine the cause thereof. She recalls the many happy plantation scenes; they are bright to her yet! She prattles about Daddy Bob, Harry, Aunt Rachel, and old Sue, now and then adding a solicitous question about Marston. But she does not realise that he is her father; no, it was not her lot to bestow a daughter's affection upon him, and she is yet too young to comprehend the poison of slave power. Her childlike simplicity affords a touching contrast to that melancholy injustice by which a fair creature with hopes and virtues after God's moulding, pure and holy, is made mere merchandise for the slave-market.
Annette has learned to look upon Nicholas as a brother; but, like herself, he is kept from those of his own colour by some, to him, unintelligible agency. Strange reflections flit through her youthful imagination, as she embraces him with a sister's fondness. How oft she lays her little head upon his shoulder, encircles his neck with her fair arm, and braids his raven hair with her tiny fingers! She little thinks how fatal are those charms she bears bloomingly into womanhood.
But, if they alike increase in beauty as they increase in age, their dispositions are as unlike as two opposites can be moulded. Nicholas has inherited that petulant will, unbending determination, and lurking love of avenging wrong, so peculiar to the Indian race. To restlessness he adds distrust of those around him; and when displeased, is not easily reconciled. He is, however, tractable, and early evinced an aptitude for mechanical pursuits that would have done credit to maturer years. Both have been at service, and during the period have created no small degree of admiration-Annette for her promising personal appearance, Nicholas for his precocious display of talent. Both have earned their living; and now Nicholas is arrived at an age when his genius attracts purchasers.
Conspicuous among those who have been keeping an eye on the little fellow, is Mr. Jonathan Grabguy, a master-builder, largely engaged in rearing dwellings. His father was a builder, and his mother used to help the workmen to make Venetian blinds. Fortune showered her smiles upon their energies, and brought them negro property in great abundance. Of this property they made much; the father of the present Mr. Grabguy (who became a distinguished mayor of the city) viewing it peculiarly profitable to use up his niggers in five years. To this end he forced them to incessant toil, belabouring them with a weapon of raw hide, to which he gave the singular cognomen of "hell-fire." When extra punishment was-according to his policy-necessary to bring out the "digs," he would lock them up in his cage (a sort of grated sentry-box, large enough to retain the body in an upright position), and when the duration of this punishment was satisfactory to his feelings, he would administer a counter quantity of stings with his "hell-fire" wattle. Indeed, the elder Mr. Grabguy, who afterwards became "His Worship the Mayor," was a wonderful disciplinarian, which very valuable traits of character his son retains in all their purity. His acts deserve more specific notice than we are at present able to give them, inasmuch as by them the safety of a state is frequently endangered, as we shall show in the climax.
Our present Mr. Grabguy is a small man, somewhat slender of person, about five feet seven inches high, who usually dresses in the habiliments of a working man, and is remarkable for his quickness. His features are dark and undefinable, marked with that thoughtfulness which applies only to the getting of wordly goods. His face is narrow and careworn, with piercing brown eyes, high cheek bones, projecting nose and chin, low forehead, and greyish hair, which he parts in the centre. These form the strongest index to his stubborn character; nevertheless he hopes, ere long, to reach the same distinguished position held by his venerable father, who, peace to his ashes! is dead.
Now, good neighbour Graspum, says our Mr. Grabguy, as he stands in Graspum's warehouse examining a few prime fellows, "I've got a small amount to invest in stock, but I wants somethin' choice-say two or three prime uns, handy at tools. I wants somethin' what 'll make mechanics. Then I wants to buy," he continues, deliberately, "a few smart young uns, what have heads with somethin' in 'um, that ye can bring up to larn things. White mechanics, you see, are so independent now-a-days, that you can't keep 'um under as you can niggers.
I've bin thinkin' 'bout tryin' an experiment with nigger prentices; and, if it goes, we can dispense with white mechanics entirely. My word for it, they're only a great nuisance at best. When you put 'um to work with niggers they don't feel right, and they have notions that our society don't respect 'um because they must mix with the black rascals in following their trades; and this works its way into their feelings so, that the best on 'um from the north soon give themselves up to the worst dissipation. Ah! our white mechanics are poor wretches; there isn't twenty in the city you can depend on to keep sober two days.
Well, sir, interrupts Graspum, with an air of great importance, as, with serious countenance, he stands watching every change in Mr. Grabguy's face, at intervals taking a cursory survey of his merchandise, "can suit you to most anything in the line. You understand my mode of trade, perfectly?" He touches Mr. Grabguy on the arm, significantly, and waits the reply, which that gentleman makes with a bow. "Well, if you do," he continues, "you know the means and markets I have at my command. Can sell you young uns of any age, prime uns of various qualities-from field hands down to watch-makers, clergymen!" He always keeps a good supply on hand, and has the very best means of supply. So Mr. Grabguy makes a purchase of three prime men, whom he intends to transform into first-rate mechanics. He declares he will not be troubled hereafter with those very miserable white workmen he is constrained to import from the north. They are foolish enough to think they are just as good as any body, and can be gentlemen in their profession. They, poor fools! mistake the south in their love of happy New England and its society, as they call it.
Having completed his bargain, he hesitates, as if there is something more he would like to have. "Graspum!" he says, "What for trade? can we strike for that imp o' yours at Mrs. Tuttlewill's?" Without waiting for Graspum's reply, he adds-"That chap 's goin to make a tall bit of property one of these days!"
Ought to, rejoins Graspum, stoically; "he's got right good stock in him." The man of business gives his head a knowing shake, and takes a fresh quid of tobacco. "Give that 'sprout' a chance in the world, and he'll show his hand!" he adds.
That's what I wants, intimates our tradesman. He has had his eye on the fellow, and knows he's got a head what 'll make the very best kind of a workman. But it will be necessary to take the stubborn out without injuring the "larning" part. Mr. Grabguy, with great unconcern, merely suggests these trifling matters for the better regulating of Mr. Graspum's price.
Can do that easy enough, if you only study the difference between a nigger's hide and head. Can put welts on pretty strong, if you understand the difference a'tween the too, intimates our man of business, as he places his thumbs in his vest, and commences humming a tune. Then he stops suddenly, and working his face into a very learned contortion, continues-"Ye see, Grabguy, a man has to study the human natur of a nigger just the same as he would a mule or a machine. In truth, Grabguy, niggers are more like mules nor anything else, 'cause the brute 'll do everything but what ye wants him to do, afore he's subdued. You must break them when they are young. About ten or a dozen welts, sir, well laid on when ye first begin, and every time he don't toe the mark, will, in the course of a year, make him as submissive as a spaniel-it will! The virtue of submission is in the lash, it supples like seeds."
About the stock, Graspum: I don't quite agree with you about that,--I never believed in blood, ye know. As far as this imp goes, I have my doubts about the blood doin on him much good; seein' how it kind o' comes across my mind that there's some Ingin in him. Now, if my philosophy serves me right, Ingin blood makes slave property want to run away (the speaker spreads himself with great nonchalance), the very worst fault.
Poh! poh!-isn't a bit o' that about him. That imp 's from Marston's estate, can't scare up nothin so promisin' in the way of likely colour, Graspum interposes, with great assurance of manner. "You didn't see the gal-did you?" he concludes.
I reckon I've taken a squint at both on 'em! Pretty fine and likely. From the same bankrupt concern, I s'pose? Mr. Grabguy looks quite serious, and waits for a reply.
Yes-nothing less, Graspum replies, measuredly. "But won't it make your eye water, neighbour Grabguy, one of these days! Bring a tall price among some of our young bucks, eh!" He gives neighbour Grabguy a significant touch on the arm, and that gentleman turns his head and smiles. How quaintly modest!
By the by, talking of Marston, what has become of him? His affairs seem to have died out in the general levity which the number of such cases occasion. But I tell you what it is, Graspum, (he whispers, accompanying the word with an insinuating look), "report implicates you in that affair."
Me?-Me?-Me, Sir? God bless you! why, you really startle me. My honour is above the world's scandal. Ah! if you only knew what I've done for that man, Marston;--that cussed nephew of his came within a feather of effecting my ruin. And there he lies, stubborn as a door- plate, sweating out his obstinacy in gaol. Lord bless your soul, I'm not to blame, you know!-I have done a world of things for him; but he won't be advised.
His creditors think he has more money, and money being the upshot of all his troubles, interposes the point of difficulty in the present instance. I tell them he has no more money, but--I know not why--they doubt the fact the more, and refuse to release him, on the ground of my purchasing their claims at some ulterior period, as I did those two fi fas when the right of freedom was being contested in the children. But, you see, Grabguy, I'm a man of standing; and no money would tempt me to have anything to do with another such case. It was by a mere quirk of law, and the friendship of so many eminent lawyers, that I secured that fifteen hundred dollars from M'Carstrow for the gal what disappeared so mysteriously.
Graspum! interrupts Mr. Grabguy, suddenly, accompanying his remark with a laugh, "you're a good bit of a lawyer when it comes to the cross-grained. You tell it all on one side, as lawyers do. I know the risk you run in buying the fi fas on which those children were attached!" Mr. Grabguy smiles, doubtingly, and shakes his head.
There are liabilities in everything, Graspum drawls out, measuredly. "Pardon me, my friend, you never should found opinion on suspicion. More than a dozen times have I solicited Marston to file his schedule, and take the benefit of the act. However, with all my advice and kindness to him, he will not move a finger towards his own release. Like all our high-minded Southerners, he is ready to maintain a sort of compound between dignity and distress, with which he will gratify his feelings. It's all pride, sir-pride!-you may depend upon it." (Graspum lays his hands together, and affects wondrous charity). "I pity such men from the very bottom of my heart, because it always makes me feel bad when I think what they have been. Creditors, sir, are very unrelenting; and seldom think that an honourable man would suffer the miseries of a prison rather than undergo the pain of being arraigned before an open court, for the exposition of his poverty. Sensitiveness often founds the charge of wrong. The thing is much misunderstood; I know it, sir! Yes, sir! My own feelings make me the best judge," continues Graspum, with a most serious countenance. He feels he is a man of wonderful parts, much abused by public opinion, and, though always trying to promote public good, never credited for his many kind acts.
Turning his head aside to relieve himself of a smile, Mr. Grabguy admits that he is quite an abused man; and, setting aside small matters, thinks it well to be guided by the good motto:--'retire from business with plenty of money.' It may not subdue tongues, but it will soften whispers. "Money," Mr. Grabguy intimates, "upon the strength of his venerable father's experience, is a curious medium of overcoming the ditchwork of society. In fact," he assures Graspum, "that with plenty of shiners you may be just such a man as you please; everybody will forget that you ever bought or sold a nigger, and ten chances to one if you do not find yourself sloped off into Congress, before you have had time to study the process of getting there. But, enough of this, Graspum;--let us turn to trade matters. What's the lowest shot ye'll take for that mellow mixture of Ingin and aristocracy. Send up and bring him down: let us hear the lowest dodge you'll let him slide at."
Mr. Grabguy evinces an off-handedness in trade that is quite equal to Graspum's keen tact. But Graspum has the faculty of preserving a disinterested appearance singularly at variance with his object.
A messenger is despatched, receipt in hand, for the boy Nicholas. Mrs. Tuttlewell, a brusque body of some sixty years, and with thirteen in a family, having had three husbands (all gentlemen of the highest standing, and connected with first families), keeps a stylish boarding-house, exclusively for the aristocracy, common people not being competent to her style of living; and as nobody could ever say one word against the Tuttlewell family, the present head of the Tuttlewell house has become very fashionably distinguished. The messenger's arrival is made known to Mrs. Tuttlewell, who must duly consider the nature of the immediate demand. She had reason to expect the services of the children would have been at her command for some years to come. However, she must make the very best of it; they are Graspum's property, and he can do what he pleases with them. She suggests, with great politeness, that the messenger take a seat in the lower veranda. Her house is located in a most fashionable street, and none knew better than good lady Tuttlewell herself the value of living up to a fashionable nicety; for, where slavery exists, it is a trade to live.
Both children have been "waiting on table," and, on hearing the summons, repair to their cabin in the yard. Mrs. Tuttlewell, reconsidering her former decision, thinks the messenger better follow them, seeing that he is a nigger with kindly looks. "Uncle!" says Annette, looking up at the old Negro, as he joins them: "Don't you want me too?"
No, returns the man, coolly shaking his head.
I think they must be going to take us back to the old plantation, where Daddy Bob used to sing so. Then I shall see mother-how I do want to see her! she exclaims, her little heart bounding with ecstasy. Three years or more have passed since she prattled on her mother's knee.
The negro recognizes the child's simplicity. "I on'e wants dat child; but da'h an't gwine t' lef ye out on da plantation, nohow!" he says.
Not going to take us home! she says, with a sigh. Nicholas moodily submits himself to be prepared, as Annette, more vivacious, keeps interposing with various enquiries. She would like to know where they are going to take little Nicholas; and when they will let her go and see Daddy Bob and mother? "Now, you can take me; I know you can!" she says, looking up at the messenger, and taking his hand pertly.
No-can't, little 'un! Mus' lef' 'um fo'h nuder time. You isn't broder and sister-is ye?
No! quickly replies the little girl, swinging his hand playfully; "but I want to go where he goes; I want to see mother when he does."
Well, den, little 'un (the negro sees he cannot overcome the child's simplicity by any other means), dis child will come fo'h 'um to-morrow-dat I will!
And you'll bring Nicholas back-won't you? she enquires, grasping the messenger more firmly by the hand.
Sartin! no mistake 'bout dat, little 'uman. At this she takes Nicholas by the hand, and retires to their little room in the cabin. Here, like one of older years, she washes him, and dresses him, and fusses over him.
He is merely a child for sale; so she combs his little locks, puts on his new osnaburgs, arranges his nice white collar about his neck, and makes him look so prim. And then she ties a piece of black ribbon about his neck, giving him the bright appearance of a school-boy on examination-day. The little girl's feelings seem as much elated as would be a mother's at the prospect of her child gaining a medal of distinction.
Now, Nicholas! she whispers, with touching simplicity, as she views him from head to foot with a smile of exultation on her face, "your mother never dressed you so neat. But I like you more and more, Nicholas, because both our mothers are gone; and maybe we shall never see 'um again." And she kisses him fondly,--tells him not to stay long,--to tell her all he has seen and heard about mother, when he returns.
I don't know, 'Nette, but 'pears to me we ain't like other children-they don't have to be sold so often; and I don't seem to have any father.
Neither do I; but Mrs. Tuttlewell says I mustn't mind that, because there's thousands just like us. And then she says we ain't the same kind o' white folks that she is; she says we are white, but niggers for all that. I don't know how it is! I'm not like black folks, because I'm just as white as any white folks, she rejoins, placing her little arms round his neck and smoothing his hair with her left hand.
I'll grow up, one o' these days.
And so will I, she speaks, boldly.
And I'm goin' to know where my mother's gone, and why I ain't as good as other folks' white children, he rejoins sullenly, shaking his head, and muttering away to himself. It is quite evident that the many singular stages through which he is passing, serve only to increase the stubborness of his nature. The only black distinguishable in his features are his eyes and hair; and, as he looks in the glass to confirm what he has said, Annette takes him by the hand, tells him he must not mind, now; that if he is good he shall see Franconia,--and mother, too, one of these days. He must not be pettish, she remarks, holding him by the hand like a sister whose heart glows with hope for a brother's welfare. She gives him in charge of the messenger, saying, "Good by!" as she imprints a kiss on his cheek, its olive hues changing into deep crimson.
The negro answers her adieu with "Good by, little dear! God bless 'um!" Nay, the native goodness of his heart will not permit him to leave her thus. He turns round, takes her in his arms, kisses and kisses her fair cheek. It is the truth of an honest soul, expressed with tears glistening in his eyes. Again taking Nicholas by the hand, he hastens through the passage of Mrs. Tuttlewell's house where, on emerging into the street, he is accosted by that very fashionable lady, who desires to know if he has got the boy "all right!" Being answered in the affirmative, she gives a very dignified-"Glad of it," and desires her compliments to Mr. Graspum, who she hopes will extend the same special regards to his family, and retires to the quietude of her richly-furnished parlour.
The gentleman dealer and his customer are waiting in the man shambles, while the negro messenger with his boy article of trade plod their way along through the busy streets. The negro looks on his charge with a smile of congratulation. "Mas'r 'll laugh all over 'e clothes when he sees ye-dat he will!" he says, with an air of exultation.
I'd like to know where I'm goin' to afore I go much further, returns the boy, curtly, as he walks along, every few minutes asking unanswerable questions of the negro.
Lor, child! returns the negro, with a significant smile, "take ye down to old massa what own 'um! Fo'h true!"
Own me! mutters the child, surlily. "How can they own me without owning my mother?--and I've no father."
White man great 'losipher; he know so much, dat nigger don't know nofin, is the singularly significant answer.
But God didn't make me for a nigger,--did he?
Don' know how dat is, child. 'Pears like old mas'r tink da' ain't no God; and what he sees in yander good book lef 'um do just as 'e mind to wid nigger. Sometimes Buckra sell nigger by de pound, just like 'e sell pig; and den 'e say 't was wid de Lord's will.
If mas'r Lord be what Buckra say he be, dis child don' want t'be 'quainted wid 'um, he coolly dilates, as if he foresees the mournful result of the child's bright endowments.
The negro tries to quiet the child's apprehensions by telling him he thinks "Buckra, what's waiting down in da'h office, gwine t' buy 'um of old mas'r. Know dat Buckra he sharp feller. Get e' eye on ye, and make up 'e mind what 'e gwine to give fo'h 'um, quicker!" says the negro.
Graspum has invited his customer, Mr. Grabguy, into his more comfortable counting-room, where, as Nicholas is led in, they may be found discussing the rights of the south, as guaranteed by the federal constitution. The south claim rights independent of the north; and those rights are to secede from the wrongs of the north whenever she takes into her head the very simple notion of carrying them out. Graspum, a man of great experience, whose keen sense of justice is made keener by his sense of practical injustice,--thinks the democracy of the south was never fully understood, and that the most sure way of developing its great principles is by hanging every northerner, whose abolition mania is fast absorbing the liberties of the country at large.
That's the feller! says Mr. Grabguy, as the negro leads Nicholas into his presence, and orders him to keep his hands down while the gentleman looks at him. "Stubborn sticks out some, though, I reckon," Mr. Grabguy adds, rather enthusiastically. "Absalom! Isaac! Joe! eh? what's your name?"
He's a trump! interposes Graspum, rubbing his hands together, and giving his head a significant shake.
Nicholas, they call me, master, answers the boy, pettishly.
Mr. Grabguy takes him by the arms, feels his muscle with great care and caution, tries the elasticity of his body by lifting him from the floor by his two ears. This is too much, which the child announces with loud screams. "Stuff! out and out," says Mr. Grabguy, patting him on the back, in a kind sort of way. At the same time he gives a look of satisfaction at Graspum.
Everything a man wants, in that yaller skin, returns that methodical tradesman, with a gracious nod.
Black lightnin' eyes-long wiry black hair, a skin full of Ingin devil, and a face full of stubborn, Mr. Grabguy discourses, as he contemplates the article before him.
Well, now, about the lowest figure for him? he continues, again looking at Graspum, and waiting his reply. That gentleman, drawing his right hand across his mouth, relieves it of the virtueless deposit, and supplies it with a fresh quid.
Sit down, neighbour Grabguy, he says, placing a chair beside him. They both sit down; the negro attendant stands a few feet behind them: the boy may walk a line backward and forward. "Say the word! You know I'll have a deal o' trouble afore breaking the feller in," Grabguy exclaims, impatiently.
Graspum is invoking his philosophy. He will gauge the point of value according to the coming prospect and Mr. Grabguy's wants. "Well, now, seeing it's you, and taking the large amount of negro property I have sold to your distinguished father into consideration-I hope to sell forty thousand niggers yet, before I die-he should bring six hundred." Graspum lays his left hand modestly on Mr. Grabguy's right arm, as that gentleman rather starts with surprise. "Take the extraordinary qualities into consideration, my friend; he's got a head what's worth two hundred dollars more nor a common nigger,--that is, if you be going to turn it into knowledge profit. But that wasn't just what I was going to say" (Graspum becomes profound, as he spreads himself back in his chair). "I was going to say, I'd let you-you mustn't whisper it, though-have him for five hundred and twenty; and he's as cheap at that as bull-dogs at five dollars."
Grabguy shakes his head: he thinks the price rather beyond his mark. He, however, has no objection to chalking on the figure; and as both are good democrats, they will split the difference.
Graspum, smiling, touches his customer significantly with his elbow. "I never do business after that model," he says. "Speaking of bull-dogs, why, Lord bless your soul, Sam Beals and me traded t'other day: I gin him a young five-year old nigger for his hound, and two hundred dollars to boot. Can't go five hundred and twenty for that imp, nohow! Could o' got a prime nigger for that, two years ago."
Wouldn't lower a fraction! He's extraordinary prime, and'll increase fifty dollars a year every year for ten years or more.
Mr. Grabguy can't help that: he is merely in search of an article capable of being turned into a mechanic, or professional man,--anything to suit the exigencies of a free country, in which such things are sold. And as it will require much time to get the article to a point where it'll be sure to turn the pennies back, perhaps he'd as well let it alone: so he turns the matter over in his head. And yet, there is a certain something about the "young imp" that really fascinates him; his keen eye, and deep sense of nigger natur' value, detect the wonderful promise the article holds forth.
Not one cent lower would I take for that chap. In fact, I almost feel like recanting now, says Graspum, by way of breaking the monotony.
Well, I'll bid you good day, says the other, in return, affecting preparation to leave. He puts out his hand to Graspum, and with a serious look desires to know if that be the lowest figure.
Fact! Don't care 'bout selling at that. Couldn't have a better investment than to keep him!
Mr. Grabguy considers and reconsiders the matter over in his mind; paces up and down the floor several times, commences humming a tune, steps to the door, looks up and down the street, and says, "Well, I'll be moving homeward, I will."
Like yer custom, that I do; but then, knowing what I can do with the fellow, I feels stiff about letting him go, interposes Graspum, with great indifference, following to the door, with hands extended.
This is rather too insinuating for Mr. Grabguy. Never did piece of property loom up so brightly, so physically and intellectually valuable. He will return to the table. Taking his seat again, he draws forth a piece of paper, and with his pencil commences figuring upon it. He wants to get at the cost of free and slave labour, and the relative advantages of the one over the other. After a deal of multiplying and subtracting, he gives it up in despair. The fine proportions of the youth before him distract his very brain with contemplation. He won't bother another minute; figures are only confusions: so far as using them to compute the relative value of free and slave labour, they are enough to make one's head ache. "Would ye like to go with me, boy? Give ye enough to eat, but make ye toe the mark!" He looks at Nicholas, and waits a reply.
Don't matter! is the boy's answer. "Seems as if nobody cared for me; and so I don't care for nobody."
That's enough, he interrupts, turning to Graspum: "there's a showing of grit in that, eh?"
Soon take it out, rejoins that methodical gentleman. "Anyhow, I've a mind to try the fellow, Graspum. I feel the risk I run; but I don't mind-it's neck or nothin here in the south! Ye'll take a long note, s'pose? Good, ye know!"
Graspum motions his head and works his lips, half affirmatively.
Good as old gold, ye knows that, insinuates Mr. Grabguy.
Yes, but notes aint cash; and our banks are shut down as tight as steel traps. At all events make it bankable, and add the interest for six months. It's against my rules of business, though, returns Graspum, with great financial emphasis.
After considerably more very nice exhibitions of business tact, it is agreed that Mr. Grabguy takes the "imp" at five hundred and twenty dollars, for which Graspum accepts his note at six months, with interest. Mr. Grabguy's paper is good, and Graspum considers it equal to cash, less the interest. The "imp" is now left in charge of the negro, while the two gentlemen retire to the private counting-room, where they will settle the preliminaries.
A grave-looking gentleman at a large desk is ordered to make the entry of sale; as the initiate of which he takes a ponderous ledger from the case, and, with great coolness, opens its large leaves. "Nicholas, I think his name is?" he ejaculates, turning to Graspum, who, unconcernedly, has resumed his seat in the great arm-chair.
Yes; but I suppose it must be Nicholas Grabguy, now, returns Graspum, bowing to his book-keeper, and then turning to Mr. Grabguy.
One minute, if you please! rejoins that gentlemen, as the sedate book-keeper turns to his page of N's in the index. Mr. Grabguy will consider that very important point for a few seconds.
Better drop the Marston, as things are. A good many high feeling connections of that family remain; and to continue the name might be to give pain. This, Graspum says, he only puts out as a suggestion.
Enter him as you say, gentlemen, interposes the clerk, who will mend his pen while waiting their pleasure.
Mr. Grabguy runs his right hand several times across his forehead, and after a breathless pause, thinks it as well not to connect his distinguished name with that of the nigger,--not just at this moment! Being his property, and associating with his business and people, that will naturally follow. "Just enter him, and make out the bill of sale describing him as the boy Nicholas," he adds.
Boy Nicholas! reiterates the book-keeper, and straight-way enters his name, amount fetched, to whom sold, and general description, on his files. In a few minutes more-Graspum, in his chair of state, is regretting having sold so quick,--Mr. Grabguy is handed his bill of sale, duly made out. At the same time, that sedate official places the note for the amount into Graspum's hands. Graspum examines it minutely, while Mr. Grabguy surveys the bill of sale. "Mr. Benson, my clerk here, does these things up according to legal tenour; he, let me inform you, was brought up at the law business, and was rather celebrated once; but the profession won't pay a man of his ability," remarks Graspum, with an "all right!" as he lays the note of hand down for Mr. Grabguy's signature.
Mr. Benson smiles in reply, and adjusts the very stiffly starched corners of his ponderous shirt collar, which he desires to keep well closed around his chin. "An honourable man, that's true, sir, can't live honestly by the law, now-a-days," he concludes, with measured sedateness. He will now get his bill-book, in which to make a record of the piece of paper taken in exchange for the human 'imp.'
Clap your name across the face! demands Graspum; and Grabguy seizes a pen, and quickly consummates the bargain by inscribing his name, passing it to Mr. Benson, and, in return, receiving the bill of sale, which he places in his breast pocket. He will not trouble Mr. Benson any further; but, if he will supply a small piece of paper, Mr. Grabguy will very kindly give the imp an order, and send him to his workshop.
Will the gentleman be kind enough to help himself, says Mr. Benson, passing a quire upon the table at which Mr. Grabguy sits.
I'll trim that chap into a first-rate mechanic, says Mr. Grabguy, as he writes,--"I have bought the bearer, Nicholas, a promising chap, as you will see. Take him into the shop and set him at something, if it is only turning the grindstone; as I hav'nt made up my mind exactly about what branch to set him at. He's got temper-you'll see that in a minute, and will want some breakin in, if I don't calklate 'rong." This Mr. Grabguy envelopes, and directs to his master mechanic. When all things are arranged to his satisfaction, Nicholas is again brought into his presence, receives an admonition, is told what he may expect if he displays his bad temper, is presented with the note, and despatched, with sundry directions, to seek his way alone, to his late purchaser's workshop.
Come, boy! ain't you going to say 'good-by' to me 'afore you go? I hav'nt been a bad master to you, says Graspum, putting out his hand.
Yes, master, mutters the child, turning about ere he reaches the door. He advances towards Graspum, puts out his little hand; and in saying "good by, master," there is so much childish simplicity in his manner that it touches the tender chord embalmed within that iron frame. "Be a good little fellow!" he says, his emotions rising. How strong are the workings of nature when brought in contact with unnatural laws! The monster who has made the child wretched--who has for ever blasted its hopes, shakes it by the hand, and says--"good by, little 'un!" as it leaves the door to seek the home of a new purchaser. How strange the thoughts invading that child's mind, as, a slave for life, it plods its way through the busy thoroughfares! Forcibly the happy incidents of the past are recalled; they are touching reclections-sweets in the dark void of a slave's life; but to him no way-marks, to measure the happy home embalmed therein, are left.
Workings Of The Slave System
DEMOCRACY! thy trumpet voice for liberty is ever ringing in our ears; but thy strange workings defame thee. Thou art rampant in love of the "popular cause," crushing of that which secures liberty to all; and, whilst thou art great at demolishing structures, building firm foundations seems beyond thee, for thereto thou forgetteth to lay the cornerstone well on the solid rock of principle. And, too, we love thee when thou art moved and governed by justice; we hate thee when thou showest thyself a sycophant to make a mad mob serve a pestilential ambition. Like a young giant thou graspest power; but, when in thy hands, it becomes a means of serving the baser ends of factious demagogues. Hypocrite! With breath of poison thou hast sung thy songs to liberty while making it a stepping-stone to injustice; nor hast thou ever ceased to wage a tyrant's war against the rights of man. Thou wearest false robes; thou blasphemest against heaven, that thy strength in wrong may be secure-yea, we fear thy end is fast coming badly, for thou art the bastard offspring of Republicanism so purely planted in our land. Clamour and the lash are thy sceptres, and, like a viper seeking its prey, thou charmest with one and goadeth men's souls with the other. Having worked thy way through our simple narrative, show us what thou hast done. A father hast thou driven within the humid wall of a prison, because he would repent and acknowledge his child. Bolts and bars, in such cases, are democracy's safeguards; but thou hast bound with heavy chains the being who would rise in the world, and go forth healing the sick and preaching God's word. Even hast thou turned the hearts of men into stone, and made them weep at the wrong thou gavest them power to inflict. That bond which God gave to man, and charged him to keep sacred, thou hast sundered for the sake of gold,--thereby levelling man with the brutes of the field. Thou hast sent two beautiful children to linger in the wickedness of slavery,--to die stained with its infamy! Thou hast robbed many a fair one of her virtue, stolen many a charm; but thy foulest crime is, that thou drivest mothers and fathers from the land of their birth to seek shelter on foreign soil. Would to God thou could'st see thyself as thou art,--make thy teachings known in truth and justice,--cease to mock thyself in the eyes of foreign tyrants, nor longer serve despots who would make thee the shield of their ill-gotten power!
Within those malarious prison walls, where fast decays a father who sought to save from slavery's death the offspring he loved, will be found a poor, dejected negro, sitting at the bedside of the oppressed man, administering to his wants. His friendship is true unto death,--the oppressed man is his angel, he will serve him at the sacrifice of life and liberty. He is your true republican, the friend of the oppressed! Your lessons of democracy, so swelling, so boastfully arrayed for a world's good, have no place in his soul,--goodness alone directs his examples of republicanism. But we must not be over venturous in calling democracy to account, lest we offend the gods of power and progress. We will, to save ourselves, return to our narrative.
Marston, yet in gaol, stubbornly refuses to take the benefit of the act,--commonly called the poor debtor's act. He has a faithful friend in Daddy Bob, who has kept his ownership concealed, and, with the assistance of Franconia, still relieves his necessities. Rumour, however, strongly whispers that Colonel M'Carstrow is fast gambling away his property, keeping the worst of company, and leading the life of a debauchee,--which sorely grieves his noble-hearted wife. In fact, Mrs. Templeton, who is chief gossip-monger of the city, declares that he is more than ruined, and that his once beautiful wife must seek support at something.
An honest jury of twelve free and enlightened citizens, before the honourable court of Sessions, have declared Romescos honourably acquitted of the charge of murder, the fatal blow being given in commendable self-defence.
The reader will remember that in a former chapter we left the stolen clergyman (no thanks to his white face and whiter necked brethren of the profession), on the banks of the Mississippi, where, having purchased his time of his owner, he is not only a very profitable investment to that gentleman, but of great service on the neighbouring plantations. Earnest in doing good for his fellow bondmen, his efforts have enlisted for him the sympathy of a generous-hearted young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring planter. Many times had he recounted Mrs. Rosebrook's friendship for him to her, and by its influence succeeded in opening the desired communication. Mrs. Rosebrook had received and promptly answered all his fair friend's letters: the answers contained good news for Harry; she knew him well, and would at once set about inducing her husband to purchase him. But here again his profession interposed a difficulty, inasmuch as its enhancing the value of the property to so great an extent would make his master reluctant to part with him. However, as nothing could be more expressive of domestic attachment than the manner in which the Rosebrooks studied each other's feelings for the purpose of giving a more complete happiness, our good lady had but to make known her wish, and the deacon stood ready to execute it. In the present case he was but too glad of the opportunity of gratifying her feelings, having had the purchase of a clergyman in contemplation for some months back. He sought Harry out, and, after bartering (the planter setting forth what a deal of money he had made by his clergyman) succeeded in purchasing him for fourteen hundred dollars, the gentleman producing legalised papers of his purchase, and giving the same. As for his running away, there is no evidence to prove that; nor will Harry's pious word be taken in law to disclose the kidnapping. M'Fadden is dead,--his estate has long since been administered upon; Romescos murdered the proof, and swept away the dangerous contingency.
Here, then, we find Harry-we must pass over the incidents of his return back in the old district-about to administer the Gospel to the negroes on the Rosebrook estates. He is the same good, generous-hearted black man he was years ago. But he has worked hard, paid his master a deal of money for his time, and laid up but little for himself. His clothes, too, are somewhat shabby, which, in the estimation of the Rosebrook negroes-who are notoriously aristocratic in their notions-is some detriment to his ministerial character. At the same time, they are not quite sure that Harry Marston, as he must now be called, will preach to please their peculiar mode of thinking. Master and missus have given them an interest in their labour; and, having laid by a little money in missus's savings bank, they are all looking forward to the time when they will have gained their freedom, according to the promises held out. With these incitements of renewed energy they work cheerfully, take a deep interest in the amount of crop produced, and have a worthy regard for their own moral condition. And as they will now pay tribute for the support of a minister of the Gospel, his respectability is a particular object of their watchfulness. Thus, Harry's first appearance on the plantation, shabbily dressed, is viewed with distrust. Uncle Bradshaw, and old Bill, the coachman, and Aunt Sophy, and Sophy's two gals, and their husbands, are heard in serious conclave to say that "It won't do!" A clergy gentleman, with no better clothes than that newcomer wears, can't preach good and strong, nohow! Dad Daniel is heard to say. Bradshaw shakes his white head, and says he's goin' to have a short talk with master about it. Something must be done to reconcile the matter.
Franconia and good Mrs. Rosebrook are not so exacting: the latter has received him with a warm welcome, while the former, her heart bounding with joy on hearing of his return, hastened into his presence, and with the affection of a child shook, and shook, and shook his hand, as he fell on his knees and kissed hers. "Poor Harry!" she says, "how I have longed to see you, and your poor wife and children!"
Ah, Franconia, my young missus, it is for them my soul fears.
But we have found out where they are, she interrupts.
Where they are! he reiterates.
Indeed we have! Franconia makes a significant motion with her head.
It's true, Harry; and we'll see what can be done to get them back, one of these days, adds Mrs. Rosebrook, her soul-glowing eyes affirming the truth of her assertion. They have come out to spend the day at the plantation, and a happy day it is for those whose hearts they gladden with their kind words. How happy would be our south-how desolate the mania for abolition--if such a comity of good feeling between master and slaves existed on every plantation! And there is nothing to hinder such happy results of kindness.
When that day comes, missus,--that day my good old woman and me will be together again,--how happy I shall be! Seems as if the regaining that one object would complete my earthly desires. And my children,--how much I have felt for them, and how little I have said! returns Harry, as, seated in the veranda of the plantation mansion, the two ladies near him are watching his rising emotions.
Never mind, Harry, rejoins Franconia; "it will all be well, one of these days. You, as well as uncle, must bear with trouble. It is a world of trouble and trial." She draws her chair nearer him, and listens to his narrative of being carried off,--his endeavours to please his strange master down in Mississippi,--the curious manner in which his name was changed,--the sum he was compelled to pay for his time, and the good he effected while pursuing the object of his mission on the neighbouring plantations. Hope carried him through every trial,--hope prepared his heart for the time of his delivery,--hope filled his soul with gratitude to his Maker, and hope, which ever held its light of freedom before him, inspired him with that prayer he so thankfully bestowed on the head of his benefactor, whose presence was as the light of love borne to him on angels' wings.
Moved to tears by his recital of past struggles, and the expression of natural goodness exhibited in the resignation with which he bore them, ever praying and trusting to Him who guides our course in life, Franconia in turn commenced relating the misfortunes that had befallen her uncle. She tells him how her uncle has been reduced to poverty through Lorenzo's folly, and Graspum, the negro dealer's undiscoverable mode of ensnaring the unwary. He has been importuned, harassed, subjected to every degradation and shame, scouted by society for attempting to save those beautiful children, Annette and Nicholas, from the snares of slavery. And he now welters in a debtor's prison, with few save his old faithful Daddy Bob for friends.
Master, and my old companion, Daddy Bob! exclaims Harry, interrupting her at the moment.
Yes: Daddy takes care of him in his prison cell.
How often old Bob's expressive face has looked upon me in my dreams! how often he has occupied my thoughts by day!
Goodness belongs to him by nature.
And master is in prison; but Daddy is still his friend and faithful! Well, my heart sorrows for master: I know his proud heart bleeds under the burden, he says, shaking his head sorrowfully. There is more sympathy concealed beneath that black exterior than words can express. He will go and see master; he will comfort him within his prison walls; he will rejoin Daddy Bob, and be master's friend once more. Mrs. Rosebrook, he is sure, will grant him any privilege in her power. That good lady is forthwith solicited, and grants Harry permission to go into the city any day it suits his convenience-except Sunday, when his services are required for the good of the people on the plantation. Harry is delighted with this token of her goodness, and appoints a day when he will meet Miss Franconia,--as he yet calls her,--and go see old master and Daddy. How glowing is that honest heart, as it warms with ecstasy at the thought of seeing "old master," even though he be degraded within prison walls!
While this conversation is going on in the veranda, sundry aged members of negro families--aunties and mammies--are passing backwards and forwards in front of the house, casting curious glances at the affection exhibited for the new preacher by "Miss Franconia." The effect is a sort of reconciliation of the highly aristocratic objections they at first interposed against his reception. "Mus' be somebody bigger dan common nigger preacher; wudn't cotch Miss Frankone spoken wid 'um if 'um warn't," says Dad Timothy's Jane, who is Uncle Absalom's wife, and, in addition to having six coal-black children, as fat and sleek as beavers, is the wise woman of the cabins, around whom all the old veteran mammies gather for explanations upon most important subjects. In this instance she is surrounded by six or seven grave worthies, whose comical faces add great piquancy to the conclave. Grandmumma Dorothy, who declares that she is grandmother to she don't know how much little growing-up property, will venture every grey hair in her head-which is as white as the snows of Nova Scotia-that he knows a deal o' things about the gospel, or he wouldn't have missus for such a close acquaintance. "But his shirt ain't just da'h fashon fo'h a 'spectable minister ob de gospel," she concludes, with profound wisdom evinced in her measured nod.
Aunt Betsy, than whose face none is blacker, or more comically moulded, will say her word; but she is very profound withal. "Reckon how tain't de clo' what make e' de preacher tink good" (Aunty's lip hangs seriously low the while). "Lef missus send some calico fum town, and dis old woman son fix 'um into shirt fo'h him," she says, with great assurance of her sincerity.
Harry-Mister Harry, as he is to be called by the people-finds himself comfortably at home; the only drawback, if such it may be called, existing in the unwillingness exhibited on the part of one of the overseers to his being provided with apartments in the basement of the house instead of one of the cabins. This, however, is, by a few conciliatory words from Mrs. Rosebrook, settled to the satisfaction of all. Harry has supper provided for him in one of the little rooms downstairs, which he is to make his Study, and into which he retires for the night.
When daylight has departed, and the very air seems hanging in stillness over the plantation, a great whispering is heard in Dad Daniel's cabin-the head quarters, where grave matters of state, or questions affecting the moral or physical interests of the plantation, are discussed, and Dad Daniel's opinion held as most learned-the importance of which over the other cabins is denoted by three windows, one just above the door being usually filled with moss or an old black hat. Singular enough, on approaching the cabin it is discovered that Daniel has convoked a senate of his sable brethren, to whom he is proposing a measure of great importance. "Da'h new precher, gemen! is one ob yer own colur-no more Buckra what on'e gib dat one sarmon,--tank God fo'h dat!-and dat colour geman, my children, ye must look up to fo'h de word from de good book. Now, my bredren, 'tis posin' on ye dat ye make dat geman 'spectable. I poses den, dat we, bredren, puts in a mite apiece, and gib dat ar' geman new suit ob fus' bes'clof', so 'e preach fresh and clean," Dad Daniel is heard to say. And this proposition is carried out on the following morning, when Daddy Daniel-his white wool so cleanly washed, and his face glowing with great good-nature-accompanied by a conclave of his sable companions, presents himself in the front veranda, and demands to see "missus." That all-conciliating personage is ever ready to receive deputations, and on making her appearance, and receiving the usual salutations from her people, receives from the hand of that venerable prime minister, Daddy Daniel, a purse containing twelve dollars and fifty cents. It is the amount of a voluntary contribution-a gift for the new preacher. "Missus" is requested, after adding her portion, to expend it in a suit of best black for the newcomer, whom they would like to see, and say "how de, to."
Missus receives this noble expression of their gratitude with thanks and kind words. Harry is summoned to the veranda, where, on making his appearance, he is introduced to Dad Daniel, who, in return, escorts him down on the plazza where numbers of the people have assembled to receive him. Here, with wondrous ceremony, Dad Daniel doing the polite rather strong, he is introduced to all the important people of the plantation. And such a shaking of hands, earnest congratulations, happy "how des," bows, and joyous laughs, as follow, place the scene so expressive of happiness beyond the power of pen to describe. Then he is led away, followed by a train of curious faces, to see Dad Daniel's neatly-arranged cabin; after which he will see plantation church, and successively the people's cabins. To-morrow evening, at early dusk, it is said, according to invitation and arrangement, he will sup on the green with his sable brethren, old and young, and spice up the evening's entertainment with an exhortation; Dad Daniel, as is his custom, performing the duties of deacon.
Let us pass over this scene, and-Harry having ingratiated himself with the plantation people, who are ready to give him their distinguished consideration-ask the reader to follow us through the description of another, which took place a few days after.
Our clergyman has delivered to his sable flock his first sermon, which Dad Daniel and his compatriots pronounce great and good,--just what a sermon should be. Such pathos they never heard before; the enthusiasm and fervency with which it was delivered inspires delight; they want no more earnestness of soul than the fervency with which his gesticulations accompanied the words; and now he has obtained a furlough that he may go into the city and console his old master. A thrill of commiseration seizes him as he contemplates his once joyous master now in prison; but, misgivings being useless, onward he goes. And he will see old Bob, recall the happy incidents of the past, when time went smoothly on.
He reaches the city, having tarried a while at missus's villa, and seeks M'Carstrow's residence, at the door of which he is met by Franconia, who receives him gratefully, and orders a servant to show him into the recess of the hall, where he will wait until such time as she is ready to accompany him to the county prison. M'Carstrow has recently removed into plainer tenements: some whisper that necessity compelled it, and that the "large shot" gamblers have shorn him down to the lowest imaginable scale of living. Be this as it may, certain it is that he has not looked within the doors of his own house for more than a week: report says he is enjoying himself in a fashionable house, to the inmates of which he is familiarly known. He certainly leads his beautiful wife anything but a pleasant or happy life. Soon Franconia is ready, and onward wending her way for the gaol, closely followed by Harry. She would have no objection to his walking by her side, but custom (intolerant interposer) will not permit it. They pass through busy thoroughfares and narrow streets into the suburbs, and have reached the prison outer gate, on the right hand of which, and just above a brass knob, are the significant words, "Ring the bell."
What a place to put master in! says Harry, in a half whisper, turning to Franconia, as he pulls the brass handle and listens for the dull tinkling of the bell within. He starts at the muffled summons, and sighs as he hears the heavy tread of the officer, advancing through the corridor to challenge his presence. The man advances, and has reached the inner iron gate, situated in a narrow, vaulted arch in the main building. A clanking and clicking sound is heard, and the iron door swings back: a thick-set man, with features of iron, advances to the stoop, down the steps, and to the gate. "What's here now?" he growls, rather than speaks, looking sternly at the coloured man, as he thrusts his left hand deep into his side pocket, while holding the key of the inner door in his right.
Visitor, returns Franconia, modestly.
Who does the nigger want to see? he enquires, with pertinacity in keeping with his profession.
His old master! is the quick reply.
You both? I guess I know what it is,--you want to see Marston: he used to be a rice-planter, but's now in the debtor's ward for a swimming lot of debts. Well, s'pose I must let you in: got a lot o' things, I s'pose? he says, looking wickedly through the bars as he springs the bolts, and swings back the gate. "I beg yer pardon a dozen times! but I didn't recognise ye on the outer side," continues the official, becoming suddenly servile. He makes a low bow as he recognises Franconia-motions his hand for them to walk ahead. They reach the steps leading to the inner gate, and ascending, soon are in the vaulted passage.
If they will allow him, the polite official will unlock the grated door. Stepping before Franconia, who, as the clanking of the locks grate on her ear, is seized with sensations she cannot describe, he inserts the heavy key. She turns to Harry, her face pallid as marble, and lays her tremulous hand on his arm, as if to relieve the nervousness with which she is seized. Click! click! sounds forth: again the door creaks on its hinges, and they are in the confines of the prison. A narrow vaulted arch, its stone walls moistened with pestilential malaria, leads into a small vestibule, on the right hand of which stretched a narrow aisle lined on both sides with cells. Damp and pestiferous, a hollow gloominess seems to pervade the place, as if it were a pest-house for torturing the living. Even the air breathes of disease,--a stench, as of dead men buried in its vaults, darts its poison deep into the system. It is this, coupled with the mind's discontent, that commits its ravages upon the poor prisoner,--that sends him pale and haggard to a soon- forgotten grave.
Last door on the right,--you know, mum, says the official: "boy will follow, lightly: whist! whist!"
I know, to my sorrow, is her reply, delivered in a whisper. Ah! her emotions are too tender for prison walls; they are yielding tears from the fountain of her very soul.
He's sick: walk softly, and don't think of the prisoners. Knock at the door afore enterin', says a staid-looking warden, emerging from a small door on the left hand of the vestibule.
Zist! zist! returns the other, pointing with the forefinger of his right hand down the aisle, and, placing his left, gently, on Franconia's shoulder, motioning her to move on.
Slowly, her handkerchief to her face, she obeys the sign, and is moving down the corridor, now encountering anxious eyes peering through the narrow grating of huge black doors. And then a faint, dolorous sound strikes on their listening ears. They pause for a moment,--listen again! It becomes clearer and clearer; and they advance with anxious curiosity. "It's Daddy Bob's voice," whispers Harry; "but how distant it sounds!
Even that murmurs in his confinement, returns Franconia.
How, like a thing of life, it recalls the past-the past of happiness! says Harry, as they reach the cell door, and, tremulously, hesitate for a few moments.
Listen again! continues Harry. The sound having ceased a moment or two, again commences, and the word "There's a place for old mas'r yet, And de Lord will see him dar," are distinctly audible. "How the old man battles for his good master!" returns Harry, as Franconia taps gently on the door. The wooden trap over the grating is closed; bolts hang carelessly from their staples; and yet, though the door is secured with a hook on the inside, disease and death breathe their morbid fumes through the scarce perceptible crevices. A whispering-"Come in!" is heard in reply to the tap upon the door, which slowly opens, and the face of old Bob, bathed in grief, protrudes round the frame. "Oh, missus-missus-missus-God give good missus spirit!" he exclaims, seizing Franconia fervently by the hand, and looking in her face imploringly. A fotid stench pervaded the atmosphere of the gloomy cell; it is death spreading its humid malaria. "Good old master is g-g-g-gone!" mutters the negro, in half-choked accents.
With a wild shriek, the noble woman rushes to the side of his prison cot, seizes his blanched hand that hangs carelessly over the iron frame, grasps his head frantically, and draws it to her bosom, as the last gurgle of life bids adieu to the prostrate body. He is dead!
The old slave has watched over him, shared his sorrows and his crust, has sung a last song to his departing spirit. How truthful was that picture of the dying master and his slave! The old man, struggling against the infirmities of age, had escaped the hands of the man-seller, served his master with but one object-his soul's love-and relieved his necessities, until death, ending his troubles, left no more to relieve. Now, distracted between joy at meeting Harry, and sorrow for the death of master, the poor old man is lost in the confusion of his feelings. After saluting Franconia, he turned to Harry, threw his arms around his neck, buried his head in his bosom, and wept like a child. "Home-home again,--my Harry! but too late to see mas'r," he says, as the fountains of his soul give out their streams.
We must all go where master has gone, returns Harry, as he, more calm, fondles the old man, and endeavours to reconcile his feelings. "Sit there, my old friend-sit there; and remember that God called master away. I must go to his bed-side," whispers Harry, seating the old man on a block of wood near the foot of the cot, where he pours forth the earnest of his grief.
An Item In The Common Calendar
THUS painfully has Marston paid his debtors. Around his lifeless body may spring to life those sympathies which were dead while he lived; but deplorings fall useless on dead men. There is one consideration, however, which must always be taken into account; it is, that while sympathy for the living may cost something, sympathy for the dead is cheap indeed, and always to be had. How simply plain is the dead man's cell! In this humid space, ten by sixteen feet, and arched over-head, is a bucket of water, with a tin cup at the side, a prison tub in one corner, two wooden chairs, a little deal stand, (off which the prisoner ate his meals), and his trunk of clothing. The sheriff, insisting that it was his rule to make no distinction of persons, allowed prison cot and prison matress to which, by the kind permission of the warden, Franconia added sheets and a coverlit. Upon this, in a corner at the right, and opposite a spacious fire-place, in which are two bricks supporting a small iron kettle, lies the once opulent planter,--now with eyes glassy and discoloured, a ghastly corpse. His house once was famous for its princely hospitality,--the prison cot is not now his bequest: but it is all the world has left him on which to yield up his life. "Oh, uncle! uncle! uncle!" exclaims Franconia, who has been bathing his contorted face with her tears, "would that God had taken me too-buried our troubles in one grave! There is no trouble in that world to which he has gone: joy, virtue, and peace, reign triumphant there," she speaks, sighing, as she raises her bosom from off the dead man. Harry has touched her on the shoulder with his left hand, and is holding the dead man's with his right: he seems in deep contemplation. His mind is absorbed in the melancholy scene; but, though his affection is deep, he has no tears to shed at this moment. No; he will draw a chair for Franconia, and seat her near the head of the cot, for the fountains of her grief have overflown. Discoloured and contorted, what a ghastly picture the dead man's face presents! Glassy, and with vacant glare, those eyes, strange in death, seem wildly staring upward from earth. How unnatural those sunken cheeks--those lips wet with the excrement of black vomit--that throat reddened with the pestilential poison! "Call a warden, Daddy!" says Harry; "he has died of black vomit, I think." And he lays the dead body square upon the cot, turns the sheets from off the shoulders, unbuttons the collar of its shirt. "How changed! I never would have known master; but I can see something of him left yet." Harry remains some minutes looking upon the face of the departed, as if tracing some long lost feature. And then he takes his hands-it's master's hand, he says-and places them gently to his sides, closes his glassy eyes, wipes his mouth and nostrils, puts his ear to the dead man's mouth, as if doubting the all-slayer's possession of the body, and with his right hand parts the matted hair from off the cold brow. What a step between the cares of the world and the peace of death! Harry smooths, and smooths, and smooths his forehead with his hand; until at length his feelings get the better of his resolution; he will wipe the dewy tears from his eyes. "Don't weep, Miss Franconia,--don't weep! master is happy with Jesus,--happier than all the plantations and slaves of the world could make him" he says, turning to her as she sits weeping, her elbow resting on the cot, and her face buried in her handkerchief.
Bad job this here! exclaims the warden, as he comes lumbering into the cell, his face flushed with anxiety. "This yaller-fever beats everything: but he hasn't been well for some time," he continues, advancing to the bed-side, looking on the deceased for a few minutes, and then, as if it were a part of his profession to look on dead men, says: "How strange to die out so soon!"
He was a good master, rejoins Harry.
He wasn't your master-Was he? enquires the gaoler, in gruff accents.
Once he was.
But, did you see him die, boy?
Thank God, I did not.
And this stupid old nigger hadn't sense to call me! (he turns threateningly to Bob): "Well,--must 'a drop'd off like the snuff of a tallow candle!"
Daddy knew master was a poor man now;--calling would have availed nothing; gaolers are bad friends of poverty.
Could you not have sent for me, good man? enquires Franconia, her weeping eyes turning upon the warden, who says, by way of answering her question, "We must have him out o' here."
I said mas'r was sicker den ye s'posed, yesterday; nor ye didn't notice 'um! interposes Bob, giving a significant look at the warden, and again at Franconia.
What a shame, in this our land of boasted hospitality! He died neglected in a prison cell!
Truth is, ma'am, interrupts the warden, who, suddenly becoming conscious that it is polite to be courteous to ladies wherever they may be met, uncovers, and holds his hat in his hand,--"we are sorely tried with black-vomit cases; no provision is made for them, and they die on our hands afore we know it, just like sheep with the rot. It gives us a great deal of trouble;--you may depend it does, ma'am; and not a cent extra pay do we get for it. For my own part, I've become quite at home to dead men and prisoners. My name is-you have no doubt heard of me before-John Lafayette Flewellen: my situation was once, madam, that of a distinguished road contractor; and then they run me for the democratic senator from our district, and I lost all my money without getting the office-and here I am now, pestered with sick men and dead prisoners. And the very worst is that ye can't please nobody; but if anything is wanted, ma'am, just call for me: John Lafayette Flewellen's my name, ma'am." The man of nerve, with curious indifference, is about to turn away,--to leave the mourning party to themselves, merely remarking, as he takes his hand from that of the corpse, that his limbs are becoming fridgid, fast.
Stay-a-moment,--warden, says Franconia, sobbing: "When was he seized with the fever?"
Day afore yesterday, ma'am; but he didn't complain until yesterday. That he was in a dangerous way I'm sure I'd no idea. The warden shrugs his shoulders, and spreads his hands. "My eyes, ma'am, but he drank strongly of late! Perhaps that, combined with the fever, helped slide him off?"
Ah! yes,--it was something else-it was grief! His troubles were his destroyer. She wipes her eyes, and, with a look of commiseration, turns from the man whose business it is to look coldly upon unfortunate dead men.
There was the things you sent him, ma'am; and he got his gaol allowance, and some gruel. The law wouldn't allow us to do more for him,--no, it wouldn't! He shakes his head in confirmation.
I wanted old mas'r to let 'um bring doctor; but he said no! he would meet de doctor what cured all diseases in another world, interrupts old Bob, as he draws his seat close to the foot of the cot, and, with his shining face of grief, gazes on the pale features of his beloved master.
Let him lie as he is, till the coroner comes, says the warden, retiring slowly, and drawing the heavy door after him.
The humble picture was no less an expression of goodness, than proof of the cruel severity of the law. The news of death soon brought curious debtors into the long aisle, while sorrow and sympathy might be read on every face. But he was gone, and with him his wants and grievances. A physician was called in, but he could not recall life, and, after making a few very learned and unintelligible remarks on the appearance of the body, took his departure, saying that they must not grieve-that it was the way all flesh would go. "He, no doubt, died of the black vomit, hastened by the want of care," he concluded, as he left the cell.
Want of care! rejoins Franconia, again giving vent to her feelings. How deeply did the arrow dart into the recesses of her already wounded heart!
Mr. Moon, the methodical coroner, was not long repairing to the spot. He felt, and felt, and felt the dead man's limbs, asked a few questions, bared the cold breast, ordered the body to be straightened a little, viewed it from several angles, and said an inquest was unnecessary. It would reveal no new facts, and, as so many were dying of the same disease, could give no more relief to his friends. Concerning his death, no one could doubt the cause being black vomit. With a frigid attempt at consolation for Franconia, he will withdraw. He has not been long gone, when the warden, a sheet over his left arm, again makes his appearance; he passes the sheet to Harry, with a request that he will wind the dead debtor up in it.
Franconia, sobbing, rises from her seat, opens a window at the head of the cot (the dead will not escape through the iron grating), and paces the floor, while Harry and Daddy sponge the body, lay it carefully down, and fold it in the winding-sheet. "Poor master,--God has taken him; but how I shall miss him! I've spent happy days wid 'im in dis place, I have!" says Bob, as they lay his head on the hard pillow. He gazes upon him with affection,--and says "Mas'r 'll want no more clothes."
And now night is fast drawing its dark mantle over the scene,--the refulgent shadows of the setting sun play through the grated window into the gloomy cell: how like a spirit of goodness sent from on high to lighten the sorrows of the downcast, seems the light. A faint ray plays its soft tints on that face now pallid in death; how it inspires our thoughts of heaven! Franconia watches, and watches, as fainter and fainter it fades away, like an angel sent for the spirit taking its departure. "Farewell!" she whispers, as darkness shuts out the last mellow glimmer: "Come sombre night, and spread thy stillness!"
The warden, moved by the spark of generosity his soul possesses, has brought some cologne, and silently places it in Franconia's hands. She advances to the cot, seats herself near the head of her dear departed, encircles his head with her left arm, and with her white 'kerchief bathes his face with the liquid, Harry holding the vessel in his hand, at her request. A candle sheds its sickly light upon the humid walls; faintly it discloses the face of Daddy Bob, immersed in tears, watching intently over the foot of the cot. "Missus Frankone is alw's kind to mas'r!"
I loved uncle because his heart was good, returns Franconia.
'Tis dat, missus. How kindly old mas'r, long time ago, used to say, 'Good mornin', Bob! Daddy, mas'r lubs you!
How firmly the happy recollection of these kind words is sealed in the old man's memory.
In Which Regrets Are Shown Of Little Worth
THE reader may remember, that we, in the early part of our narrative, made some slight mention of the Rovero family, of which Franconia and Lorenzo were the only surviving children. They, too, had been distinguished as belonging to a class of opulent planters; but, having been reduced to poverty by the same nefarious process through which we have traced Marston's decline, and which we shall more fully disclose in the sequel, had gathered together the remnants of a once extensive property, and with the proceeds migrated to a western province of Mexico, where, for many years, though not with much success, Rovero pursued a mining speculation. They lived in a humble manner; Mrs. Rovero, Marston's sister-and of whom we have a type in the character of her daughter, Franconia-discarded all unnecessary appurtenances of living, and looked forward to the time when they would be enabled to retrieve their fortunes and return to their native district to spend the future of their days on the old homestead. More than four years, however, had passed since any tidings had been received of them by Franconia; and it was strongly surmised that they had fallen victims to the savage incursions of marauding parties, who were at that time devastating the country, and scattering its defenceless inhabitants homeless over the western shores of central America. So strong had this impression found place in Franconia's mind that she had given up all hopes of again meeting them. As for M'Carstrow's friends, they had never taken any interest in her welfare, viewing her marriage with the distinguished colonel as a mere catch on the part of her parents, whose only motive was to secure themselves the protection of a name, and, perhaps, the means of sustaining themselves above the rank disclosure of their real poverty. To keep "above board" is everything in the south; and the family not distinguished soon finds itself well nigh extinguished. Hence that ever tenacious clinging to pretensions, sounding of important names, and maintenance of absurd fallacies,--all having for their end the drawing a curtain over that real state of poverty there existing. Indeed, it was no secret that even the M'Carstrow family (counting itself among the very few really distinguished families of the state, and notorious for the contempt in which they affected to hold all common people), had mortgaged their plantation and all its negroes for much more than their worth in ordinary times. As for tradesmen's bills, there were any quantity outstanding, without the shadow of a prospect of their being paid, notwithstanding importuners had frequently intimated that a place called the gaol was not far distant, and that the squire's office was within a stone's throw of "the corner." Colonel M'Carstrow, reports say, had some years ago got a deal of money by an unexplainable hocus pocus, but it was well nigh gone in gambling, and now he was keeping brothel society and rioting away his life faster than the race-horses he had formerly kept on the course could run.
Hospitality hides itself when friends are needy; and it will be seen here that Franconia had few friends-we mean friends in need. The Rosebrook family formed an exception. The good deacon, and his ever generous lady, had remained Franconia's firmest friends; but so large and complicated were the demands against Marston, and so gross the charges of dishonour--suspicion said he fraudulently made over his property to Graspum-that they dared not interpose for his relief; nor would Marston himself have permitted it. The question now was, what was to be done with the dead body?
We left Franconia bathing its face, and smoothing the hair across its temples with her hand. She cannot bury the body from her own home:--no! M'Carstow will not permit that. She cannot consign it to the commissioners for the better regulation of the "poor house,"-her feelings repulse the thought. One thought lightens her cares; she will straightway proceed to Mrs. Rosebrook's villa,--she will herself be the bearer of the mournful intelligence; while Harry will watch over the remains of the departed, until Daddy, who must be her guide through the city, shall return. "I will go to prepare the next resting-place for uncle," says Franconia, as if nerving herself to carry out the resolution.
With your permission, missus, returns Harry, touching her on the arm, and pointing through the grated window into the gloomy yard. "Years since-before I passed through a tribulation worse than death-when we were going to be sold in the market, I called my brothers and sisters of the plantation together, and in that yard invoked heaven to be merciful to its fallen. I was sold on that day; but heaven has been merciful to me; heaven has guided me through many weary pilgrimages, and brought me here to-night; and its protecting hand will yet restore me my wife and little ones. Let us pray to-night; let us be grateful to Him who seeth the fallen in his tribulation, but prepareth a place for him in a better world. Let us pray and hope," he continued: and they knelt at the side of the humble cot on which lay the departed, while he devoutly and fervently invoked the Giver of all Good to forgive the oppressor, to guide the oppressed, to make man feel there is a world beyond this, to strengthen the resolution of that fair one who is thus sorely afflicted, to give the old man who weeps at the feet of the departed new hope for the world to come,--and to receive that warm spirit which has just left the cold body into his realms of bliss.
What of roughness there was in his manner is softened by simplicity and truthfulness. The roughest lips may breathe the purest prayer. At the conclusion, Franconia and Daddy leave for Mrs. Rosebrook's villa, while Harry, remaining to watch over the remains, draws his chair to the stand, and reads by the murky light.
I won't be long; take care of old mas'r, says Daddy, as he leaves the cell, solicitously looking back into the cavern-like place.
It is past ten when they reach the house of Mrs. Rosebrook, the inmates of which have retired, and are sleeping. Everything is quiet in and about the enclosure; the luxuriant foliage bespreading a lawn extending far away to the westward, seems refreshing itself with dew that sparkles beneath the starlight heavens, now arched like a crystal mist hung with diamond lights. The distant watchdog's bark re-echoes faintly over the broad lagoon, to the east; a cricket's chirrup sounds beneath the woodbine arbour; a moody guardsman, mounted on his lean steed, and armed for danger, paces his slow way along: he it is that breaks the stillness while guarding the fears of a watchful community, who know liberty, but crush with steel the love thereof.
A rap soon brings to the door the trim figure of a mulatto servant. He conveys the name of the visitor to his "missus," who, surprised at the untimely hour Franconia seeks her, loses no time in reaching the ante-room, into which she has been conducted.
Daddy has taken his seat in the hall, and recognises "missus" as she approaches; but as she puts out her hand to salute him, she recognises trouble seated on his countenance. "Young missus in da'h," he says, pointing to the ante-room while rubbing his eyes.
But you must tell me what trouble has befallen you, she returns, as quickly, in her dishabille, she drops his hand and starts back.
Missus know 'um all,--missus da'h. Again he points, and she hastens into the ante-room, when, grasping Franconia by the hand, she stares at her with breathless anxiety expressed in her face. A pause ensues in which both seem bewildered. At length Franconia breaks the silence. "Uncle is gone!" she exclaims, following the words with a flow of tears.
Gone! reiterates the generous-hearted woman, encircling Franconia's neck with her left arm, and drawing her fondly to her bosom.
Yes,--dead! she continues, sobbing audibly. There is something touching in the words,--something which recalls the dearest associations of the past, and touches the fountains of the heart. It is the soft tone in which they are uttered,--it gives new life to old images. So forcibly are they called up, that the good woman has no power to resist her violent emotions: gently she guides Franconia to the sofa, seats her upon its soft cushion, and attempts to console her wrecked spirit.
The men-servants are called up,--told to be prepared for orders. One of them recognises Daddy, and, inviting him into the pantry, would give him food, Trouble has wasted the old man's appetite; he thinks of master, but has no will to eat. No; he will see missus, and proceed back to the prison, there join Harry, and watch over all that is mortal of master. He thanks Abraham for what he gave him, declines the coat he would kindly lend him to keep out the chill, seeks the presence of his mistress (she has become more reconciled), says, "God bless 'um!" bids her good night, and sallies forth.
Mrs. Rosebrook listens to the recital of the melancholy scene with astonishment and awe. "How death grapples for us!" she exclaims, her soft, soul-beaming eyes glaring with surprise. "How it cuts its way with edge unseen. Be calm, be calm, Franconia; you have nobly done your part,--nobly! Whatever the pecuniary misfortunes,--whatever the secret cause of his downfall, you have played the woman to the very end. You have illustrated the purest of true affection; would it had repaid you better. Before daylight-negroes are, in consequence of their superstition, unwilling to remove the dead at midnight-I will have the body removed here,--buried from my house." The good woman did not disclose to Franconia that her husband was from home, making an effort to purchase Harry's wife and children from their present owner. But she will do all she can,--the best can do no more.
At the gaol a different scene is presented. Harry, alone with the dead man, waits Daddy's return. Each tap of the bell awakes a new hope, soon to be disappointed. The clock strikes eleven: no Daddy returns. The gates are shut: Harry must wile away the night, in this tomb-like abode, with the dead. What stillness pervades the cell; how mournfully calm in death sleeps the departed! The watcher has read himself to sleep; his taper, like life on its way, has nearly shed out its pale light; the hot breath of summer breathes balmy through the lattice bars; mosquitoes sing their torturous tunes while seeking for the dead man's blood; lizards, with diamond eyes, crawl upon the wall, waiting their ration: but death, less inexorable than creditors, sits pale king over all. The palace and the cell are alike to him; the sharp edge of his unseen sword spares neither the king in his purple robe, nor the starving beggar who seeks a crust at his palace gate,--of all places the worst.
As morning dawns, and soft fleeting clouds tinge the heavens with light, four negroes may be seen sitting at the prison gate, a litter by their side, now and then casting silent glances upward, as if contemplating the sombre wall that frowns above their heads, enclosing the prison. The guard, armed to the teeth, have passed and repassed them, challenged and received their answer, and as often examined their passes. They-the negroes-have come for a dead man. Guardmen get no fees of dead men,--the law has no more demands to serve: they wish the boys much joy with their booty, and pass on.
Six o'clock arrives; the first bell rings; locks, bolts, and bars clank in ungrateful medley; rumbling voices are heard within the hollow-sounding aisles; whispers from above chime ominously with the dull shuffle rumbling from below. "Seven more cases,--how it rages!" grumbles a monotonous voice, and the gate opens at the warden's touch. "Who's here?" he demands, with stern countenance unchanged, as he shrugs his formidable shoulders. "I see, (he continues, quickly), you have come for the dead debtor. Glad of it, my good fellow; this is the place to make dead men of debtors. Brought an order, I s'pose?" Saying "follow me," he turns about, hastens to the vestibule, receives the order from the hand of Duncan, the chief negro, reads it with grave attention, supposes it is all straight, and is about to show him the cell where the body lays, and which he is only too glad to release. "Hold a moment!" Mr. Winterflint--such is his name--says. Heaven knows he wants to get rid of the dead debtor; but the laws are so curious, creditors are so obdurate, and sheriffs have such a crooked way of doing straight things, that he is in the very bad position of not knowing what to do. Some document from the sheriff may be necessary; perhaps the creditors must agree to the compromise. He forgets that inexorable Death, as he is vulgarly styled, has forced a compromise: creditors must now credit "by decease." Upon this point, however, he must be satisfied by his superior. He now wishes Mr. Brien Moon would evince more exactness in holding inquests, and less anxiety for the fees. Mr. Winterflint depends not on his own decisions, where the laws relating to debtors are so absurdly mystical. "Rest here, boy," he says; "I won't be a minute or two,--must do the thing straight." He seeks the presence of that extremely high functionary, the gaoler (high indeed wherever slavery rules), who, having weighed the points with great legal impartiality, gives it as his most distinguished opinion that no order of release from the high sheriff is requisite to satisfy the creditors of his death: take care of the order sent, and make a note of the niggers who take him away, concludes that highly important gentleman, as comfortably his head reclines on soft pillow. To this end was Mr. Moon's certificate essential.
Mr. Winterflint returns; enquires who owns the boys.
Mas'r Rosebrook's niggers, Duncan replies, firmly; "but Missus send da order."
Sure of that, now? Good niggers them of Rosebrook's: wouldn't a' gin it to nobody else's niggers. Follow me-zist, zist! he says, crooking his finger at the other three, and scowling, as Duncan relieves their timidity by advancing. They move slowly and noiselessly up the aisle, the humid atmosphere of which, pregnant with death, sickens as it steals into the very blood. "In there-zist! make no noise; the dead debtor lies there," whispers the warden, laying his left hand upon Duncan's shoulder, and, the forefinger of his right extended, pointing toward the last cell on the left. "Door's open; not locked, I meant. Left it unsecured last night. Rap afore ye go in, though." At the methodical warden's bidding Duncan proceeds, his foot falling lightly on the floor. Reaching the door, he places his right hand on the swinging bolt, and for a few seconds seems listening. He hears the muffled sound of a footfall pacing the floor, and then a muttering as of voices in secret communion, or dying echoes from the tomb. He has not mistaken the cell; its crevices give forth odours pergnant of proof. Two successive raps bring Harry to the door: they are admitted to the presence of the dead. One by one Harry receives them by the hand, but he must needs be told why Daddy is not with them. They know not. He ate a morsel, and left late last night, says one of the negroes. Harry is astonished at this singular intelligence: Daddy Bob never before was known to commit an act of unfaithfulness; he was true to Marston in life,--strange that he should desert him in death. "Mas'r's death-bed wasn't much at last," says Duncan, as they gather round the cot, and, with curious faces, mingle their more curious remarks. Harry draws back the white handkerchief which Franconia had spread over the face of the corpse, as the negroes start back affrighted. As of nervous contortion, the ghastly face presents an awful picture. Swollen, discoloured, and contracted, no one outline of that once cheerful countenance can be traced. "Don't look much like Mas'r Marston used to look; times must a' changed mightily since he used to look so happy at home," mutters Duncan, shaking his head, and telling the others not to be "fear'd; dead men can't hurt nobody."
Died penniless;--but e' war good on e' own plantation, rejoins another. "One ting be sartin 'bout nigger-he know how he die wen 'e time cum; Mas'r don know how 'e gwine to die!"
Having seen enough of the melancholy finale, they spread the litter in the aisle, as the warden enters the cell to facilitate the dead debtor's exit. Harry again covers the face, and prepares to roll the body in a coverlit brought by Duncan. "I kind of liked him-he was so gentlemanly-has been with us so long, and did'nt seem like a prisoner. He was very quiet, and always civil when spoken to," interposes the warden, as, assisting the second shrouding, he presses the hand of the corpse in his own.
Now he is ready; they place his cold body on the litter; a few listless prisoners stand their sickly figures along the passage, watch him slowly borne to the iron gate in the arched vault. Death-less inexorable than creditors-has signed his release, thrown back prison bolts and bars, wrested him from the grasp of human laws, and now mocks at creditors, annuls fi fas, bids the dead debtor make his exit. Death pays no gaol fees; it makes that bequest to creditors; but it reserves the keys of heaven for another purpose. "One ration less," says the warden, who, closing the grated door, casts a lingering look after the humble procession, bearing away the remains of our departed.
With Harry as the only follower, they proceed along, through suburban streets, and soon reach the house of that generous woman. A minister of the gospel awaits his coming; the good man's words are consoling, but he cannot remodel the past for the advantage of the dead. Soon the body is placed in a "ready-made coffin," and the good man offers up the last funeral rites; he can do no more than invoke the great protector to receive the departed into his bosom.
How the troubles of this world rise up before me! Oh! uncle! uncle! how I could part with the world and bury my troubles in the same grave! exclaims Franconia, as, the ceremony having ended, they bear the body away to its last resting-place; and, in a paroxysm of grief, she shrieks and falls swooning to the floor.
In a neatly inclosed plat, a short distance from the Rosebrook Villa, and near the bank of a meandering rivulet, overhung with mourning willows and clustering vines, they lay him to rest. The world gave the fallen man nothing but a prison-cell wherein to stretch his dying body; a woman gives him a sequestered grave, and nature spreads it with her loveliest offering. It is the last resting-place of the Rosebrook family, which their negroes, partaking of that contentment so characteristic of the family, have planted with flowers they nurture with tenderest care. There is something touching in the calm beauty of the spot; something breathing of rural contentment. It is something to be buried in a pretty grave-to be mourned by a slave-to be loved by the untutored. How abject the slave, and yet how true his affection! how dear his requiem over a departed friend! "God bless master-receive his spirit!" is heard mingling with the music of the gentle breeze, as Harry, sitting at the head of the grave, looks upward to heaven, while earth covers from sight the mortal relics of a once kind master.
It has been a day of sadness at the villa-a day of mourning and tribulation. How different the scene in the city! There, men whisper strange regrets. Sympathy is let loose, and is expanding itself to an unusual degree. Who was there that did not know Marston's generous, gushing soul! Who was there that would not have stretched forth the helping hand, had they known his truly abject condition! Who that was not, and had not been twenty times, on the very brink of wresting him from the useless tyranny of his obdurate creditors! Who that had not waited from day to day, with purse-strings open, ready to pour forth the unmistakeable tokens of friendship! How many were only restrained from doing good-from giving vent to the fountains of their hospitality-through fear of being contaminated with that scandal rumour had thrown around his decline! Over his death hath sprung to life that curious fabric of living generosity, so ready to bespread a grave with unneeded bounties,--so emblematic of how many false mourners hath the dead. But Graspum would have all such expressions shrink beneath his glowing goodness. With honied words he tells the tale of his own honesty: his business intercourse with the deceased was in character most generous. Many a good turn did Marston receive at his hands; long had he been his faithful and unwearied friend. Fierce are the words with which he would execrate the tyrant creditors; yea, he would heap condign punishment on their obdurate heads. Time after time did he tell them the fallen man was penniless; how strange, then, that they tortured him to death within prison walls. He would sweep away such vengeance, bury it with his curses, and make obsolete such laws as give one man power to gratify his passion on another. His burning, surging anger can find no relief; nor can he tolerate such antiquated debtor laws: to him they are the very essence of barbarism, tainting that enlightened civilisation so long implanted by the State, so well maintained by the people. It is on those ennobling virtues of state, he says, the cherished doctrines of our democracy are founded. Graspum is, indeed, a well-developed type of our modern democracy, the flimsy fabric of which is well represented in the gasconade of the above outpouring philanthropy.
And now, as again the crimson clouds of evening soften into golden hues-as the sun, like a fiery chariot, sinks beneath the western landscape, and still night spreads her shadowy mantle down the distant hills, and over the broad lagoon to the north-two sable figures may be seen patting, sodding, and bespreading with fresh-plucked flowers the new grave. As the rippling brook gives out its silvery music, and earth seems drinking of the misty dew, that, like a bridal veil, spreads over its verdant hillocks, they whisper their requiem of regret, and mould the grave so carefully. "It's mas'r's last," says one, smoothing the cone with his hands.
We will plant the tree now, returns the other, bringing forward a young clustering pine, which he places at the head of the grave, and on which he cuts the significant epitaph-"Good master lies here!"
Duncan and Harry have paid their last tribute. "He is at peace with this world," says the latter, as, at the gate, he turns to take a last look over the paling.
How We Should All Be Forgiving
LET us forget the scenes of the foregoing chapters, and turn to something of pleasanter hue. In the meantime, let us freely acknowledge that we live in a land-our democratic south, we mean-where sumptuous living and abject misery present their boldest outlines,--where the ignorance of the many is excused by the polished education of a very few,--where autocracy sways its lash with bitterest absolutism,--where menial life lies prostrate at the feet of injustice, and despairingly appeals to heaven for succour,--where feasts and funerals rival each other,--and when pestilence, like a glutton, sends its victims to the graveyard most, the ball-room glitters brightest with its galaxy. Even here, where clamour cries aloud for popular government, men's souls are most crushed-not with legal right, but by popular will! And yet, from out all this incongruous substance, there seems a genial spirit working itself upon the surface, and making good its influence; and it is to that influence we should award the credit due. That genial spirit is the good master's protection; we would it were wider exercised for the good of all. But we must return to our narrative.
The Rosebrook Villa has assumed its usual cheerfulness; but while pestilence makes sad havoc among the inhabitants of the city, gaiety is equally rampant. In a word, even the many funeral trains which pass along every day begin to wear a sort of cheerfulness, in consequence of which, it is rumoured, the aristocracy-we mean those who have money to spend-have made up their minds not to depart for the springs yet awhile. As for Franconia, finding she could no longer endure M'Carstrow's dissolute habits, and having been told by that very distinguished gentleman, but unamiable husband, that he despised the whole tribe of her poor relations, she has retired to private boarding, where, with the five dollars a week, he, in the outpouring of his southern generosity, allows her, she subsists plainly but comfortably. It is, indeed, a paltry pittance, which the M'Carstrow family will excuse to the public with the greatness of their name.
Harry has returned to the plantation, where the people have smothered him in a new suit of black. Already has he preached three sermons in it, which said sermons are declared wonderful proofs of his biblical knowledge. Even Daddy Daniel, who expended fourteen picayunes in a new pair of spectacles, with which to hear the new parson more distinctly, pronounces the preaching prodigious. He is vehement in his exultation, lavishes his praise without stint; and as his black face glows with happiness, thanks missus for her great goodness in thus providing for their spiritual welfare. The Rosebrook "niggers" were always extremely respectable and well ordered in their moral condition; but now they seem invested with a new impulse for working out their own good; and by the advice of missus, whom every sable son and daughter loves most dearly, Daddy Daniel has arranged a system of evening prayer meetings, which will be held in the little church, twice a week. And, too, there prevails a strong desire for an evening gathering now and then, at which the young shiners may be instructed how to grow. A curiously democratic law, however, offers a fierce impediment to this; and Daddy Daniel shakes his head, and aunt Peggy makes a belligerent muttering when told such gatherings cannot take place without endangering the state's rights. It is, nevertheless, decided that Kate, and Nan, and Dorothy, and Webster, and Clay, and such like young folks, may go to "settings up" and funerals, but strictly abstain from all fandangoes. Dad Daniel and his brother deacons cannot countenance such fiddling and dancing, such break-downs, and shoutings, and whirlings, and flouncing and frilling, and gay ribboning, as generally make up the evening's merriment at these fandangoes, so prevalent on neighbouring plantations about Christmas time. "Da don' mount to no good!" Daniel says, with a broad guffaw. "Nigger what spect t' git hi' way up in da world bes lef dem tings." And so one or two more screws are to be worked up for the better regulation of the machinery of the plantation. As for Master Rosebrook-why, he wouldn't sell a nigger for a world of money; and he doesn't care how much they learn; the more the better, provided they learn on the sly. They are all to be freed at a certain time, and although freedom is sweet, without learning they might make bad use of it. But master has had a noble object in view for some days past, and which, after encountering many difficulties, he has succeeded in carrying out to the great joy of all parties concerned.
One day, as the people were all busily engaged on the plantation, Bradshaw's familiar figure presents itself at the house, and demands to see Harry. He has great good news, but don't want to tell him "nofin" till he arrives at the Villa. "Ah, good man" (Bradshaw's face beams good tidings, as he approaches Harry, and delivers a note) "mas'r specs ye down da' wid no time loss." Bradshaw rubs his hands, and grins, and bows, his face seeming two shades blacker than ever, but no less cheerful.
Master wants me to preach somewhere, next Sunday,--I know he does, says Harry, reading the note, which requests him to come immediately into the city. He will prepare to obey the summons, Dan and Sprat meanwhile taking good care of the horse and carriage, while Bradshaw makes a friendly visit to a few of the more distinguished cabins, and says "how de" to venerable aunties, who spread their best fare before him, and, with grave ceremony, invite him in to refresh before taking his return journey into the city; and Maum Betsy packs up six of her real smart made sweet cakes for the parson and Bradshaw to eat along the road. Betsy is in a strange state of bewilderment to know why master wants to take the new parson away just now, when he's so happy, and is only satisfied when assured that he will be safely returned to-morrow. A signal is made for Dad Daniel, who hastens to the cabin in time to see everything properly arranged for the parson's departure, and say: "God bless 'um,--good by!"
Now, what can master want with me? enquires Harry, as, on the road, they roll away towards the city.
Bradshaw cracks his whip, and with a significant smile looks Harry in the face, and returns: "Don' ax dis child no mo' sich question. Old mas'r and me neber break secret. Tell ye dis, do'h! Old mas'r do good ting, sartin."
You know, but won't tell me, eh? rejoins Harry, his manly face wearing a solicitous look. Bradshaw shakes his head, and adds a cunning wink in reply.
It is three o'clock when they arrive at the Villa, where, without reserve, missus extends her hand, and gives him a cordial welcome,--tells him Franconia has been waiting to see him with great patience, and has got a present for him. Franconia comes rushing into the hall, and is so glad to see him; but her countenance wears an air of sadness, which does not escape his notice-she is not the beautiful creature she was years ago, care has sadly worn upon those rounded features. But master is there, and he looks happy and cheerful; and there is something about the house servants, as they gather round him to have their say, which looks of suspiciously good omen. He cannot divine what it is; his first suspicions being aroused by missus saying Franconia had been waiting to see him.
We must not call him Harry any longer-it doesn't become his profession: now that he is Elder of my plantation flock, he must, from this time, be called Elder! says Rosebrook, touching him on the arm with the right hand. And the two ladies joined in, that it must be so. "Go into the parlour, ladies; I must say a word or two to the Elder," continued Rosebrook, taking Harry by the arm, and pacing through the hall into the conservatory at the back of the house. Here, after ordering Harry to be seated, he recounts his plan of emancipation, which, so far, has worked admirably, and, at the time proposed, will, without doubt or danger, produce the hoped-for result. "You, my good man," he says, "can be a useful instrument in furthering my ends; I want you to be that instrument!" His negroes have all an interest in their labour, which interest is preserved for them in missus's savings-bank; and at a given time they are to have their freedom, but to remain on the plantation if they choose, at a stipulated rate of wages. Indeed, so strongly impressed with the good results of his proposed system is Rosebrook, that he long since scouted that contemptible fallacy, which must have had its origin in the very dregs of selfishness, that the two races can only live in proximity by one enslaving the other. Justice to each other, he holds, will solve the problem of their living together; but, between the oppressor and the oppressed, a volcano that may at any day send forth its devouring flame, smoulders. Rosebrook knows goodness always deserves its reward; and Harry assures him he never will violate the trust. Having said thus much, he rises from his chair, takes Harry by the arm, and leading him to the door of the conservatory, points him to a passage leading to the right, and says: "In there!-proceed into that passage, enter a door, first door on the left, and then you will find something you may consider your own."
Harry hesitated for a moment, watched master's countenance doubtingly, as if questioning the singular command.
Fear not! nobody will hurt you, continues Rosebrook.
Master never had a bad intention, thinks Harry; "I know he would not harm me; and then missus is so good." Slowly and nervously he proceeds, and on reaching the door hears a familiar "come in" answering his nervous rap. The door opened into a neat little room, with carpet and chairs, a mahogany bureau and prints, all so neatly arranged, and wearing such an air of cleanliness. No sooner has he advanced beyond the threshold than the emaciated figure of a black sister vaults into his arms, crying, "Oh Harry! Harry! Harry!-my dear husband!" She throws her arms about his neck, and kisses, and kisses him, and buries her tears of joy in his bosom. How she pours out her soul's love!-how, in rapturous embraces, her black impulses give out the purest affection!
And you!-you!-you!-my own dear Jane! Is it you? Has God commanded us to meet once more, to be happy once more, to live as heaven hath ordained us to live? he returns, as fervently and affectionately he holds her in his arms, and returns her token of love. "Never! never! I forget you, never! By night and by day I have prayed the protecting hand of Providence to guide you through life's trials. How my heart has yearned to meet you in heaven! happy am I we have met once more on earth; yea, my soul leaps with joy. Forgive them, Father, forgive them who separate us on earth, for heaven makes the anointed!" And while they embrace thus fondly, their tears mingling with joy, children, recognising a returned father as he entered the door, are clinging at his feet beseechingly. He is their father;--how like children they love! "Sam, Sue, and Beckie, too!" he says, as one by one he takes them in his arms and kisses them. But there are two more, sombre and strange. He had caught the fourth in his arms, unconsciously. "Ah, Jane!" he exclaims, turning toward her, his face filled with grief and chagrin, "they are not of me, Jane!" He still holds the little innocent by the hand, as nervously he waits her reply. It is not guilt, but shame, with which she returns an answer.
It was not my sin, Harry! It was him that forced me to live with another,--that lashed me when I refused, and, bleeding, made me obey the will, she returns, looking at him imploringly. Virtue is weaker than the lash; none feel it more than the slave. She loved Harry, she followed him with her thoughts; but it was the Christian that reduced her to the level of the brute. Laying her coloured hand upon his shoulder, she besought his forgiveness, as God was forgiving.
Why should I not forgive thee, Jane? I would not chide thee, for no sin is on thy garments. Injustice gave master the right to sell thee, to make of thee what he pleased. Heaven made thy soul purest,--man thy body an outcast for the unrighteous to feast upon. How could I withhold forgiveness, Jane? I will be a father to them, a husband to thee; for what thou hast been compelled to do is right, in the land we live in. So saying, he again embraces her, wipes the tears from her eyes, and comforts her. How sweet is forgiveness! It freshens like the dew of morning on the drooping plant; it strengthens the weary spirit, it steals into the desponding soul, and wakes to life new hopes of bliss,--to the slave it is sweet indeed!
I will kiss them, too, he ejaculates, taking them in his arms with the embrace of a fond father,--which simple expression of love they return with prattling. They know not the trials of their parents; how blessed to know them not!
And now they gather the children around them, and seat themselves on a little settee near the window, where Harry, overjoyed at meeting his dear ones once more, fondles them and listens to Jane, as with her left arm round his neck she discloses the sad tale of her tribulation. Let us beg the reader to excuse the recital; there is nothing fascinating in it, nor would we call forth the modest blushes of our generous south. A few words of the woman's story, however, we cannot omit; and we trust the forgiving will pardon their insertion. She tells Harry she was not separated from her children; but that Romescos, having well considered her worth, sold her with her "young uns" to the Rev. Peter--, who had a small plantation down in Christ's Parish. The reverend gentleman, being born and educated to the degrading socialities of democratic states, always says he is not to blame for "using" the rights the law gives him; nor does he forget to express sundry regrets that he cannot see as preachers at the north see. As for money, he thinks preachers have just as good a right to get it as gentlemen of any other honourable profession. Now and then he preaches to niggers; and for telling them how they must live in the fear of the Lord, be obedient to their master, and pay for redemption by the sweat of their brows, he adds to his pile of coin. But he is strongly of the opinion that niggers are inferior "brutes" of the human species, and in furtherance of this opinion (so popular in the whole south) he expects them to live a week on a peck of corn. As for Jane-we must excuse the reverend gentleman, because of his faith in southern principles-he compelled her to live with the man Absalom ere she had been two days on his plantation, and by the same Absalom she had two children, which materially increased the cash value of the Reverend Peter--'s slave property. Indeed, so well is the reverend gentleman known for his foul play, that it has been thrown up to him in open court-by wicked planters who never had the fear of God before their eyes-that he more than half starved his niggers, and charged them toll for grinding their corn in his mill. Though the Reverend Peter --never failed to assure his friends and acquaintances of his generosity (a noble quality which had long been worthily maintained by the ancient family to which he belonged), the light of one generous act had never found its way to the public. In truth, so elastically did his reverend conscientiousness expand when he learned the strange motive which prompted Rosebrook to purchase Jane and her little ones, that he sorely regretted he had not put two hundred dollars more on the price of the lot. Fortunately Jane was much worn down by grief and toil, and was viewed by the reverend gentleman as a piece of property he would rather like to dispose of to the best advantage, lest she should suddenly make a void in his dollars and cents by sliding into some out of the way grave-yard. But Rosebrook, duly appreciating the unchristian qualities of our worthy one's generosity, kept his motive a profound secret until the negociation was completed. Now that it had become known that the Reverend Peter--(who dresses in blackest black, most sanctimoniously cut, whitest neckcloth wedded to his holy neck, and face so simply serious) assures Rosebrook he has got good people,--they are valuably promising-he will pray for them, that the future may prosper their wayfaring. He cannot, however, part with the good man without admonishing him how dangerous it is to give unto "niggers" the advantage of a superior position.
Reader, let us hope the clergy of the south will take heed lest by permitting their brethren to be sold and stolen in this manner they bring the profession into contempt. Let us hope the southern church will not much longer continue to bring pure Christianity into disgrace by serving ends so vile that heaven and earth frowns upon them; for false is the voice raised in sanctimony to heaven for power to make a footstool of a fallen race!
Containing Various Matters
GREAT regularity prevails on the Rosebrook plantation, and cheering are the prospects held out to those who toil thereon. Mrs. Rosebrook has dressed Jane (Harry's wife) in a nice new calico, which, with her feet encased in shining calf-skin shoes, and her head done up in a bandana, with spots of great brightness, shows her lean figure to good advantage. Like a good wife, happy with her own dear husband, she pours forth the emotions of a grateful heart, and feels that the world-not so bad after all-has something good in store for her. And then Harry looks even better than he did on Master Marston's plantation; and, with their little ones-sable types of their parents-dressed so neatly, they must be happy. And now that they are duly installed at the plantation, where Harry pursues his duties as father of the flock, and Jane lends her cheering voice and helping hand to make comfort in the various cabins complete-and with Dad Daniel's assurance that the people won't go astray-we must leave them for a time, and beg the reader's indulgence while following us through another phase of the children's history.
A slave is but a slave--an article subject to all the fluctuations of trade--a mere item in the scale of traffic, and reduced to serving the ends of avarice or licentiousness. This is a consequence inseparable from his sale. It matters not whether the blood of the noblest patriot course in his veins, his hair be of flaxen brightness, his eyes of azure blue, his skin of Norman whiteness, and his features classic,--he can be no more than a slave, and as such must yield to the debasing influences of an institution that crushes and curses wherever it exists. In proof of this, we find the bright eyes of our little Annette, glowing with kindliest love, failing to thaw the frozen souls of man-dealers. Nay, bright eyes only lend their aid to the law that debases her life. She has become valuable only as a finely and delicately developed woman, whose appearance in the market will produce sharp bidding, and a deal of dollars and cents. Graspum never lost an opportunity of trimming up these nice pieces of female property, making the money invested in them turn the largest premium, and satisfying his customers that, so far as dealing in the brightest kind of fancy stock was concerned, he is not a jot behind the most careful selecter in the Charleston market. Major John Bowling--who is very distinguished, having descended from the very ancient family of that name, and is highly thought of by the aristocracy--has made the selection of such merchandise his particular branch of study for more than fourteen years. In consequence of the major's supposed taste, his pen was hitherto most frequented by gentlemen and connoisseur; but now Graspum assures all respectable people, gentlemen of acknowledged taste, and young men who are cultivating their way up in the world, that his selections are second to none; of this he will produce sufficient proof, provided customers will make him a call and look into the area of his fold. The fold itself is most uninviting (it is, he assures us, owing to his determination to carry out the faith of his plain democracy); nevertheless, it contains the white, beautiful, and voluptuous,--all for sale. In fact--the truth must be told--Mr. Graspum assures the world that he firmly believes there is a sort of human nature extant--he is troubled sometimes to know just where the line breaks off--which never by any possibility could have been intended for any thing but the other to traffic in-to turn into the most dollars and cents. In proof of this principle he kept Annette until she had well nigh merged into womanhood, or until such time as she became a choice marketable article, with eyes worth so much; nose, mouth, so much; pretty auburn hair, worth so much; and fine rounded figure--with all its fascinating appurtenances--worth so much;--the whole amounting to so much; to be sold for so much, the nice little profit being chalked down on the credit side of his formidable ledger, in which stands recorded against his little soul (he knows will get to heaven) the sale of ten thousand black souls, which will shine in brightness when his is refused admittance to the portal above.
Having arrived at the point most marketable, he sells her to Mr. Gurdoin Choicewest, who pays no less a sum than sixteen hundred dollars in hard cash for the unyielding beauty-money advanced to him by his dear papa, who had no objection to his having a pretty coloured girl, provided Madam Choicewest-most indulgent mother she was, too-gave her consent; and she said she was willing, provided-; and now, notwithstanding she was his own, insisted on the preservation of her virtue, or death. Awful dilemma, this! To lash her will be useless; and the few kicks she has already received have not yet begun to thaw her frozen determination. Such an unyielding thing is quite useless for the purpose for which young Choicewest purchased her. What must be done with her? The older Choicewest is consulted, and gives it as his decided opinion that there is one of two things the younger Choicewest must do with this dear piece of property he has so unfortunately got on his hands,--he must sell her, or tie her up every day and pump her with cold water, say fifteen minutes at a time. Pumping niggers, the elder Mr. Choicewest remarks, with the coolness of an Austrian diplomatist, has a wondrous effect upon them; "it makes 'em give in when nothing else will." He once had four prime fellows, who, in stubbornness, seemed a match for Mr. Beelzebub himself. He lashed them, and he burned them, and he clipped their ears; and then he stretched them on planks, thinking they would cry "give in" afore the sockets of their joints were drawn out; but it was all to no purpose, they were as unyielding as granite.
About that time there was a celebrated manager of negroes keeping the prison. This clever functionary had a peculiar way of bringing the stubbornness out of them; so he consigned the four unbending rascals to his skill. And this very valuable and very skilful gaol-keeper had a large window in his establishment, with iron bars running perpendicular; to the inside of which he would strap the four stubborn rascals, with their faces scientifically arranged between the bars, to prevent the moving of a muscle. Thus caged, their black heads bound to the grating, the scientific gaoler, who was something of a humourist withal, would enjoy a nice bit of fun at seeing the more favoured prisoners (with his kind permission) exercise their dexterity in throwing peas at the faces of the bounden. How he would laugh-how the pea-punishing prisoners would enjoy it-how the fast bound niggers, foaming with rage and maddened to desperation, would bellow, as their very eyeballs darted fire and blood! What grand fun it was! bull-baiting sank into a mere shadow beside it. The former was measuredly passive, because the bull only roared, and pitched, and tossed; whereas here the sport was made more exhilarating by expressions of vengeance or implorings. And then, as a change of pastime, the skilful gaoler would demand a cessation of the pea hostilities, and enjoin the commencement of the water war; which said war was carried out by supplying about a dozen prisoners with as many buckets, which they would fill with great alacrity, and, in succession, throw the contents with great force over the unyielding, from the outside. The effect of this on naked men, bound with chains to iron bars, may be imagined; but the older Choicewest declares it was a cure. It brought steel out of the "rascals," and made them as submissive as shoe-strings. Sometimes the jolly prisoners would make the bath so strong, that the niggers would seem completely drowned when released; but then they'd soon come to with a jolly good rolling, a little hartshorn applied to their nostrils, and the like of that. About a dozen times putting through the pea and water process cured them.
So says the very respectable Mr. Choicewest, with great dignity of manners, as he seriously advises the younger Choicewest to try a little quantity of the same sort on his now useless female purchase. Lady Choicewest must, however, be consulted on this point, as she is very particular about the mode in which all females about her establishment are chastised. Indeed, Lady Choicewest is much concerned about the only male, heir of the family, to whom she looks forward for very distinguished results to the family name. The family (Lady Choicewest always assures those whom she graciously condescends to admit into the fashionable precincts of her small but very select circle), descended from the very ancient and chivalric house of that name, whose celebrated estate was in Warwickshire, England; and, in proof of this, my Lady Choicewest invariably points to a sad daub, illustrative of some incomprehensible object, suspended over the antique mantelpiece. With methodical grace, and dignity which frowns with superlative contempt upon every thing very vulgar--for she says "she sublimely detests them very low creatures what are never brought up to manners at the north, and are worse than haystacks to larn civility"--my lady solicits a near inspection of this wonderful hieroglyphic, which she tells us is the family arms,--an ancient and choice bit of art she would not part with for the world. If her friends evince any want of perception in tracing the many deeds of valour it heralds, on behalf of the noble family of which she is an undisputed descendant, my lady will at once enter upon the task of instruction; and with the beautiful fore-finger of her right hand, always jewelled with great brilliancy, will she satisfactorily enlighten the stupid on the fame of the ancient Choicewest family, thereon inscribed. With no ordinary design on the credulity of her friends, Lady Choicewest has several times strongly intimated that she was not quite sure that one or two of her ancestors in the male line of the family were not reigning dukes as far down as the noble reign of the ignoble Oliver Cromwell! The question, nevertheless, is whether the honour of the ancient Choicewest family descended from Mr. or Mrs. Choicewest. The vulgar mass have been known to say (smilingly) that Lady Choicewest's name was Brown, the father of which very ancient family sold herrings and small pigs at a little stand in the market: this, however, was a very long time ago, and, as my lady is known to be troubled with an exceedingly crooked memory, persons better acquainted with her are more ready to accept the oblivious excuse.
Taking all these things into consideration, my Lady Choicewest is exceedingly cautious lest young Gourdoin Choicewest should do aught to dishonour the family name; and on this strange perplexity in which her much indulged son is placed being referred to her, she gives it as her most decided opinion that the wench, if as obstinate as described, had better be sold to the highest bidder-the sooner the better. My lady lays great emphasis on "the sooner the better." That something will be lost she has not the slightest doubt; but then it were better to lose a little in the price of the stubborn wretch, than to have her always creating disturbance about the genteel premises. In furtherance of this-my lady's mandate-Annette is sold to Mr. Blackmore Blackett for the nice round sum of fifteen hundred dollars. Gourdoin Choicewest hates to part with the beauty, grieves and regrets,--she is so charmingly fascinating. "Must let her slide, though; critter won't do at all as I wants her to," he lisps, regretting the serious loss of the dollars. His friend Blackmore Blackett, however, is a gentleman, and therefore he would not deceive him in the wench: hence he makes the reduction, because he finds her decidedly faulty. Had Blackmore Blackett been a regular flesh trader, he would not have scrupled to take him in. As it is, gentlemen must always be gentlemen among themselves. Blackett, a gentleman of fortune, who lives at his ease in the city, and has the very finest taste for female beauty, was left, most unfortunately, a widower with four lovely daughters, any one of which may be considered a belle not to be rung by gentlemen of ordinary rank or vulgar pretension. In fact, the Blackett girls are considered very fine specimens of beauty, are much admired in society, and expect ere long, on the clear merit of polish, to rank equal with the first aristocracy of the place.
Mr. Blackmore Blackett esteems himself an extremely lucky fellow in having so advantageously procured such a nice piece of property,--so suited to his taste. Her price, when compared with her singularly valuable charms, is a mere nothing; and, too, all his fashionable friends will congratulate him upon his good fortune. But as disappointments will come, so Mr. Blackmore Blackett finds he has got something not quite so valuable as anticipated; however, being something of a philosopher, he will improve upon the course pursued by the younger Choicewest: he makes his first advances with great caution; whispers words of tenderness in her ear; tells her his happy jewel for life she must be. Remembering her mother, she turns a deaf ear to Mr. Blackett's pleadings. The very cabin which he has provided for her in the yard reminds her of that familiar domicile on Marston's plantation. Neither by soft pleadings, nor threatenings of sale to plantation life, nor terrors of the lash, can he soften the creature's sympathies, so that the flesh may succumb. When he whispered soft words and made fascinating promises, she would shake her head and move from him; when he threatened, she would plead her abject position; when he resorted to force, she would struggle with him, making the issue her virtue or death. Once she paid the penalty of her struggles with a broken wrist, which she shows us more in sorrow than anger. Annette is beautiful but delicate; has soft eyes beaming with the fulness of a great soul; but they were sold, once,--now, sympathy for her is dead. The law gives her no protection for her virtue; the ruffian may violate it, and Heaven only can shelter it with forgiveness. As for Blackett, he has no forgiveness in his temperament,--passion soars highest with him; he would slay with violent hands the minion who dared oppose its triumph.
About this time, Mr. Blackett, much to his surprise, finds a storm of mischief brewing about his domestic domain. The Miss Blacketts, dashing beauties, have had it come to their ears over and over again that all the young men about the city say Annette Mazatlin (as she is now called) is far more beautiful than any one of the Blacketts. This is quite enough to kindle the elements of a female war. In the south nothing can spread the war of jealousy and vanity with such undying rage as comparing slave beauty with that of the more favoured of the sexes. A firman of the strongest kind is now issued from the portfolio of the Miss Blacketts, forbidding the wretched girl entering the house; and storms of abuse are plentifully and very cheaply lavished on her head, ere she puts it outside the cabin. She was a nasty, impudent hussy; the very worst of all kind of creatures to have about a respectable mansion,--enough to shock respectable people! The worst of it was, that the miserable white nigger thought she was handsome, and a lot of young, silly-headed men flattered her vanity by telling the fool she was prettier than the Blacketts themselves,--so said the very accomplished Miss Blacketts. And if ever domicile was becoming too warm for man to live in, in consequence of female indignation, that one was Mr. Blackmore Blackett's. It was not so much that the father had purchased this beautiful creature to serve fiendish purposes. Oh no!-that was a thing of every-day occurrence,--something excusable in any respectable man's family. It was beauty rivalling, fierce and jealous of its compliments. Again, the wretch-found incorrigible, and useless for the purpose purchased-is sold. Poor, luckless maiden! she might add, as she passed through the hands of so many purchasers. This time, however, she is less valuable from having fractured her left wrist, deformity being always taken into account when such property is up at the flesh shambles. But Mr. Blackmore Blackett has a delicacy about putting her up under the hammer just now, inasmuch as he could not say she was sold for no fault; while the disfigured wrist might lead to suspicious remarks concerning his treatment of her. Another extremely unfortunate circumstance was its getting all about the city that she was a cold, soulless thing, who declared that sooner than yield to be the abject wretch men sought to make her, she would die that only death. She had but one life, and it were better to yield that up virtuously than die degraded. Graspum, then, is the only safe channel in which to dispose of the like. That functionary assures Mr. Blackmore Blackett that the girl is beautiful, delicate, and an exceedingly sweet creature yet! but that during the four months she has depreciated more than fifty per cent in value. His remarks may be considered out of place, but they are none the less true, for it is ascertained, on private examination, that sundry stripes have been laid about her bare loins. Gurdoin Choicewest declared to his mother that he never for once had laid violent hands on the obstinate wench; Mr. Blackmore Blackett stood ready to lay his hand on the Bible, and lift his eyes to heaven for proof of his innocence; but a record of the infliction, indelible of blood, remained there to tell its sad tale,--to shame, if shame had aught in slavery whereon to make itself known. Notwithstanding this bold denial, it is found that Mr. Blackmore Blackett did on two occasions strip her and secure her hands and feet to the bed-post, where he put on "about six at a time," remarkably "gently." He admired her symmetrical form, her fine, white, soft, smooth skin-her voluptuous limbs, so beautifully and delicately developed; and then there was so much gushing sweetness, mingled with grief, in her face, as she cast her soft glances upon him, and implored him to end her existence, or save her such shame! Such, he says, laconically, completely disarmed him, and he only switched her a few times.
She's not worth a dot more than a thousand dollars. I couldn't give it for her, because I couldn't make it out on her. The fact is, she'll get a bad name by passing through so many hands-a deuced bad name! says Graspum, whose commercial language is politically cold. "And then there's her broken wrist-doubtful! doubtful! doubtful! what I can do with her. For a plantation she isn't worth seven coppers, and sempstresses and housemaids of her kind are looked on suspiciously. It's only with great nicety of skill ye can work such property to advantage," he continues, viewing her in one of Mr. Blackmore Blackett's ante-rooms.
The upshot of the matter is, that Mr. Blackmore Blackett accepts the offer, and Graspum, having again taken the damaged property under his charge, sends it back to his pen. As an offset for the broken wrist, she has three new dresses, two of which were presented by the younger Choicewest, and one by the generous Blackmore Blackett.
Poor Annette! she leaves for her home in the slave-pen, sad at heart, and in tears. "My mother! Oh, that I had a mother to love me, to say Annette so kindly,--to share with me my heart's bitter anguish. How I could love Nicholas, now that there is no mother to love me!" she mutters as she sobs, wending her way to that place of earthly torment. How different are the feelings of the oppressor. He drinks a social glass of wine with his friend Blackett, lights his cigar most fashionably, bids him a polite good morning, and intimates that a cheque for the amount of the purchase will be ready any time he may be pleased to call. And now he wends his way homeward, little imagining what good fortune awaits him at the pen to which he has despatched his purchase.
Annette has reached the pen, in which she sits, pensively, holding her bonnet by the strings, the heavy folds of her light auburn hair hanging dishevelled over her shoulders. Melancholy indeed she is, for she has passed an ordeal of unholy brutality. Near her sits one Pringle Blowers, a man of coarse habits, who resides on his rice-plantation, a few miles from the city, into which he frequently comes, much to the annoyance of quietly disposed citizens and guardsmen, who are not unfrequently called upon to preserve the peace he threatens to disturb. Dearly does he love his legitimate brandy, and dearly does it make him pay for the insane frolics it incites him to perpetrate, to the profit of certain saloons, and danger of persons. Madman under the influence of his favourite drink, a strange pride besets his faculties, which is only appeased with the demolition of glass and men's faces. For this strange amusement he has become famous and feared; and as the light of his own besotted countenance makes its appearance, citizens generally are not inclined to interpose any obstacle to the exercise of his belligerent propensities.
Here he sits, viewing Annette with excited scrutiny. Never before has he seen anything so pretty, so bright, so fascinating-all clothed with a halo of modesty-for sale in the market. The nigger is completely absorbed in the beauty, he mutters to himself: and yet she must be a nigger or she would not be here. That she is an article of sale, then, there can be no doubt. "Van, yer the nicest gal I've seen! Reckon how Grasp. paid a tall shot for ye, eh?" he says, in the exuberance of his fascinated soul. He will draw nearer to her, toss her undulating hair, playfully, and with seeming unconsciousness draw his brawny hand across her bosom. "Didn't mean it!" he exclaims, contorting his broad red face, as she puts out her hand, presses him from her, and disdains his second attempt. "Pluck, I reckon! needn't put on mouths, though, when a feller's only quizzin." He shrugs his great round shoulders, and rolls his wicked eyes.
I am not for you, man! she interrupts: "I would scorn you, were I not enslaved," she continues, a curl of contempt on her lip, as her very soul kindles with grief. Rising quickly from his side she walked across the pen, and seated herself on the opposite side. Here she casts a frowning look upon him, as if loathing his very presence. This, Mr. Pringle Blowers don't altogether like: slaves have no right to look loathingly on white people. His flushed face glows red with excitement; he runs his brawny fingers through the tufted mats of short curly hair that stand almost erect on his head, draws his capacious jaws into a singular angle, and makes a hideous grimace.
The terrified girl has no answer to make; she is a forlorn outcast of democracy's rule. He takes the black ribbon from round his neck, bares his bosom more broadly than before, throws the plaid sack in which he is dressed from off him, and leaping as it were across the room, seizes her in his arms. "Kisses are cheap, I reckon, and a feller what don't have enough on 'em 's a fool," he ejaculates, as with a desperate struggle she bounds from his grasp, seizes the knife from a negro's hand as she passes him, and is about to plunge the shining steel into her breast. "Oh, mother, mother!-what have I done?-is not God my Saviour?-has he forsaken me?-left me a prey to those who seek my life?"
I settle those things, said a voice in the rear, and immediately a hand grasped her arm, and the knife fell carelessly upon the floor. It was Graspum; the sudden surprise overcame her; she sank back in his arms, and swooned. "She swoons,--how limber, how lifeless she seems!" says Graspum, as with great coolness he calls a negro attendant, orders him to remove her to the grass plat, and bathe her well with cold water. "A good dowsing of water is the cure for fainting niggers," he concludes.
The black man takes her in his arms, and with great kindness, lays her on the plat, bathes her temples, loosens her dress, and with his rough hand manipulates her arms. How soft and silky they seem to his touch! "Him hard to slave ye, miss," he says, laying his hand upon her temples, gently, as with commiseration he looks intently on her pallid features.
Now, Blowers, says Graspum, as soon as they are by themselves, "what in the name of the Gentiles have you been up to?"
Wal-can't say its nothin, a'cos that wouldn't do. But, ye see, the critter made my mouth water so; there was no standin on't! And I wanted to be civil, and she wouldn't,--and I went t' fumlin with her hair what looked so inviting, as there was no resistin on't, and she looked just as sassy as sixty; and to stun the whole, when I only wanted to kiss them ar' temptin lips, the fool was going to kill herself. It wasn't how I cared two buttons about it; but then the feelin just came over me at the time, he answers, shaking his huge sides, giving Graspum a significant wink, and laughing heartily.
Never at a loss, I see! returns the other, nodding his head, pertinently: "If I didn't know ye, Blowers, that might go down without sticking."
Ye don't tell where ye raised that critter, eh? he interrupts, inquisitively, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder, and crooking his finger, comically.
Raised her with shiners-lots on 'em! he rejoins, pushing Mr. Pringle Blowers in the stomach, playfully, with his forefinger.
Graspum! yer a wicked 'un.
Suit ye, kind 'a-eh, Blowers? he rejoins, enquiringly, maintaining great gravity of manner as he watches each change of Blowers' countenance.
Blowers laughs in reply. His laugh has something sardonic in it, seeming more vicious as he opens his great wicked mouth, and displays an ugly row of coloured teeth.
Sit down, Blowers, sit down! says Graspum, motioning his hand, with a studied politeness. The two gentlemen take seats side by side, on a wooden bench, stretched across the centre of the pen, for negroes to sit upon. "As I live, Blowers, thar ain't another individual like you in the county. You can whip a file of common guardsmen, put the Mayor's court through a course of affronts, frighten all the females out of the fashionable houses, treat a regiment of volunteers, drink a bar-room dry-"
Compliments thick, long and strong, interposes Blowers, winking and wiping his mouth. "Can elect half the members of the assembly!" he concludes.
True! nevertheless, rejoins Graspum, "a great man cannot be flattered-compliments are his by merit! And the city knows you're a man of exquisite taste."
Blowers interrupts with a loud laugh, as he suggests the propriety of seeing the "gal get round again."
Not so fast, Blowers; not so fast! Graspum ejaculates, as Blowers is about to rise from his seat and follow Annette.
Well, now! returns Blowers, remaining seated, "Might just as well come square to the mark,--ye want to sell me that wench?"
Truth's truth! he replies. "Blowers is the man who's got the gold to do it."
Name yer price; and no rounding the corners! exclaims Blowers, his countenance quickening with animation. He takes Graspum by the arm with his left hand, turns him half round, and waits for a reply.
Seeing it's Blowers, (the keen business man replies, in an off-hand manner), who's a trump in his way, and don't care for a few dollars, he'll take seventeen hundred for her, tin down; not a fraction less! He will have no bantering, inasmuch as his friends all know that he has but one price for niggers, from which it is no use to seek a discount. Mr. Blowers, generally a good judge of such articles, would like one more view at it before fully making up his mind. Graspum calls "Oh, boy!" and the negro making his appearance, says: "Dat gal 'um all right agin; went mos asleep, but am right as parched pen now."
Have her coming, he returns, facing Blowers. "Nothing the matter with that gal," he exclaims, touching his elbow. "It is merely one of her flimsy fits; she hasn't quite come to maturity."
Slowly the negro leads her, weeping (Graspum says they will cry-it's natural!) into the presence of the far-famed and much-feared Mr. Pringle Blowers. Her hair hangs carelessly about her neck and shoulders, the open incision of her dress discloses a neatly worked stomacher; how sweetly glows the melancholy that broods over her countenance! "I'll take her-I'll take her!" exclaims Blowers, in spasmodic ecstasy.
I know'd you would; I'll suit you to a charm, rejoins the man of trade, laconically, as the negro steps a few feet backward, and watches the process. "Considers it a trade," is the reply of Blowers, as he orders his waggon to be brought to the door.
Oh! master, master! save me-save me! and let me die in peace. Don't, good master, don't sell me again! Thus saying she falls on her knees at Graspum's feet, and with hands uplifted beseeches him to save her from the hands of a man whose very sight she loathes. She reads the man's character in his face; she knows too well the hellish purpose for which he buys her. Bitter, bitter, are the tears of anguish she sheds at his feet, deep and piercing are her bemoanings. Again her soft, sorrowing eyes wander in prayer to heaven: as Graspum is a husband, a brother, and a father,--whose children are yet in the world's travel of uncertainty, she beseeches him to save her from that man.
Don't be mad, girl, he says, pushing her hand from him.
Frightened, eh? Make ye love me, yet! Why, gal, ye never had such a master in the world as I'll be to ye. I lay I makes a lady on ye, and lets ye have it all yer own way, afore a fortnight, he rejoins, spreading his brawny arms over her, as she, in an attitude of fright, vaults from beneath them, and, uttering a faint cry, glides crouching into a corner of the pen. There is no protection for her now; her weepings and implorings fall harmless on the slavedealer's ears; heaven will protect her when earth knows her no more!
There's two can play a game like that, gal! exclaims Blowers. "Rough play like that don't do with this ere citizen. Can just take the vixen out on a dozen on ye as what don't know what's good for 'em." Blowers is evidently allowing his temper to get the better of him. He stands a few feet from her, makes grim his florid face, gesticulates his hands, and daringly advances toward her as the negro announces the arrival of his waggon.
You must go with him, girl; stop working yourself into a fever; stop it, I say, interposes Graspum, peremptorily. "The waggon! the waggon! the waggon! to carry me away, away;--never, never to return and see my mother?" she exclaims, as well nigh in convulsions she shrieks, when Blowers grasps her in his arms (Graspum saying, be gentle, Blowers), drags her to the door, and by force thrusts her into the waggon, stifling her cries as on the road they drive quickly away. As the last faint wail dies away, and the vehicle bearing its victim disappears in the distance, we think how sweet is liberty, how prone to injustice is man, how crushing of right are democracy's base practices.
Does seem kind of hard; but it's a righteous good sale. Shouldn't wonder if she played the same game on him she did with t'other two fools. Get her back then, and sell her over again. Well! come now; there's no great loss without-some-small-gain! says Graspum, as, standing his prominent figure in the door of his man pen, he watches the woman pass out of sight, thrusts his hands deep into his breeches pockets, and commences humming an air for his own special amusement.
Nicholas's Simple Story
THE reader will remember that we left Nicholas seeking his way to Mr. Grabguy's workshop, situated in the outskirts of the city. And we must here inform him that considerable change in the social position of the younger Grabguy family has taken place since we left them, which is some years ago. The elder Grabguy, who, it will be remembered, was very distinguished as his Worship the Mayor of the City (that also was some years ago), has departed this life, leaving the present principal of the Grabguy family a large portion of his estate, which, being mostly of "nigger property," requires some little transforming before it can be made to suit his more extended business arrangements. This material addition to the already well- reputed estate of Mr. Grabguy warrants his admittance into very respectable, and, some say, rather distinguished society. Indeed, it is more than whispered, that when the question of admitting Mr. and Mrs. Grabguy to the membership of a very select circle, the saintly cognomen of which is as indefinable as its system of selecting members, or the angles presented by the nasal organs of a few ladies when anything short of the very first families are proposed, there were seven very fashionable ladies for, and only three against. The greatest antagonist the Grabguys have to getting into the embrace of this very select circle is Mrs. Chief Justice Pimpkins, a matronly body of some fifty summers, who declares there can be no judge in the world so clever as her own dear Pimpkins, and that society was becoming so vulgar and coarse, and so many low people-whose English was as hopefully bad as could be, and who never spoke when they didn't impugn her risible nerves-were intruding themselves upon its polished sanctity, that she felt more and more every day the necessity of withdrawing entirely from it, and enjoying her own exclusively distinguished self. In the case of Grabguy's admittance to the St. Cecilia, my Lady Pimpkins-she is commonly called Lady Chief Justice Pimpkins-had two most formidable black balls; the first because Mrs. Grabguy's father was a bread-baker, and the second that the present Grabguy could not be considered a gentleman while he continued in mechanical business. Another serious objection Mrs. Pimpkins would merely suggest as a preventive;--such people were ill suited to mix with titled and other distinguished society! But, Grabguy, to make up for the vexatious rejection, has got to be an alderman, which is a step upward in the scale of his father's attained distinction. There is nothing more natural, then, than that Grabguy should seek his way up in the world, with the best means at his hands; it is a worthy trait of human nature, and is as natural to the slave. In this instance-when master and slave are both incited to a noble purpose-Grabguy is a wealthy alderman, and Nicholas-the whiter of the two-his abject slave. The master, a man of meagre mind, and exceedingly avaricious, would make himself distinguished in society; the slave, a mercurial being of impassioned temper, whose mind is quickened by a sense of the injustice that robs him of his rights, seeks only freedom and what may follow in its order.
Let us again introduce the reader to Nicholas, as his manly figure, marked with impressive features, stands before us, in Grabguy's workshop. Tall, and finely formed, he has grown to manhood, retaining all the quick fiery impulses of his race. Those black eyes wandering irresistibly, that curl of contempt that sits upon his lip, that stare of revenge that scowls beneath those heavy eyebrows, and that hate of wrong that ever and anon pervades the whole, tell how burns in his heart the elements of a will that would brave death for its rights-that would bear unmoved the oppressor's lash-that would embrace death rather than yield to perfidy. He tells us-"I came here, sold-so they said-by God's will. Well. I thought to myself, isn't this strange, that a curious God-they tell me he loves everybody-should sell me? It all seemed like a misty waste to me. I remembered home-I learned to read, myself-I remembered mother, I loved her, but she left me, and I have never seen her since. I loved her, dear mother! I did love her; but they said she was gone far away, and I musn't mind if I never see'd her again. It seemed hard and strange, but I had to put up with it, for they said I never had a father, and my mother had no right to me" (his piercing black eyes glare, as fervently he says, mother!). "I thought, at last, it was true, for everybody had a right to call me nigger,--a blasted white nigger, a nigger as wouldn't be worth nothing. And then they used to kick me, and cuff me, and lash me; and if nigger was nigger I was worse than a nigger, because every black nigger was laughing at me, and telling me what a fool of a white nigger I was;--that white niggers was nobody, could be nobody, and was never intended for nobody, as nobody knew where white niggers come from. But I didn't believe all this; it warn't sensible. Something said-Nicholas! you're just as good as anybody: learn to read, write, and cypher, and you'll be something yet. And this something-I couldn't tell what it was, nor could I describe it-seemed irresistible in its power to carry me to be that somebody it prompted in my feelings. I was white, and when I looked at myself I knew I wasn't a nigger; and feeling that everybody could be somebody, I began to look forward to the time when I should rise above the burden of misfortune that seemed bearing me down into the earth. And then, Franconia, like a sister, used to come to me, and say so many kind things to me that I felt relieved, and resolved to go forward. Then I lost sight of Franconia, and saw nobody I knew but Annette; and she seemed so pretty, and loved me so affectionately. How long it seems since I have seen her! She dressed me so nicely, and parted my hair, and kissed me so kindly; and said good-by, when I left her, so in regret, I never can forget it. And it was then they said I was sold. Mr. Graspum said he owned me, and owning me was equal to doing what he pleased with me. Then I went home to Mr. Grabguy's; and they said Mr. Grabguy owned me just as he owned his great big dog they called a democratic bull-dog, the foreman said he paid a democratic ten-dollar gold piece for. They used to say the only difference between me and the dog was, that the dog could go where he pleased without being lashed, and I couldn't. And the dog always got enough to eat, and seemed a great favourite with everybody, whereas I got only more kicks than cucumbers, didn't seem liked by anybody, and if I got enough to eat I had nobody to thank but good old Margery, the cook, who was kind to me now and then, and used to say-"I like you, Nicholas!" And that used to make me feel so happy! Old Margery was coal-black; but I didn't care for that,--the knowledge of somebody loving you is enough to light up the happy of life, and make the heart feel contented. In this manner my thoughts went here and there and everywhere; and the truth is, I had so many thoughts, that I got completely bewildered in thinking how I was to better myself, and be like other folks. Mr. Grabguy seemed kind to me at first,--said he would make a great mechanic of me, and give me a chance to buy myself. I didn't know what this "buy myself" meant, at first. But I soon found out-he tells us he must speak with caution-that I must pay so many hundred dollars afore I could be like other folks. The kindness Mr. Grabguy at first exhibited for me didn't last long; he soon began to kick me, and cuff me, and swear at me. And it 'pear'd to me as if I never could please anybody, and so my feelings got so embittered I didn't know what to do. I was put into the shop among the men, and one said Nigger, here! and another said, Nigger, get there!-and they all seemed not to be inclined to help me along. And then I would get in a passion: but that never made things better. The foreman now and then said a kind word to me; and whenever he did, it made my heart feel so good that I seemed a new being with brighter hopes. Well, Mr. Grabguy put me to turning the grindstone, first; and from turning the grindstone-the men used to throw water in my face when they ground their chisels, and their plane irons, and axes and adzes-I was learned to saw, and to plain boards, and then to mortice and frame, and make mouldings, and window-sashes, and door-frames. When I could do all these, master used to say I was bound to make a great workman, and, laughingly, would say I was the most valuable property he ever owned. About this time I began to find out how it was that the other white folks owned themselves and master owned me; but then, if I said anything about it, master might tie me up and lash me as he used to do; and so I remained quiet, but kept up a thinking. By and by I got perfect at the carpenter's trade, and I learned engineering; and when I had got engineering perfect, I took a fancy for making stucco work and images. And people said I learned wondrously fast, and was the best workman far or near. Seeing these things, people used to be coming to me, and talking to me about my value, and then end by wanting me to make them specimens of stucco. I seemed liked by everybody who came to see me, and good people had a kind word for me; but Mr. Grabguy was very strict, and wouldn't allow me to do anything without his permission. People said my work was perfect, and master said I was a perfect piece of property; and it used to pain deep into my heart when master spoke so. Well! I got to be a man, and when the foreman got drunk master used to put me in his place. And after a while I got to be foreman altogether: but I was a slave, they said, and men wouldn't follow my directions when master was away; they all acknowledged that I was a good workman, but said a nigger never should be allowed to direct and order white people. That made my very blood boil, as I grew older, because I was whiter than many of them. However, submit was the word; and I bore up and trusted to heaven for deliverance, hoping the day would come soon when its will would be carried out. With my knowledge of mechanics increased a love of learning, which almost amounted to a passion. They said it was against the law for a nigger to read; but I was raised so far above black niggers that I didn't mind what the law said: so I got 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the Bible, and 'Young's Night Thoughts,' and from them I learned great truths: they gave me new hopes, refreshed my weary soul, and made me like a new-clothed being ready to soar above the injustice of this life. Oh, how I read them at night, and re-read them in the morning, and every time found something new in them, something that suited my case! Through the sentiments imbibed from them I saw freedom hanging out its light of love, fascinating me, and inciting me to make a death struggle to gain it.
"One day, as I was thinking of my hard fate, and how I did all the work and master got all the money for it-and how I had to live and how he lived, master came in-looking good-natured. He approached me, shook hands with me, said I was worth my weight in gold; and then asked me how I would like to be free. I told him I would jump for joy, would sing praises, and be glad all the day long. 'Aint you contented where you are, Nicholas?' he enquired. I told him I didn't dislike him; but freedom was sweetest. 'Give me a chance of my freedom, master, and yet you may know me as a man,' says I, feeling that to be free was to be among the living; to be a slave was to be among the moving dead. To this he said, he always had liked me, was proud of me, had unbounded confidence in my directions over the men, and always felt safe when he went from home leaving things in my charge. 'In this view of the case, Nicholas,' he says, 'I have come to the conclusion,--and it's Mrs. Grabguy's conclusion, too,--to let you work evenings, on overtime, for yourself. You can earn a deal of money that way, if you please; just save it up, and let me keep it for you, and in consideration of your faithfulness I will set you free whenever you get a thousand dollars to put into my hands. Now that's generous-I want to do the straight thing, and so Mrs. Grabguy wants to do the straight thing; and what money you save you can put in Mrs. Grabguy's hands for safe keeping. She's a noble-minded woman, and 'll take good care of it.' This was to me like entering upon a new life of hope and joy. How my heart yearned for the coming day, when I should be free like other folks! I worked and struggled by night and day; and good Mr. Simons befriended me, and procured me many little orders, which I executed, and for which I got good pay. All my own earnings I put into Mrs. Grabguy's hands; and she told me she would keep it for me, safe, till I got enough to buy my freedom. My confidence in these assurances was undivided. I looked upon Mrs. Grabguy as a friend and mother; and good Mr. Simons, who was poor but honest, did many kind things to help me out. When I got one hundred dollars in missus' hands I jumped for joy; with it I seemed to have got over the first difficult step in the great mountain. Then missus said I must take Jerushe for my wife. I didn't like Jerushe at first--she was almost black; but missus said we were both slaves; hence, that could be no objection. As missus's order was equally as positive as master's, there was no alternative but to obey it, and Jerushe became my wife. We were lawfully married, and missus made a nice little party for us, and Jerushe loved me, and was kind to me, and her solicitude for my welfare soon made me repay her love. I pitied her condition, and she seemed to pity mine; and I soon forgot that she was black, and we lived happily together, and had two children, which missus said were hers. It was hard to reconcile this, and yet it was so, by law as well as social right. But then missus was kind to Jerushe, and let her buy her time at four dollars a week, which, having learned to make dresses, she could pay and have a small surplus to lay by every week. Jerushe knew I was struggling for freedom, and she would help me to buy that freedom, knowing that, if I was free, I would return her kindness, and struggle to make her free, and our children free.
"Years rolled on,--we had placed nearly five hundred dollars in missus's hands: but how vain were the hopes that had borne us through so many privations for the accumulation of this portion of our price of freedom! Master has sold my children,--yes, sold them! He will not tell me where nor to whom. Missus will neither see nor hear me; and master threatens to sell me to New Orleans if I resent his act. To what tribunal can I appeal for justice? Shut from the laws of my native land, what justice is there for the slave where injustice makes its law oppression? Master may sell me, but he cannot vanquish the spirit God has given me; never, never, will I yield to his nefarious designs. I have but one life to yield up a sacrifice for right-I care not to live for wrong! Thus he speaks, as his frenzied soul burns with indignation. His soul's love was freedom; he asked but justice to achieve it. Sick at heart he has thrown up that zeal for his master's welfare which bore him onward, summoned his determination to resist to the last-to die rather than again confront the dreary waste of a slave's life. Grabguy has forfeited the amount deposited by Nicholas as part of the price of his freedom,--betrayed his confidence.
He tells us his simple story, as the workmen, with fear on their countenances, move heedlessly about the room. As he concludes, Grabguy, with sullen countenance, enters the great door at the end of the building; he is followed by three men in official garbs, two of whom bear manacles in their hands. Nicholas's dark eye flashes upon them, and with an instinctive knowledge of their errand, he seizes a broad axe, salutes them, and, defiantly, cautions their advance. Grabguy heeds not; and as the aggrieved man slowly retreats backward to protect himself with the wall, still keeping his eye set on Grabguy, two negroes make a sudden spring upon him from behind, fetter his arms as the officers rush forward, bind him hand and foot, and drag him to the door, regardless of his cries for mercy: they bind him to a dray, and drive through the streets to the slave pen of Graspum. We hear his pleading voice, as his ruffian captors, their prey secure, disappear among the busy crowd.